Kiiiliraw^^ ■ auk ^ :^' ■^' fy ■t^^i Hntt afoUcgg of AgticttUwre At aiaxmll Inittecaitg Jtliata, «. 5. Sitbracg Cornell University Library PR9165.R18 A treasury of Canadian verse, with brief IIHIIIM II III nil mil 3 1924 014 520 344 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014520344 A TREASURY OF CANADIAN VERSE For English natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers and immortal souls. — Love thou thy Land. WILLIAM BRIGGS TORONTO 1910 All rights reserwd THIS ANTHOLOGY OF ENGLISH-CANADIAN VERSE IS INSCRIBED WITH AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION TO LOUIS FRECHETTE LL.D., F.R.S. CAN. C.M.G. THE LAMARTINE of CANADA PREFACE TO one opening this book for the first time, it may be permissible to say that the verse included in the volume does not treat solely nor chiefly of Canadian themes. While Canadian environment and life necessarily supply the note of inspiration and impart its timbre and accent, the thought and emotion are of wide range, and seek response in the universal heart. The practical energies of the Canadian people are abundantly attested by extensive systems of railways and canals, a wide commerce, systems of free public education in the several provinces and territories, liberal facilities for the higher education of men and women, and an enterprising and influential press. Thirty-two years have passed since the organization of the Dominion of Canada. These years have witnessed great progress in civil and social institu- tions, and no unworthy beginning of an adequate development of the illimitable material resources of Canada's vast domain. It is noteworthy, as marking the quality of life of the people, that from the earliest settlement of the several provinces there have not been wanting public evidences of the presence of the scientific and literary spirit. The latter has expressed itself both in prose and verse, and in these recent years there is an increased activity in literary pro- duction commensurate with the expanding life of Canada. It has been my purpose to present worthy specimens of English-Canadian verse, selected from the entire field of our history. Such a collection should be of X Preface interest, not only to Canadians, but to all English- speaking peoples. Here are reflected the singular loveliness of our evanescent spring, the glow and luxuriant life of our hasting summer, the sensuous glory of our autumn, and the tingle of our frosty air and the white winter's cheer. Every form and aspect of natural beauty is, in some degree, caught and ex- pressed — sometimes in homely, sometimes in classical phrase; often with striking simplicity, and generally with much purity of thought and an authentic note. A sane and wholesome spirit is characteristic of the verse, and its spiritual quality seems to me to be of a high order. The sympathetic reader will notice a marked pictorial use of nature in some of the specimens given, as well as a sensuous delight in nature itself, depicted, as it is, with true feeling and not infrequently with an almost flawless art. He will notice also that nature is often humanized, and tenderness, love and pity, and the subtle problems of man's life and existence, are enshrined in original and poetic similitudes to the melody of haunting music. Nor are there altogether wanting instances of that insight and vision which beholds the phenomenal and cosmic with rapt wonder as awesome beauty-gleams, radiant symbols, or sublime manifestations of the immanent and loving One in whom all things consist. Great personalities, high achievement, and noble character, also, have inspired Canadian song. From the earliest to the latest singer, a glowing devotion to native land and a loyal and loving reverence for our gracious Sovereign are characteristic notes. If it should appear that the abundant verse inspired by these latter motives is insufficiently represented in this anthology, it may suffice to say that such verse is already widely known and is not by any means the highest product of the Canadian muse. Room has been made for the less hackneyed and richer inspirations of our poets — the virgin freshness and promise of our country ; the life and deeds of men everywhere ; the Preface xi yearnings of the individual soul ; and the aspirations of a people after the noblest and the divinest. These, with domestic loves, have kindled our singers to beautiful expression that demands a wider apprecia- tion, as supplying sustenance and stimulus essential to fulness of national and imperial life. It will be observed that not only in recent verse, but also in that of nearly fifty years ago, Canadian poets have given expression to Anglo-centric conceptions and aspirations, divining with poetic insight the coming good. While the selections have been carefully made, it will be apparent that some verse has been included whose chief claim to recognition is found in local and popular associations. It should also be said that much popular verse has been excluded, in order that the volume be kept of usable form and size. It did not fall within the plan of this anthology to include sacred and devotional lyrics, otherwise not a few hymns must have found a place, notably Joseph Scriven's "What a Friend we have in Jesus," known as widely as the language is spoken. The printing together of the selections from any author has been advisedly adopted, as affording a greater variety and interest than could be secured by an abstract or logical classification of the verse of the entire volume. The convenience of an alphabetical order of authors is apparent, while the dates supplied in the Notes afford ample chronology. Here and there the reader may find unfilled dates of birth or death, or unexpanded initials of names, but all reason- able effort has been made to furnish complete and trustworthy information. I wish to express my gratitude to Mr. Charles C. James, M.A., Deputy Minister of Agriculture for Ontario, who has given me free access to his valuable and extensive collection of the works of Canadian poets ; to Mr. James Bain, Jr., of the Toronto Public Library, for special facilities for inspecting the xii Preface excellent collection in his charge ; and to Mr. E. S. Caswell, of the publishing house of William Briggs, for many courtesies, and specially for aid in procuring well-nigh inaccessible materials for examination. To the many persons who have so cordially responded to letters of inquiry, and whom I may not thank by name, I express my acknowledgments. The following special works have been of service : Selections from Canadian Poets (1864), by Edward Hartley Dewart; I'he Canadian Birthday Book (1887), by Seranus; Songs of the Great Dominion (1889), by William Douw Lighthall, M.A., and Morgan's Canadian Men and Women of the Time. Special thanks are rendered to the authors who have permitted the use of their poems, and to the various publishers for copyright permission. I regret that I was unable to secure permission to include any poems by Mr. William Wilfred Campbell. Perhaps the selections from my own verse should not appear in the volume. Their inclusion, it is proper to say, is in deference to the wishes of persons of acknowledged taste, rather than to any desire of my own. A Canadian by birth, education, and life-service, as were my father and his father, my mother and her mother, I may be pardoned the expression of a feeling of national pride that the materials are so abundant from which to prepare a representative volume, much of whose contents will not suffer by comparison with the verse of older countries. I trust that this anthology may serve as an open door through which the voices of Canadian singers may vibrate yet more widely on sympathetic ears both at home and abroad. T. H. R. Toronto, Canada, February. 1900. AUTHORS AND SELECTIONS The Whitethroat (T. H. R. ) . . VtARGARET H. ALDEN — Mother's World xviuLuci a vvuiiu • ■ ■ • , losEPH Antisell Allen— 2 i?n)»8 " Daydreams " .... 2 jkant Allen— Only an Insect . . ... 3 iVilliam Talbot Allison— "There sat the Women weeping for Tliammiiz '• 6 The Men of the North .... 8 Vanishings ..... 8 JOPHIE M. ALMON-HENSLEY— Content ...... 9 lo Song There is no God ..... II )UNCAN Anderson — The Death of Wolfe .... . II Sport ...... 17 ILICE M. ArDAGH— Sic Passim ..... 20 SIDORE G. ASCHER— By the Firelight ..... 22 B AMUEL MATHEWSON BAYLIS — In Matabele Land .... 23 25 The Coureur-de-Bois .... OHN Wilson Bengough— Sir John A. Macdonald . 26 Restitution ..... 27 SAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS— In Memoriam ..... 28 Chaucer ...... 30 Pope ...... 30 xlv Authors and Selections Blanche Bishop— - The Bride o' the Sun Winter Flowers .... Christmas Morn .... 31 31 32 Edward Blackadder— Annapolis Royal .... 33 Jean Blewett— The Two Marys .... She just keeps house for me At Quebec .... 33 John Breakenridge — The Troubadour .... . 36 John Henry Brown— The Parliament of Man . A Sunset ..... . 38 40 Edward Burrough Brownlow— The Whippoorwill The Sonnet .... 40 41 George Frederick Cameron- The Golden Text . Is there a God ? . On Tiptoe What matters it? . Bliss Carman- Low Tide on Grand Pr^ The Gravedigger The Crimson House Hack and Hew Phillips Brooks The White Gull . Amos Henry Chandler — When Dora died . Edward J. Chapman— A Summer Night Annie Rothwell Christie— The Woman's Part After the Battle Welcome Home George Herbert Clarke— Skater and Wolves To a Butterfly Resentment F.rrlpsiastpe 41 43 43 43 45 46 48 49 SI 52 S9 60 63 64 66 67 68 69 Authors and Selections xv Hugh Cochkan — Ideal ..... Hereward K. Cockin— The Death of Burnaby . Sara Jeanktte Duncan Cotes — The Poet .... Isabella Valancy Crawford— The Master-Builder The Axe of the Pioneer . From "The Helot" The Sword .... "These Three" .... Francis Blake Crofton — The Battle-Call of Anti-Christ . John Allister Currie— My Mother .... Margaret Gill Currie — By the St John .... Sarah Anne Curzon— Visit of the Prince of Wales to Laura Secord Invocation to Rain 70 70 72 73 73 76 77 78 81 81 83 8S Nicholas Flood Davin— From " Eos" A. B. De Mille — The Ice King Ballad James De Mille — From " Behind the Veil " Edward Hartley Dewart— Shadows on the Curtain On the Ottawa Frederick Augustus Dixon— A Feather's Message Hinc Illae Lachrymse William Henry Drummond — The Habitant's Jubilee Ode John Hunter Duvar — John A'Var's Last Lay . The Minnesingers Lied . How Balthazar the King went down into Egypt 87 89 91 92 96 97 98 99 104 106 107 xvi Authors and Selections Arthur Wentworth Hamilton Eaton— The Egyptian Lotus Purple Asters .... Deepening the Channel . The Phantom Light of the Baie des Chaleurs The Meadow Lands My Purest Longings spring I watch the Ships 109 no III 112 "3 114 114 James David Edgar — This Canada of Ours . . . . ,116 Constance Fairbanks — The Junction . . , . . .117 Halifax ....... 117 Those far-off fields . . . . .118 Joseph Kearney Koran — The Aurora Borealis . . . . .118 William Henry Fuller — A Song of the Sea ..... 120 Alexander Rae Garvie— From " Phantasy" H Pierce Stevens Hamilton — i^rom " The Heroine of St John . . , , 123 S. FRANCES Harrison — Villanelle ....... 126 Chateau Papineau ■ . . '. 127 September •••.., 128 November ■•■,.! 128 Theodore Arnold Haultain — Beauty ....... 129 Charles Heavysege — Magnanimous and Mean . . i,j Night ; 1I2 The Coming of the Morn .... 132 The Mystery of Doom , . . . '-133 John Frederic Herein— Simon ..... The Diver ..... 133 137 Authors and Selections XVI] Across the Dykes The Sonnet . 137 . 138 Annie Campbell Huestis— Gentle-Breath The Little White Sun . Twenty-Old and Seven- Wild . 138 • 139 140 James C. Hodgins— Once More A Greek Reverie . . 14s 146 Joseph Howe— The Flag of Old England The Deserted Nest . 147 148 William Edward Hunt— Golden-Rod The Sea's Influence The Passing of Summer . . 141 . 142 142 Richard Huntington— Sunrise on the Tusket Louisburg . 142 . 144 Charles Edwin Jakeway— An Unfinished Prophecy 149 Pauline Johnson (Tekahioiiwake) - The Song my Paddle sings • iSS At Husking Time . 156 Shadow River .... ■ 157 Brier ..... . 1S8 Prairie Greyhounds . • IS9 K Robert Kirkland Kernighan — The Song of the Thaw . . . . ' , 160 Peepy is not dead ..... 161 William Kirby — The Marquis of Lome's visit to the North-West , 162 At Spencer Grange ..... 163 From ' ' The Sparrows . . , . ,163 Matthew Richey Knight — Jacques Cartier . < , . . z66 Sovereign Moments ..... 167 The Mercy of God . • . . . 167 XVIU Authors and Selections Archibald Lampman — The Railway Station Outlook . Among the Millet The Loons The Sun Cup After Rain June September The Goal of Life Mary Jane Katzmann Lawson The Face in the Cathedral Sophia V. Gilbert Lee — The Brook Lily Alice Lefevre — Imprisoned . Inspiration R. E. Mullins Leprohon — The Huron Chiefs Daughter William Douw Lighthall— The Artist's Prayer The Sweef Star . My Native Land . . Stuart Livingston— The Volunteers of '85 To E. N. L. The King's Fool . Keats Arthur John Lockhart— Acadie The Waters of Carr The Lonely Pine . Bl'kton Wellesley Lockhart— From " The Retrospect " Love and Song By the Gaspereau John E. Logan— The Indian Maid's Lament— 168 168 169 169 170 170 172 174 177 177 180 180 181 182 184 186 186 187 188 189 192 192 193 194 196 197 197 198 Agnes Maule Machar- William Ewart Gladstone Schiller's Dying Vision . I^ove and Faith . A Madonna of the Entry . M 199 200 202 202 Authors and Selections XIX Evan MacColl — The Child of Promise Glenorchy Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald A Song of Seasons John Macfarlane — The Two Angels . A Grave in Samoa A Midsummer Madrigal . Kate Seymour Maclean — Ballad of the Mad Ladye Bird Song Elizabeth S. Macleod— Alexander Mackenzie A. D. Macneill — The Sea-GuU Donald M'Caig — The Tramp James M 'Carroll — A Royal Race Dawn The Grey Linnet . William M'Donnell — Frotfi "Manita" . Bernard M'Evoy — A Photograph in a Shop Window Revised Proofs Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee — Our Ladye of the Snow . William P. M'Kenzie — Moonlight Gabrielle . The Mother's Song Lullaby Song Alexander M'Lachlan— Indian Summer . Bobolink . The Man who rose from Nothing John M'Pherson — The Mayflower , In the Woods Charles Mair — Untamed . The Voice of the Pines . The Humming Bird Innocence , 204 205 205 206 207 208 208 210 213 215 216 216 217 218 £I3 219 224 224 225 226 227 229 230 231 232 233 234 236 236 XX Authors and Selections George Martin — Shelley To My Canary Bird Laleet Helen M. Merrill — The Blue Flower At Edgewater The Promise of Spring Sun-Gold Susanna Moodie — The Maple Tree . The Fisherman's Light . Mary Morgan— " In apprehension, so like a God Charity Life Irene Elder Morton— Browning . . Completeness My Garden Wall In June Song of the Pagan Princess Song Charles Pelham Mulvaney— Poppoea . Secrge Murray— The Thistle 238 238 £40 241 243 243 244 244 247 247 248 248 249 250 251 252 254 254 2SS 256 H. M. NlCKERSON- A Recollection 260 Cornelius O'Brien — St Cecilia Thomas O'Hagan — Ripene'l Fruit The Song My Mother Sings 261 261 262 Horatio Gilbert Parker — I loved my Art It is enough Their Waving Hands , 264 264 26^ Authors and Selections xxl Amy Parkinson— The Messenger Hours Frank L. Pollock — Ad Bellonam The Trail of Gold PAGE 265 268 269 Andrew Ramsay— Jephtha's Daughter I will not tell Atkinson's Mill Theodore Harding Rand— The Dragonfly Beauty Love The Hepatica "I Am" . The Veiled Presence The Ghost Flower Glory-Roses The Carven Shores Walter A. Ratcliffe — Wanted John Reade— Rizpah Pictures of Memory (i.-iv. In My Heart To Louis Fr&hette Kings of Men Dominion Day Robert Reid — Poesie A Song of Canada Charles George Douglas Roberts — A Nocturne of Consecration A Nocturne of.Spiritual Love An Ode for the Canadian Confederacy Canadian Streams The Silver Thaw Epitaph for a Sailor Buried Ashore The Train among the Hills A Song of Growth Sleepy Man Night in a down-town Street The Falling Leaves An Epitaph for a Husbandman Origins The Wrestler Recessional Ascription 270 271 272 273 276 277 277 278 279 280 280 281 282 283 2^5 286 288 288 289 290 290 296 297 299 300 301 301 302 304 JO6 309 xxii Authors and Selections Theodore Roberts — The Spears of- Kan-Mar . . , .309 Cold ....... 310 The Men of my Heart's Desire . . . .3'' The Chase ...... 312 William Carman Roberts — History ....... 3^3 An Easter Memory ..... 3^3 My Comrade Canoe ..... 314 George John Romanes — I ask not for Thy love, O Lord . . . . 31S Carroll Ryan — From. ' • Malta " . . . . . .316 Charles Sangster— England and America ..... 318 A Living Temple ...... 320 The Illumined Goal ..... 321 Love's Renewal ...... 321 'Tis Summer Still ..... 322 Duncan Campbell Scott — The Fifteenth of April ..... 322 Above St Ir^nfe ...... 323 Off Riviere Du Loup ..... 325 The End of the Day . . . . .326 A Flock of Sheep ...... 326 Memory ....... 327 Home Song ...... 328 Life and Death ...... 329 Ottawa ....... 329 Frederick George Scott — A Reverie ....... 330 E^ter Island ...... 331 A Dream of the Prehistoric .... 332 Dawn ....... 335 Van Elsen ...... 335 Charles Dawson Shanly — The Walker of the Snow , , . .336 Francis Sherman— The Builder ...... 338 Between the Battles 339 i^roffj " The Prelude " ..... 340 A Little While before the Fall w.is done . , 341 GoLDWiN Smith— Flossy to her Mistress ..... 341 Authors and Selections xxiil lAMAN C. Smith — Canada to Columbia From " A Day with Homer" William Wye Smith — The Canadians on the Nile Albert E. Stafford Smythe — The Forgotten Poet Death the Revealer Hiram Ladd Spencer — The River A Hundred Years to come Ezra Hurlburt Stafford— Chinook The Strange Vessel The last Orison Alexander Charles Stewart — From " The Wanderer" . Phillips Stewart — Hope From " Corydon and Amaryllis ' From ' ' De Profundis " Barry Straton — Love's Harvest Charity America . Arthur J. Stringer — A Song in Autunm Beside the Martyr's Memorial Canada to England Beethoven . . , Alan Sullivan— Venice . . , The White Canoe 342 343 344 345 346 346 347 348 349 35° 351 351 352 353 353 354 )S6 356 357 357 J58 359 360 Bertram Tennyson — Gordon Edward William Thomson A Day-Dream The Song-Sparrow The Bad Year John Stuart Thomson — The Vale of Estabelle Even-Time Late Autumn . , 361 363 364 ^64 365 367 368 xxiv Authors and Selections w Fea .>icis L. Dominick Waters — From • • The Water Lily " . 369 Arthur Weir A Snowshoe Song Voyageur Song .... The Little Trooper Little Miss Blue Eyes A Christmas Lullaby . 370 . 372 ■ 373 . 374 • 375 Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald The House of the Trees At the Window To February The Hay Field .... . 376 • 377 • 377 . 378 William Henry Withrow— October ..... Cloud Castles .... • 379 . 379 R. Walter Wright — Easter Morn .... A Still Small Voice . 381 G. F. W. Sense and Spirit .... . 382 Eva Rose York — I shall not pass this way again Pamelia Vining Yule — The Beautiful Artist Warble thy lays to me 382 384 386 Notes of Authors . Index of First Lines 387 405 A TREASURY OF CANADIAN VERSE THE WHITETHROAT SHY bird of the silver arrows of song, That cleave our Northern air so clear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, I listen, I hear — " I — love — dear — Canada, Canada, Canada." O plumes of the pointed dusky fir. Screen of a swelling patriot heart. The copse is all astir And echoes thy part ! . . . Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes As the noise of the day dies down ; And silence strings her lutes. The Whitethroat to crown. . . . O bird of the silver arrows of song, Shy poet of Canada dear. Thy notes prolong, prolong, We listen, we hear — " I — love — dear — Canada, Canada, Canada." A Treasury of MARGARET H. ALDEN MOTHER'S WORLD EYES of blue and hair of gold, Cheeks all brown with summer tan, Lips that much of laughter hold. That is mother's little Man. Shining curls like chestnut brown, Long-lashed eyes, demure and staid. Sweetest face in all the town. That is mother's little Maid. Dainty room with snow-white beds. Where, like flowers with petals curled, Rest in peace two dreaming heads. That— is mother's little World 1 JOSEPH ANTISELL ALLEN From "DAY-DREAMS" AH, what if the mind, By sense-law confined, In time, 'neath this stratum of stars, Secretes by her spell This fair, wondrous shell Self-substanced, till bursting the bars Of chrysalis time. Free, joyous, sublime, She mounts the blue space, winged with light. Where, deep in the soul, Is mirrored the whole, As in a calm lake the pure night ! Canadian Verse 3 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 1 GRANT ALLEN ONLY AN INSECT I ON the crimson cloth Of my study desk A lustrous moth Poised statuesque. A Treasury of 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. 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. Ill Dazzled and stunned By the scalding pain, Canadian Verse 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, A Treasury of 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. But if only I In my simple song Could tell you the Why Of that one little wrong, I could tell you more Than the deepest page Of saintliest lore Or of wisest sage. For never as yet In its wordy strife Could Philosophy get At the import of life ; And Theology's saws Have still to explain The inscrutable cause For the being of pain. So I somehow fear That in spite of both. We are baffled here By this one singed moth. WILLIAM TALBOT ALLISON "THERE SAT THE WOMEN WEEPING FOR THAMMUZ" THE days begin to wane, and evening lifts Her eyes the sooner towards the vales of sleep ; The yellow leaf upon the night-breeze drifts And winter-voices thunder from the deep ; Canadian Verse 7 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. A Treasury of THE MEN OF THE NORTH FROM out the cold house of the north Thor's stalwart children hurtled forth, Forsook their sullen seas ; Southward the Gothic waggons rolled, While bards foretold a realm of gold, And fame, and boundless ease. Loud rang the shields with sounding blows. The furious din of war arose Adown the dreary land ; But Woden held them in his ken. And safely passed the Teuton men By every hostile band. At length, one day, the host was thrilled At that glad cry the foremost shrilled, — " The sea ! A southern sea ! " As breathless stood the northmen there. The wind swept through their yellow hair. And sang of empery. Rome's doom was written in their eyes. Fell tumult under sunny skies. Death on the Golden Horn : Now, by the rood, what southron slaves, Or land that any south sea laves, Can face the northern born ? VANISHINGS THE dark has passed, and the chill Autumn morn Unrolls her faded glories in the fields ; Dead are the gilded air-hosts newly-born, The hardiest flowers droop their sodden shields. Canadian Verse For lovely Summer hath cut short her stay — The fickle goddess, loaded with delight, Grown wantonly unconstant, fled away Under a hoar-frost mantle yesternight. In one brief hour, the warm and flashing skies Pale in the marble dawn ; we cannot choose, But marvel that hearts turn to stone, and eyes Brimful of passion all their lustre lose. Drear is the morning ; love is gone for aye. Love done to death in one bright peerless day. SOPHIE M. ALMON-HENSLEY CONTENT I HAVE been wandering where the daisies grow. Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow From timothy and yellow buttercup, So by their fearless beauty lifted up. Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will. Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep Or, as ofttimes, in mood caressing, creep Over the meadows and adown the hill. So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow. Blows over proud young hearts and bids them bow. So beautiful is it to live, so sweet To hear the ripple of the bobolink. To smell the clover blossom white and pink. To feel oneself far from the dusty street, From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret Of living, and the fever of regret. 10 A Treasury of 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, " passion^ment, pas du tout " ; Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch The knowing daisy, for he loves me " much." I can remember how, in childish days, I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall Must love me " passionately " or " not at all." Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays It knows not what, and heedlessly demands The best that life can give with outstretched hands ! Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize Peace above passion, and the summer life Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold. SONG JOY came in Youth as a humming bird, (Sing hey ! for the honey and bloom of life !) And it made a home in my summer bower With the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower. (Sing hey ! for the blossoms and sweets of life !) Canadian Verse ii Joy came as a lark when the years had gone, (Ah ! hush, hush still, for the dream is short !) And I gazed far up to the melting blue Where the rare song dropped like a golden dew. (Ah ! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short !) THERE IS NO GOD THERE is no God ! If one should stand at noon Where the glow rests, and the warm sunlight plays. Where earth is gladdened by the cordial rays And blossoms answering, where the calm lagoon Gives back the brightness of the heart of June, And he should say : "There is no sun " — the day's Fair show still round him, — should we lose the blaze And warmth, and weep that day has gone so soon ? Nay, there would be one word, one only thought, " The man is blind ! " and throbs of pitying scorn Would rouse the heart, and stir the wondering mind. V^efeel, and see, and therefore know, — the morn With blush of youth ne'er left us till it brought Promise of full-grown day. " The man is blind ! " DUNCAN ANDERSON THE DEATH OF WOLFE. 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. 12 A Treasury of 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. 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 resti" 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. Canadian Verse 13 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. in 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. 14 A Treasury of 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 Phoenix will arise. In fiery haste, from Beauport's battered shore ; From feint and bloodless field, now hurry by La Sarrfe, Roussilon, Languedoc, Beam, 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 teeminggates; — 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. Canadian Verse 15 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. 1 6 A Treasury of And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed On dark CuUoden moor o'er trampled dead, Now sounds the " Onset " that each Clansman knows, Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood is shed. 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." 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. Canadian Verse i*; 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 bowed head they lay their Hero down, And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave; — Loud salvos sing the soldier's lullaby, And weeping millions bathe with tears his honored grave. Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion's hills, — And rends the very sky a people's joy ; — And even when grief broods o'er the vacant chair. The mother's heart still nobly gives her gallant boy. And while broad England gleams with glorious light, And merry peals from every belfry ring ; — One little village lies all dark and still, No fires are lighted there — no battle songs they sing. There in her lonely cot, in widow's weeds, A mother mourns — the silent tear-drops fall ; — She too had given to swell proud England's fame, But, ah ! she gave the widow's mite— she gave her all! SPORT AH ! list the music of the whistling wings, As westward sweeps the long-extended corps ; Our own Outarde revisits well-known haunts, And the loud quack rings out anew from sea to shore. The Canvas-back a double zest affords, And yields a dish to " set before a king " ; And where the north-shore streams rush to the sea, Here the rare Harlequin shoots past on rapid wing. B 1 8 A Treasury of 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 Chiteau 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. Canadian Verse 19 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 barfe, — 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. 20 A Treasury of These all and more await the hunter's skill ; Such trophies well our antlered halls adorn ; Their shining coats may win a golden prize, Or keep us snug and warm amid the winter storm. But yet, possessed of aught that hands could win, Or all that pleasure puts within our ken, We joy to know a nobler gift is ours, — We own the heaven-sent heritage of freeborn men. ALICE M. ARDAGH SIC PASSIM (the same everywhere) I CAME upon a drawer to-day. Half-filled with closely written scraps ; A motley crew, and all, perhaps, But worthy to be cast away In other eyes, but to my heart Dear indexes of pleasures, pains. Life-revelations, losses, gains. That in my life have borne their part. Small profit were it to detail ! Each fragment paints its little hour, And each and all are fraught with power To tell the same unflattering tale : Of love, and faithlessness in love ; Of pain, and balm in pleasure found ; Such things in every life abound, Nor total worthlessness need prove. Canadian Verse 21 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. 2 2 A Treasury of ISIDORE G. ASCHER BY THE FIRELIGHT CRADLED within the arms of night, The unquiet day is lulled asleep The weary hours have taken flight, Leaving their shadows long and deep. That spread upon the earth below, Soft as the falling of the snow. Betwixt the glimmer and the gloom. The twilight beameth tenderly In dim rays o'er the dusky room, Like hope of immortality, That o'er the earth-bound spirit falls. And shineth through life's prison walls. Our converse is of earthly things : Our little world of joys is pure. And silvery laughter peals and rings. Like flute-sounds in an overture. Swelling with sudden rise aloft, Or toning to a cadence soft. The firelight dances on the walls. In wavering streams of ruby light ; A human ray that gladly falls. Cheering the mellow hours of night, While even hurrying Time does seem To linger by the lambent gleam ! No shadow in our dear retreat. Nor heart-glooms, like the night-mists rise ; Love speaketh from the laughter sweet, Love danceth in the sparkling eyes ! While in the radiance on the wall, God's love, divine, seems over all ! Canadian Verse 23 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 sfars to read his destiny : We watch the flame's pure vestal glow Shine like a beacon, steadfastly, And read our fireside cheering lore Imaged in light upon the floor. SAMUEL MATHEWSON BAYLIS IN MATABELE LAND " O ADDLE and mount and away ! " — loud the vJ 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 ! 24 A Treasury of " 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 cart- ridge 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 wiii. Canadian Verse 25 THE COUREUR-DE-BOIS. IN the glimmering light of the Old Regime 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, mafoi!" 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 Saint t Coureur-de-Bois. 26 A Treasury of JOHN WILSON BENGOUGH SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD JUNE 6, 1891 j_yEAD ! dead! And now before The threshold of bereaved 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, I^ike 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. Canadian Verse 27 As for his Statesuianfame, Let History calm his wondrous record read, And write the truth, and give him honest meed Of praise or blame ! RESTITUTION ENOUGH ! the lie is ended. God only owns the land; No parchment deed hath virtue unsigned by His own hand; Out on the bold blasphemers who would eject the Lord, And pauperize His children, and trample on His word ! Behold this glorious temple, with dome of starry sky. And floor of greensward scented, and trees for pillars high; And song of birds for music, and bleat of lambs for prayer. And incense of sweet vapors uprising everywhere. Behold his table bounteous spread over land and sea, The sure reward of labor, to every mortal free ; And hark ! through Nature's anthem there rises the refrain, " God owns the world, but giveth it unto the sons of irien." 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. 28 A Treasury of But Christ has nut forgotten, and wolfish human greed Shall be driven from our heritage; God's bounties shall be freed ; And from out our hoary statutes shall be torn the crime-stained leaves, Which have turned the world, God's Temple, into a den of thieves. CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS IN MEMORIAM WHOM would ye choose? for, lo, the chief is dead, Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts ; He whose revered and silver-crowned 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. Canadian Verse 29 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 winged 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. 30 A Treasury of CHAUCER THE heart of Merrie England sang in thee, Dan Chaucer, bUthest of the sons of morn ! How, from that dim and mellow distance borne, Come floating down thy measures pure and free, Thou prime old minnesinger ! Pageantry, And Revel, blowing from his drinking-horn The froth of malt, and Love that dwells forlorn — Though England perish, these will live in thee ! Thine is the jocund springtime — winsome May, Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight ; The breath of freeland fields is in thy lay, And in thy graver verse thy nation's might ; O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day. Still echo through her noon thy clear delight ! POPE BEHOLD the foe of Grub Street's lettered fools, The Richard Crookback of the kings of rhyme, Forging his couplets of heroic chime. And beating all his masters at their rules ; With what an arsenal of shining tools He wrought to shape his fanciful sublime. Flouting each proud Maecenas 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 ! Canadian Verse 31 BLANCHE BISHOP THE BRIDE O' THE SUN IN a veil of white vapor, hushed stars moving through, She comes, when the tremulous morning is new, The bride o' the sun ; Green, green is her robe, tipt with crystalline beads, Where it drips with the dews shaken off as she speeds. The bride o' the sun. There's a slim virgin moon swaying low at her side. But the frost at her heart is not meet for a bride. The bride o' the sun. There are stars in her train, but they pale to the least. When open the light-shedding doors of the East To the bride o' the sun. Lo he cometh, the bridegroom, in garments of gold. And his glances are flashing, bright, beauteous, bold, On the bride o' the sun ;— Till her heart it leaps up, like flame unto flame. Unfolding tp flower o'er all her fair frame, Sweet bride o' the sun. O glorious bridal of fire and earth ! O ancient of miracles ! new as at birth Of the bride o' the sun. All creation doth wear a more rapturous face. For the joy of the earth as she circles thro' space. Ever bride o' the sun. WINTER FLOWERS WHEN tree and bush are comfortless. And fields are piteous bare, A garden blooms upon my hearth. And it is summer there. ^1 A Treasury of 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. 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. 1 only know 'tis dark without. And here 'tis light and warm. CHRISTMAS MORN COME, happy morn, serene and fair, With outstretched hand, thy breath a prayer ; Come with thy faintly smiling eyes, And brow whereon majestic rise Suns of eternal morn. Come, happy morn, for see and hark ! A world lies waiting in the dark, With throbbing heart and straining gaze. To catch thy first up-springing rays, O, happy, happy morn ! Canadian Verse 33 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 EDWARD BLACKADDER ANNAPOLIS ROYAL LOITER here within this ancient town — Long time agone the rising hope of France, The seed of future empire — as in trance, 'Mid storied scenes, I wander up and down. Here are the grass-grown walls which bore the frown Of death-disgorging cannon long ago, And wide the gleaming basin spreads below. Where thunder-bearing ships no more are known. Yea, death hath reaped his harvest in this place ; Along these shores have hundreds bled and died To save this jewel for the Gallic crown. Stern fate ordained it for another race : The sturdy Saxon tills yon meadows wide ; Peace rules o'er all ; war's trumpet sleeps unblown. JEAN BLEWETT THE TWO MARYS THEY journey sadly, slowly on. The day has scarce begun. Above the hills the rose of dawn Is heralding the sun, C 34 A Treasury of 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. Canadian Verse 35 The sun is flooding vale and hill, Blue shines the sky above, " All hail ! " — O voice that wakes a thrill, Familiar, full of love ! From darkest night to brightest day, From deep despair to bliss. They to the Master run straightway. And kneel His feet to kiss. O Love ! that made Him come to save, To hang on Calvary, O mighty Love ! that from the grave Did lift and set Him free ! Sing, Mary Magdalene, sing forth — With voice so sweet and strong. Sing, till it thrills through all the earth — The Resurrection Song ! SHE JUST KEEPS HOUSE FOR ME SHE is so winsome and so wise She sways us at her will. And oft the question will arise What mission does she fill? And so I say, with pride untold And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold. She just keeps house for me. A full content dwells in her face, She's quite in love with life. And for a title wears with grace The sweet old-fashioned " Wife." What though I toil from morn till night. What though I weary grow, A spring of love and dear delight Doth ever softly flow. J 6 A Treasury of 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. y AT QUEBEC QUEBEC, the grey old city on the hill, Lies with a golden glory on her head. Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still. Of other days and all her mighty dead. The white "doves perch upon the cannons grim. The flowers bloom where once did run a tide Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim Above the battlefield so grim and wide. Methihks within her wakes a mighty glow Of pride, of tenderness — her stirring past — The strife, the valor, of the long ago Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast. She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, A wondrous softness on her grey old face. JOHN BREAKENRIDGE THE TROUBADOUR TO THE CAPTIVE RICHARD CCEUR DE LION O Richard, my King, lion-hearted, behold From thy prison, near which the dark waters are rolled ; 'Tis Blondell the faithful, whose troubadour lay Would win the sad thoughts of his monarch away ; Canadian Verse 2)7 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 Berengfere,* 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 ! * Berengaria. 38 A Treasury of Thy brother hath risen, and seized on the crown, And still the usurper no hand hurleth down. Doth England forget Coeur 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. Coeur 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. JOHN HENRY BROWN THE PARLIAMENT OF MAN WHAT shall withstand her? who shall gainsay her? The mighty nation ! Nation of freemen with hearts linked together — None to betray her. Canadian Verse 39 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 paean ? 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 ! 40 A Treasury of A SUNSET A PERFECT artist hath been here ; the scene Is grandly imaged ; with what breadth of hand, What noble grace of freedom, all is planned ! The woods, the water and the lakelet's sheen ; The magic hues — gold-pink, rose-pearl, sea-green, And now the western gateway, see, is spanned ! A nameless glory gilds the favored land, And still the spirit-artist works unseen. Belike upon the chamber of a king My erring steps have stumbled ; yet, meseems. These, like myself, are common men, who spring From rock to rock where the mid-splendor gleams. Perchance the king's sons we, and I, who sing. Co-heir to wealth beyond yon realm of dreams. EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW THE WHIP-POOR-WILL WHEN early shades of evening's close The air with solemn darkness fill, Before the moonlight softly throws Its fairy mantle o'er the hill, A sad sound goes In plaintive thrill ; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will. The Nightingale unto the rose Its tale of love may fondly trill ; No love-tale this — 'tis grief that flows With pain that never can be still. The sad sound goes In plaintive thrill ; Canadian Verse 41 Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will. Repeated oft, it never grows Familiar, but is sadder still. As though a spirit sought repose From some pursuing, endless ill. The sad sound goes In plaintive thrill ; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will. THE SONNET THE sonnet is a diamond flashing round From every facet true rose-colored lights ; A gem of thought carved in poetic nights To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned ; A miniature of soul wherein are found Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights ; A drop of blood with which a lover writes His heart's sad epitaph in its own bound ; A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep Rocked in its frenzied passion ; the last note Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark's throat j A cascade small flung in a canyon steep, With crystal music. At this shrine of song High priests of poesy have worshipped long. GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON THE GOLDEN TEXT YOU ask for fame or power ? Then up and take for text : This is my hour, And not the next, nor next ! 42 A Treasury of 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 I Canadian Verse 43 IS THERE A GOD? IS there a God, then, above us ? I ask it again and again : Is there a good God to love us — A God who is mindful of men ? Is there a God who remembers That we have our nights as our noons ? Our dark and our dismal Decernbers As well as our garden-gay Junes ? ON TIPTOE STANDING on tiptoe ever since my youth, Striving to grasp the future just above, I hold at length the only future — Truth, And Truth is Love. I feel as one who, being awhile confined. Sees drop to dust about him all his bars : — The clay grows less, and, leaving it, the mind Dwells with the stars. WHAT MATTERS IT? WHAT reck we of the creeds of men ?- We see them — we shall see again. What reck we of the tempest's shock ? What reck we where our anchor lock ? On golden marl or mould — In salt-sea flower or riven rock — What matter — so it hold ? 44 A Treasury of 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 ! Canadian Verse 45 BLISS CARMAN LOW TIDE ON GRAND PR6 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 t 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. 46 A Treasury of And that we took into our hands Spirit of life or subtler thing — Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands Of death, and taught us, whispering, The secret of some wonder-thing. Then all your face grew light, and seemed To hold the shadow of the sun ; The evening faltered, and I deemed That time was ripe, and years had done Their wheeling underneath the sun. So all desire and all regret, And fear and memory, were naught ; One to remember or forget The keen delight our hands had caught ; Morrow and yesterday were naught. The night has fallen, and the tide . . . Now and again comes drifting home. Across these aching barrens wide, A sigh like driven wind or foam : In grief the flood is bursting home. THE GRAVEDIGGER OH, the shambling sea is a sexton old. And well his work is done. With an equal grave for lord and knave. He buries them every one. Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip. He makes for the nearest shore ; And God, who sent him a thousand ship. Will send him a thousand more ; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore, — Shoulder them in, shoulder them in. Shoulder them in to shore. Canadian Verse 47 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. 48 A Treasury of Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough To handle the tallest mast ; From the royal barque to the slaver dark. He buries them all at last. Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip. He makes for the nearest shore ; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more ; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave. And shoulder them in to shore, — Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore. THE CRIMSON HOUSE LOVE built a crimson house- I know it well — That he might have a home Wherein to dwell. Poor Love that roved so far And fared so ill. Between the morning star And the Hollow Hill, Before he found the vale Where he could bide, With memory and oblivion Side by side. He took the silver dew And the dun red clay, And behold when he was through How fair were they ! Canadian Verse 49 The braces of the sky Were in its girth That it should feel no jar Of the swinging earth ; That sun and wind might bleach But not destroy The house that he had builded For his joy. " Here will I stay," he said, "And roam no more. And dust when I am dead Shall keep the door." There trooping dreams by night Go by, go by. The walls are rosy white In the sun's eye. The windows are more clear Than sky or sea ; He made them .after God's Transparency. It is a dearer place Than Kirk or inn ; Such joy on joy as there Has never been. HACK AND HEW HACK and Hew were the sons of God In the earlier earth than now ; One at his right hand, one at his left. To obey as he taught them how. 50 A Treasury of 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. Canadian Verse 51 PHILLIPS BROOKS THIS is the white winter day of his burial. Time has set here of his toiling the span Earthward, naught else. Cheer him out through the portal, Heart-beat of Boston, our utmost in man ! Out in the broad open sun be his funeral, Under the blue for the city to see. Over the grieving crowd mourn for him, bugle 1 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 traflBc 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. 52 A Treasury of Bear him to burial, Harvard, thy Hero ! Not on thy shoulders alone is he borne ; They of the burden go forth on the morrow. Heavy and slow, through a world left forlorn. No grief for him, for ourselves the lamenting ; What giant arm to stay courage up now ? March we a thousand file up to the City, Fellow with fellow linked, — he taught us how ! Never dismayed at the dark nor the distance ! Never deployed for the steep nor the storm ! Hear him say, " Hold fast, the night wears to morning ! This God of promise is God to perform." Up with thee, heart of fear, high as the heaven ! Thou hast known one wore this life without stain. What if for thee and me, — Street, Yard, or Common, — Such a white captain appear not again ! Fight on alone ! Let the faltering spirit Within thee recall how he carried a host. Rearward and van, as Wind shoulders a dust-heap ; One Way till strife be done, strive each at his most. Take the last vesture of beauty upon thee, Thou doubting world ; and with not an eye dim Say, when they ask if thou knowest a Saviour, " Brooks was His brother, and we have known him." THE WHITE GULL For the Centenary of the birth of Shelley T J P by the idling reef-set bell The tide comes in ; And to the idle heart to-day The wind has many things to say ; Canadian Verse 53 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 j 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. 54 A Treasury of 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. Ill 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 Canadian Verse 55 To bugle down the wintry verge Of time forever, where the surge Thunders and crumbles on a waste And open sea. 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. 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 56 A Treasury of 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. Canadian Verse 57 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 hes 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. 58 A Treasury of 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. Canadian Verse 59 AMOS HENRY CHANDLER WHEN DORA DIED DREARY, dreary, Fundy's mists are sweeping Up the stricken vales of Westmoreland : Weary, weary Is my heart and weeping, While the cold waves dash upon the strand. Filled, filled Is the land with sorrow. In loud wailing roars the angry sea : Stilled, stilled 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. , . 6o A Treasury of EDWARD J. CHAPMAN A SUMMER NIGHT 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-fringed 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. Canadian Verse 6i 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 Shinesout forme — good-night !" — "Good-night!" Shoreward again we glide — and go Where the sumach shadows flow Across the purple calm below. 62 A Treasury of 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-a-voys ! 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. Canadian Verse 63 And time it were for us to take Our homeward course across the lake, Ere yet the tell-tale morn awake. O Night — where old shape-hauntings dwell, Though now, calm-eyed ; — for thy soft spell, O soothing Night ! I thank thee well. ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE THE WOMAN'S PART G< TONE ! 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 64 A Treasury of When love sows seed ? Hush ! let us keep our souls In silence — Words of comfort, words of cheer, But mock the senses when the war-cloud rolls Black 'twixt the eyes and all the heart holds dear. What can we give them ? Prayers ? Shall not the God of battles work His will ? He guards, He smites. Our strength is to be still And wait His word ; to cast aside our cares And trust His justice. Strife And peace are in His hand. They who shall see Victorious days, and in the time to be Shall share again the toils and joys of life Are His — but not less His are they who fall, (Sealing their soul's devotion with their breath) And not less loved that, true to duty's call. Their crown of honor comes to them in death. What shall we give them ? Tears ? Tears least of all ! Shame not their valor so — Honor and manhood call them ; let them go, Nor make farewell twice parting by your tears. O, woman-heart, be strong ! Too full for words— too humble for a prayer — Too faithful to be fearful — offer here Your sacrifice of patience. Not for long The darkness. When the dawn of peace breaks bright Blessed she who welcomes whom her God shall save, But honored in her God's and country's sight She who lifts empty arms to cry, " I gave ! " AFTER THE BATTLE AY, lay them to rest on the prairie, on the spot where for honor they fell. The shout of the savage their requiem, the hiss of the rifle their knell. Canadian Verse 65 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. E 66 A Treasury of If the seed sown in blood you must water with tears, shrink not back from the cost ; What fAey gave ungrudging for honor you have lent to your country, not lost. And forgive us, who bear not your burden of pain and who share not your pride. If we grudge you your glory of giving in the cause where your heroes have died. WELCOME HOME /ufy, 1885 WAR-WORN, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil. And battle-scarred they come — victorious. Exultantly we greet them ; cleave the sky With cheers, and fling our banners to the winds ; We raise triumphant songs, and strew their path To do them homage — bid them " Welcome Home." We laid our country's honor in their hands And sent them forth undoubting ; said farewell With hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow. To-day they come again, and bring their gift — Of all earth's gifts most precious — trust redeemed. We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry. Words of all words the sweetest — " Welcome Home ! " Oh, brave true hearts ! oh, steadfast loyal hearts ! They come, and lay their trophies at our feet : They show us work accomplished, hardships borne. Courageous deeds, and patience under pain. Their country's name upheld and glorified. And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil. Canadian Verse 67 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 beloved, 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 their's 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-psean can console, Ye surely will not fail them — will not shrink To perfect now your sacrifice of love ? GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE SKATER AND WOLVES SWIFTER the flight ! Far, far and high The wild air shrieks its savage cry, And all the earth is ghostly pale. While the young skater, strong and hale Skims fearlessly the forest by. 68 A Treasury of Hush ! shrieking blast, but wail and sigh ! Well sped, O skater, fly thee, fly ! Mild moon, let not thy glory fail ! Swifter the flight ! O, hush thee, storm ! thou canst not vie With that low summons, hoarse and dry. He hears, and oh ! his spirits quail, — He laughs and sobs within the gale, On, anywhere ! He must not die, — Swifter the flight ! TO A BUTTERFLY BUTTERFLY, Flutter by, Under and over, Haunting the. clover. Each flashing wing Fashioning Quivering glories, Luminous stories ! Life in a miniature ! Swiftly to win a pure Realm of ideals, Hoping it heals. The best, the best Is the endless quest. Is hopefulness vain To feel or to feign ? Know you not, save to say : " It is glittering, glittering day,- Canadian Verse 69 The sun to me sings, Beauty dowers my wings, All of joy I attain."— Once again, Flutter by, Butterfly 1 RESENTMENT THE ocean bursts in very wrath, The waters rush and whirl. As the hardy diver cleaves a path Down to the treasured pearl. ECCLESIASTES GOD speaks. Life beats within the brain, And crowding onward comes the cry Of worlds, — and in the senses, pain ! And in the heart, eternity ! A CHILD'S EVENING HYMN SHEPHERD Jesus, in Thy arms Let Thy little lamb repose, Safe and free from all alarms In the love the Shepherd shows ; May my slumber quiet be, Angels watching over me ! Often mother dear has told How the children Thou didst bless, And I know that in Thy fold All is joy and happiness : May my slumber quiet be, Angels watching over me ! 70 A Treasury of Shepherd Jesus, make Thy child Pure and gentle as the dew, Keep my spirit undefiled Waking, sleeping, kind and true : May my slumber quiet be, Angels watching over me ! HUGH COCHRANE IDEAL THE song unsung more sweet shall ring, Than any note that yet has rung ; More sweet than any earthly thing The song unsung ! A harp there lies, untouched, unstrung As yet by man, but time shall bring A player by whose art and tongue This song shall sound to God the King ; The world shall cling as ne'er it clung To God and heaven, and all shall sing The song unsung. HEREWARD K. COCKIN THE DEATH OF BURNABY " /^ LOSE up in front, and steady, lads ! " brave ^ Stewart cries, " They're here " : And distant Cheops echoes back our soldiers' answer- ing 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 ; Canadian Verse 71 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 clifif 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 Hon'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. 72 A Treasury of 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 foetid 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 1 SARA JEANETTE DUNCAN COTES THE POET OVERY, 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 Canadian Verse ii In some first fairness when the day is new, In some dear dimness i' the time o' the dew, A loveliness that steals about his heart, And lays soft fingers on dumb chords that start. Then he uprises joyously and binds His poet's robes upon him, yea, he finds This drear existence a most glorious thing And sings because he cannot choose but sing. ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD THE MASTER-BUILDER OLOVE 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 ! B THE AXE OF THE PIONEER ITE 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 ! 74 A Treasury of 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 1 His crown the very heavens shall smite, ^ons shall build him in his might ! " Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree ; Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy ! From "THE HELOT" HELOT, drink — nor spare the wine ; Drain the deep, the maddening bowl ; Flesh and sinews, slave, are mine. Now I cMm 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. Canadian Verse 75 " 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 5 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 Csecuban kiss. 76 A Treasury of On his swarthy temples grew Purple veins like clustered grapes ; Past his rolling pupils blew Wine-born, fierce, lascivious shapes. Cold the haughty Spartan smiled — His the power to knit that day Bacchic fires, insensate, wild, To the grand Achean clay. His the might — hence his the right ! Who should bid him pause ? nor Fate Warning passed before his sight, Dark -robed and articulate. . . . " Lo," he said, " he maddens now ! Flames divine do scathe the clod : Round his reeling Helot brow Stings the garland of the god." THE SWORD AT the forging of the sword — The mountain roots were stirred Like the heart-beats of a bird ; Like flax the tall trees waved, So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword. At the forging of the Sword — So loud the hammers fell. The thrice-sealed gates of Hell Burst wide their glowing jaws ; Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword. At the forging of the Sword — Kind mother Earth was rent Like an Arab's dusky tent. And monster-like she fed On her children, at the forging of the Sword. Canadian Verse 'j'j 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 wart 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 1 "THESE THREE" A STAR leant down and laid a silver hand On the pale brow of death ; Before it roU'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 ! 78 A Treasury of From God's vast palm a large sun grandly rolled, O'er land and sea ; Its core of fire, its stretching hands of gold — Large Charity ! FRANCIS BLAKE CROFTON THE BATTLE-CALL OF ANTI-CHRIST AFORETHOUGHT of the fated reign of peace Fell on the soul of Anti-Christ, I dreamed ; And his brow darkened, and his hate-Ut 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.) Canadian Verse 79 " 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 ! (/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 Sj ear That glances from its victims to Christ's heart.) " And thou, enthusiast, whose genius caught The soul of Revolution and enchained 8o A Treasury of 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 ! " Canadian Verse Si JOHN ALLISTER CURRIE MY MOTHER THERE are no colors in God's heaven-bent bow, Nor is there music in the quiring spheres, Can paint thy smile from out these youthful years. Recall the music of thy voice so low And sweet, dear mother, in the long ago. But gone art thou. Ah ! how the bitter tears Burned deep into my heart ! How memory sears. But cannot heal those wounds, while tears still flow. Back from those bright and happy days gone by. Echoes of childish mirth and cradle song ! Thy guiding hand and presence then were nigh. And I am weary, and life's road seems wrong. I miss thy smiling face, thy watchful eye. Life's heaven was short. Eternity's is long. MARGARET GILL CURRIE BY THE ST. JOHN THE broad round-shouldered giant Earth Upbears no land more sweet Than that whereon in heedless mirth Went free my childish feet ; No fairer river furroweth. With its strong steel-blue share, The hill-sides and the vales of earth. Than that which floweth there. For rigid fasting hermit John They named the glorious stream, As seamen on his holy morn Beheld its harbor's gleam. F 82 A Treasury of 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 ; Canadian Verse 83 The robin loves the dawning's hush, The eve's the chickadee, The thistle-bird the garden bush, The bobolink the lea. From intervale and swampy dale Are wafts of fragrance blown. Of fern and mint and calamus, And wild hay newly mown. God's fiery touch hath reached the earth, And lo ! its odors rise Like incense pure of priceless worth Offered in sacrifice. SARAH ANNE CURZON VISIT OF THE PRINCE OF WALES TO LAURA SECORD NOW wherefore trembles still the string By lyric fingers crossed, To Laura Secord's praise and fame. When forty years are lost ? Nay, five and forty, one by one. Have borne her from the day When, fired by patriotic zeal, She trod her lonely way. Her hair is white, her step is slow, Why kindles then her eye. And rings her voice with music sweet Of many a year gone by ? O know ye not proud Canada, With joyful heart, enfolds In fond embrace the royal boy Whose line her fealty holds ? 84 A Treasury of 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 ? Canadian Verse 85 INVOCATION TO RAIN O BLESSED angel of the All-bounteous King, Where dost thou stay so long ? our sad hearts pine, Our spirits faint for thee. Our weary eyes Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn Or east or west, no vaporous haze, nor view Of distant panorama, wins our souls To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant. Thy brother Spring is come. His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray — The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee. Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds Of feathery ferns, in strewing o'er his path ; The dielytra puts her necklace on. Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose. Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass Grows up in single blades and braves the sun. But thou ! — O, where art thou, sweet early Rain, That with thy free libations fiU'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. P'or 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, 86 A Treasury of 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. Canadian Verse 87 NICHOLAS FLOOD DAVIN From "'E.OS," i\ OW 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, 88 A Treasury of 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 ! Canadian Verse 89 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 i What rest like the rest That we find in the grave ? For the doom of the hunter There is no reprieve ; And for me, 'mid strange customs, 'Tis bitter to live. Our part has been played Let the white man play his ; Then he too disappears. And goes down the abyss. Yes ! Time's eagle will prey On the Paleface at last. And his doom like our own Is to pass and be past. A. B. DE MILLE THE ICE KING WHERE the world is gray and lone Sits the Ice King on his throne — Passionless, austere, afar, Underneath the Polar Star. 90 A Treasury of 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, Canadian Verse 91 And he yearns far forth to go From his land of ice and snow. But forever, gray and lone, Sits the Ice King on his throne — Passionless, austere, afar, Underneath the Polar Star. BALLAD GOOD Christmas bells, I pray you Ring him back to me ; For I am in the village, And he is on the sea. And out beyond the harbor The surf is playing white ; Good Christmas bells, I pray you Ring him home to-night ! The reef beyond the harbor Is girt with hungry foam ; Good Christmas bells, I pray you Ring my sailor home ! The lighthouse in the harbor Burns clear, and keen, and still j 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 ! 92 A Treasury of JAMES DE MILLE From "BEHIND THE VEIL" " O ON of Light," — I murmured lowly — O " 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, Canadian Verse 93 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. 94 A Treasury of 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 And bereaved of man and lonely Nature showed her aspect fair, And the brute creation only Peopled all her wilds arid 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. Canadian Verse 95 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." — 96 A Treasury of Then a mighty woe came o'er me, Deep despair arose within, And a thought stood black before me — Shall Infinity forever write the records of my sin ? Is it thus that space shall treasure proofs of all that I have been ? EDWARD HARTLEY DEWART SHADOWS ON THE CURTAIN I AWOKE from the dreams of the night, From restful and tranquil repose. And looked where the sunbeams lay bright, To see what the morn might disclose. My window looked out on the east. And opened to welcome the sun. As he rose, from the darkness released. All girded, his journey to run. I watched, as I lay, The leaf-shadows play — For the trees were still mantled in green — As they silently danced, Curvetted and pranced. On the curtain suspended between. Then I said to my soul : Here's some thought For thee to decipher and read ; Every form, that in nature is wrought. Bears some lesson to those who give heed. Between our weak eyes and the light A thick-woven curtain is spread ; All the future it screens from our sight. And the home and the fate of the dead. The phantoms which still With perplexity chill, Canadian Verse 97 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 j I may rise to behold In beauty unrolled The morn of a shadowless day. ON THE OTTAWA THE sun has gone down in liquid gold On the Ottawa's gleaming breast ; And the silent night has softly rolled The clouds from her starry vest ; Not a sound is heard — Every warbling bird Has silenced its tuneful lay, As with calm delight. In the moon's weird light, I noiselessly float away. As down the river I dreamily glide — The sparkling and moonlit river — Not a ripple disturbs the glassy tide, Not a leaf is heard to quiver ; G 98 A Treasury of 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 Ustening shore Re-echo in soft refrains : — Let holy thought From this tranquil spot Float up through the slumbering air ; For who would profane With fancies vain A scene so ineffably fair ! FREDERICK AUGUSTUS DIXON A FEATHER'S MESSAGE AT the close of the day, when the year was a-dying, From the chilly north to the southern sun, High in the sky came the wild swans flying — (Great white wings had each glorious one), — And a snowy feather fluttered down On the muddy street of a dirty town. Poverty passed, and wealth came speeding ; Business and pleasure turned their wheels ; But the feather lay, as men trod, unheeding. Stamped and crushed by a thousand heels. And the message it brought remained untold, Save to a child with a head of gold. Canadian Verse 99 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 1 " Was it useless, that feather that so fluttered down On the muddy street of a dirty town ? HINC ILL^ LACHRYM^ {Hence these tears) LAST night, and there came a guest, And we shuddered, my wife and I A guest, and I could not speak ; A guest, and she could but cry ; And he went, but with no good-bye. A little before the dawn He came, but he did not stay ; And he left us alone with our tears, For he carried our babe away. Was there ever a sadder day ! Had you ever a babe of a year. With curls on a tiny head. With limbs like the peach's bloom, And learnt that your babe was dead ?— Could you have been comforted ? 100 A Treasury of Had it bound itself to your heart, As with fairy gossamer strand, SHght 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. Canadian Verse loi WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND THE HABITANT'S JUBILEE ODE I READ on de paper mos' ev'ry day, all about Jubilee An' grande procession movin' along, an' passin' across de sea, Dat's chil'ren of Queen Victoriaw comin' from far away J'or tola Madame w'at day t'ink of her, an' wishin' her bonne sant^. An' if any wan want to know pourquoi les Canayens should be dare 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 wa feel lak da oder do, For if I'm only poor habitant, I'm not on da sapre 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 contrea, Down by de reevar, off on de wood, an' out on de beag, bfeeg 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. 102 A Treasury of 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 Were 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 gar9on, 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 ? Bi 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, Canadian Verse 103 Spikin' Frangais 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 ban', 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' frien'. 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 bonder 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 ? " 104 A Treasury of 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 Ian', She'll find that les Canayens can fight de sam as bes' Englishman. An' onder de flag of Angleterre, so long as dat flag was fly — Wit' deir English broder, les Canayens is satisfy leev an' die. Dat's de message our fader geev us w'en dey're fallin' on Chateaugay, An' de flag was kipin' dem safe den, dat's de wan we will kip alway ! JOHN HUNTER DUVAR JOHN A'VAR'S LAST LAY (He becomes a Carmelite^ TAKE not from me my lute ! There is a spirit caught among its wires That sentient thrills as if with living fires, — Frferes ! 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. Canadian Verse 105 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 iire ! '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 blessed air And shut my lids against the sunshine sky ? But that is idle breath, Life may be quiet, even if life in death. io6 A Treasury of Dying as echo dies, Faint, and more faint, loved lute, expires my lay, And though my Lays have not been overwise Yet now methinks with thee I best could pray. Our mission now is o'er, O Soul of Song ! fly free ! No more. No more. Loved lute, farewell. Farewell with other things. But though, for me, I henceforth am the Lord'-s, No meaner hand shall ever touch thy chords — Thus — thus — I rive thy strings ! THE MINNESINGERS LIED IN the Rheingan standeth Aix, And in Aix is La Chapelle ; On a royal marble dais. 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 ! Canadian Verse 107 And throughout the centuries old, Underneath the vaulted dome, With his feet upon a tomb, Alone and ghastly, stern and cold, In silence save when midnight tolls And its heavy murmur rolls All among the columns round With a solemn measured clang, — In the silentness profound. Sits the shade of Charlemagne Armed and crowned ! HOW BALTHAZAR THE KING WENT DOWN INTO EGYPT NILUS ! Nilus ! and before them rolled The mystic river, while a barge of gold Lay moored with its carved prow against a pier, From which the King embarked with all his train. The reis on the fore-deck drew the spear From out the ringbolt and cast off the chain. And they were floating upon Nile the old. Full bravely led the galley of the King, And all at once, like flap of ibis' wing. Flashed out the gilt and crimson-bladed oars And lightly o'er the molten surface skimmed ; While slow unrolled the low and level shores. Like to a landscape on a curtain limned, And blended with the shadows, lessening. Music was on the Nile boats : conch and horn, Flute answering flute, while zittern and lycorn Took up the keynote from the leading barge. And part and counterpart in measured strain, In gathering volume, rolled on to the marge, The while the swelling chorus grew amain And inland o'er the standing rice was borne. io8 A Treasury of 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. Canadian Verse 109 Now on the left bank of the river's flow, Where sentinelled with watch-towers and aglow With half-mooned vanes all flickering like jets Uprose a city walled, in proud estate, Full of domed roofs and tall white minarets The King's fleet veered towards a water-gate And anchored 'neath the walls of Cairo. ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON THE EGYPTIAN LOTUS (nymph/EA lotus) PROUD, languid lily of the sacred Nile, 'Tis strange to see thee on our western wave. Far from those sandy shores that, many a mile, Papyrus-plumed, lie silent as the grave. O'er dark, mysterious pool and sheltered bay. And midst soft-sleeping isles thy leaves expand, Where Alexandrian barges plow their way. Full freighted, to the ancient Theban land. On Karnak's lofty columns thou wert seen, And Luxor's spacious temple palace walls. Each royal Pharaoh's emeralded queen Chose thee to deck her glittering banquet halls ; Yet thou art blossoming in this fairy lake As regally, amidst these common things. As on the shores where Nile's soft ripples break, As in the halls of old Egyptian kings. no A Treasury of Thy beauty daily lures men's curious eyes, But he who finds in thought his richest feasts, Looking at thee, sees stately temples rise About him, and long lines of white-robed priests. That chant strange music as they slowly pace Dim, columned aisles ; hears trembling over head Echoes that lose themselves in that vast space. Of Egypt's solemn ritual for the dead. Aye deeper thoughts than these, though undefined. Wake in reflective souls at sight of thee. For this majestic orient faith enshrined Man's yearning hope of immortality. And thou wert Egypt's symbol of the power That under all decaying forms lies hid ; The old world worshipped thee, O Lotus flower ! Then carved its Sphinx and reared its pyramid. PURPLE ASTERS I HAD a garden when I was a boy Wherein I planted fondly many a flower, And watched it grow until I felt the joy That every gardener feels, as Nature's power To make rare perfumes burst from stalks of green And dash rich colours o'er dull earth is seen. in that old garden, bright with varied bloom From early tulip time till winter fell, It seemed as if no sombre growth or gloom Had any place, or could desire to dwell ; Yet o'er one corner wildness still held sway, And there, I always felt, a shadow lay. Canadian Verse m 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 fringed asters love to hide. They tell us there are gardens always clad With summer's richest rojjes, awaiting men Beyond the stars, where hearts at once grow glad, And never to low levels sink again ; Perhaps even such light lands may need to see The purple asters of despondency, DEEPENING THE CHANNEL A ROCKY channel from the harbor led The ships to sea, a blue but shallow sound With surging tides, upon whose treacherous bed The keels of heavy vessels ground and ground. The channel must be deepened, men agree. And so great thunderous blasts of rock they blew. And all the sleepy sands were dredged ; till, free From fear, the heaviest ships went swiftly through We fret and foam as if our surface tide Was fathoms deep, and never know the truth Till love or sorrow through the water ride And grate its keel upon the sands of youth ; God cleaves the rock beneath the channel blue, And then his noblest ships sail safely through. 112 A Treasury of THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS "TpIS the laughter of pines that swing and sway 1 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, Canadian Verse 113 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 Bale des Chaleurs. That was the last of the pirate crew ; But many a night a black flag flew From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed By a spectre band that wept and wailed For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land, For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand Of the Baie des Chaleurs. This is the tale of the phantom light That fills the mariner's heart, at night. With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay, Now by the shore, then far away. Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter moon that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs. THE MEADOW LANDS THE tide flows in and out and leaves Its richness on the meadow lands, The furrowed surface-soil upheaves, And sprinkles life among the sands. Across the meadow lands of life The tide of time flows and recedes, Its muddy wave brings woe and strife. But forms the soil for noble deeds. 114 A Treasury of 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 PUE,EST LONGINGS SPRING MY purest longings spring From the divine, The sweetest songs I sing They are not mine. I chisel the rude stone With trembling hand. The statue comes alone At God's command. Beyond earth's tainted air I sometimes fly On wings of faith and prayer j 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 T 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 Canadian Verse 115 And foam fierce flying o'er their decks, While deep below lie ocean's wrecks ; What careth she ? 1 stand beside the beaten quay And look while laden ships from sea Come proudly home upon the tide Like 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 ti6 A Treasury of To anchor by the old gray pier ; While loving ones in hope and fear Wait on for some that never more Shall anchor by a peaceful shore ; O sad, sad sea ! JAMES DAVID EDGAR THIS CANADA OF OURS LET other tongues in older lands Loud vaunt their claims to glory, And chaunt in triumph of the past. Content to live in story. Tho' boasting no baronial halls. Nor ivy-crested towers, What past can match thy glorious youth, Fair Canada of ours ? Fair Canada, Dear Canada, This Canada of ours ! We love those far-off ocean Isles Where Britain's monarch reigns ; We'll ne'er forget the good old blood That courses through our veins ; Proud Scotia's fame, old Erin's name, And haughty Albion's powers. Reflect their matchless lustre on This Canada of ours. Fair Canada, Dear Canada, This Canada of ours ! May our Dominion flourish then, A goodly land and free. Where Celt and Saxon, hand in hand. Hold sway from sea to sea ; Canadian Verse 117 Strong arms shall guard our cherished homes When darkest danger lowers, And with our life-blood we'll defend This Canada of ours. Fair Canada, Dear Canada, This Canada of ours ! CONSTANCE FAIRBANKS THE JUNCTION HERE, at the change of ways, the steel steed halts, The train stands still, and weary travellers gaze On what appears to be a wilderness Of barren rocks, grim, desolate, and stern " What place is this," they ask, " so bleak and bald ? Here surely are the bones of Earth laid bare; The gaunt frame of this time-worn world ! " Such words. Contempt infused, are heard from jeering lips. But the drear wayside maketh no reply. Yet look ! the train moves on ; the funnel snorts, And rocks fling echoes on the trembling air ; From the new point of sight the scoffer sees Deep pools of water bosomed in the waste — Calm ponds reflecting Heaven's own lovely blue. With gray rocks, verdure-touched, around their brinks. HALIFAX FACING the ocean, guardian of our land. Thy frowning forts and ramparts front the foan Whose waves still ceaseless chafe the rocky strand. While salt winds waft sea-odors o'er our home. ii8 A Treasury of All the round year the tramp of armed men, Crisp bugle call, the guns at noon and night, And martial music, tell us o'er again That Britain guards us with a jealous might. THOSE FAR-OFF FIELDS THOSE far-off fields, how fair they seem. As soft through mists of years they gleam I We never now around us see Such meads as those of olden be ; We never find a lake or stream One half so lovely as we deem Those which we only view in dream, Watering the fields of memory — Those far-off fields ! And we were happy then ! The theme Of our existence, love supreme : And looking back on Fate's decree — On all that happened you and me — We sigh — for dear our souls esteem Those far-off fields ! JOSEPH KEARNEY FORAN THE AURORA BOREALIS AS the twilight's gray was swallowed In the depths of night that followed, And the hand of darkness hollowed Furrows deep along the land, Distant bells in sheepfold tinkled, Million stars in azure twinkled. Over mountain-peaks that stand Like giants swarth and grand. Canadian Verse 119 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 armed 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 ! I20 A Treasury of Transformations still beholding, Up the veil is swiftly folding — And fantastic shapes are moulding On the background of the sky ; Dimmer armies are parading, — Fainter wreaths the light is braiding, While the splendors all are fading Into one deep purple dye, Disappearing from the eye ! WILLIAM HENRY FULLER A SONG OF THE SEA I'LL sing you a Song of the Sea ! With the waves sparkling bright, And the breeze blowing light, And our dear native land on the lee, How glad is the Song of the Sea ! With friends looking out from the quay, Their kerchiefs and hands waving free, And bright smiles and welcome for thee. How glad ! how glad ! How glad is the Song of the Sea ! I'll sing you a Song of the Sea ! When the skies lour dark O'er the plague-stricken bark As she drifts on the desolate sea. How sad is the Song of the Sea ! When overhead hangs the dun cloud, Like a pall o'er the dead sailor's shroud As he sinks in the vast wandering sea. How sad ! how sad ! How sad is the Song of the Sea 1 Canadian Verse 121 I'll sing you a Song of the Sea ! When the fierce lightnings flash, And the stormy waves dash, And the rocky shore looms on the lee, How dread is the Song of the Sea ! When the hearts of the bravest will quail As they shrink from the furious gale And the wrath of the menacing sea, How dread ! how dread ! How dread is the Song of the Sea ! ALEXANDER RAE GARVIE From "PHANTASY" FANCY many forms assumes ! 'Tis a bee among the blooms, In the noon of June, that sips Honey from the heart and lips Of Anacreon's glorious rose. Now how warily it goes Past grim dragons to the trees Growing in Hesperides ! And anon with Jason hears Sirens' luring song, and steers Straightway from the fatal shore, While each rower strains his oar. 'Tis a bat at twilight still, Flitting round a lonesome mill ; 'Tis a falcon fleet that flies Into depths of opal skies ; Oft it is a sullen owl — Pallas' learned pensive fowl. Hooting hoarsely 'mong the trees ; And again, o'er troubled seas As a petrel bold it wings Tirelessly. Sometinies it sings 122 A Treasury of 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, Canadian Verse 123 Hear Apollo's matchless lute And the twy-formed Faun's soft flute ; Shows us Aphrodite rise From foamy seas to sunny skies, Leads us down the track of Time, Bears us into every clime ; Often paces kirkyard green Mourning in her garb and mien, Mingles with the dancing crowd, Broiders banners, weaves a shroud, Keeps a fast or festival — Lean Lent here, there — Carnival Starves or surfeits. Fancy free, Sojourning in Italy. As an Arab, lo ! how calm Under frondage of the palm ; Like a Norseman, winter-bound, (Lest he be in dulness drowned) ; Over ice on skate-blades whirs Past the shaggy, sombre firs. — Ha, my Fancy ! art thou mad, Or with Folly's mantle clad ? PIERCE STEVENS HAMILTON From "THE HEROINE OF ST JOHN" "IPIS dawn ; but not such morning-tide ■»- As we had guessed the eve before : Armed ships within our harbor ride, And armed 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 Charnis^ ! 124 A Treasury of 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. . . , 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." Canadian Verse 125 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 ! . . . Ill 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 Charnis^ 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 A Treasury of Our lady viewed, with pitying eye, Her band toil-worn, diminished ; 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 Charnisd. 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 stom Then, with one long, loud piercing shriek. That form upon the earth she cast. No more can D'Aulnay vengeance wreak : The heroine's heart has burst at last ! . . S. FRANCES HARRISON VILLANELLE SPRUNG from a sword-sheath fit for Mars, Straight and sharp, of a gay glad green. My jonquil lifts its yellow stars. Barter, would I, for the dross of the Czars, These golden flowers and buds fifteen. Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars ? Canadian Verse 127 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. CHATEAU PAPINEAU THE red-til'd towers of the old Chiteau, 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 Chateau ! 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 Chateau. So was it once with friend, with foe ; Far off they saw the patriot's ark Burn in the western evening glow. 128 A Treasury of Think of him now ! One thought bestow, As, blazing against the pine trees dark, The red-til'd towers of the old Chateau Burn in the western evening glow ! SEPTEMBER BIRDS that were gray in the green are black in the yellow. Here where the green remains rocks one little fellow. Quaker in gray, do you know that the green is going ? More than that — do you know that the yellow is showing ? II Singer of songs, do you know that your Youth is flying ? That Age will soon at the lock of your life be prying ? Lover of life, do you know that the brown is going ? More than that — do you know that the gray is showing ? NOVEMBER THESE are the days that try us ; these the hours That find, or leave us, cowards — doubters of Heaven, Sceptics of self, and riddled through with vain Blind questionings as to Deity. Mute, we scan The sky, the barren, wan, the drab, dull sky. And mark it utterly blank. Whereas, a fool, The flippant fungoid growth of modem 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 Canadian Verse 129 Better than us, the film and foam of rose That yet may float upon the eastern grays At dawn to-morrow. Still, and if we could. We would not change our gloom for glibness, lose Our wonder in our faith. We are not worse Than those in whom the myth was strongest, those In whom first awe lived longest, those who found — Dear Pagans — gods in fountain, flood and flower. Sometimes the old Hellenic base stirs, lives Within us, and we thrill to branch and beam When walking where the aureoled autumn sun Looms golden through the chestnuts. But to-day — When sodden leaves are merged in melting mire, And garden-plots lie pilfered, and the vines Are strings of tangled rigging reft of green. Crude harps whereon the winter wind shall play. His bitter music — on a day like this. We, harboring no Hellenic images, stand In apathy mute before our window pane. And muse upon the blankness. Then, O, then, If ever, should we thank our God for those Rare spirits who have testified in faith Of such a world as this, and straight we pray For such an eye as Wordsworth's, he who saw System in anarchy, progress in ruin, peace In devastation. Duty was his star — May it be ours — this Star the Preacher missed. THEODORE ARNOLD HAULTAIN BEAUTY ONLY in dreams she appears to me, In dreams of the earth, and the sky, and the sea; In the scent of the rose, the breath of the spring. The cloud of the summer, glistening ; I I30 A Treasury of 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. Canadian Verse 131 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 cliif, the sea-bird's call. The flying spume, the cloudlets small That dance through the ether hand in hand — The joy suffused o'er the sea and the land, — Then, too, I dream that my love is near. And think that I catch her laughter clear. Only in dreams she appears to me. In dreams of the earth, and the sky, and the sea. CHARLES HEAVYSEGE MAGNANIMOUS AND MEAN OPEN, my heart, thy ruddy valves ; It is thy master calls ; Let me go down, and curious trace Thy labyrinthine halls. Open, O heart, and let me view The secrets of thy den ; Myself unto myself now show With introspective ken. Expose thyself, thou covered nest Of passions, and be seen ; Stir up thy brood, that in unrest Are ever piping keen. Ah ! what a motley multitude — Magnanimous and mean ! 132 A Treasury of NIGHT "T^IS solemn darkness ; the sublime of shade ; A 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 cacodaemon in mine ignorant mood. THE COMING OF THE MORN SEE how the Morn awakes. Along the sky Proceeds she with her pale, increasing light, And, from the depths of the dim canopy. Drives out the shadows of departing night. Lo, the clouds break, and gradually more wide Morn openeth her bright, rejoicing gates ; And ever, as the orient valves divide, A costlier aspect on their breadth awaits. Lo, the clouds break, and in each opened schism The coming Phoebus 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. Canadian Verse 133 THE MYSTERY OF DOOM "TpWAS on a day, and in high, radiant heaven, ■»- An angel lay beside a lake reclined, Against whose shores the rolling waves were driven. And beat the measure to the dancing wind. There, rapt, he meditated on that story Of how Jehovah did of yore expel Heaven's aborigines from grace and glory, — Those mighty angels that did dare rebel. And as he mused upon their dread abode And endless penance, from his drooping hands His harp sank down, and scattered all abroad Its rosy garland on the golden sands ; His soul mute wondering that the All-wise Spirit Should have allowed the doom of such demerit. JOHN FREDERIC HEREIN SIMON 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. 134 A Treasury of 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. 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. Canadian Verse 135 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. Ill 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 A Treasury of IV Seasons have furrowed his features deep, Bark-hke 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. 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. Canadian Verse 137 THE DIVER LIKE marble, nude, against the purple sky, In ready poise, the diver scans the sea Gemming the marsh's green placidity. And mirroring the fearless form on high. Behold the outward leap — he seems to fly ! His arms like arrow-blade just speeded free ; His body like the curving bolt, to be Deep-driven till the piercing flight shall die. Sharply the human arrow cleaves the tide, Only a foaming swell to mark his flight ; While shoreward moves the silent ring on ring. And now the sea is stirred and broken wide Before the swimmer's passage swift and light, And bears him as a courser bears a king. ACROSS THE DYKES THE dykes half bare are lying in the bath Of quivering sunlight on this Sunday morn, And bobolinks aflock make sweet the worn Old places, where two centuries of swath Have fallen to earth before the mower's path. Across the dykes the bell's low sound is borne From green Grand Pr6, 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. 138 A Treasury of THE SONNET HOW fair thou art the poets long have known ; And I have sought the beauty which is thine Through many days and nights of cloud and shine, Until one note of all sweet notes outblown Has spelled my ear ; for dearest things alone Are found companionless ; and the divine And single inspiration shall entwine The laurel till it fit the brow of one. And thou art rare among the things most rare ; The beam consummate of the lights of day ; The fullest note struck from the living flood Of melody ; the gem that has most care In the kind workman's hand, till he shall say, " Thy beauty is the acme of all good." ANNIE CAMPBELL HUESTIS GENTLE-BREATH OH, Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing through the grass, And all the flowers know her and love to see her pass. Oh, all the flowers know her, and well they know the song That Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing all day long. O Gentle-breath ! O Gentle-breath ! They do not know you sing of death. Oh, Gentle-breath comes crooning a tender lullaby. The merry day is over, the stars are in the sky — The stars are in the sky, and the flowers droop their heads. They cannot hear her passing, so airily she treads. O Gentle-breath ! O Gentle-breath !— How mournfully she murmureth ! Canadian Verse 139 Oh, Gentle-breath comes crying — comes crying in the night Among the sleeping flowers, with footsteps swift and light. Her tears are on their faces — she sheds them for their sakes, And there is in her singing a tender heart that breaks. O Gentle-breath ! O Gentle-breath !— How tunefully she sings of death ! Oh, Gentle-breath goes wailing — goes shivering away, And Icy-breath comes howling, and clouds are dull and gray. Oh, Icy-breath comes howling — the pine trees sob o'erhead For the leaves that all have fallen, the flowers that are dead. O Gentle-breath ! O Gentle-breath ! They did not know you sang of death. O promise sweet ! — I hear it ! — the falling of the rain ! The leaves once more shall rustle, the flowers come again ! The flowers come again, with their faces fresh and sweet, And all the grass shall tremble 'neath the touches of your feet. For you will come, O Gentle-breath ! And sing again your song of death ! THE LITTLE WHITE SUN THE sky had a gray, gray face, The touch of the mist was chill. The earth was an eerie place. For the wind moaned over the hill ; But the brown earth laughed, and the sky turned blue. When the little white sun came peeping through. I40 A Treasury of The wet leaves saw it and smiled, The glad birds gave it a song — A cry from a heart, glee-wild, And the echoes laugh it along : And the wind and I went whistling, too. When the little white sun came peeping through. So welcome the chill of rain And the world in its dreary guise — To have it over again. That moment of sweet surprise. When the brown earth laughs, and the sky turns blue. As the little white sun comes peeping through ! TWENTY-OLD AND SEVEN-WILD O TWENTY, running through the wood ! Where friendly leaves and grasses stir. Where airs are sweet and trees are strong. And hiding birds call out to her, And every little timid thing That creeps within the woods to sing Seems just to have a voice for her. O Twenty, running through the wood ! A woman grown, and yet a child ! Now in the sun, now in the shade — The wild gone out to meet the wild. And who can say life is not sweet To eager eyes and fearless feet To Twenty-old and Seven-wild. She leaves the quiet road that winds Its pretty way the whole wood through And makes a pathway for herself. As who at Twenty would not do ? Unseen and seen, the wind and she Go through the bush and round the tree — Go roving 'round and singing through. Canadian Verse 141 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 1 Its wildness has a power to still ; The voices low from rock and twig The silences with music thrill, — And suddenly she silent grows, And, searching out the path she knows, Turns back — but carries home the thrill. WILLIAM EDWARD HUNT GOLDEN-ROD BESHREW the coined 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. 142 A Treasury of THE SEA'S INFLUENCE THE brine is in our blood from days of yore, And ever in our ears the tide's tune rings ; The wave runs through our legends and our lore, And permeates a thousand diverse things ; The memory of our race's Island home Is charged with salt-sea spray and ocean foam. THE PASSING OF SUMMER " O UMMER 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 ; 1 sound his praises in the golden light ; But when high noon has passed and raven night Comes rushing down, I wail with those forlorn : The dying leaves, the lone flowers, pale and torn. The multitudes confronting death or flight." RICHARD HUNTINGTON SUNRISE ON THE TUSKET STILL, in the light of morning gray. That ushered in the summer day, The fair Acadien hamlet lay Canadian Verse 143 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. 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. 144 A Treasury of It lights, as with celestial glow, The slender crosslets ranged below, Man's last, sad resting-place to show. Ill In yonder modest glebe-house near, Unconscious of my presence here, Sleeps one to friendship's heart most dear. Unwakened by the orient beam. Perchance in some ecstatic dream He roams by Tiber's classic stream, Or sees St Peter's mighty dome Soar grandly o'er the pomp of Rome — His own loved Church's pride and home. Blest be his visions, wheresoe'er His dream-enfranchised fancy veer — The faithful priest, the friend sincere ! LOUISBURG AND this is Louisburg ! whose moss-grown ruin Stretches before me — one deserted waste ! Scarce can the eye, its eager search pursuing. The outlines of her strong defences trace — Relentless by the miner's blast effaced. Yet was she once the brightest gem of all The gorgeous brilliants that with splendor graced The diadem of old monarchial Gaul, — She who defiance frowned, and Britain foe did call. The Dunkirk of this land ! — how fallen since then ! The eye but wanders o'er a waste of stone. Remains of dwellings once the abodes of men. But now forlorn, deserted, silent, lone ; Canadian Verse 145 And rank and mantling grass hath overgrown Her streets, her sepulchres, her ruined walls. The voice of bygone ages hath a tone Which lingers yet amid these prostrate halls, As reverent 'mid their maze my pensive footstep falls. Lo, yon green rampart ! towering once in pride. And bristling, too, with bayonets, that long The prowess of the immortal Wolfe defied. — Not to the peaceful Muse doth it belong To weave with sturdy martial words her song. Else might I speak of glacis and of fosse, Of massy culvert, and of battery strong. And blasted battlements o'ergrown with moss. Around whose ruined base the angry billows toss. — Eastward there stood upon the frowning steep — And of its wreck some fragments still remain — Their beacon light, the Pharos of the deep ! . . . JAMES COBOURG HODGINS ONCE MORE ONCE more the robin flutes in glee. On heat returning. The living juices in the trees Are shooting in the early leaves, — The blossoms break, And lusty nature wide awake Her pleasant task sits learning. The fleecy clouds scud o'er the blue. In sudden glory. The woods are full of whistling birds. And nature, in strange mystic words, K 146 A Treasury of Relates once more, In the same strains as oft before, The one old golden story : That he who lives close to her heart, Nor spurns her warning. Shall all life's cunning secrets learn : The trill of birds, the tress of fern. The roar of seas. The music of the wind-swept trees. The glory of the morning ; Shall learn the noiseless laws of life. The truths of beauty, And find that Nature's meanest guise Is full of wonder and surprise ; That everything Doth to the surface ever bring The blessedness of duty. A GREEK REVERIE THIS is the purple sea of ancient song. These are the groves to which bacchantes lured. In these grim rocks bad spirits are immured. Pent in by Heaven in token of some wrong. Sure that was Pan who flashed by through the pine, Followed by boys with passionate eyes, and men Bedecked with roses ! Fainter down the glen Tramps the mad rabble, caught with song divine. Now once again the Lord of life and day Smites into splendor all the dull waste waves : Straight Ulysses, his face, sleep-swollen, laves. Rouses his heroes, and with scarjt delay Prows are turned homeward. Hark the measured beat! Another weary day and vacant sky and heat ! Canadian Verse 147 JOSEPH HOWE THE FLAG OF OLD ENGLAND A CENTENARY SONG OF THE LANDING OF CORNWALLIS AT HALIFAX ALL hail to the day when the Britons came over, And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet ! Around and above us their spirits will hover, Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet. Beneath it the emblems they cherished are waving, The Rose of Old England the roadside perfumes ; The Shamrock and Thistle the north winds are braving, Securely the Mayflower* 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 I will 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. * The Trailing Arbutus, the emblem of Nova Scotia. 148 A Treasury of 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. THE DESERTED NEST DESERTED nest, that on the leafless tree Waves to and fro with every dreary blast, With none to shelter, none to care for thee. Thy day of pride and cheerfulness is past. Thy tiny walls are falling to decay. Thy cell is tenantless and tuneless now. The winter winds have rent the leaves away, And left thee hanging on the naked bough. Canadian Verse 149 But yet, deserted nest, there is a spell, E'en in thy loneliness, to touch the heart. For holy things within thee once did dwell. The type of joys departed now thou art. With what assiduous care thy framers wrought. With what delight they viewed the structure rise. And how, as each some tiny rafter brought, Pleasure and hope would sparkle in their eyes. Ah ! who shall tell, when all the work was done, The rapturous pleasure that their labors crowned. The blissful moments Nature for them won. And bade them celebrate with joyous sound. A father's pride, a mother's anxious care. Her fluttered spirits, and his gentlest tone, All, all that wedded hearts so fondly share. To thee, deserted nest, were surely known. Then though thy walls be rent, and cold thy cell, And thoughtless crowds may hourly pass thee by. Where love and truth and tenderness did dwell. There's still attraction for the poet's eye. CHARLES EDWIN JAKEWAY AN UNFINISHED PROPHECY 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 I50 A Treasury of 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. 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. Canadian Verse 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 152 A Treasury of And happy as the warbling birds ; My thoughts ran on in merry words, As runnels ripple o'er the rocks, Or careless as my own dark locks, Which flung their mane to capture gleams That glanced from sun-bedizened streams. I watched the braves return one day From a victorious foray, And noted, towering o'er the rest, A chieftain from the outbound west With eyes of fire and haughty frown. I met him ere the sun went down And saw his frown turn to a smile. And in his eyes the fire the while Was fanned to fascination sweet. The Eagle Eye a lover meet Would be — " " Hist, child, footsteps approach ! Hide till we see who doth encroach Within the bounds of my domain. To yonder bush, and there remain Until I call you forth again." IV The ancient crone revived the blaze Until its red, uncertain rays Crept down the hillside dun, and died Upon the river's misty tide. Then by the lurid flickering gleams, That seemed dissolving out of dreams Among the leafy arcades far. She caught the glitter of a star That silver-like shot from its nest Upon a young brave's stalwart breast. As up the forest path he came, Attracted by the pinewood flame. " Why comest thou ? " her voice rang keen Through shrouded glade and dim ravine. Canadian Verse 153 " I come to pray you'll weave a spell Whereby the future to foretell. A chieftain I, in battle skilled, Full many a foeman I have killed ; I've scalped the locks from many a brow, And never shirked a task till now. Through ghostly fogs, o'er leaping brooks, 'Mid slumbering snakes in dusky nooks, O'er sullen lairs and reedy shades. O'er quivering brakes and venomed glades. O'er gusty hills, sun-flushed and high. That shook their locks against the sky. O'er shady stretches long and lone. O'er rocky ledge, through caverned stone. Past morning's prime, past twilight gray, I've tracked my foemen on their way With heart relentless, and with hand Ready to hurl the deadly brand With naught of mercy nor of fear. And yet to-night I'm standing here. Afraid to face a maiden's eyes, Afraid to reach to grasp the prize My heart desires all else above, Her precious treasury of love. I've tried to break the bonds that roll Their magic coils around my soul. By daring danger on the lake When storm-clouds o'er its bosom break — • By roaming over flood and fell — By trying every potent spell The old magician 'neath the hill Could summon to assist my will — By chasing gravelights over graves. And rambling where the were-wolf raves Out threats of torture and of rack To hapless ones that cross its track. I've run death's gauntlet, day by day, Where hungry wild-cats screech for prey. But everywhere the haunting face 154 A Treasury of Of Budding Rose in matchless grace Swims 'fore my eyes. Pray, motiier, tell, Will she return my love ? Dispel My doubts at once and seal my fate ! " " Sit down behind that bush and wait," The dame replied, " until I call The wood-sprites up within my thrall." She lit a smoking pine-knot red, And swayed it thrice around her head, Then hurled it hissing in the marsh, The while her voice on air-wings harsh Passed through the thronging shadows dense, Unto love's hearing strained and tense. " I hear the voices of the trees In answer to the asking breeze. And this is what the voices say : ' True love will always have its way ! ' Come forth, my children, to the light ; The answer to the breeze is right." The maiden came with drooping head, The brave with grave and measured tread. And joined their hands above the blaze. " For you, fond lovers, length of days I prophesy, and happy times. Your lives shall run like merry rhymes Through many years of full content, And when at last your course is spent, Your children shall revere your name. Your children's children — " Flashed a flame, A lightning blast, athwart their eyes. And death assailed them in the guise Of Iroquois, the Hurons' dread — And seeress, lovers, all were dead ! Canadian Verse 155 E. PAULINE JOHNSON (tekahionwake) THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS WEST wind, blow from your prairie nest ! Blow from the mountains, blow from the west. The sail is idle, the sailor too ; ! wind of the west, we wait for you. Blow, blow ! 1 have wooed you so, But never a favor you bestow. You rock your cradle the hills between, But scorn to notice my white lateen. I stow the sail, unship the mast : I wooed you long, but my wooing's past ; My paddle will lull you into rest. O ! drowsy wind of the drowsy west, Sleep, sleep, By your mountain steep. Or down where the prairie grasses sweep ! Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings. August is laughing across the sky. Laughing while paddle, canoe and I, . Drift, drift. Where the hills uplift On either side of the current swift. The river rolls in its rocky bed ; My paddle is plying its way ahead ; Dip, dip, While the waters flip In foam as over their breast we slip. 156 A Treasury of And oh, the river runs swifter now ; The eddies circle about my bow. Swirl, swirl ! How the ripples curl In many a dangerous pool awhirl ! And forward far the rapids roar. Fretting their margin for evermore. Dash, dash, With a mighty crash. They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash. Be strong, O paddle ! be brave, canoe ! The reckless waves you must plunge into. Reel, reel. On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel. We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead ! The river slips through its silent bed. Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away. And up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby, Swings, swings, Its emerald wings. Swelling the song that my paddle sings. AT HUSKING TIME AT husking time the tassel fades To brown above the yellow blades. Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn That bursts its chrysalis in scorn Longer to lie in prison shades. Canadian Verse 157 Among the merry lads and maids The creaking ox-cart slowly wades 'Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked and torn At husking time. The prying pilot crow persuades The flock to join in thieving raids ; The sly raccoon with craft inborn His portion steals ; from plenty's horn His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades At husking time. SHADOW RIVER A STREAM of tender gladness, Of filmy sun, and opal-tinted skies ; Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies In mystic rings, Where softly swings The music of a thousand wings That almost tone to sadness. Midway 'twixt earth and heaven, A bubble in the pearly air, I seem To float upon the sapphire floor, a dream Of clouds of snow. Above, below. Drift with my drifting, dim and slow, As twilight drifts to even. The little fern-leaf, bending Upon the brink, its green reflection greets, And kisses soft the shadow that it meets With touch ^o fine, The border line The keenest vision can't define j So perfect is the blending. 158 A Treasury of The far fir trees that cover The brownish hills with needles green and gold, The arching elms o'erhead, vinegrown and old, Repictured are Beneath me far, Where not a ripple moves to mar Shades underneath, or over. Mine is the undertone ; The beauty, strength, and power of the land Will never stir or bend at my command ; But all the shade Is marred or made, If I but dip my paddle blade ; And it is mine alone. O ! pathless world of seeming ! O ! pathless life of mine whose deep ideal Is more my own than ever was the real. For others Fame And Love's red flame, And yellow gold : I only claim The shadows and the dreaming. BRIER BECAUSE, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm Bends back the brier that edges life's long way, That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm, I do not feel the thorns so much to-day. Because I never knew your care to tire. Your hand to weary guiding me aright, Because you walk before and crush the brier. It does not pierce my feet so much to-night. Canadian Verse 159 Because so often you have hearkened to My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now, That these harsh hands of mine add not unto The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow. PRAIRIE GREYHOUNDS C. P. R. Westbound — No. i I SWING to the sunset land, The world of prairie, the world of plain, The world of promise, and hope, and gain, The world of gold, and the world of grain. And the world of the willing hand. I carry the brave and bold. The one who works for the nation's bread. The one whose past is a thing that's dead, The one who battles and beats ahead, And the one who goes for gold. I swing to the land to be : I am the power that laid its floors, I am the guide to its western stores, I am the key to its golden doors. That open alone to me. C. P. R. Eastbound — No. 2 I swing to the land of morn. The grey old East, with its grey old seas, The land of leisure, the land of ease, The land of flowers and fruits and trees. And the place where we were bom. Freighted with wealth I come : Food, and fortune, and fellow that went Far out west on adventure bent. With well-worn pick and a folded tent, Is bringing his bullion home. i6o A Treasury of I never will be renowned As my twin that swings to the western marts, For I am she of the humbler parts ; But I am the joy of the waiting hearts, For I am the homeward bound 1 ROBERT KIRKLAND KERNIGHAN THE SONG OF THE THAW MY sandalled feet are firm and fleet. My chariot wheels are splendid ; I rush and run before the sun With balmy breezes blended ; O'er forest dry, past mountains high, O'er snowy valleys hollow, I sweep along with muffled song And robin red-breasts follow. Before my blade the snow wreaths fade, The frosty blast I cripple ; The frozen stream wakes from its dream, And straight begins to ripple ; I hush the wail along my trail Past hamlet, home and hollow, While on I go with noiseless flow And robin red-breasts follow. And like a psalm, benign and calm, I blight the brow of winter ; I snap the chains that hold the reins — The fields of ice I splinter ; And like the tide I run and ride, The bated winds I swallow ; Triumphant still past rock and rill, And robin red-breasts follow. Canadian Verse i6i A wing of light from night to night My perfumed chariot passes, And I can hear in meadows clear The whispering of the grasses ; With joyous face I onward race Past hopeless height and hollow, While swift and strong with simple song My robin red-breasts follow. The north wind bleeds — the rustling reeds The happy news is telling. And I can hear in forests near The juicy leaf-buds swelling ; I onward rush without the thrush, The red bird or the swallow, You needn't mind, for close behind My robin red-breasts follow. PEEPY IS NOT DEAD " T F Peepy had lived," the mother sighed, 1 " He'd be of age to-day." She bowed her head as she softly cried — The head that was turning gray. Now, one would think that Peepy was dead, Underneath the snow : One would think that Peepy was dead Since seventeen years ago. 'Tis true they hid poor Peepy away, Down in the churchyard green. And ever since that pitiful day Peepy's never been seen. No one has seen his curly head Or heard his laughter flow ; But it doesn't follow that Peepy's Deen dead Since seventeen years ago ! L 1 62 A Treasury of They laid his toddling feet to rest ; They folded his fingers small, Around the lily upon his breast ; Then laid him away — that's all. They curtained his vacant trundle bed In his little room of woe ; They really thought that Peepy was dead Seventeen years ago. But it wasn't Peepy they put to stay Under the churchyard sod — He's young and gay and strong to-day Up in the realms of God. He walks in the light by the Saviour's side, The Saviour that loved him so. So it's folly to think that Peepy died Seventeen years ago. His form returned to its mother mould, But his soul began to grow — This is the story an angel told, And I'm sure these things are so. Creeds and churches bother my head. But this one thing I know — It isn't true that Peepy's been dead Since seventeen years ago ! WILLIAM KIRBY THE MARQUIS OF LGRNE'S VISIT TO THE NORTH-WEST '\^7'HAT went ye to the wilderness to see? * » A shaking reed ? Men in king's houses dwelling ? A prophet ? Yea, more than a prophet telling Of lands new named for Christ — a gift in fee, And heritage of millions yet to be. Canadian Verse 163 Green prairies like an ocean swelling From rise to set of sun — great rivers spelling Their rugged names in Blackfoot and in Cree. That went you forth to see, and saw it lie, The glorious land reserved by God till now, For England's help in need — to drive the plough, A thousand miles on end — till in the sky The snowy mountains, from the plains upborne, Bear on the proudest peak the name of Lome. AT SPENCER GRANGE UPON the heights of Sillery one day, Led by the dryad of the fairy wood, A daughter of the land, as bright and good As spring's first daffodil, bade me survey Wolfe's cove, the gleaming city with array Of walls and pinnacles, each in a hood Of sunset glory, while the shining flood Swept through the mountains far and far away. And then the nearer landscape she recalls. The grove, the Grange, Belle Borne's romantic rill. Which in a chain of silvery waterfalls Ran down the cliff and vanished ; but she still Stands there to me. A memory will not fade — Part of the glorious vision I surveyed. From " THE SPARROWS " SO sat I yesterday, with weary eyes Looking at leafless trees and snow-swept plains, And broad Ontario's ice-encumbered sea. My thoughts had wandered in a waking dream Across the deep abyss of vanished years. To that dear land I never saw again — When suddenly a fluttering of wings Shook the soft snow — a twittering of birds 1 64 A Treasury of Chirping a strange old note, but heard before In English hedges and on roofs red-tiled, Of cottage homes that looked on village greens ! An old familiar note ! Who says the ear Forgets a voice once heard ? the eye, a charm ? The heart, affection's touch, from man or woman ? Not mine at least ! I knew my own birds' language, And recognised their little forms with joy. A flock of English sparrows at my door, With feathers ruffled in the cold north wind, Claimed kinship with me — hospitality ! — Brown-coated things ! Not for uncounted gold Would I have made denial of their claims ! Five ! six ! ten ! twenty ! But I lost all count In my great joy. Whence come I knew not ; glad They came to me, who loved them for the sake Of that dear land at once both theirs and mine. I ran to get the food I knew they liked, Remembering how — a child — in frost and snow — I used to scatter crumbs before the door, And wheat in harvest gleaned, to feed the birds Which left us not in winter, but made gay The bleak, inclement season of the year. The sparrows chirped and pecked while eyeing me With little diamond glances, like old friends. As round my feet they fluttered, hopped and fed, In perfect confidence and void of fear. Their forms, their notes, their pretty ways so strange, Yet so familiar — like a rustic word Learned in my childhood and not spoken since — All, all came back to me ! and as I looked And listened — a thousand memories rose up, Like a vast audience at the nation's song ! Old England's hills and dales of matchless charm. Sweeping in lines of beauty, stood revealed ; Canadian Verse 165 Her fragrant lanes where woodbine trailed the hedge, And little feet with mine ran side by side As we plucked primroses, or marked the spot Where blackbird, thrush or linnet reared its young, While sang the cuckoo on the branching tree. Those meadows, too ! Who can forget them ever ? So green ! with buttercups and daisies set. Where skylarks nested and sprang up at dawn To heaven's top, singing their rapturous lay ! Those gentle rivers, not too large to grasp By the strong swimmer of his native streams ; Those landward homes that breed the nation's strength ; Those beaconed cliffs that watch her stormy seas, Covered with ships that search all oceans round : Those havens, marts, and high-built cities, full Of work and wealth and men who rule the world ! All rose before me in supernal light, As when beheld with childhood's eyes of strength. And stirred my soul with impulses divine. My heart opened its depths — glad tears and sad Mingled upon my cheek, which forty years' Strange winds had fanned and heat and cold em- browned. God's hand is nearer than we think — a touch Suffices to restore the dead ; a word Becomes a wonder of creative power. The little sparrows in their rustic speech Talking a tongue I knew — this message brought From Christ, who spake it, merciful to man : " Are not two sparrows for a farthing sold. And not one falls without the Father's leave ? Fear not, therefore ! for of more value, ye. Than many sparrows, yea, whose very hairs Are numbered by the loving care of God." I blessed the little messengers who brought These words of comfort to my lonely heart, To teach me resignation, hope and peace. 1 66 A Treasury of Like children in a darkened room we cry, Despairing of the light when 'tis most nigh. . . . The callow bird must wait its wings to fly, And so must thou ! God's love is law in love. Working in elements of moral strife That will not yield obedience but with pain. "Perfect through suffering." Comprehend'st thou that? Upon the cross who was it, dying, cried, In the last agony that rends the soul : " Eli ! Eli ! lama sabacthani ! " No other way ! Christ, too, must drink that cup Before His human life was made divine And our redemption possible from sin ! Or if a gentler lesson thou would'st learn. Dismayed at those tremendous mysteries, Think of the birds, the lilies, all things He Takes care of to the end : why not of thee ? But while their round of life is here complete, Thine but begins ! The law of laws is love, That needs two worlds to perfect all of man, And an eternity to teach God's ways ! . . . MATTHEW RICHEY KNIGHT JACQUES CARTIER NO flame of war was he, no flower of grace, No star of wisdom ; but a plain, bold man. More careful of the end than of the plan. No mystery was he afraid to face ; No savage strategy, no furious storm, No stings of climate, no unthought disease : His master purpose would not bend to these. But saw, through all, achievement's towering form. Canadian Verse 167 He first beheld the gloomy Saguenay, And Stadacona's high, forbidding brow ; His venturous vision too did first survey Fair Hochelaga, but not fair as now. St. Malo holds his dust, the world his fame, But his strong, dauntless soul 'tis ours to claim. SOVEREIGN MOMENTS LIFE has two sovereign moments ; One when we settle down To some life-worthy purpose, — One when we grasp the crown. THE MERCY OF GOD THEY have a saying in the East : — Two angels note the deeds of men, And one is first and one is least. When men do right, one takes his pen And magnifies the deed to ten. This angel is at God's right hand, And holds the other in command. He says to him when men do wrong, " The man' was weak, temptation strong, — " Write not the record down to-day ; " To-morrow he may grieve and pray.'' It may be myth ; but this is sooth — No ruth is lasting as God's ruth ; The strongest is the tenderest ; He who best knows us loves us best. 1 68 A Treasury of ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN THE RAILWAY STATION THE darkness brings no quiet here, the light No waking : ever on my blinded brain The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain, The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite : I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight, Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain : I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train Move laboring out into the bourneless night. So many souls within its dim recesses. So many bright, so many mournful eyes : Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses ; What threads of life, what hidden histories, What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses, What unknown thoughts, what various agonies ! OUTLOOK NOT to be conquered by these headlong days, But to stand free : to keep the mind at brood On life's deep meaning, nature's altitude Of loveliness, and time's mysterious ways ; At every thought and deed to clear the haze Out of our eyes, considering only this, What man, what life, what love, what beauty is, This is to live, and win the final praise. Though strife, ill fortune, and harsh human need Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb With agony ; yet, patience — there shall come Many great voices from life's outer sea. Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed, Murmurs and glimpses of eternity. Canadian Verse 169 AMONG THE MILLET THE dew is gleaming in the grass, The morning hours are seven ; And I am fain to watch you pass> Ye soft white clouds of heaven. Ye stray and gather, part and fold ; The wind alone can tame you ; I think of what in time of old The poets loved to name you. They called you sheep, the sky your sward, A field Without a reaper ; They called the shining sun your lord, The shepherd wind your keeper. Your sweetest poets I will deem The men of old for moulding. In simple beauty, such a dream, — And I could lie beholding. Where daisies in the meadow toss, The wind from morn till even Forever shepherd you across The shining field of heaven. THE LOONS ONCE ye were happy, once by many a shore. Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray, Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay Floating at rest ; but that was long of yore. He was too good for earthly men ; he bore Their bitter deeds for many a patient day, And then at last he took his unseen way. He was your friend, and ye might rest no more. And now, though many hundred altering years Have passed, among the desolate northern meres Still must ye search and wander querulously. I70 A Treasury of Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light With weird entreaties, and in agony With awful laughter pierce the lonely night. THE SUN CUP THE earth is the cup of the sun, That he filleth at morning with wine,- With the warm, strong wine of his might From the vintage of gold and of light, Fills it, and makes it divine. And at night when his journey is done, At the gate of his radiant hall. He setteth his lips to the brim, With a long last look of his eye. And lifts it and draineth it dry, — Drains till he leaveth it all Empty and hollow and dim. And then, as he passes to sleep, Still full of the feats that he did Long ago in Olympian wars. He closes it down with the sweep Of its slow-turning luminous lid. Its cover of darkness and stars, Wrought once by Hephsestus of old With violet and vastness and gold. AFTER RAIN FOR three whole days across the sky. In sullen packs that loomed and broke. With flying fringes dim as smoke. The columns of the rain went by j Canadian Verse 171 At every hour the rain went by ; At every hour the wind awoke ; The darkness passed upon the plain ; The great drops rattled at the pane. Now piped the wind, or far aloof Fell to a sough remote and dull ; And all night long with rush and lull The rain kept drumming on the roof : I heard till ear and sense were full The clash or silence of the leaves, The gurgle in the creaking eaves. But when the fourth day came — at noon, The darkness and the rain were by ; The sunward roofs were steaming dry ; And all the world was flecked and strewn With shadows from a fleecy sky. The haymakers were forth and gone, And every rillet laughed and shone. Then, too, on me that loved so well The world, despairing in her blight. Uplifted with her least delight, On me, as on the earth, there fell New happiness of mirth and might ; I strode the valleys pied and still ; I climbed upon the breezy hill. I watched the gray hawk wheel and drop, Sole shadow on the shining world ; I saw the mountains clothed and curled. With forest ruffling to the top ; I saw the river's length unfurled, Pale silver down the fruited plain. Grown great and stately with the rain. 172 A Treasury of Through miles of shadow and soft heat, Where field and fallow, fence and tree, Were all one world of greenery, I heard the robin singing sweet. The sparrow piping silverly. The thrushes at the forest's hem ; And as I went I sang with them. JUNE LONG, long ago, it seems, this summer morn. That pale-browed April passed with pensive tread Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound bed Woke the arbutus with her silver horn ; And now May, too, is fled, The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May, With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet, Leaving the woods and all cool gardens gay With tulips and the scented violet. Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongue. And the sad drooping bellwort, and no more The snowy trilliums crowd the forest floor ; The purpling grasses are no longer young, And summer's wide-set door O'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earth Lets in the torrent of the later bloom, Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth, The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder plume. All day in garden alleys moist and dim, The humid air is burdened with the rose ; In moss-deep woods the creamy orchid blows ; And now the vesper-sparrow's pealing hymn From every orchard close Canadian Verse 173 At eve comes flooding rich and silvery ; The daisies in great meadows swing and shine ; And with the wind a sound as of the sea Roars in the maples and the topmost pine. High m the hills the solitary thrush Tunes magically his music of fine dreams, In briary dells, by boulder-broken streams ; And wide and far on nebulous fields aflush The mellow morning gleams. The orange cone-flowers purple-bossed are there, The meadow's bold-eyed gypsies deep of hue. And slender hawkweed tall and softly fair, And rosy tops of fleabane veiled with dew. So with thronged voices and unhasting flight The fervid hours with long return go by ; The far-heard bugles, piping shrill and high, Tell the slow moments of the solemn night With unremitting cry ; Lustrous and large out of the gathering drouth The planets gleam ; the baleful Scorpion Trails his dim fires along the droused south ; The silent world-incrusted round moves on. And all the dim night long the moon's white beams Nestle deep down in every brooding tree. And sleeping birds, touched with a silly glee, Waken at midnight from their blissful dreams. And carol brokenly. Dim surging motions and uneasy dreads Scare the light slumber from men's busy eyes. And parted lovers on their restless beds Toss and yearn out, and cannot sleep for sighs. Oft have I striven, sweet month, to figure thee. As dreamers of old time were wont to feign, In living form of flesh, and striven in vain ; Yet when some sudden old-world mystery Of passion fixed my brain, 174 A Treasury of Thy shape hath flashed upon me like no dream, Wandering with scented curls that heaped the breeze, Or by some hollow of some reeded stream Sitting waist-deep in white anemones ; And even as I gUmpsed thee thou wert gone, A dream for mortal eyes too proudly coy, Yet in thy place for subtle thoughts employ The golden magic clung, a light that shone And filled me with thy joy. Before me like a mist that streamed and fell All names and shapes of antique beauty passed In garlanded procession, with the swell Of flutes between the beechen stems ; and, last, I was the Arcadian valley, tJie loved wood, Alpheus stream divine, the sighing shore, And through the cool green glades, awake once more. Psyche, the white-limbed goddess, still pursued, Fleet-footed as of yore. The noonday ringing with her frighted peals, Down the bright sward and through the reeds she ran, Urged by the mountain echoes, at her heels The hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan. SEPTEMBER NOW hath the summer reached her golden close. And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul, Scarcely perceives from her divine repose How near, how swift, the inevitable goal : Still, still she smiles, though from her careless feet The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone, And through the soft long wandering days goes on The silent sere decadence sad and sweet. Canadian Verse 175 The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled, Children of Hght, too fearful of the gloom ; The sun falls low, the secret word is said. The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb ; Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace. The corn-flower and the marguerite ; and no more Across the river's shadow-haunted floor The paths of skimming swallows interlace. Already in the outland wilderness The forests echo with unwonted dins ; In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen press Northward, and the stern winter's toil begins. Around the long low shanties, whose rough lines Break the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake, Already in the frost- clear morns awake The crash and thunder of the falling pines. Where the tilled earth, with all its fields set free. Naked and yellow from the harvest lies. By many a loft and busy granary, The hum and tumult of the threshers rise ; There the tanned farmers labor without slack. Till twilight deepens round the spouting mill, Feeding the loosened sheaves, or with fierce will Pitching waist-deep upon the dusky stack. Still a brief while, ere the old year quite pass. Our wandering steps and wistful eyes shall greet The leaf, the water, the beloved grass ; Still from these haunts and this accustomed seat I see the wood-wrapt city, swept with light. The blue, long-shadowed distance, and, between, The dotted farm-lands with their parcelled green. The dark pine forest and the watchful height. I see the broad rough meadow stretched away Into the crystal sunshine, wastes of sod, 176 A Treasury of Acres of withered vervain, purple-gray, Branches of aster, groves of goldenrod ; And yonder, toward the sunlit summit, strewn With shadowy boulders, crowned and swathed with weed. Stand ranks of silken thistles, blown to seed, Long silver fleeces shining like the moon. In far-oflf russet corn-fields, where the dry Gray shocks stand peaked and withering, half concealed In the rough earth, the orange pumpkins lie, Full-ribbed ; and in the windless pasture-field The sleek red horses o'er the sun-warmed ground Stand pensively about in companies, While all around them from the motionless trees The long clean shadows sleep without a sound. Under cool elm-trees floats the distant stream. Moveless as air ; and o'er the vast warm earth The fathomless daylight seems to stand and dream, A liquid cool elixir— all its girth Bound with faint haze, a frail transparency, Whose lucid purple barely veils and fills The utmost valleys and the thin last hills, Nor mars one whit their perfect clarity. Thus without grief the golden days go by, So soft we scarcely notice how they wend. And like a smile half happy, or a sigh, The summer passes to her quiet end ; And soon, too soon, around the cumbered eaves Shy frosts shall take the creepers by surprise. And through the wind-touched reddening woods shall rise October with the rain of ruined leaves. Canadian Verse 177 THE GOAL OF LIFE THERE is a beauty at the goal of life, A beauty growing since the world began, Through every age and race, through lapse and strife. Till the great human soul complete her span. Beneath the waves of storm that lash and burn, The currents of blind passion that appal, To listen and keep watch till we discern The tide of sovereign truth that guides it all ; So to address our spirits to the height, And so attune them to the valiant whole. That the great light be clearer for our light. And the great soul the stronger for our soul : To have done this is to have lived, though fame Remember us with no familiar name. MARY JANE KATZMANN LAWSON THE FACE IN THE CATHEDRAL IT was one of those grand cathedrals, " A poem in wood and stone," Fashioned by master-builders. For the glory of God alone. The sound of hammer and chisel From morning till night was there, As it rose in its Gothic grandeur, A temple so vast and fair ! Workmen from every nation With skill and craft had planned Column and nave and chancel, All wrought with cunning hand. Strength was inlaid with beauty — A goodly sight to see The rainbow light through the mullioned panes Of that glorious sanctuary ! M 178 A Treasury of One day past the crowd of watchers Came a man with silver hair, And asked of the master-builder For leave to labor there. The workmen stood in wonder, For the stranger's eyes were dim, And the hands so thin and nerveless Ne'er told of work in him. The master smiled as he answered, " Our men must be strong and true, Able, as well as willing. For the work they have to do ; Your skill and your strength are over." " Try me," the old man said, " Let me but work in the windowed niche Of the turret above my head." And the master in pity yielded To the pleading of voice and eye. The old man climbed the minster stairs, To the window aslant the sky ; And there where the sunrise glory Fell first through the diamond pane. And pillar and arch and chancel Were bathed in golden rain, Day after day on the panel He had won from the builder's grace, His trembling hands were busy, Carving a single face ; Silent, and always keeping From watchers and workers aloof, There by the oriel window, Under the fretted roof. But once when the sun was setting. And the minster's walls were dim. Canadian Verse 179 The workmen waited and listened — What had befallen him ? He stood not before the panel, Nor came down the lofty stair, Yet the light of the turret window Was shining upon him there ! For he lay in the quiet shadow That follows the setting sun ; His tired hands were folded, — The old man's work was done ! And fresh from the shining panel, Finished with perfect grace. Looked down on the pale dead artist A pure, young, tender face. Fresh in its dewy softness. As a rose in the light may glow, The face that had made the sunshine Of his life in the long ago ; And the love, through whose perfect fulness Our nature becomes divine, Had transferred from his faithful keeping That face to this holy shrine. There in its place of beauty. Eyes turned to the rising sun. He had made her face immortal, — He died, for his work was done ! In that grand old English temple There are marvels of wondrous skill, Where the brain and hand of the craftsman Have worked with a perfect will ; But naught has the grace and beauty Of the face in the niche above ; — Their work was for gain or glory, But his was done for Love ! i8o A Treasury of SOPHIA V. GILBERT LEE THE BROOK RIPPLE, ripple, ripple, Goes the little brook, Ripple, ripple, ripple, Backward casts no look ; On through vale and woodland, And flowery meadows green, Staying not its progress To see or to be seen. Ripple, ripple, ripple. Bubbling on its way, Ripple, ripple, ripple — Hark ! I hear it say : O foolish man, why dwellest thou On themes of long ago ? Pass by the old, take up the new, Time's fleeting — let me go ! LILY ALICE LEFEVRE IMPRISONED WITHIN, a panic stricken throng That sudden fear appals, In blindest fury crashing close Wide doors to rigid walls — A wild fierce struggle, life or death. Each holding ground with gasping breath Until the weaker falls, — Each inch of room a battle-field Where one exults and one must yield. Canadian Verse i8i Without, the boundless earth and air, The depths of starry space, Vast oceans that the strong white moon Uphfts to her embrace ; Free winds of heaven blowing light, Far planets wheeling through the night To their appointed place, — Marvels unseen to captives there, Imprisoned by their own despair. Within the gloomy walls of Doubt Fierce factions wage their war ; Fair Hope lies slain where they have set Negation's iron bar. Pent in their narrow bounds they cry, " No stars, no sky, — we struggle, die. And know not why we are." Oh, self-immured ! ye cannot see ? Stand back ! — your brother shall be free. Stand back ! — from 'neath your trampling feet The young, the weak shall rise. Their white lips breathe in silent pain The prayer your pride denies ; Their pale hands clasp the faded flowers Of faith that bloomed in happier hours Beneath their childhood's skies. Oh, still for these within your walls May justice, truth and self-control Set wide the gateways of the soul To where, beyond, God's glory calls Man's spirit to its goal. INSPIRATION A LARK sprang up to greet the dawn Close to a rose one day, The tears upon her glowing cheek His light wing brushed away, - 1 82 A Treasury of Her fragrant beauty fresh and fair He kissed in passing by, And wove her name into his song Of rapture in the sky. The lonely rose sighed, " Ah, my love, I cannot follow thee ; Far, far above in golden light Thou hast forgotten me. Yet am I blest for evermore Though but an instant dear, — Thou singest now a sweeter song For all the world to hear ! " R. E. MULLINS LEPROHON THE HURON CHIEF'S DAUGHTER THE dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre; The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their vengeful ire. It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude. To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood. . . . O lovely was that winsome child of a dark and rugged line. And e'en 'mid Europe's daughters fair surpassing might she shine : For ne'er had coral lips been wreathed by brighter, sunnier smile. Or dark eyes beamed with lustrous light more full of winsome wile. . . . Canadian Verse 183 And, yet it was not wonderful, that haughty, high- born grace — She stood amid her direst foes a Princess of her race ; Knowing they'd met to wreak on her their hatred 'gainst her name, To doom her to a fearful death, to pangs of fire and flame. . . . One moment, — then her proud glance fled, her form she humbly bowed, A softened light stole o'er her brow, she prayed to heaven aloud : " Hear me, Thou Great and Glorious One, Protector of my race, Whom in the far-off Spirit Land I'll soon see face to face ! "Pour down thy blessings on my tribe, may they triumphant rise Above the guileful Iroquois — Thine and our enemies ; And give me strength to bear each pang with courage high and free, That, dying thus, I may be fit to reign, O God, with Thee." Her prayer was ended, and again, like crowned and sceptered Queen, She wore anew her lofty smile, her high and royal mien. E'en though the chief the signal gave, and quick two warriors dire Sprang forth to lead the dauntless girl to the lit funeral pyre. Back with an eye of flashing scorn recoiled she from their grasp, "Nay, touch me not, I'd rather meet the coil of poisoned asp ! 184 A Treasury of My aged sire and all my tribe will learn with honest pride That, as befits a Huron's child, their chieftain's daughter died ! " She dashed aside her tresses dark with bright and fearless smile, And like a fawn she bounded on the fearful funeral pile; And even while those blood-stained men fulfilled their cruel part They praised that maiden's courage rare, her high and dauntless heart. WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL THE ARTIST'S PRAYER T KNOW thee not, O Spirit fair! A O Life and flying Unity Of Loveliness ! Must man despair Forever in his chase of thee ! When snowy clouds flash silver-gilt, Then feel I that thou art on high ; When fire o'er all the west is spilt. Flames at its heart thy majesty. Thy beauty basks on distant hills ; It smiles in eve's wine-coloured sea ; It shakes its light on leaves and rills, In calm ideals it mocks at me. Thy glances strike from many a lake That lines through woodland scapes a-sheen ; Yet to thine eyes I never wake : — They glance, but they remain unseen. Canadian Verse 185 I know thee not, O Spirit fair ! Thou fillest heaven : the stars are tiiee : Whatever fleets with beauty rare Fleets radiant from thy mystery. Forever thou art near my grasp ; Thy touches pass in twilight air ; Yet still — thy shapes elude my clasp — I know thee not, thou Spirit fair ! Ether, proud, and vast, and great, Above the legions of the stars ! To this thou art not adequate ; — Nor rainbow's glorious scimitars. 1 know thee not, thou Spirit sweet ! I chained pursue, while thou art free. Sole by the smile I sometimes meet I know thou, Vast One, knowest me. In old religions hadst thou place : Long, long, O Vision, our pursuit ! Yea, monad-, fish and childlike brute Through countless ages dreamt thy grace. Gray nations felt thee o'er them tower ; Some clothed thee in fantastic dress ; Some thought thee as the unknown Power, I, e'er the unknown Loveliness. To all thou wert as harps of joy ; To bard and sage their fulgent sun : To priests their mystic life's employ ; But unto me the Lovely One. Veils clothed thy might ; veils draped thy charm ; The might they tracked, but I the grace ; They learnt all forces were thine Arm, I that all beauty was thy Face. 1 86 A Treasury of Night spares us little. Wanderers we. Our rapt delights, our wisdoms rare But shape our darknesses of thee, — We know thee not, thou Spirit fair ! Would that thine awful Peerlessness An hour could shine o'er heaven and earth, And I the maddening power possess To drink the cup,— O Godlike birth ! All life impels me to thy search : Without thee, yea, to live were null ; Still shall I make the dawn thy Churchy And pray thee " God the Beautiful." THE SWEET STAR THE sweet Star of the Bethlehem night Beauteous guides and true, And still, to me and you With only local, legendary light. For us who hither look with eyes afar From constellations of philosophy, All light is from the Cradle ; the true star, Serene o'er distance, in the Life we see. MY NATIVE LAND ROME, Florence, Venice — noble, fair and quaint. They reign in robes of magic round me here ; But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint, With spell more silent, only pleads a tear. Plead not ! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim ! I see the fields, I see the autumn hand Canadian Verse 187 Of God upon the maples ! Answer Him With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst ! I see the sun break over you ; the mist On hills that lift from iron bases grand Their heads superb ! — the dream, it is my native land. STUART LIVINGSTON THE VOLUNTEERS OF '85 WIDE are the plains to the north and the west- ward; Drear are the skies to the west and the north — Little they cared, as they snatched up their rifles. And shoulder to shoulder marched gallantly forth. Cold are the plains to the north and the westward. Stretching out far to the gray of the sky- Little they cared as they marched from the barrack- room. Willing and ready, if need be, to die. Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets j Firm and erect was each man in his place ; Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans ; Smiling and fearless was every face ; Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them ; Never a fear of war's terrible scenes ; " Brave as the bravest " was stamped on each face of them J Half of them boys not yet out of their teens. Many a woman gazed down at them longingly, Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed ; Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of him. Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last. 1 88 A Treasury of Many a maiden's cheek paled as she looked at them, Seeing the lover from whom she must part ; Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him, Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart. Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them, Beat as it never had beaten before ; Every voice of us, choked though it may have been. Broke from huzza to a deafening roar. Proud ! were we proud of them ? God ! they were part of us, Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight ; Swift at their country's call, ready each man and all, Eager to battle for her and the right. Wide are the plains to the north and the westward. Stretching out far to the gray of the sky — Little they cared as they filed from the barrack-room, Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die. Was there one flinched ? Not a boy, not a boy of them; Straight on they marched to the dread battle's brunt — Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them, Canada's call found them all at the front. TO E. N. L. THOU sweet-souled comrade of a time gone by Who in the infinite dost walk to-day, And lift thy spirit lips in song, while I I^ift up but lips of clay — Oft do I think on thee, thou steadfast heart. Who, when the summons dread was in thine ear, Didst raise thy calm brow up and challenge death, As one that knows no fear. Canadian Verse 189 And I have wondered if thy passionate lips Now voice the songs that surged within thy heart j By the great alchemy of mighty death Freed to diviner art. And didst thou find a welcome on the shore That rims the vastness of that shadow land ? Did those sweet singing prophet bards of yore Stretch thee a greeting hand ? And did they gather round about thee there, With faces gray against the coming day ; And, with wan fingers on thy trembling lips. Teach thee their mighty lay ? — Till thy enraptured soul, by thine own lips, Was filled with such great harmony of song As gave thee place among their matchless selves, A brother of the throng. THE KING'S FOOL IN sooth he was a mighty King, And ruled in splendid state. Surrounded by a haughty band Of nobles small and great ; And he was good to one and all, Yet they were plotting for his fall. For though a king be good and great And generous, I trow His nobles yet will envy him. And seek his overthrow ; For so hath been the ancient strife Since man first took his sovereign's life. 190 A Treasury of And thus, to gain their foul design, They planned to lie in wait. And drop a deadly poison in The golden flagon great, That never more the King should rule ; And no one heard them but the fool. So when the King came down that night Into his hall to dine, He found his flagon in its place. And at its side the wine — The blood-red wine — at which he said, "Such wine should put life in the dead !" Then poured he full the poisoned cup, And, raising it on high. O'er all his courtiers in the hall He ran his noble eye : " Oh, I would drink," he said, with zest, " Unto the man that loves me best ! " Then mute they sat around the board. And each looked to the other. Till rose, with mocking reverence. The fool, and said, " Good brother. All round this board, of every guest, I am the man that loves thee best." Then wrothful was the King, and said, " Thou art no man, I wis. That makest such a silly jest At such a time as this. Give us a better jest," he said, " Or pay the forfeit with thy head." Then quoth the fool, " My good liege lord, I'll give another jest, But after it, I tell thee now. That I will take my rest, Canadian Verse 191 No more to be thy jester," and He snatched the flagon from his hand. Then dark became the King's great brow, Amazed was every guest. While with the flagon at his lips The fool quoth, " This sweet jest That man, I trow, wiU best divine Who poured such strength into this wine " — Then drained the goblet at a draught, And set it down anon. While round the board each face grew pale, And strange to look upon ; Then sank the fool into his place. And on the table laid his face. Amid the silence stood the King, As if perplexed with doubt ; He looked upon his poor dead fool. And then looked round about ; And then in thunder called the guard That near him kept their watch and ward. He bid them take the traitors forth And put them all to death. "Would God," he cried, "their lives could give My poor fool back his breath — My poor dead fool, whose silent breast Doth show, too late, he loved me best ! " This is the legend of a fool Who died his king to save, And to its truth a monument Was built above his grave ; And on it in gold this wording ran, " He lived a fool, but died a man." 192 A Treasury of KEATS A YOUNG-EYED seer, amid the leafy ways Of Latmos' groves, sacred to mighty Pan, Afar from all the busy marts of man. Content to seek the beautiful, he strays ; With mild eyes lifted in their starry gaze Of ravishment divine, a priest, he stands Before the altar builded by his hands. And on his pipe, with pallid lip, he plays. This night, O god-like singer, have I knelt Before that altar listening to thy strain, Till oif my soul mortality did melt, Dissolved from all weariness of pain ; And at thy magic melody I felt All life were mine, could I such rapture drain. ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART ACADIE LIKE mists that round a mountain gray Hang for an hour, then melt away, So I, and nearly all my race, Have vanished from my native place. Each haunt of boyhood's loves and dreams More beautiful in fancy seems ; Yet if I to those scenes repair I find I am a stranger there. O thou beloved Acadie, Sweet is thy charmed world to me ! Dull are these skies 'neath which I range, And all the summer hills are strange. Canadian Verse 193 Yet sometimes I discern thy gleam In sparkles of the chiming stream ; And sometimes speaks thy haunting lore The foam-wreathed sibyl of the shore. And sometimes will mine eyes incline To hill or wood that seems like thine ; Or, if the robin pipeth clear, It is thy vernal note I hear. And oft my heart will leap aflame To deem I hear thee call my name, — To see thy face with gladness shine, And find the joy that once was mine. THE WATERS OF CARR ODO you hear the merry waters falling, In the mossy woods of Carr ? O do you hear the child's voice, calling, calling. Through its cloistral deeps afar ? 'Tis the Indian's babe, they say. Fairy stolen ; changed a fay ; And still I hear her, calling, calling, calling, In the mossy woods of Carr ! O hear you, when the weary world is sleeping (Dim and drowsy every star), This little one her happy revels keeping In her halls of shining spar ? Clearer swells her voice of glee, While the liquid echoes flee. And the full moon through deep green leaves comes peeping. In the dim-lit woods of Carr. Know ye from her wigwam how they drew her, Wanton-willing, far away, — Made the wild-wood halls seem home unto her, Changed her to a laughing fay ? 194 A Treasury of Never doth her bosom burn, Never asks she to return ; — Ah, vainly care and sorrow may pursue her Laughing, singing, all the day ! And often, when the golden west is burning, Ere the twilight's earliest star. Comes her mother, led by mortal yearning Where the haunted forests are ; — Listens to the rapture wild Of her vanished fairy child : Ah, see her then, with smiles and tears, returning From the sunset woods of Carr ! They feed her with the amber dew and honey, They bathe her in the crystal spring, They set her down in open spaces sunny, And weave her an enchanted ring ; They will not let her beauty die. Her innocence and purity ; They sweeten her fair brow with kisses many. And ever round her dance and sing. O do you hear the merry waters falling. In the mossy woods of Carr ? O do you hear the child's voice; calling, calling. Through its cloistral deeps afar ? Never thrill of plaintive pain Mingles with that ceaseless strain ; — But still I hear her joyous calling, calling. In the morning woods of Carr ! THE LONELY PINE I REMOTE, upon the sunset shrine Of a green hill, a lonely pine Beckons this hungry heart of mine. Canadian Verse 195 " Draw near," it always seems to say, Look thither whensoe'er I may From the dull routine of my way ; " I hold for thee the heavens in trust ; My priestly branches toward thee thrust. Absolve thy fret, assoil thy dust." Yet if I come it heeds not me ; The stars amid the branches see But lonely man and lonely tree, — And lonely earth that holds in thrall Her creatures, while Eve gathers all To fold within her shadowy wall. Now, with this spell around me thrown. Dreaming of social pleasures flown, I grieve, yet joy, to be alone ; While whispering through its solitude. Far from its green-robed brotherhood. The pine tree shares my wonted mood. It museth that felicity Which, being not, we deem may be. And mingles hope and certainty. Ill In starry senate doth arise The lumined spirit of the skies. Walking with radiant ministries. Yet in my lonely pine tree dwells, When 'mid its breast the warm wind swells, A prophet of sweet oracles. 196 A Treasury of Like a faint sea on far-off shore, With its low elfin roll and roar, It speaks one language evermore ; — One language, unconstrained and free. The converse of the answering sea. The old rune of Eternity. Then, from this lonely sunset shrine, I turn to toils and cares of mine, And, grateful, bless my healing pine. BURTON W. LOCKHART From "THE RETROSPECT" O BROTHERS ! thro' how many lands We've sought the Holy Grail ! Lo, here is truth ! Lo, there she stands !— Bow down, and cry, " All hail ! " Still she looks on us far withdrawn. With stars and clouds bedight ; The vision of our spirit's dawn, The watch-fire of our night. Trust thy soul's highest vision — trust ! Think not to touch or taste : Time's ancient mystery — poor dust ! — For thee will not make haste. The noble still must seek the light ; The doctrinaire still raves ; But Faith holds fast, while the long night Shines o'er our fathers' graves. Canadian Verse 197 LOVE AND SONG LOVE sayeth : Sing of me ! What else is worth a song ? I had refrained Lest I should do Love wrong. "Clean hands, and a pure heart," I prayed, " and I will sing : " But all I gained Brought to my word no wing. Stars, sunshine, seas and skies, Earth's graves, the holy hills. Were all in vain ; No breath the dumb pipe fills. I dreamed of splendid praise, And Beauty watching by Gray shores of Pain : My song turned to a sigh. I saw in virgin eyes The mother warmth that makes The dead earth quick In ways no Spring awakes. No song. In vain to sight Life's clear arch heavenward sprang. Heart still, or sick ! — I loved I Ah, then I sang I BY THE GASPEREAU DO you remember, dear, a night in June, So long, so long ago, When we were lovers, wandering with the Tioon, Beside the Gaspereau ? igS A Treasury of The river plashed and gurgled thro' its glooms, Slow stealing to the sea, A silver serpent ; in the apple blooms The soft air rustled free. And o'er the river from afar the sound Of mellow tinkling bells From browsing cattle stirred the echo round In gentle falls and swells. No sound of human sorrow, nor of mirth, Streamed on that peace abroad. And all the night leaned low upon the earth Like the calm face of God. And in our hearts there breathed, like life, a breath Of most delicious pain : I*^ seemed a whisper ran from birth to death, And back to birth again. And bound in airy chains our shining hours. Past, present, and to come. In one sweet whole, strong to defy the powers Of change, till Time be dumb. Yes, you remember, dear, that night in June, So long, so long ago, When we were lovers, wandering with the moon, Beside the Gaspereau. JOHN E. LOGAN THE INDIAN MAID'S LAMENT A BLOOD-RED ring hung round the moon, Hung round the moon. Ah me ! Ah me ! I heard the piping of the Loon, A wounded Loon. Ah me ! Canadian Verse 199 And yet the eagle feathers rare I, trembHng, wove in my brave's hair. He left me in the early morn, The early morn. Ah me ! Ah me ! The feathers swayed like stately corn, So like the corn. Ah me ! A fierce wind swept across the plain, The stately corn was snapt in twain. They crushed in blood the hated race. The hated race. Ah me ! Ah me ! I only clasped a cold, blind face. His cold, dead face. Ah me ! A blood-red ring hangs in my sight, I hear the Loon cry every night. AGNES MAULE MACHAR WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE SANS peur et sans reproche ! — our lion-heart To whom we turn when other hopes betray. When tyrant-might puts forth her power to slay Young, struggling Freedom, with her poisoned dart. And Britain hath forgot the nobler part She played, as Freedom's champion, — that proud day She led a world to break one despot's sway, — And from her old traditions stands apart. Milton hath gone, and Wordsworth, — but, through thee. Still rings their hate of tyranny defied-; Still breathes the voice whose sound was "of the sea," And that one " of the mountains ; " — far and wide Their echoes roll, where'er true Britons be. Or men for liberty have lived and died ! 200 A Treasury of SCHILLER'S DYING VISION (" Many things are growing clearer.") AS the light beyond draws nearer, Streaming from the farther shore, Many things are growing clearer I but dimly guessed before, — How those legends quaint and olden Veiled a truth beyond their ken, In their tales of ages golden, When immortals walked with men : How, in symbol and in shadow. Light through darkness dimly broke, Poesy illumed the meadow, And the woodland's music woke ; And the spirits, softly sighing Through the forest, in the stream, On the wind's swift pinions flying, Were not all an idle dream ! Now I see how Faith immortal Oft hath worn a fable's guise, While she lingered at the portal Of unfathomed mysteries ; — How the vague, half-conscious dreamings Of earth's artless, questioning youth Were but iridescent gleamings From the inmost heart of Truth. How the clear Hellenic vision Read the soul in Nature's face, And the gods of her tradition Made the earth their dwelling place, — Canadian Verse sot Throned on peaks of hoary mountains, Walking earth in form divine, While, in spray of silvery fountains, Naiads' gleaming tresses shine 1 Dryads, in the forest-shadow, Whispered light at eve and dawn. And the fairies, on the meadow. Danced a measure with the Faun : Radiant forms to earth descending In the moonlight, with the dew, — Earthly grace with heavenly blending, — Shone before the poet's view. 'Tis a truth profound that dwelleth In these bright and broken gleams Of the glory that excelleth Noblest poet's fairest dreams ! For, with eyes no longer holden. We may trace a presence bright In the sunset's radiance golden, In the dawn's pale rosy light ; In the beauty round us glowing. And in Nature's wondrous course, We may trace, with surer knowing. Her eternal spring and source , And, still more, the deathless story Through the ages we may read, How infinite Love and Glory Bent themselves to human need, — How the asphodel forever Fades before the amaranth bright — Light hath touched the Stygian river. Dawn the Acherontian night ! — 202 A Treasury of For we hear a voice supernal Tell us Pluto's reign is o'er, And the rays of Love eternal Light our path for evermore ! Love and Hope and Truth and Duty Guide the upward-striving soul, Still evolving higher beauty As the ages onward roll ; Till the light of consecration Glorify earth's radiant clod. And Life's highest Incarnation — God in man — draw man to God ! LOVE AND FAITH FAITH spread her wings to seek the realms of day ; Unfathomable depths before her lay. Hope drooped beside her, as there stretched afar, Space beyond space, outreaching endlessly. The faintest gleam of the remotest star. Her heart grew faint, her wings flagged heavily ; Vain seemed the quest, and endless seemed the way. Then Love cried out, with voice that pierced the night : " Lo, I am here ! " and straight all space was light ; Darkness had vanished, and the weary way Was all forgotten in the vision bright — For Faith had reached the glorious gates of day ! A MADONNA OF THE ENTRY I IN a city of churches and chapels. From belfry and spire and tower. In the solemn and starlit silence. The bells chimed the midnight hour. Canadian Verse 203 Then in silvery tones of gladness They rang in the Christmas morn — The wonderful, mystical season When Jesus Christ was born. All thought of the Babe in the manger, — The Child that knew no sin. That hung on the breast of the mother Who found no room in the inn ! All thought of the choir of angels That swept through the darkness then, To chant forth the glad evangel Of peace and love to men ! In that city of churches and chapels A mother crouched, hungry and cold. In a bleak and cheerless entry, With a babe in her nerveless hold. Hungry and cold and weary, She had paced the streets all night — No room for her in the city. No food, no warmth, no light ! And just as the bells' glad chiming Pealed in the Christmas day, The angels came through the darkness. And carried the babe away ! No room for one tiny infant In that city of churches fair, — But the Father hath " many mansions " And room for the baby there\ 204 A Treasury of EVAN MACCOLL THE CHILD OF PROMISE SHE died — as die the roses On the ruddy clouds of dawn, When the envious sun discloses His flame, and morning's gone. She died — like snow glad-gracing Some sea-marge fair, when, lo ! Rude waves, each other chasing. Quick hide it 'neath their flow. She died — like snow fair showering Some sea-marge, when, anon, In comes the wave devouring — The beautiful is gone. She died — as dies the glory Of music's sweetest swell : She died — as dies the story When the best is still to tell ! She died — as dies moon-beaming When scowls the ray less wave ; She died — like sweetest dreaming That hastens to its grave. She died — and died she early ; Heaven wearied for its own. As the dipping sun, my Mary, Thy morning ray went down ! Canadian Verse 205 GLENORCHY TALK not to me of Tempe's flowery vale, With fair Glenorchy stretched before my view ! If of its charms he sung, I would right well Believe the Grecian poet's picture true. What were his boasted groves in scent and hue To lady-birches and the stately pine. The crimsoned heather and the hare-bell blue ? Be his the laurel — the red heath be mine ! No faun nor dryad here I care to see. More pleased by far to mark the bounding roe Sport with his mate behind the forest tree ; Nor less the joy when in the glen below Some milking Hebe sings her luinneag free, All hearts enchanting by its graceful glow. ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD A SONG OF SEASONS SING a song of Spring-time ! Catkins by the brook, Adders-tongues uncounted. Ferns in every nook ; The cataract on the hillside Leaping like a fawn ; Sing a song of Spring-time, — Ah, but Spring-time's gone ! Sing a song of Summer ! Flowers among the grass. Clouds like fairy frigates. Pools like looking-glass. Moonlight through the branches, Voices on the lawn ; Sing a song of summer, — Ah, but Summer's gone ! 2o6 A Treasury of Sing a song of Autumn ! Grain in golden sheaves, Woodbine's crimson clusters Round the cottage eaves, Days of crystal clearness, Frosted fields at dawn ; Sing a song of Autumn, — Ah, but Autumn's gone I Sing a song of Winter ! North-wind's bitter chill, Home and ruddy firelight, Kindness and good-will. Hemlock in the churches, Daytime soon withdrawn ; Sing a song of Winter, — Ah, but Winter's gone ! Sing a song of loving ! Let the seasons go ; Hearts can make their gardens Under sun or snow ; Fear no fading blossom. Nor the dying day ; Sing a song of loving, — That will last for aye ! JOHN MACFARLANE THE TWO ANGELS I STOOD and saw the angel of the dawn, Whose rest had been in heaven the dark night through, Pressing, with jewelled feet, the silent lawn In radiant robes of dew. Canadian Verse 207 And slowly to the west, in ebon gloom, Upbearing in his lifted hands on high The scroll of destiny— of life and doom — The night-watch passed by. But ere he turned his step from earth away I gazed upon his countenance again. And, lo ! I thought upon his brow there lay A shadow as of pain. But he, the brother-angel of the day, Bore on his breast the beaming star of hope. And in his golden chalice balm, alway. On bruised hearts to drop. And so to men there cometh evermore One angel fraught with promise, making glad ; And one who taketh from the stricken sore Much anguish, wild and sad. A GRAVE IN SAMOA THE wild birds strangely call. And silent dawns and purple eves are here, Where Southern stars upon his grave look down, Calm-eyed and wondrous clear ! No strife his resting mars ! And yet we deem far off from tropic steeps His spirit cleaves the pathway of the storm. Where dark Tantallon keeps. For still in plaintive woe, By haunting mem'ry of his yearning led. The wave-worn Mother of the misty strand Mourns for her absent dead : 2o8 A Treasury of Ah I bear him gently home. To where Dunedin's streets are quaint and gray, And ruddy lights across t/ie steaming rains Shine soft at dose of day 1 " A MIDSUMMER MADRIGAL AT the postern gate of Day Stands Apollo, clad in light, Trilling forth a summons gay To the wrinkled warder Night : " Ho ! old laggard, what has kept ? Dost not hear this challenge mine ? Well I wot thy beard has dipt In the wassail's ruddy wine. Song and story, gibe and jest. With thy boon companions all ; ' To the donjon of the West Now betake thee. Seneschal. Ward and watch, and vigil keen, Still thy beacon fires confest. Blazing in the blue serene ; Hie thee, warrior, to thy rest ! " And in armor silver-dight, As becomes a knight to win, At the postern held by Night Crowned Apollo enters in. KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN BALLAD OF THE MAD LADYE THE rowan tree grows by the tower foot, (Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, Can the dead feel joy or pain T) And the owls in the ivy blink and hoot, Canadian Verse 209 And the sea-waves bubble around its root, Where kelp and tangle and sea-shells be, When the bat in the dark flies silently. (Ifark to the wind and the rain I) The ladye sits in the turret alone, (Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, The dead — can they complain ? ) And her long hair down to her knee has grown, And her hand is cold as a hand of stone, And wan as a hand of flesh may be. While the bird in the bower sings merrily. {ITark to the wind and rain /) Sadly she leans by her casement side, (Hotsam and jetsam from over the sea, Can the dead arise again ? ) And watcheth the ebbing and flowing tide, But her eye is dim, and the sea is wide ; The fisherman's sail and the cloud flies free. And the bird is mute in the rowan tree. (Hark to the wind and the rain !) The moon shone in on the turret stair, {Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea. The dead are bound with a chain) And touched her cheek and brightened her hair. And found naught else in the world so fair, So ghostly fair as the mad ladye. While the bird in the bower sang lonesomely. {Hark to the wind and the rain !) The weary days and the months crept on, (Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, The words of the dead are vain.) At last the summer was over and gone. And still she sat in her turret alone, Her white hands clasping about her knee, And the bird was mute in the rowan tree. (Hark to the wind and the rain !) o 2IO A Treasury of Wild was the sound of the wind and the sleet, (Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea. The dead — do they walk again f ) Wilder the roar of the surf that beat ; Whose was the form that it bore to her feet, Swayed with the swell of the unquiet sea, While the raven croaked in the rowan tree ? {Hark to the wind and the rain /) O Ladye, strange is the silent guest — {Flotsam and jetsam, cast up by the sea, Can the dead feel sorrow or pain ? ) With the sea-drenched locks and the pulseless breast, And the close-shut lips which thine have pressed. And the wild sad eyes that heed not thee. While the raven croaks in the rowan-tree. {Hark to the wind and the rain /) The tower is dark, and the doors are wide, {Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea, The dead are at peace again.) Into the harbor the fisher boats ride. But two went out with the ebbing tide, Without sail, without oar, full fast and free, And the raven croaks in the rowan tree. {Hark to the wind and the rain /) A' BIRD SONG RT thou not sweet. Oh, world, and glad to the inmost heart of thee ! All creatures rejoice With one rapturous voice. As I, with the passionate beat Of my over-full heart, feel sweet, And all things that live, and are part of thee ! Canadian Verse 21 1 Light, light as a cloud, Swimming, and trailing its shadow under me, I float in the deep As a bird-dream in sleep, And hear the wind murmuring loud, Far down, where the tree-tops are bowed, — And I see where the secret place of the thunders be. Oh ! the sky free and wide. With all the cloud-banners flung out in it ! Its singing wind blows As a grand river flows. And I swim down its rhythmical tide. And still the horizon spreads wide, With the birds' and the poets' songs like a shout in it ! Oh, life, thou art sweet ! Sweet, sweet to the inmost heart of thee ! I drink with my eyes Thy limitless skies. And I feel with the rapturous beat Of my wings thou art sweet, — And I, — I am alive, and a part of thee ! ELIZABETH S. MACLEOD ALEXANDER MACKENZIE DRAW nigh with reverence, Canada ! Beyond all strain of mortal toil He lieth, with unstained crest, Calm-sleeping on his chosen soil. No higher boon may patriot crave Than grateful country's honest tear ; Whilst Faith, outreaching 'yond the grave, With stainless emblem decks the bier. 212 A Treasury of Rare mind ! firm as the granite stone From out thy much-loved Scottish hills j Soul, clear as sunlight's upper zone When smiling o'er Canadian rills ! Oh, well for thee, beloved land, That, ripening to thy golden prime, Stout hearts, and faithful, held thine hand And led thee on to ampler time. Embalm his memory, Canada ! Nor taint with ill his honored name, Who loved thee dearer than his life ; Who, serving thee, rejected fame. Not now ! — through many an after year, In cool, calm retrospect of time. Shall all his sterling worth appear. In grandeur fitting and sublime.' Though stilled the aims of lofty end. Though leaders in the field lie low. Heaven's purposes shall onward tend, As ocean wavelets shoreward flow. Wail not ! he walketh in the light ; His work, imbued with high intent. Doth magnify a country's might. And build his fairest monument. A. D. MACNEILL THE SEA-GULL FAIR bird, whose silvery pinions sweep The hoary bosom of the deep, Or braced against the raging gale Across the vast of heaven sail, I hold thee as a symbol dear Of loving hearts who persevere Canadian Verse 213 Amid the woes of life, and brave Temptation's dark and forceful wave, That sweeps across us unawares ; And swooping gusts of froward cares That shrewdly vex us. But again, When throned upon the tranquil tide In snowy robe unflecked of stain, You seem a soul beatified. DONALD M'CAIG THE TRAMP ON a stone by the wayside, half-naked and cold, And soured in the struggle of life. With his parchment envelope grown wrinkled and old. Sat the Tramp, with his crust and his knife. And the leaves of the forest fell round him in showers, — And the sharp, stinging flurries of snow. That had warned off the robins to summer bowers. Admonished him, too, he should go. But Autumn had gone, having gathered her sheaves. And the glories of Summer were past ; And Spring, with the swallows that built in the eaves, Had left him the weakest and last ! So he sat there alone, for the world could not heal A disease without pain, without care, — Without joy, without hope, too insensate to feel, — Too utterly lost for despair ! But he thought, while the night, and the darkness, and gloom. That gathered around him so fast, Hid the moon and the stars in their cloud-shrouded tomb. Of the fair, but the far-distant past ! 214 A Treasury of Around him a vision of beauty arose, Unpainted, unpencilled by art, — His home, father, mother, sweet peace and repose, From the sad repertoire of the heart. And brightly the visions came gliding along Through the warm golden gates of the day, — With voices of childhood, and music and song. Like echoes from lands far away. And the glad ringing laughter of girlhood was there, And one 'mong the others so dear That o'er his life's record, too black for despair, Flowed the sad sacred joy of a tear ! And he held, while he listened, his crust half consumed. In his cold, shrivelled hand, growing weak. While a glory shone round him that warmed and illumed The few frozen tears on his cheek. In the dark, silent night, thus his spirit had flown, Like the sigh of a low passing breath ; — Life's bubble had burst, and another gone down In the deep, shoreless ocean of death. In the bright waking morn, by the side of the way. On the crisp, frozen leaves shed around. The knife, and the crust, and the casket of clay, Which the tramp left behind him, were found ! And bound round his neck, as he lay there alone, Was the image, both youthful and fair. Of a sweet, laughing girl, with a blue ribbon zone. And a single white rose in her hair. Was he loved ? Was she wed ? Was she daughter or wife. Or sister ? The world may not read Her story or his. They are lost with the life — Recorded, "A tramp was found dead !" Canadian Verse 215 "Found dead by the way," in the gloom and the cold — The boy whom a mother had kissed, The son whom a father could proudly enfold, The brother a sister had missed ! " Found dead by the way ! " whom a maiden's first love Had hallowed — e'en worshipped in part. And clothed in a light from the glory above, To enshrine in her pure virgin heart ! Found dead, and alone, by the way where he died, To be thrown, like a dog, in his lair ! Yet he peacefully sleeps, as the stone by his side. And rich as the proud millionaire 1 JAMES M'CARROLL A ROYAL RACE AMONG the fine old kings that reign Upon a simple wooden throne. There's one with but a small domain, Yet, mark you, it is all his own. And though upon his rustic towers No ancient standard waves its wing, Thick leafy banners, flushed with flowers, From all the fragrant casements swing. And here, in royal homespun, bow His nut-brown court, at night and rnorn,- The bronzed Field-Marshal of the Plough, The Chancellor of the Wheat and Corn, 2i6 A Treasury of The Keeper of the Golden Stacks, The Mistress of the Milking- Pail, The bold Knights of the Ringing-Axe, The Heralds of the Sounding Flail, The Ladies of the New-Mown Hay, The Master of the Spade and Hoe, The Minstrels of the Glorious Lay That all the Sons of Freedom know. And thus, while on the seasons roll, He wins from the inspiring sod The brawny arm and noble soul That serve his country and his God. DAWN WITH folded wings of dusky light Upon the purple hills she stands. An angel between day and night. With tinted shadows in her hands — Till suddenly transfigured there. With all her dazzling plumes unfurled, She climbs the crimson-flooded air, And flies in glory o'er the world. THE GRAY LINNET THERE'S a little gray friar in yonder green bush, Clothed in sackcloth — a little gray friar Like a druid of old in his temple — but hush ! He's at vespers ; you must not go nigher. Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies. And around us so wantonly float. Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread flies From the silvery reel of his throat ? Canadian Verse 217 When he roams, though he stains not his path through the air With the splendor of tropical wings, All the lustre denied to his russet plumes there Flashes forth through his lay when he sings ; For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise, Though in such a plain garb he appears. That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes, He steals in through the gates of your ears. But the cheat 1 — 'tis not heaven he's warbling about — ■ Other passions, less holy, betide — For, behold, there's a little gray nun peeping out From a bunch of green leaves at his side. WILLIAM M'DONNELL From "MANITA" AS time past onwards, day by day Manita by the. grave would stay; And often she would steal by night To that lone spot to glad her sight . . . And many came to hear the song She sung at times the whole day long. She fancied, too, that flowers and birds Were listening to its tender words. And that at night the dreaming moon Sent echoes to her simple tune — It was a loving lay to cheer While Ogemah lay sleeping near : " I have a little friend Up in the tall pine tree. 2i8 A Treasury of In the sunny air he sings, Sits and sings with folded wings, Sings low and soft down by the lake, Lest he should Ogemah awake. I have a pretty friend. The redbreast in the tree. All day for me he sings. Word from Ogemah he brings, And often warbles by the lake To see if he is yet awake." BERNARD M'EVOY A PHOTOGRAPH IN A SHOP WINDOW THROUGH a Gethsemane of city streets, Whose ministering angels seemed from hell, And ever stabbed me with their venomed darts. Till soul and body writhed in misery, I strayed — a hunted mortal — sport of Fate. Then, when 'twas worst, behold thy pictured face ! Calm, peaceful, resolute ; thy comrades true Around thee, " helmed and tall ; " ah ! then I knew How angels strengthen us in time of need. And from thy face drew solace for my smart. REVISED PROOFS I WATCH the printer's clever hand Pick up the type from here and there — Make it in ordered row to stand. And gather it with practised care. Maybe 'twill make the poet's page. The leaf of some romantic book. The sheet that chronicles the age. The tome on which the sage shall look. Canadian Verse 219 But ah ! not yet ; full well he knows No printer lives from error free ; And in those neat and serried rows Are letters that ought not to be. He takes his proof-sheet with a sigh, Deleting here, and adding there, Till not the keenest reader's eye But must confess the whole is fair. And shall the pages of our lives — Letter by letter daily set — Be subject, when the end arrives. To no revising process yet ? Sometimes our eyes are blurred with tears, Sometimes our hands with passion shake. Sometimes a tempting Devil leers At all the errors that we make. Forbid, O God ! that work so vain Shall stand in an eternal scroll — With faults of sin, and joy, and pain — As long as future ages roll ! THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE OUR LA DYE OF THE SNOW 1 ' F, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead Where, emblem of our holy creed, Canadian crosses gloW' — There you may hear what here you read. And seek in witness of the deed Our Ladye of the Snow ! * * The chbtch of jVe/re Dame des Neiges, (now) behind Mount Royal. r 2 20 A Treasury of In the old times when France held sway From the Balize to Hudson's Bay, O'er all the forest free, A noble Breton cavalier Had made his home for many a year Beside the Rivers three. To tempest and to trouble proof Rose in the wild his glittering roof, To every traveller dear ; The Breton song, the Breton dance, The very atmosphere of France, Diffused a generous cheer. Strange sight that on those fields of snow The genial vine of Gaul should grow Despite the frigid sky ! Strange power of Man's all-conquering will, That here the hearty Frank can still A Frenchman live and die ! The Seigneur's hair was ashen grey, But his good heart held holiday, As when in youthful pride He bared his shining blade before De Tracey's regiment on the shore Which France has glorified. Gay in the field, glad in the hall. The first at danger's frontier call, — The humblest devotee Of God and of St Catharine dear Was the stout Breton cavalier Beside the Rivers three. When bleak December's chilly blast Fettered the flowing waters fast. And swept the frozen plain — Canadian Verse 221 When with a frightened cry, half heard, Far southward fled the arctic bird, Proclaiming winter's reign — His custom was, come foul, come fair, For Christmas duties to repair, Unto the Ville Marie, The city of the mount, which north Of the great River looketh forth Across its sylvan sea. Fast fell the snow, and soft as sleep. The hillocks looked like frozen sheep. Like giants grey the hills — The sailing pine seemed canvas-spread, With its white burden over-head, And marble hard the rills. A thick dull light, where ray was none Of moon or star, or cheerful sun. Obscurely showed the way — While merrily upon the blast The jingling horse-bells, pattering fast, Timed the glad roundelay. Swift eve came on, and faster fell The winnowed storm on ridge and dell, Effacing shape and sign — Until the scene grew blank at last. As when some seaman from the mast Looks o'er the shoreless brine. Nor marvel aught to find ere long In such a scene the death of song Upon the bravest lips — The empty only could be loud When Nature fronts us in her shroud Beneath the sky's eclipse. 222 A Treasury of Nor marvel more to find the steed, Though famed for spirit and for speed, Drag on a painful pace — With drooping crest and faltering foot, And painful whine, the weary brute Seems conscious of disgrace ; Until he paused with mortal fear. Then plaintive sank upon the mere Stiff as a steed of stone — In vain the master winds his horn. None save the howling wolves forlorn Attend the dying roan. Sad was the heart and sore the plight Of the benumbed, bewildered knight Now scrambling through the storm. At every step he sank apace — The death dew freezing on his face — In vain each loud alarm ! The torpid echoes of the Rock Answered with one unearthly mock Of danger round about ! Then, muffled in their snowy robes. Retiring sought their bleak abodes. And gave no second shout. Down on his knees himself he cast. Deeming that hour to be his last. Yet mindful of his faith — He prayed St Catharine and St John, And our dear Ladye called upon For grace of happy death. When lo ! a light beneath the trees. Which clank their brilliants in the Weeze, And lo ! a phantom fair Canadian Verse 223 As God's in heaven ! by that blest light Our Ladye's self rose to his sight, In robes that spirits wear ! Oh ! lovelier, lovelier far than pen, Or tongue, or art, or fancy's ken Can picture, was her face — Gone was the sorrow of the sword, And the last passion of our Lord Had left no living trace ! As when the moon across the moor Points the lost peasant to his door, And glistens on his pane — Or when along her trail of light Belated boatmen steer at night, A harbor to regain — So the warm radiance from her hands Unbind for him Death's icy bands. And nerve the sinking heart — Her presence makes a perfect path. Ah ! he who such a helper hath May anywhere depart. All trembling, as she onward smiled. Followed that Knight our mother mild. Vowing a grateful vow — Until, far down the mountain gorge. She led him to the antique forge Where her own shrine stands now. If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead Where, emblem of our holy creed, Canadian crosses glow — There you may hear what here you read. And seek, in witness of the deed, Our Ladye of the Snow t 224 A Treasury of WILLIAM P. M'KENZIE MOONLIGHT SO tremulous the flame of thinking burns Beneath mine eyelids, that I may not keep My restless couch ; I watch the still moon sweep Through starry space, like some white soul that spurns Earth-life, and to the sunlight ever turns ; In her cool beams my burning eyes I steep — Oh, that my spirit thus may rest in sleep When my pale ashes mother Earth inurns ! And as the moonlight quieteth unrest, Changing thought's scorching glow to truth's pure light, So Thou, who art my heart's most holy guest, Dost make its ruddy flame glow spirit white ; And like pure-hearted child 'mid happy dreams, I rest my heart and soul in Thy love-beams. GABRIELLE ""PIS the sound of a silver-toned bell : A Gabrielk, — And a gladness the chime doth foretell, Gabrielk ; As music that thrilled once floats back to the mind. And tells of a joy yet to grasp, yet to find, So thy name seems to come on the wind, Gabrielk I I find in its musical swell, Gabrielk, A charm evil passions to quell, Gabrielk ; Canadian Verse 225 When I utter thy name all the might is destroyed Of the glittering shapes in the dark that annoyed, And they flit back again to the void, Gabrielle I Thy name holds my heart by a spell, Gabrielle ! In my life thy sweet music shall dwell, Gabrielle ! As one with a vision celestial in sight. The vision of love hath redoubled my might. And my eyes mirror heavenly light, Gabrielle ! THE MOTHER'S SONG Come, O Sleep, from Ohio's isle. Take my little one awhile.— Gri-EK Folk-Song. COME hither. Sleep, from Ohio's isle ! My wakeful babe canst thou beguile ? Let rose of dawn be on the cheek. On sweet lips parted as to speak, But bring a twilight o'er these eyes As bright and blue as summer skies. Then swing the cradle to and fro Till all the winged shadows go ; Like drowsy flower my baby sway Until my daughter hails the day. Come hither, Sleep, from Ohio's isle ! Take thou my little one awhile, And twine soft fabric of the night O'er merry eyes that glance too bright; Make silent thou the laughter sound. But leave the smile, and dimple round. And rock my baby on thy breast Like wee bird swaying in the nest ; At morning bring her fresh as day, Then on a sunbeam fly away, p 2 26 A Treasury of LULLABY SONG WHERE does my sweetheart Baby go While the cradle is swinging her to ar»d fro, — While Mother is singing a lullaby In a voice like none other, so sweet and low i* Lullaby Baby, lullaby dear I Yield thee to slumber. Mother is near ; Far on Sleeps ocean fear not to go, God is around thee, loving thee so I Does she fly away to the home of Night, When eyelids droop over blue eyes bright ? Does she seek the place where the dreams are born, Clad in her dreaming-dress of white ? Her cradle sways like a fairy boat On the gentle Slumber river afloat, That bears on its bosom a baby fleet, As the sunbeam many a shining mote. So swiftly the babies are sweeping along As if a breeze in the sail blew strong, Yet no waves beat, for it is not the wind But the crooning of many a mother-song. Down Slumber river their course they keep. Until they come to the sea of Sleep ; And the mermaids tell them of wonderful things, For they are the dreams that arise from the deep. Canadian Verse 227 ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN INDIAN SUMMER DOWN from the blue the sun has driven, And stands between the earth and heaven, In robes of smouldering flame : A smoking cloud before him hung, A mystic veil, for which no tongue Of earth can find a name ; And o'er him bends the vault of blue, With shadowy faces looking through The azure deep profound ; The stillness of eternity, — A glory and a mystery. Encompass him around. The air is thick with golden haze, The woods are in a dreamy maze, The air enchanted seems ; Have we not left the realms of care, And entered in the regions fair We see in blissful dreams ? O, what a sacred stillness broods Above the awful solitudes ! Peace hangs with dove-like mien ; She's on the earth, she's in the air, O, she is brooding everywhere — Sole spirit of the scene ! And yonder youths and maidens seem As moving in a heavenly dream, Through regions rich and rare ; Have not their very garments caught A lone of spiritual thought, A still, a Sabbath air? Yon cabins by the forest side Are all transformed and glorified ! 228 A Treasury of O, surely grief nor care, Nor poverty with strife and din, Nor anything like vulgar sin, Can ever enter there ! The ox, let loose to roam at will, Is lying by the water still ; And on yon spot of green The very herd forget to graze. And look in wonder and amaze Upon the mystic scene. And yonder Lake Ontario lies, As if that wonder and surprise Had hushed her heaving breast — And lies there with her awful eye Fixed on the quiet of the sky Like passion soothed to rest ; Yon very maple feels the hush — That trance of wonder, that doth rush Through nature everywhere — And meek and saint-like there she stands With upturned eye and folded hands. As if in silent prayer. O Indian Summer, there's in thee A stillness, a serenity — A spirit pure and holy. Which makes October's gorgeous train Seem but a pageant light and vain, Untouched by melancholy ! But who can paint the deep serene — The holy stillness of thy mien — The calm that's in thy face. Which make us feel, despite of strife. And all the turmoil of our life — Earth is a holy place? Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee. Here, in thy forest sanctuary Canadian Verse 229 We'll learn thy simple lore ; And neither poverty nor pain, The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain. Shall ever vex us more. BOBOLINK MERRY mad-cap on the tree, Who so happy are as thee 1 Is there aught so full of fun, Half so happy 'neath the sun, With thy merry whiskodink — Bobolink! Bobohnk ! With thy mates, such merry meetings, Such queer jokes and funny greetings, O, such running and such chasing, O, such banter and grimacing, Thou'rt the wag of wags the pink — Bobolink ! Bobolink ! How you tumble 'mong the hay. Romping all the summer's day i Now upon the wing all over In and out among the clover — Far too happy e'er to think — Bobolink ! Bobolink ! Now thou'rt on the apple tree, Crying, " Listen unto me ! " Now upon the mossy banks, Where thou cuttest up such pranks — One would swear thou wert in drink — Bobolink ! Bobolink ! Nothing canst thou know of sorrow. As to-day shall be to-morrow ; 230 A Treasury of Never dost thou dream of sadness- All thy life a merry madness, Never may thy spirits sink — Bobolink! Bobolink! THE MAN WHO ROSE FROM NOTHING AROUND the world the fame is blown Of fighting heroes, dead and gone ; But we've a hero of our own — The man who rose from nothing. He's a magician great and grand ; The forests fled at his command ; And here he said, " Let cities stand ! " — The man who rose from nothing. And in our legislative hall He towering stands alone, like Saul, " A head and shoulders over all," — The man who rose from nothing. His efforts he will ne'er relax, His faith in figures and in facts, And always calls an axe an axe, — The man who rose from nothing. The gentleman in word and deed ; And short and simple in his creed ; " Fear God and help the soul in need ! " The man who rose from nothing. In other lands he's hardly known, For he's a product of our own ; Could grace a shanty or a throne, — The man who rose from nothing. Canadian Verse 231 Here's to the land of lakes and pines, On which the sun of freedom shines, Because we meet on all our lines The man who rose from nothing. JOHN M'PHERSON THE MAYFLOWER SWEET child of an April shower, First gift of spring to Flora's bower, Acadia's own peculiar flower, I hail thee here ! Thou com'st, like hope in sorrow's hour, To whisper cheer. I love to stray with careless feet, Thy balm on morning breeze to meet — Thy earliest opening bloom to greet — To take thy stem. And bear thee to my lady sweet, Thou lovely gem. What though green mosses o'er thee steal. And half thy lovely form conceal — Though but thy fragrant breath reveal Thy place of birth — Gladly I own thy mute appeal. Of modest worth ! Thy charms so pure a spell impart, Thy softening smiles so touch my heart, That silent tears of rapture start, Sweet flower of May ! E'en while I sing, devoid of art, This simple lay. 232 A Treasury of IN THE WOODS I COME, ye lovely wild-wood groves, Where placid contemplation roves, And breathes untroubled air ; I come to woo your genial sweets, To wander in your green retreats, And lose the sense of care. Unformed to brook the vulgar strife And heartlessness of worldly life, I court your silent gloom — Where Thought may nurse, without annoy, The soothing sense of native joy — The soul's inherent bloom. Receive me to your fostering arms — Surround me with your varied charms Of birds and streams and flowers ; And bless me with the sweet repose That crowns the simple thoughts of those Who love your leafy bowers. Here in the ancient forest maze. Remote from Mammon's specious ways, And wandering at my will. Herbs, flowers, and trees shall be my friends, And birds and streamlets make amends For much of earthly ill. Yet give me here a kindred tie — Affection's sympathetic eye, And kind consoling tone ; For though the multitude are cold, And anxious meet for sordid gold, I would not live alone. Canadian Verse 233 The heart — the heart is human still, And yearns for trusting love to fill Its frequent, aching void ; Unless partaken with bur kind, The sweetest joys of sense and mind Are not enough enjoyed. Then will I seek repose from strife, The tender ministries of life. And peace, the timid dove. In one still calm, one dear retreat. The circle of my cottage sweet — The home of wedded love. CHARLES MAIR UNTAMED THERE was a time on this fair continent When all things throve in spacious peacefulness. The prosperous forests unmolested stood. For where the stalwart oak grew, there it lived Long ages, and then died among its kind. The hoary pines — those ancients of the earth. Brimful of legends of the early world — Stood thick on their own mountains unsubdued. And all things else illumined by the sun, Inland, or by the lifted wave, had rest. The passionate or calm pageants of the skies^ No artist drew ; but in the auburn west Innumerable faces of fair cloud Vanished in silent darkness with the day. The prairie realm — vast ocean's paraphrase — Rich in wild grasses numberless, and flowers Unnamed save in mute Nature's inventory, No civilized barbarian trenched for gain. And all that flowed was sweet and uncorrupt : 234 A Treasury of The rivers and their tributary streams, Undammed, wound on forever, and gave up Their lonely torrents of weird gulfs of sea. And ocean wastes unshadowed by a sail. And all the wild life of this western world Knew not the fear of man ; yet in those woods . . . There lived a soul more wild than barbarous ; A tameless soul — the sunburnt savage free — Free, and untainted by the greed of gain : Great Nature's man content with Nature's food. "^ THE VOICE OF THE PINES WE fear not the thunder, we fear not the rain. For our stems are stout and long ; Or the growling winds, though they blow amain, For our roots are great and strong ; Our voice is eternal, our song sublime, And its theme is the days of yore — Back thousands of years of misty time, When we first grew old and hoar ! Deep down in the crevice our roots were hid, And our limbs were thick and green Ere Cheops had builded his pyramid, Or the Sphinx's form was seen. Whole forests have risen within our ken. Which withered upon the plain ; And cities, and race after race of men. Have risen and sunk again. We commune with the stars thro' the paly night, For we love to talk with them ; The wind is our harp, and the marvellous light Of the moon our diadem. Like the murmur of ocean our branches stii When the night air whispers low ; Like the voices of ocean our voices are. When the hurtling tempests blow. Canadian Verse 235 We nod to the sun ere the glimmering morn Prints her sandals on the mere ; We part with the sun when the stars are borne By the silvery waters clear. And when lovers are breathing a thousand vows. With their hearts and cheeks aglow, We chant a love strain 'mid our breezy boughs, Of a thousand years ago ! We stand all aloof, for the giant's strength Craveth naught from lesser powers ; 'Tis the shrub that loveth the fertile ground. But the sturdy rock is ours ! We tower aloft where the hunters lag By the weary mountain side. By the jaggy cliff, by the grimy crag, And the chasms yawning wide. When the great clouds march in a mountain heap, By the light of the dwindled sun, We steady our heads 'gainst their misty sweep, And accost them one by one. Then our limbs they jostle in thunder-mirth, And the storm-fires flash again ; But baffled and weary they sink to earth. And the monarch-stems remain. The passage of years doth not move us much. And Time himself grows old Ere we bow to his flight, or feel his touch In our "limbs of giant mould." And the dwarfs of the wood, by decay oppressed, With our laughter grim we mock ; For the burden of age doth lightly rest On the ancient forest folk. Cold Winter, who filches the flying leaf. And steals the floweret's sheen. Can injure us not, or work us grief. Or make our tops less green. 236 A Treasury of And Spring, who awakens her sleeping train By meadow, and hill, and lea. Brings no new life to our old domain, Unfading, stern, and free. Sublime in our solitude, changeless, vast. While men build, work, and save, We mock — for their years glide away to the past. And we grimly look on their grave. Our voice is eternal, our song sublime. For its theme is the days of yore — Back thousands of years of misty time, When we first grew old and hoar. THE HUMMING BIRD IT comes ! This strange bird from a distant clime Has fled with arrowy speed on fluttering wing. From the sweet south, all sick of revelling, It wanders hitherward to rest a time, And taste the hardy flora of the west. And now, O joy ! the urchins hear the mirth Of its light wings, and crouch unto the earth In watchful eagerness, contented, blest. Bird of eternal summers ! thou dost wake. Whene'er thou comest and where'er thou art, A new born gladness in my swelling heart Go, gentle flutterer, my blessing take ! Less like a bird thou hast appeared to me Than some sweet fancy in old poesy. O. INNOCENCE FFT I have met her In openings of the woods and pleasant ways. Where flowers beset her. And hanging branches crowned her head with bays. Canadian Verse 237 Oft have I seen her walk Through flower-decked fields unto the oaken pass, Where lay the slumbery flock, Swoln with much eating of the tender grass. Oft have I seen her stand By wandering brooks o'er which the willows met ; Or where the meadow-land Balmed the soft air with dew-mist drapery wet. Much patting of the wind Had bloomed her cheek with color of the rose ; Rare beauty was entwined With locks and looks in movement or repose . . , The floriage of the spring And summer coronals were hers in trust. Till came the winter-king To droop their sweetness into native dust . , , The dingle and the glade, The brown-ribbed mountains, and tall, talking trees Seemed fairer while she stayed, And drank of their dim meanings and old ease . . . And chiefly she did love To soothe the widow's ruth and orphan's tear ; With counsel from above. Alleviating woe, allaying fear . . . There was a quiet grace In all her actions, tokening gentleness, Yet firm intent to trace The paths of duty leading up to bliss . . , She thought of One who bore The awful burden of the world's despair — What could she give Him more Than blameless thoughts, a simple life and fair ? 238 A Treasury of She was and is, for still She lives and moves upon the grass-green earth, And, as of old, doth fill Her heart with peace, still mingling tears with, mirth. O, could we find her out, And learn of her this wildering maze to tread ! And, eased of every doubt. Let deadly passions linger with the dead ! . . . GEORGE MARTIN SHELLEY LOVER of Man, if not of God, the Sea That took thy latest breath, and fondly bore Its music round the world from shore to shore, Will never cease to make lament for thee ; For thou wert of its spirit, tameless, free. At war with ermined Custom, and the hoar Enslavements of a venerated lore, — At deadly feud with all the Powers that be. Supreme Enchanter, lord of rhythmic sound. Child of Imagination, born for flight, Loved of all poets, and by all men crowned The foe of every form of savage might, Thou wert the true Prometheus unbound. Whose genius shaped an Era's golden height TO MY CANARY BIRD BORNE on the wavelets of thy fluent notes, Impassioned little minstrel of the cage. My spirit like a happy sea-gull floats, Unheedful of the clamor and the rage Of storms that menace ruin as they pass. Impatient for the freedom of the plain, Canadian Verse 239 Crusted and polished like a sea of glass, Whereon they shout their wild and weird refrain. There is no touch of winter in thy song, No wail of winds, my yellow-coated friend ; All beauties of the Spring to thee belong, All bloomy charms and all the scents that lend A drowsy gladness to the summer hours. Again I hear swift rivulets descend The mountain slopes, like children loosed from school ; Again I see the lily on the pool. And hear the whispered loves of leaves and flowers. Not only through the golden hours of day, From early dawn till dusk, melodious sprite. Do thy delicious trills and quavers stray Around the quiet chamber where I write. But often in the slumbrous hush of night, When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing. On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing, Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring, As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight. Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap. Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips ; Press hard against the pane your whitened lips. And at the outer portal louder rap ; My songster hears you not : a higher note, A more reverbant, more delirious strain, Issues exultant from his quivering throat. And reaches to the people on the street. Who pause, look up, take step, and pause again, Retiring slowly with unwilling feet. O that thou couldst to me this hour impart The secret of thy unremitting joy ! The music that dilates thy little heart No frost can chill, no doubt, no fear destroy. 240 A Treasury of Here, seated listless in my easy chair, I can but yield to phantasy and dream, And gird my spirit with a jewelled beam Of soft enchantment, hopeful that a share Of thy divine emotion, happy bird. By which my holiest thoughts are often stirred. May slip into my verse and warble there. LALEET HOW beautiful she was, the little maiden, Scarce twelve years old. Who faded like a fading star, love laden. Her love untold. I knew not, I who far outran her days, How much I erred In making much of her endearing ways. How much I stirred The fount of her affection with my praise. No sunrise fairer is than was her face. No moonlit skies More lovely than the tenderness and grace That filled her eyes. Her presence harmonized all dissonance, And ever wore A charm akin to music and romance. And faery lore. Poor child ! among her hidden notes one said She dreamed of me. And fancied that she saw me lying dead. Drowned in the sea. But that no dream it was the tears she shed. Canadian Verse 241 When life's white rose its latest leaf was shedding, And o'er her broke The sobs of mourners in her chamber treading, Vaguely she spoke ; He knew not of my weeping at his wedding ! Those simple words, in whispered cadence spoken, All winds repeat ; I shudder at the tale which they betoken. My lost Laleet ! I hear them in the surging of the billow, Through storm and gloom ; They pierce me from the rustle of the willow That shades her tomb And drops a denser shadow on my pillow. Ye softest harmonies of air and ocean. Of mount and vale, Rehearse, to love-led maids, her heart's devotion Till suns shall fail And orphaned planets lose the joy of motion. HELEN M. MERRILL THE BLUE FLOWER STILL, though the sun is setting, She lingers unheeding the hour. Her face held to its splendor. Her heart in thrall of its power. Her hair is golden burnished ; In her eye the heaven's hue ; Her charm of immortal beauty Holds me from dawn till dew. Q 242 A Treasury of She has a soul of fire, Pure as a star's white flame ; I gaze in silence, and wonder The glory whence it came. She is the spirit elusive Sorrowing poets seek ; I stand rapt in her presence, And listen to hear her speak. All time in the forest olden, She tells her wondrous chain ; My hope of suns eternal, Priest of a mighty fane. Through the pale light glowing golden. She watches the day decline ; She sings from her ancient volume, I interpret Une on line. Flower or star bright shining, A bird, or a silver sheaf ; In her great book I discover An enigma on every leaf. Her song is of paradises Where wheeHng fires shine, To mystic dreams beguiling Like whispering wind in a pine. She would that the spirits of mortals Wander in amaranth meads ; Never a shadow trembles On the soul-path where she leads. Under the flashing stars And the splendor of suns in prime, In a land of new horizons. In the unknown aftertime. Canadian Verse 243 AT EDGEWATER ONE by one they pass away, Days, like white ships which sail peacefully From the shore, yet come not back again. And their freight is Life, and Love, and lesser things. Yet as beautiful and good. And ever they set sail Under golden suns for sea. Till the summer is gone and shadows fall so gloomily. At Edgewater ! When the winds of autumn blow Through the brown vines swinging mournfully, Calling for the sun disconsolate, And the rain falls, and the spirit of the deep, Grieving for the summer, chants its death-song of the sun. It is lonely by the sea. And the heart is haunted by unhappy memory. At Edgewater. Yet again a golden day Gilds the blue wave flowing tranquilly, And a sudden splendor lights the shore, And the heart of autumn, trembling, turneth warm. As though summer loitered in it dreaming of the sun. By-gone dreams, and dreams to be. Their white shadows on the soul reflect ceaselessly. At Edgewater. THE PROMISE OF SPRING BLUE-BLACK like the breast of the gusty sea, Cumulus clouds where the sun goes down, Stormful shadows against the gold, Under the arches of even blown. 244 A Treasury of Nowhere a white bird beating the storm, Nowhere a sunray gilding the sea ; Bud nor leaf on the orchard bough, Butterfly, nor blossom, nor bee. Yet to-night, where the blue waves beat, Under the shadows, the storm-winds bring Omen mysterious out of the dusk, Out of the darkness the promise of Spring. SUN-GOLD ALL day the sun drops gold, the grassy mead Like miser olden hoarding underground. Till soft-shod June will track it, like a hound Scents the lone covert where the wild deer feed. Then from an ample mint, with lavish hand, In every field, by every fountain-side. She'll scatter gold-bits round her far and wide. In flower cups o'er all the fragrant land. Wherever butter-flowers and wild daisies blow, You'll mark her presence in the green lush grasses ; You'll hear her blithely singing as she passes On sunny uplands where gold violets grow. SUSANNA MOODIE THE MAPLE-TREE HAIL to the pride of the forest — hail To the maple, tall and green ! It yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail While leaves on its boughs are seen. When the moon shines bright On the wintry night, Canadian Verse 245 And silvers the frozen snow. And echo dwells On the jingling bells As the sleighs dart to and fro, Then it brightens the mirth Of the social hearth With its red and cheery glow. Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades, It lifts its tall head on high. When the crimson-tinted evening fades From the glowing saffron sky j When the sun's last beams Light up woods and streams. And brighten the gloom below ; And the deer springs by With his flashing eye. And the shy, swift-footed doe ; And the sad winds chide In the branches wide. With a tender plaint of woe. The Indian leans on its rugged trunk, With the bow in his red right-hand. And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk From the glorious forest land. But, blithe and free, The maple-tree. Still tosses to sun and air Its thousand arms. While in countless swarms The wild bee revels there ; But soon not a trace Of the red-man's race Shall be found in the landscape fair. When the snows of winter are melting fast, And the sap begins to rise. 246 A Treasury of And the biting breath of the frozen blast Yields to the spring's soft sighs, Then away to the wood, For the maple good Shall unseal its honeyed store j And boys and girls, With their sunny curls, Bring their vessels brimming o'er With the luscious flood Of the brave tree's blood. Into caldrons deep to pour. The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red ; Far down in the forest dark A ruddy glow on the trees is shed, That lights up their rugged bark ; And with merry shout The busy rout Watch the sap as it bubbles high ; And they talk of the cheer Of the coming year. And the jest and the song pass by ; And brave tales of old Round the fire are told, That kindle youth's beaming eye. Hurrah ! for the sturdy maple-tree ! Long may its green branch wave In native strength, sublime and free. Meet emblem for the brave. May the nation's peace With its growth increase, And its worth be widely spread ; For it lifts not in vain To the sun and rain Its tall, majestic head. May it grace our soil, And reward our toil, While the nation's day is sped ! Canadian Verse 247 THE FISHERMAN'S LIGHT THE air is still, the night is dark, No ripple breaks the dusky tide ; From isle to isle the fisher's bark, Like fairy meteor, seems to glide, — Now lost in shade, now flashing bright; On sleeping wave and forest tree. We hail with joy the ruddy light, Which far into the darksome night Shines red and cheerily. With spear high poised and steady hand, The centre of that fiery ray, Behold the skilful fisher stand, Prepared to strike the finny prey. " Now, now ! " the shaft has sped below, — Transfixed the shining prize we see ; On swiftly glides the birch canoe. The woods send back the long halloo In echoes loud, and cheerily ! Around yon bluff, whose pine crest hides The noisy rapids from our sight, Another bark ! another glides ! Red spirits of the murky night ! The bosom of the silent stream With mimic stars is dotted free ; The tall woods lighten in the beam, Through darkness shining cheerily. MARY MORGAN "IN APPREHENSION, SO LIKE A GOD." TAKE the mouldering dust. Wake it into life, — Matter is but servant of the mind. 248 A Treasury of Touch the silent keys : Genius can evoke Music wherein gods commune with men. Read the soul of man, And the farthest star ; Truth is one, and is forever true. Think the wildest thought, Hope the utmost hope — Time shall be when all shall be fulfilled. Wonder not at deed, Wonder more at thought. Wonder at the hope that feeds itself. Genius is divine, Genius is the true : Man becomes that which he worships, — God ! CHARITY THOU askest not to know the creed, The rank or name is naught to thee ; Where'er the human heart cries " Help ! " Thy kingdom is, O Charity ! LIFE MYSTERIOUS Life ! we speak as if we knew What meant this vortex : Ah, what doth mean ? A spirit of unrest is Life — hath been Alluring made with many-tinted hue. From darkest chasm it lifts man to a peak Where he may see ideal flowers blow ; But as he learns to love them, it will show Him other heights that he is forced to seek. Canadian Verse 249 Enchantress, Disenchantress, — both in one ! Surrounding us to-day with dazzling light, To-morrow hiding every ray of sun Till we are sunk in the abyss of night. The oracles are dumb : whate'er Life be, Man walks by faith alone ; he cannot see. IRENE ELDER MORTON BROWNING HE sits at last among his peers, While we stand chilled with eyes grown dim In looking over life's grey fields, And feel the heart-light folded in. O great soul ! entered in to know The fulness of the Central Life ! O giant leader of the race. Who never with the world made strife, But led it surely, grandly on. Scaling clear heights with leap and bound, — Then, beckoning with a strong man's hand, He kept his way to higher ground ! No maudlin cry he gave the world, — " Behold my grief, pity my pain ; " Strong as the breath of Alpine hills, Sweet as the sound of summer rain, The songs he gave us. Evermore The deathless might of English speech Shall sound their notes from shore to shore, And to the coming nations teach 250 A Treasury of That it is nobler to endure, And smother back the cry of pain — Shall call us onward to the heights, To press ahead and bear the strain. He wore no caste-bound fetters here ; A man of men he proved his soul ; The mighty pulse within his words Beat full and free above control. The illumined fringes of his thoughts Have set the world's face after him. As one would follow clear flute notes Heard in cool aisles of forests dim. With loving face of child and friend To look on as the last of earth, God wrapt him in a robe of light. And gave him strong immortal birth. He looks again in the clear eyes Of her, the love-dream of his youth. The moonlit side of his great heart. To whom he gave his manhood's truth. Perfect conditions of new life Are vibrant to his being there, — Gone in to feel the wider thrill. Gone in to breathe the purer air. COMPLETENESS LIFE gives us better than it takes away, — In brighter hope, and broader, fuller day. There is no past, but all things move and blend In sure fulfilment of a promised end. Canadian Verse 251 We leave the misty capes and vales we trod, For the glad sunshine on the Hills of God. To slow grand measure up the aisle of years Move truths enfranchised from long bonds and tears. Hands that groped darkly for the truth of things Hold the clear signet of the King of Kings. Broad waves that tossed in fierce white passion-heat Fall into psalm and kiss the resting feet. MY GARDEN WALL I IT comforts me through all my days To know that on this strange old earth, On which we two found human birth, I have a friend who cares for me. Not a high God, serene and just, Who from His -calm sure place of bliss Looks down from His world into this. And burns me that I grow more white. But just a man, so strong and dear- How dear the stars know in the sky, And the sweet birds as home they fly, When evening comes, to the warm nest ! He can do things that I can not ; He builds a wall around my heart ; Some day we will not dwell apart — A man is stronger than a girl. 252 A Treasury of Within the wall that he has made I plant the seeds of life's queen flowers ; I watch them grow through pleasant hours,- Be sure they neither droop nor fade. Perhaps some passers-by may think : " It only is a common wall, Solid and square, not very tall " — But could they look over the brink, And see the rose and mignonette, Spicy carnations red and white. That pulse their perfume in the light. With tall pale lilies firmly set ! Ill Now while the sweet wild autumn rain Is falling on the world outside. How safely does my heart abide In the dear shelter of my wall 1 IN JUNE SOME glad thing comes to me Always in June, Some new joy gladly set To a sweet tune. Is it that earth so thrills With bud and bloom. That the sad heart of life Lets go its gloom ? Some dear long absent face Answers some prayers. Or may be just a token That some one cares. Canadian Verse 253 Some glad thing hidden long In some old room, Says, " Let us go to her, For it is June. " Why cheat her any more, For we are hersj Unlock the dusty door. My being stirs " With longing to behold A human face, And with a touch of joy Add some new grace." Far back in earth's grey dawn, Before God's words Had crystalized in suns, Or stars had heard That clear creative call, " Let there be light On all My works below, For day and night " — When first earth's wrinkled face Saw the white moon Gleam on unfinished work. There was no June, — But as the thoughts of God Shewed perfect spheres. We think He called up June To gem the years ! When we are inward drawn To God's dear heart. And the white silence falls As we depart, 254 A Treasury of And the new air seems filled With some rare tune, How sweet our last earth-look If it were June ! SONG OF THE PAGAN PRINCESS THE rivers that sweep to the sea Bear to it the heart of the land — The eyes of the gods in the stars The thoughts of my heart understand. And the joy in the heart of the rose, The song in the heart of the rain. The glory of gladness that flows O'er the billows of tall ripened grain, The strength in the heart of the hills, The unmeasured lament of the sea, The low happy laugh of the rills, — All answer to something in me. To something in me ! SONG WHERE the soft shadows fall. Where the wind's voices call, Softly and low, — Mother earth, cover me ! Daisies, grow over me ! Bury me low. Far from the sound of strife, From the rude voice of life, Bury me deep ! Canadian Verse 255 Where the soft summer rain Soothes all my weary pain, There let me sleep. Wild are earth's hopes and vain, Even love touches pain — Bury me low ! Mother earth, cover me ! Daisies, grow over me ! Bury me low ! CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY POPPCEA (Ai the Theatre) DARK tresses made rich with all treasures. Earth's gold-dust, and pearls of the sea- She is splendid as Rome that was Caesar's, And cruel as Rome that was free ! Could I paint her but once as I found her ! From her porphyry couch let her lean. With the reek of the circus around her — Who is centre and soul of the scene : Grey eyes that glance keen as the eagle When he swoops to his prey from on high ; Bold arms by the red gold made regal — White breast never vexed with a sigh : And haughty her mien as of any Her sires whom the foemen knew well, As they rode through the grey mist at Cannae, Ere consul with consular fell. 256 A Treasury of Unabashed in her beauty of figure — Heavy limbs, and thick tresses uncurled To our gaze, give the grace and the rigor Of the race that has conquered the world. And fierce with the blood of the heroes — In their sins and their virtues sublime — Sits the Queen of the world that is Nero's, And as keen for a kiss as a crime ! But the game that amuses her leisure Loses zest as the weaker gives way ; And the victor looks up for her pleasure — Shall he spare with sword-point or slay ? Half-grieving she gathers her tresses, Now the hour for the games has gone by, And those soft arms, so sweet for caresses. Point prone, as she signs, " Let him die ! " GEORGE MURRAY THE THISTLE A Legendary Ballad "T^WAS midnight ! Darkness, like the gloom of -I- some funereal pall, Hung o'er the battlements of Slaines, — a fortress grim and tall. The moon and stars were veiled in clouds, and from the Castle's height No gleam of torch or taper pierced the shadows of the night ; Only the rippling of the Dee blent faintly with the sound Of weary sentry-feet that paced their slow, unvarying round. Canadian Verse 257 The Earl was sleeping like a child that hath no cause for fear ; The Warder humrjied a careless song his lonely watch to cheer ; Knight, squire, and page, on rush-strewn floors, were stretched in sound repose. While spear and falchions, dim with dust, hung round in idle rows ; And none of all those vassals bold, who calmly dreaming lay. Dreamed that a foe was lurking near, impatient for the fray. But in that hour, — when Nature's self serenely seemed to sleep, — In the dim valley of the Dee, a bow-shot from the keep, A ghost-like multitude defiled in silence from the wood That with its stately pines concealed the Fort for many a rood, — The banner of that spectral host is soiled with murderous stains — They are the " Tigers of the Sea," the cruel-hearted Danes ! Far o'er the billows they have swept to Caledonia's strand ; They carve the record of their deeds with battle-axe and brand; Their march each day is tracked with flame, their path with carnage strewn. For Pity is an angel-guest their hearts have never known. Ar)d now the caitiffs steal by night to storm the Fort of Slaines — They reck not of the fiery blood that leaps in Scottish veins ! K 258 A Treasury of Onward they creep with noiseless tread — their treacherous feet are bare, Lest the harsh clang of iron heels their slumbering prey should scare. " Yon moat," they vow, " shall soon be crossed, yon rampart soon be scaled. And all who hunger for the spoil with spoil shall be regaled. Press on, press on, and high in air the Raven Standard wave ; Those drowsy Scots this night shall end their sleep within the grave ! " Silent as shadows, on they glide ; the gloomy fosse is nigh— " Glory to Odin, Victory's Lord ! its shelving depths are dry. Speed, warriors, speed ! " — but, hark ! a shriek of agonizing pain Bursts from a hundred Danish throats — again it rings, again ! Rank weeds had overgrown the moat, now drained by summer's heat, And bristUng crops of thistles pierced the raiders' naked feet ! That cry, Uke wail of pibroch, stirred the sentry's kindling soul. And, shouting " Arms ! to arms ! " he sped the Castle bell to toll. But ere its echoes died away upon the ear of night, Each clansman started from his couch and armed him for the fight ; The drawbridge falls, — and, side by side, the banded heroes fly To grapple with the pirate-horde and conquer them or die ! Canadian Verse 259 As eagles, on avenging wings, from proud Ben Lomond's crest Swoop fiercely down and dash to earth the spoilers of their nest ; As lions bound upon their prey, or as the burning tide Sweeps onward with resistless might from some volcano's side — So rushed that gallant band of Scots, the garrison of Slaines, Upon the Tigers of the Sea, the carnage-loving Danes. The lurid glare of torches served to light them to their foes : They hewed those felons, hip and thigh, with stern, relentless blows ; Claymore and battle-axe and spear were steeped in slaughter's flood, While every thistle in the moat was splashed with crimson blood ; And when the light of morning broke, the legions of the Danes Lay stiff and stark, in ghastly heaps, around the Fort of Slaines ! Nine hundred years have been engulfed within the grave of Time Since those grim Vikings of the North by death atoned their crime. In memory of that awful night, the thistle's hardy grace Was chosen as the emblem meet of Albin's dauntless race ; And never since, in battle's storm, on land or on the sea. Hath Scotland's honor tarnished been — God grant it ne'^r may be ! 26o A Treasury of M. H. NICKERSON A RECOLLECTION O'ER the white waste of drifted sands unstable We climbed the sedgy dune, Where, like a sleeping giant, old Cape Sable Basked at the feet of June. Beneath the summer noon the shore birds twittered Around in glancing flocks, And, like a fair display of jewels, glittered The foam-bells on the rocks. Deep peace was in the air and on the billows. That in smooth slumber lay. Or gently tossed upon their sandy pillows As infants wake to play. The breeze moved landward, scarcely felt in blowing, But such the fisher hails With joy when, after weary hours of rowing. It swells his spritted sails. The brave flotilla then, like snowy sprinkles, Far outward we could trace ; The sight was fair and seemed to have smoothed the wrinkles From out old Ocean's face. No envious shadow on the flood descended ; Unflecked, the sky's broad sweep In silent grandeur with the horizon blended, Deep calling unto deep. And every shadow, from my life retreating. Left free the placid mind ; The finite with the infinite was meeting Uridimmed and unconfined. Canadian Verse 261 How many times my eager gaze had rested Upon that sea and shore ; But never, never had they been invested With such a charm before. They wear it still in cahn ideal perfection, Though years since then have flown ; That summer day's unclouded recollection Shall ever be my own. CORNELIUS O'BRIEN ST CECILIA A SHELL lies silent on a lonely shore ; High rocks and barren stand with frowning brow ; Hither no freighted ships e'er turn their prow Their treasures on the fated sand to pour ; Afar the white-robed sea-gull loves to soar ; But, pure as victim for a nation's vow, A lovely maiden strikes the shell, and now Its music charms, and sadness reigns no more. Thus, Christian poesy, thus on pagan coasts For ages mute had lain thy sacred lyre, Untouched since from the prophet's hand it fell, Till fair Cecilia, taught by angel hosts. Attuned its music to the heavenly choir, And gave a Christian voice to Clio's shell. THOMAS O'HAGAN RIPENED FRUIT I KNOW not what my heart has lost, I cannot strike the chords of old : The breath that charmed my morning life Hath chilled each leaf within the wold. 262 A Treasury of The swallows twitter in the sky, But bare the nest beneath the eaves ; The fledglings of my care are gone, And left me but the rustling leaves. And yet, I know my life hath strength, And firmer hope and sweeter prayer, For leaves that murmur on the ground Have now for me a double care. I see in them the hope of spring. That erst did plan the autumn day ; I see in them each gift of man Grow strong in years, then turn to clay. Not all is lost — the fruit remains That ripened through the summer's ray ; The nurslings of the nest are gone. Yet hear we still their warbling lay. The glory of the summer sky May change to tints of autumn hue; But faith that sheds its amber light Will lend our heaven a tender blue. O altar of eternal youth ! O faith that beckons from afar ! Give to our lives a blossomed fruit — Give to our morns an evening star ! THE SONG MY MOTHER SINGS O SWEET unto my heart is the song my mother sings As eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings ! Every note is charged with memory — every memory bright with rays Of the golden hours of promise in the lap of child- hood's days. Canadian Verse 263 The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom scents the Way, And I feel again the breath of eve among the new- mown hay ; While through the halls of memory in happy notes there rings All the life-joy of the past in the song my mother sings. I have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of Liszt, As they dripped and drooped about my heart and filled my eyes with mist ; I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of Verdi's power. As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the don- jon tower; And Gounod's oratorios are full of notes sublime That stir the heart with rapture thro' the sacred pulse of time ; But all the music of the past, and the wealth that memory brings, Seem as nothing when I listen to the song my mother sings. It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and care, It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's set in notes of prayer ; It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that are to be, And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of the sea ; It is linked in mystic rheasure to sweet voices from above, And is starred with ripest blessing thro' a mother's sacred love. 264 A Treasury of O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that it brings, As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother sings ! GILBERT PARKER I LOVED MY ART I LOVED my Art. I loved it when the tide Was sweeping back my hopes upon the sand ; When I had missed the hollow of God's hand Held over me, and there was none to guide. I set my face towards it, raising high My arm in token that I would be true To all great motives, though I sorely knew That there was one star wanting in my sky. Touching the chords of many harmonies, I needed one to make them all complete. I heard it sound like thunder-gathered seas. What time my soul knelt at ray lady's feet. And there transfigured in her light I grew In stature to the work that poets do. IT IS ENOUGH IT is enough that in this burdened time The soul sees all its purposes aright. The rest — what does it matter ? Soon the night Will come to whelm us, then the morning chime. What does it matter, if but in the way One hand clasps ours, one heart believes us true ; One understands the work we try to do, And strives through Love to teach us what to say ? Between me and the chilly outer air Which blows in from the world, there Standeth one Who draws Love's curtains closely everywherie, Canadian Verse 265 As God folds down the banners of the sun. Warm is my place about me, and above, Where was the raven, I behold the dove. THEIR WAVING HANDS SINCE I rose out of child-oblivion I have walked in a world of many dreams, And noble souls beside the shining streams Of fancy have with beckonings led me on. Their faces oft, mayhap, I could not see. Only their waving hands and noble forms. Sometimes there sprang between quick-gathered storms, But always they came back again to me. Women with smiling eyes and star-spun hair Spake gentle things, bade me look back to view The deeds of the great souls who climbed the stair Immortal, and for whom God's manna grew ; Dante, Anacreon, Euripides, And all who set rich wine upon the lees. AMY PARKINSON THE MESSENGER HOURS I I THOUGHT as I watched in the dawning dim The hours of the coming day. That each shadow form was surely robed In the selfsame hue of gray ; And that sad was each half-averted face, Unlit by a cheering ray. 266 A Treasury of But as one by one they drew near to me, And I saw them true and clear, I found that the hours were all messengers, Sent forth by a Friend most dear, To bring me whatever I needed most — Of chastening or of cheer. And though some of them, truly, were grave and sad. And moved with reluctant feet. There were others came gladly, with Smiling eyes. And footsteps by joy made fleet ; But whatever with gladness or sorrow fraught. The message each bore was sweet. For even the saddest, and weighted most With trial and pain for me. Yet breathed in my ear, ere it passed from sight, " This cross I have brought to thee Comes straight from the Friend Who, of all thy friends. Doth love thee most tenderly ; " He would rather have sent thee a joyous hour, And fraught with some happy thing. But He saw that naught else could so meet thy need As this strange, sad gift I bring ; And He loved thee too well to withhold the gift, Though it causes thee suffering." So, now, as I watch in the dawning dim The hours of each coming day, I remember that golden threads of love Run all through their garments gray ; And I know that each face as it turns to me Will be lit with a friendly ray. Canadian Verse 267 And whether they most be sombre or glad, No hour of all the band But will bring me a greeting from Him I love, And reach out a helping hand To hasten my steps, as 1 traverse the road That leads to the better land. For the Lord of that land is the Friend I love, And I know He keeps for me A home of delight in His kingdom fair. That I greatly long to see ; And the hours that shall speed me on my way I must welcome gratefully. Ill And soon I shall trace through the dawning dim, 'Mid the hours of some coming day, A figure unlike to its sister forms, With garments more gold than gray ; And the face of that one, when it meets my gaze. Will send forth a wondrous ray. So I watch for that latest and brightest hour Which my Lord will send to me ; I know that its voice will be low and sweet. And this shall its message be : " Come quickly, and enter thy Home of joy, For the King is calling thee." I shall go to Him soon ! I have waited long To behold His beauty rare ; But I surely shall see Him and hear His voice. And a part in His glory share. When I answer the summons, solemn yet glad. Which the last sweet hour shall bear. 268 A Treasury of FRANK L. POLLOCK AD BELLONAM MOTHER of Swords ! while the river runs, Or the steamer seeks the sea ; While the North wind blows from the chill of snows, And the South from the scented Key, So long, so long will live the song That thy lilting bugles sing, As the warship rides down the deep sea tides. Where the green foams white on her armored sides. And the wind'ard gun-shields ring. There be they who sing that the song will cease. The song that thy sons began ; That the good old World will loll in peace, In the bond of the Peace of Man. They sing, — and clear 'twixt the notes we hear The clink of the warrior's trade, And the thund'rous call where the hammers fall, And the steam-power shrieks o'er the factory wall, Where the rifled guns are made. The Breath of the Lord may rule the sea, And the Lies of Men the land ; And the craft of the tongue may hold in fee The strength of the heavy hand ; But though tongues may quicken and strength may sicken. And hands grow soft and small. Year upon year the day draws near Of the unsheathed sword and the shaken spear. That shall make amends for all. When the Armageddon sunrise breaks On the iron-clads' smoking line, When the last dawn lights on that last of fights Where the strength of man shall shine, Canadian Verse 269 One great grim day of the world at play, With bugle and tuck of drum, While the red drops beat on the shattered fleet, Till the red sun sinks on the last defeat, Then — let the Millennium come ! THE TRAIL OF GOLD UNDER the ward of the Polar Star, Where the great auroras snap and blaze. There are crashing blows on the icy bar That is set at the end of the open ways. There are axes ringing across the crest. The sluices shackle the streams that rolled. As the gamesters gather from East and West, — The men that follow the Trail of Gold. A black line crawls o'er the glacier's face. Where the worn pack-horses scrape and slide ; The muskeg swallows and leaves no trace. The boats go down in the snow-swelled tide. Blood and bones on the snow and sod, From the canons black to the barrens gray, Blaze the trail that the vanguard trod, That those who follow may find the way. There are strange ships west of the lonely isles Where the red volcanoes burn and freeze ; There's a fading wake o'er the misty miles. There are smokes that trouble the Smoky Seas, There are corpses swept from the sinking hull. As the steamer dips to the swelling gale. For the rising shark and the wheeling gull That hunt the sea on the Golden Trail. The storm sweeps out from its Polar den. Till the air grows dense with the cutting snow ; The North makes mock of the sons of men, As the diggers lie in the drifts below. 270 A Treasury of The workers lie where the last work ceased, The strong men scatter the lifeless wold ; And the tall wolves howl at the gathered feast- The hounds that hunt on the Scent of Gold. ANDREW RAMSAY JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER AFTER her bath, yet early in the day, She donned a ketonet or tunica ; With gems enclasped it, close as a caress. And smoothed its folds out o'er her loveliness In fondly fashioned outlines. It was made Of Persian satin, opaline and white, Like moving mists around the moon arrayed, Thro' which she shone, a lovelier light in light Almost immortal : on a low divan A fleecy texture tinted Tyrian, Alone reclining, on each pliant knee Her white feet poised by turns to sandalled be. The sandal buckles were with gems aflame, And those fine bands that bound each knee the same. On restless anklets tinkled bells of gold, A symbol which of princely lineage told. Their music summoning a tiring maid Who all her glorious midnight hair arrayed : A purple black it was, alive and long. And seemed, if such could be, like a carved song, Some Hebrew paean of triumphant power Arrested, and remaining her rare dower. 'Twas girt in frequent fillets of fine gold, Bestarred with sardon flashing manifold. And o'er her shoulders, exquisitely graced, A sedijin, encircled at the waist. This sedijin was sleeveless, but both arms Had aspen bands that blazed in jasper charms. Canadian Verse 271 Her zone was also wonderful with these, As round her neck a circlet; carved to please In imitated foliage of lush hues Such as Ezekiel sanctified for use. And over these, with garnet bangles hung And opaline, a splendid shimla clung. Marvel of strangely interfusing sheen, And beautiful as all that might have been. A little scarf of white and henna dyes Crowned her dark head for dreadful sacrifice. Pensive her oriental eyes, and large, Looking their last on Judah's hills, the charge Of Israel's honor in them, and the praise Of many a maid desponding since those days When Jephtha's daughter wended forth to mourn Her immature virginity forlorn, I WILL NOT TELL I WILL not tell thee why the land With so much glory glows ; There is but one in all the world My sacred secret knows. O, she is fairer than the flowers Of rosy June or May, When every bird is singing near And every blossom gay ! I asked her eyes to let their beams Make life supremely grand : Their answer like a flood of light Flushed all the flowery land. The sunbeams gleamed among the grass, Warm-waving in the breeze, A new life gladdened every bloom, More vivid grew the trees. 272 A Treasury of I shall not tell thee why the land With so much glory glows ; There is but one in all the world My sacred secret knows. ATKINSON'S MILL THIS river of azure with many a weed in Comes far from the past as those famous of old ; Its dawns are the same as made blossoms in Eden, And still it remembers their crimson and gold. As vivid this valley with forests around it, And low, waving evergreens shading the hill, But color has gone from the cottage that crowned it — The alders have faded by Atkinson's mill. This stream is the same with its tinting of azure, Yet the old bridge is moved from its mooring of stone ; Departed are those who once made it a pleasure To sail here, or skate when the summer had gone. This pathway through cedar is trampled no longer By feet that went daily to school 'gainst their will ; The fragrance of hope in the springtime is stronger And sweeter than summer by Atkinson's mill. No more will the big wheel revolve with a clatter. No more the bolts turn with a turbulent clank. Nor down the dim flume rush the wonderful water To burst forth in foam by the green-colored bank. The blue flag has gone from the shore that we cherish, The song of the gray bird in autumn is still. Yet memory kindles the blossoms that perish Like hope that was happy by Atkinson's mill. Canadian Verse 273 THEODORE HARDING RAND THE DRAGONFLY WINGED wonder of motion In splendor of sheen, Cruising the shining blue Waters all day, Smit with hunger of heart And seized of a quest Which nor beauty of flower Nor promise of rest Has charm to appease Or slacken or stay, — What is it you seek, Unopen, unseen ? Are you blind to the sight Of the heavens of blue, Or the wind-fretted clouds On their white, airy wings, Or the emerald grass That velvets the lawn, Or glory of meadows Aflame like the dawn ? Are you deaf to the note In the woodland that rings With the song of the whitethroat, . As crystal as dew ? Ill Winged wonder of motion In splendor of sheen, Stay, stay a brief moment Thy hither and thither s 274 A Treasury of Quick-beating wings, Thy flashes of flight ; And tell me thy heart, Is it sad, is it light. Is it pulsing with fears Which scorch it and wither, Or joys that up-well In a girdle of green ? IV " O breather of words And poet of life, I tremble with joy, I flutter with fear ! Ages it seemeth. Yet only to-day Into this world of Gold sunbeams at play, I came from the deeps. O crystalline sphere ! O beauteous light ! O glory of life ! " On the watery floor Of this sibilant lake, I lived in the twilight dim. ' There's a world of Day,' Some pled, ' a world Of ether and wings athrob Close over our head.' ' It's a dream, it's a whim, A whisper of reeds,' they said, — And anon the waters would sob. And ever the going Went on to the dead Without the glint of a ray. And the watchers watched In their vanishing wake. Canadian Verse 175 VI " The passing Passed for aye, And the waiting Waited in vain ! Some power seemed to enfold The tremulous waters around, Yet never in heat Nor in shrivelling cold, Nor darkness deep or gray, — Came token of sound or touch, — A clear unquestioned ' Yea ! ' And the scoffers scoffed, In swelling refrain, ' Let us eat and drink, For to-morrow we die.' VII " But, O, in a trance of bliss. With gauzy wings I awoke ! An ecstasy bore me away O'er field and meadow and plain. I thought not of recent pain, But revelled, as splendors broke From sun and cloud and air. In the eye of golden Day. vm " I'm yearning to break To my fellows below The secret of ages hoar ; In the quick-flashing light I dart up and down, Forth and back, everywhere, But the waters are sealed Like a pavement of glass, — Sealed that I may not pass. 276 A Treasury of O for waters of air ! Or the wing of an eagle's might To cleave a pathway below ! " IX And the Dragonfly in splendor Cruises ever o'er the lake, Holding in his heart a secret Which in vain he seeks to break. BEAUTY I " T T AD I two loaves of bread — ay, ay ! AJ. One would I sell and hyacinths buy To feed my soul."—" Or let me die ! " Beauty, dew-sweet, of heavenly birth. Thy flower is writ of grief, not mirth. Thy rainbow's footed on the earth. Rainbows and Hyacinths ! O seers, Your voices call across the years : " The bread of Beauty's wet with tears ! " The living words from Beauty's mien. Than blade by swordsman swung more keen. Spirit and soul divide between :. " Pure as the sapphire-blue from blame, Humble as glad, of holiest aim — Love's sevenfold beam a flashing flame ! " Canadian Verse 277 m It yearns me sore, so near, so far ! My heart moans like the harbor-bar, For coming of the morning star. Buy Hyacinths— a goodly share ! Ascend, O soul, Love's iris-stair, The bridegroom waiteth for thee there 1 LOVE THE blooming flowers, the galaxies of space, Lie pictured in a sheeny drop of even ; And globed in one round word, on lips of grace. Shine out the best of earth and all of heaven. THE HEPATICA HAU.., first of the spring. Pearly sky-tinted thing Touched with pencil of Him Who roUest the year ! Lo, thy aureole rim No painter may limn — Vision thou hast, and no fear ! Fair child of the light. What fixes thy sight ? Wide-open thy roll From the seal of the clod. And thy heaven-writ scroll Glows, beautiful soul. With the shining of God ! Thou look'st into heaven As surely as Stephen, 278 A Treasury of So steadfast thy will is ! And from earth's inglenook Seest Christ of the lilies And daffadowndillies, And catchest His look. And a portion is mine, Rapt gazer divine, From thy countenance given- Angel bliss in thy face ! I've looked into heaven As surely as Stephen, From out of my place ! "I AM" I AM, and therefore these, Existence is by me, — Flux of pendulous seas, The stable, free. I am in blush of the rose. The shimmer of dawn ; Am girdle Orion knows. The fount undrawn. I am earth's potency. The chemic ray's, the rain's. The reciprocity That loads the wains. I am, or the heavens fall ! I dwell in my woven tent, Am immanent in all, — Suprdmanent ! A Canadian Verse 279 I am the Life in life, Impact and verve of thought, The reason's lens and knife. The ethic " ought." I am of being the stress, I am the brooding Dove, I am the blessing in " bless," The Love in love. I am the living thrill And fire of poet and seer, The breath of man's goodwill. The Father near ; Am end of the way men grope. Core of the ceaseless strife, I am man's bread of hope, Water of life. I am the root of faith, Substance of vision, too. The spirit shadowed in wraith, Urim in dew. I am the soul's white Sun, Love's slain, enthroned Lamb, I am the Holy One, I am I AM. THE VEILED PRESENCE N ashen gray touched faint my night-dark room, I flung my window wide to the whispering lawn — Great God ! I saw the mighty globe from gloom Roll with its sleeping millions to the dawn. 28o A Treasury of No tremor spoke its motion swift and vast, In hush it swept the awful curve adown, The shadow that its rushing speed did cast Concealed the Father's hand, the Kingly crown. Into the deeps an age has passed since then, Yet evermore for me, more humble grown. The vision of His awesome presence veiled Burns in the flying spheres, still all unknown, In nature's mist-immantled seas unsailed, And in the deeper shadowed hearts of men. THE GHOST FLOWER LIKE Israel's seer I come from out the earth Confronting with the question air and sky, IVky dost thou bring me up ? White ghost am 1 Of that which was God's beauty at its birth. In eld the sun kist me to ruby red, I held my chalice up to heaven's full view. The wistful stars dropt down their golden dew. And skyey balms exhaled about my bed. Alas, I loved the darkness, not the light ! The deadly shadows, not the bending blue. Spoke to my tranced heart, made false seem true. And drowned my spirit in the deeps of night. O Painter of the flowers, O God most sweet. Dost say my spirit for the light is meet ? GLORY-ROSES « r\NLY a penny. Sir ! "— vv A child held to my view A bunch of " glory-roses," red As blood, and wet with dew. Canadian Verse 281 (O earnest little face, With living light in eye, Your roses are too fair for earth, And you seem of the sky !) " My beauties, Sir ! " he said, " Only a penny, too ! " — His face shone in their ruddy glow A Rafael cherub true. " Yestreen their hoods were close About their faces tight. But ere the sun was up, I saw That God had come last night. O, Sir, to see them then ! The bush was all aflame ! — yes, they're glory-roses, Sir, That is their holy name. Only a penny, sir ! " — Heaven seemed across the way ! 1 took the red, red beauties home — Roses to me for aye ! For aye, that radiant voice As if from heaven it came — " O yes, they're glory-roses. Sir, That is their holy name ! " THE CARVEN SHORES HOW bold the Imagination and how strong That makes so rich with carven-work these shores ! More gorgeous they than Oriental throng — What altar-pomps, and rough with beaten ores ! 282 A Treasury of These great events, once fluid as a song, Now gates uplift, e'en His authentic doors ! (His stay no tent is for-a-night along The murmuring floods and boisterous battle-roars.) The wedge of frost, and beetle wave, sand blast, With stroke of pencil-sun, and wash of rain. Outline unsearchable and shadow vast ! And evermore, as moons grow or decline, The whirl and speed of tidal lathe and plane Shaping chaotic mass to forms divine ! WALTER A. RATCLIFFE WANTED WANTED, a stalwart man ! The man who, when he knows the Right, The same pursues against all Might ; The man who dares to stand alone For Conscience' sake when Hope is gone ; Who dares to leave a beaten path, And live within the light he hath, Nor shrinks to strike a deadly blow At Error found in friend or foe : This is the stalwart man. Wanted, an honest man ! A man may live within the laws, Or 'scape their grasp through flimsy flaws. But he who scorns an action mean, Is honest where he is not seen. Nor dares advance at others' cost, Counts all ill-gotten wealth as lost. Ne'er grudges each his fullest due, Whose woid as is his oath is true : This is the honest man. Canadian Verse 283 Wanted, a noble man ! Not one who from a favored place Claims kindred with a worn-out race; Whose empty titles, ancient name, Are all his wealth, are all his fame ; But one whose usefulness men see, Though humble may his station be ; For such will bless on every hand His friend, his home, his native land : This is the noble man. Wanted, the broader man ! Untrammelled by a narrow creed That loves to make its doubters bleed ; The man who learns from nature's plan That man should love his fellowman ; The man whose soul, so deep and true, Embraces all as brothers too ; The man whom none may buy with pelf, The man delivered from himself : Such is the needed man. JOHN READE RIZPAH IT is growing dark. At such a sunset I have been with Saul — But saw it not. I only saw his eyes And the wild beauty of his roaming locks, And — oh ! there never was a man like Saul ! Strong arm, and gentle heart and tender ways To win a woman's very soul, were his. When he would take my hand and look on me, And whisper " Rizpah " — ah ! those days are gone ! Why should I weep ? was I not loved by Saul ? And Saul was king of all the Land of God. 284 A Treasury of " God save the king ! " But, hush ! what noise was that ? Oh heaven ! to think a mother's eyes should look On such a sight ! Away ! vile carrion-beast ! Those are the sons of Saul, — poor Rizpah's sons. O my dead darlings ! O my only joy ! O sweet twin treasure of my lonely life, Since that most mournful day upon Gilboa, Torn from me thus ! I have no tears to shed. O God ! my heart is broken ! Let me die ! Gilboa ! David wrote a song on it. And had it put' m/asher — "Weep for Saul." Armoni used to sing it to his harp. Poor blackened lips ! . . . I wonder if they dream, My pretty children. . . . Come, Mephibosheth, Here is your father ; say " God save the king ! " The Gibeonites ! Ah ! that was long ago. Why should they die for what they never did ? No ; David never would consent to that ? Whose son is he, this youth ? Dost know him, Abner ? Ha, ha ! they shout again " God save the king ! " Was I asleep ? I came not here to sleep. O poor old eyes, sorrow has made you weak. My sons ! No, nought has touched them. O, how cold! Cold, cold ! O stars of God, have pity on me, Poor lonely woman ! O my sons, Saul's sons ! Kind stars, watch with me ; let no evil beast Rend that dear flesh. O God of Israel, Pardon my sins ! My heart is broken ! Canadian Verse 285 PICTURES OF MEMORY HERE is the old church. Now I see it all — The hillSj the sea, the bridge, the waterfall. The dear old sleepy town is still abed Although the eastern clouds are tinged with red. And everything is as this graveyard still, Except the soldiers at their morning drill, And in the Pool a fishing boat or two Belated, homeward pulled with weary oar, And the dim curlews on the distant shore, And the lark soaring through the ether blue. But now the lazy smoke curls through the air — I will go down and see who tenant there, And meet old friends. "First, wanderer, look around And see what friends of thine are underground ! " 11 The mountains gather round thee as of yore, holy lake, across whose tranquil breast Was borne the saint who to the farthest west Brought the sweet knowledge that transcends all lore. There on the islet at the chapel door The penitents are kneeling, while along There flows the mystic tide of sacred song To where I stand upon the rugged shore. But now there is a silence weird and dread — And utter loneliness is in my heart. 1 came to seek the living but the dead — This is their welcome. Slowly I depart, Nor read the name beneath a single cross — He still is rich who doth not know his loss. Ill There is the school-house ; there the lake, the lawn ; And there, just fronting it, the barrack square ; 286 A Treasury of But of all those I knew not one is there — Even the old gate-keeper — he is gone. Ah, me ! ah, me ! when last I stood upon This grassy mound, with what proud hopes elate I was to wrestle with the strength of fate And conquer ! Now — I live and that is all. Oh ! happier those whose lot it was to fall In noble conflict with their country's foes Far on the shores of Taurie Chersonese ! Nay, all are blest who answer duty's call. But — do I dream or wake ? What ghosts are these ? Hush, throbbing heart ! these axe the sons of (kose. IV Oh ! what could wake to life that first sweet flame That warmed my heart when by the little bay On blissful summer evenings I lay Beneath our thorn-bush, waiting till she came Who was to me far more than wealth or fame. But yet for whom I wished all fair things mine, To make her, if she could be, more divine By outer splendor and a noble name. Now I may wait in vain from early morn Till sunset for the music of her feet. And yet how little change has come upon This fairy scene her beauty made so sweet ! It weareth still the glory of her smile. Ah ! if she were but here a little while. IN MY HEART IN my heart are many chambers through which I wander free ; Some are furnished, some are empty, some arc sombre, some are light ; Some are open to all comers, and of some I keep the key. And I enter in the stillness of the night. Canadian Verse 287 But there's one I never enter, — it is closed to even me! Only once its door was opened, and it shut forever- more ; • And though sounds of many voices gather round it, like a sea. It is silent, ever silent as the shore. In that chamber long ago my love's casket was con- cealed. And the jewel that it sheltered I knew only one could win ; And my soul foreboded sorrow, should that jewel be revealed. And I almost hoped that none might enter in. Yet day and night I lingered by that fatal chamber door. Till — she came at last, my darling one, of all the earth my own ; And she entered — and she vanished with my jewelj which she wore ; And the door was closed — and I was left alone. She gave me back no jewel, but the spirit of her eyes Shone with tenderness a moment, as she closed that chamber door, And the memory of that moment is all I have to prize — But that, at least, is mine forevermore. Was she conscious, when she took it, that the jewel was my love ? Did she think it but a bauble she might wear or toss aside ? I know not, I accuse not, but I hope that it may prove A blessing, though she spurn it in her pride. 288 A Treasury of TO LOUIS FRECHETTE* O GIFTED son of our dear land and thine, We joy with thee on this thy joyous day, And in thy laurel crown would fain entwine A modest wreath of our own simple bay ! Shamrock and thistle and sweet roses gay, Both red and white, with parted lips that smile, Like some bright maiden of their native isle — These, with the later maple, take, we pray, To mingle with thy laurelled lily, long Pride of the brave and theme of poet's song. They err who deem us aliens. Are not we Bretons and Normans, too ? North, south and west Gave us, like you, of blood and speech their best. Here, re-united, one great race to be. KINGS OF MEN AS hills seem Alps, when veiled in misty shroud. Some men seem kings, through mists of ignorance ; Must we have darkness, then, and cloud on cloud, To give our hills and pigmy kings a chance ? Must we conspire to curse the humbling light, Lest some one, at whose feet our fathers bowed, Should suddenly appear, full length, in sight, Scaring to laughter the adoring crowd ? Oh, no ! God send us light ! — Who loses then ? The king of slaves, and not the king of men. True kings are kings for ever, crowned of God, The King of Kings, — we need not fear for them. 'Tis only the usurper's diadem That shakes at touch of light, revealing fraud. * On the occasion of his poems being crowned by the French Academy. Canadian Verse 289 DOMINION DAY CANADA, Canada, land of the maple. Queen of the forest and river and lake. Open thy soul to the voice of thy people. Close not thy heart to the music they make. Bells, chime out merrily. Trumpets, call cheerily, Silence is vocal, and sleep is awake ! Canada, Canada, land of the beaver. Labor and skill have their triumph to-day ; Oh ! may the joy of it flow like a river. Wider and deeper as time flies away. Bells, chime out merrily, Trumpets, call cheerily. Science and industry laugh and are gay. Canada, Canada, land of the snow-bird, Emblem of constancy change cannot kill, Faith, that no strange cup has ever unsobered, Drinketh, to-day, from love's chalice her fill. Bells, chime out merrily, Trumpets, call cheerily. Loyalty singeth and treason is still ! Canada, Canada, land of the bravest. Sons of the war-path, and sons of the sea. Land of no slave-lash, to-day thou enslavest Millions of hearts with affection for thee. Bells, chime out merrily, Trumpets, call cheerily. Let the sky ring with the shout of the free. Canada, Canada, land of the fairest, Daughters of snow that is kissed by the sun, T 290 A Treasury of Binding the charms of all lands that are rarest, Like the bright cestus of Venus in one ! Bells, chime out merrily. Trumpets, call cheerily, A new reign of beauty on earth is begun ! ROBERT REID POESIE WHENCE comes the charm that broods along thy shore, O sunny land of song ? What potent thrall, Reckless of ocean's rise, or flow, or fall, Holds us about thy marge for evermore ? Here, where the long wave breaks in measured time, And fills our being with its rhythmic moan, From far inland the glories of thy zone Burst on our view, and beckon us to climb. Shades of the mighty dead ! whose snowy towers Stud the deep gorges and the wooded braes, Is there no nook for cots so small as ours ? No tree whereof we yet might gather bays ? But to be with thee, and to hear the wave Roll music round the land, is all we crave. A SONG OF CANADA SING me a song of the great Dominion ! Soul-felt words for a patriot's ear ! Ring out boldly the well-turned measure. Voicing your notes that the world may hear ; Here is no starveling — Heaven-forsaken — Shrinking aside where the Nations throng ; Proud as the proudest moves she among them— Worthy is she of a noble song ! Canadian Verse 291 Sing me the might of her giant mountains, Baring their brows in the dazzHng blue ; Changeless alone, where all else changes, Emblems of all that is grand and true : Free as the eagles around them soaring ; Fair as they rose from their Maker's hand ; Shout, till the snow-caps catch the chorus — The white-topp'd peaks of our mountain land ' Sing me the calm of her tranquil forests, Silence eternal, and peace profound. Into whose great heart's deep recesses Breaks no tempest, and comes no sound ; Face to face with the death-like stillness, Here, if at all, man's soul might quail : Nay ! 'tis the love of that great peace leads us Thither, where solace will never fail ! Sing me the pride of her stately rivers, Cleaving their way to the far-off sea ; Glory of strength in their deep-mouth'd music — Glory of mirth in their tameless glee. Hark ! 'tis the roar of the tumbling rapids ; Deep unto deep through the dead night calls ; Truly, I hear but the voice of Freedom Shouting her name from her fortress walls ! Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies, League upon league of the golden grain : Comfort, housed in the smiling homestead — Plenty, throned on the lumbering wain. Land of Contentment ! May no strife vex you. Never war's flag on your plains unfurl'd ; Only the blessings of mankind reach you — Finding the food for a hungry world ! Sing me the charm of her blazing camp-fires ; Sing me the quiet of her happy homes. Whether afar 'neath the forest arches, Or in the shade of the city's domes ; 292 A Treasury of Sing lue her life, her loves, her labors ; All of a mother a son would hear ; For when a lov'd one's praise is sounding. Sweet are the strains to the lover's ear. Sing me the worth of each Canadian — Roamer in wilderness, toiler in town — Search earth over you'll find none stauncher, Whether his hands be white or brown ; Come of a right good stock to start with, Best of the world's blood in each vein ; Lords of ourselves, and slaves to no one. For us or from us, you'll find we're — men ! Sing me the song, then ; sing it bravely ; Put your soul in the words you sing ; Sing me the praise of this glorious country — Clear on the ear let the deep notes ring. Here is no starveling — Heaven-forsaken — Crouching apart where the Nations throng ; Proud as the proudest moves she among them- Well is she worthy a noble song ! CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS A NOCTURNE OF CONSECRATION I TALKED about you, Dear, the other night. Having myself alone with my delight. Alone with dreams and memories of you. All the divine-houred summer stillness through I talked of life, of love the always new, Of tears, and joy, — yet only talked of you. Canadian Verse 293 To the sweet air That breathed upon my face The spirit of Hlies in a leafy place, Your breath's caress, the lingering of yoiir hair, I said — " In all your wandering through the dusk, Your waitings on the marriages of flowers Through the long, intimate hours When soul and sense, desire and love confer. You must have known the best that God has made. What do you know of Her ? " Said the sweet air — " Since I have touched her lips, Bringing the consecration of her kiss, Half passion and half prayer, And all for you. My various lore has suffered an eclipse. I have forgot all else of sweet I know." To the wise earth. Kind, and companionable, and dewy cool, Fair beyond words to tell, as you are fair, And cunning past compare To leash all heaven in a windless pool, I said — " The mysteries of death and birth Are in your care. You love, and sleep ; you drain life to the lees ; And wonderful things you know. Angels have visited you, and at your knees Learned what I learn forever at her eyes. The pain that still enhances Paradise. You in your breast felt her first pulses stir ; And you have thrilled to the light touch of her feet, Blindingly sweet. Now make me wise with some new word of Her.'' Said the wise earth — " She is not all my child. i94 A Treasury of But the wild spirit that rules her heart-beats wild Is of diviner birth, And kin to the unknown light beyond my ken. All I can give to Her have I not given ? Strength to be glad, to suffer, and to know ; The sorcery that subdues the souls of men ; The beauty that is as the shadow of heaven ; The hunger of love And unspeakable joy thereof. And these are dear to Her because of you. You need no word of mine to make you wise Who worship at her eyes And find there life and love forever new ! " To the white stars, Eternal and all-seeing. In their wide home beyond the wells of being, I said — " There is a little cloud that mars The mystical perfection of her kiss. Mine, mine. She is. As far as lip to lip, and heart to heart, And spirit to spirit when lips and hands must part, Can make her mine. But there is more than this,- More, more of Her to know. For still her soul escapes me unaware, To dwell in secret where I may not go. Take, and uplift me. Make me wholly Hers." Said the white stars, the heavenly ministers, — " This life is brief, but it is only one. Before to-morrow's sun For one or both of you it may be done. This love of yours is only just begun. Will all the ecstasy that may be won Before this life its little course has run At all suffice The love that agonizes in your eyes ? Therefore be wise. Canadian Verse 295 Content you with the wonder of love that lies Between her lips and underneath her eyes. If more you should surprise, What would be left to hope from Paradise ? In other worlds expect another joy Of Her, which blundering fate shall not annoy, Nor time nor change destroy." So, Dear, I talked the long, divine night through, And felt you in the chrismal balms of dew. The thing then learned Has ever since within my bosom burned — One life is not enough for love of you. A NOCTURNE OF SPIRITUAL LOVE SLEEP, sleep, imperious heart! Sleep, fair and undefiled ! Sleep, and be free ! Come in your dreams at last, comrade and queen and child, — At last to me. Come, for the honeysuckle calls you out of the night. Come, for the air Calls with a tyrannous remembrance of delight, Passion and prayer. Sleep, sovereign heart ! And now — for dream and memory Endure no door, — My spirit undenied goes where my feet, to thee. Have gone before. A moonbeam or a breath, above thine eyes I bow. Silent, unseen. But not, ah not unknown ! Thy spirit knows me now Where I have been. 296 A Treasury of Surely my long desire upon thy soul hath power. Surely for this Thy sleep shall breathe thee forth, soul of the lily flower, Under my kiss. Sleep, body wonderful ! Wake, spirit wise and wild, White and divine ! Here is our heaven of dreams, O dear and undefiled, All thine, all mine. AN ODE FOR THE CANADIAN CONFEDERACY AWAKE, my country, the hour is great with change ! Under this gloom which yet obscures the land. From ice-blue strait and stern Laurentian range To where giant peaks our western bounds command, A deep voice stirs, vibrating in men's ears As if their own hearts throbbed that thunder forth, A sound wherein who hearkens wisely hears The voice of the desire of this strong North, — This North whose heart of fire Yet knows not its desire Clearly, but dreams, and murmurs in the dream. The hour of dreams is done. Lo, on the hills the gleam ! Awake, my country, the hour of dreams is done ! Doubt not, nor dread the greatness of thy fate. Tho' faint souls fear the keen confronting sun, And fain would bid the morn of splendor wait ; Tho' dreamers, rapt in starry visions, cry " Lo, yon thy future, yon thy faith, thy fame ! " And stretch vain hands to stars, thy fame is nigh. Here in Canadian hearth, and home, and name ; — Canadian Verse 297 This name which yet shall grow Till all the nations know Us for a patriot people, heart and hand Loyal to our native earth, our own Canadian land ! O strong hearts, guarding the birthright of our glory, Worth your best blood this heritage that ye guard ! These mighty streams resplendent with our story, These iron coasts by rage of seas unjarred, — What fields of peace these bulwarks will secure ! What vales of plenty those calm floods supply ! Shall not our love this rough, sweet land make sure, Her bounds preserve inviolate, though we die ? O strong hearts of the North, Let flame your loyalty forth, And put the craven and base to an open shame, Till earth shall know the Child of Nations by her name ! CANADIAN STREAMS O RIVERS rolling to the sea From lands that bear the maple tree, How swell your voices with the strain Of loyalty and liberty ! A holy music, heard in vain By coward heart and sordid brain. To whom this strenuous being seems Naught but a greedy race for gain. O unsung streams — not splendid themes Ye lack to fire your patriot dreams ! Annals of glory gild your waves, Hope freights your tides, Canadian streams I 298 A Treasury of St Lawrence, whose wide water laves The shores that ne'er have nourished slaves ! Swift Richelieu of lilied fame ! Niagara of glorious graves ! Thy rapids, Ottawa, proclaim Where Daulac and his heroes came ! Thy tides, St John, declare La Tour, And, later, many a loyal name ! Thou inland stream, whose vales, secure From storm, Tecumseh's death made poor ! And thou, small water, red with war, 'Twixt Beaubassin and Beaus^jour ! Dread Saguenay, where eagles soar. What voice shall from the bastioned shore The tale of Roberval reveal. Or his mysterious fate deplore ? Annapolis, do thy floods yet feel Faint memories of Champlain's keel. Thy pulses yet the deed repeat Of Poutrincourt and d'Iberville ? And thou far tide, whose plains now beat With march of myriad westering feet, Saskatchewan, whose virgin sod So late Canadian blood made sweet ? Your bulwark hills, your valleys broad. Streams where de Salaberry trod. Where Wolfe achieved, where Brock was slain,- Their voices are the voice of God ! O sacred waters ! not in vain, Across Canadian height and plain, Ye sound us in triumphant tone The summons of your high refrain. Canadian Verse 299 THE SILVER THAW THERE came a day of showers Upon the shrinking snow ; The south wind sighed of flowers, The softening skies hung low. Midwinter for a space Foreshadowing April's face, The white world caught the fancy, And would not let it go. In reawakened courses The brooks rejoiced the land ; We dreamed the Spring's shy forces Were gathering close at hand. The dripping buds were stirred, As if the sap had heard The long-desired persuasion Of April's soft command. But antic Time had cheated With hope's elusive gleam ; The phantom Spring, defeated. Fled down the ways of dream. And in the night the reign Of winter came again. With frost upon the forest And stillness on the stream. When morn in rose and crocus Came up the bitter sky. Celestial beams awoke us To wondering ecstasy. The wizard Winter's spell Had wrought so passing well, That earth was bathed in glory, As if God's smile were nigh. 300 A Treasury of The silver'd saplings, bending, Flashed in a rain of gems ; The statelier trees, attending. Blazed in their diadems. White fire and amethyst All common things had kissed, And chrysolites and sapphires Adorned the bramble-stems. In crystalline confusion All beauty came to birth ; It was a kind illusion To comfort waiting earth — To bid the buds forget The Spring so distant yet, And hearts no more remember The iron season's dearth. EPITAPH FOR A SAILOR BURIED ASHORE HE who but yesterday would roam Careless as clouds, and currents range, In homeless wandering most at home, Inhabiter of change ; Who wooed the West to win the East, And named the stars of North and South, And felt the zest of Freedom's feast Familiar in his mouth ; Who found a faith in stranger-speech, And fellowship in foreign hands, And had within his eager reach The relish of all lands — How circumscribed a plot of earth Keeps now his restless footsteps still, Whose wish was wide as ocean's girth, Whose will the water's will ! Canadian Verse 301 THE TRAIN AMONG THE HILLS VAST, unrevealed, in silence and the night Brooding, the ancient hills commune with sleep. Inviolate the solemn valleys keep Their contemplation. Soon from height to height Steals a red finger of mysterious light, And lion-footed through the forests creep Strange mutterings ; till suddenly, with sweep And shattering thunder of resistless flight And crash of routed echoes, roars to view, Down the long mountain gorge, the Night Express, Freighted with fears and tears and happiness. - . . . The dread form passes ; silence falls anew. And lo ! I have beheld the thronged, blind world To goals unseen from God's hand onward hurled. A SONG OF GROWTH IN the heart of a man Is a thought upfurled, Reached its full span It shakes the world, And to one high thought Is a whole race wrought. Not with vain noise The great work grows. Nor with foolish voice, But in repose, — Not in the rush But in the hush. From the cogent lash Of the cloud-herd wind The low clouds dash, Blown headlong, blind ,• 302 A Treasury of But beyond, the great blue Looks moveless through. O'er the loud world sweep The scourge and the rod ; But in deep beyond deep Is the stillness of God ; — At the Fountains of Life No cry, no strife. SLEEPY MAN WHEN the Sleepy Man comes with dust in his eyes (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) He shuts up the earth, and he opens the skies. (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) He smiles through his fingers, and shuts up the sun ; (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) The stars that he loves he lets out one by one. (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) He comes from the castles of Drowsy-boy Town ; (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) At the touch of his hand the tired eyelids fall down. (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) He comes with a murmur of dreams in his wings (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) And whispers of mermaids and wonderful things. (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) When the top is a burden, the bugle a bane, (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) When one would be faring down Dream-a-way Lane, (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie!) Canadian Verse 303 When one would be wending in Lullaby Wherry (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) To Sleepy Man's Castle by Comforting Ferry. (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) NIGHT IN A DOWN-TOWN STREET NOT in the eyed, expectant gloom, Where soaring peaks repose And incommunicable space Companions with the snows ; Not in the glimmering dusk that crawls Upon the clouded sea. Where bourneless wave on bourneless wave Complains continually ; Not in the palpable dark of woods Where groping hands clutch fear, Does Night her deeps of solitude Reveal unveiled as here. The street is a grim canon carved In the eternal stone. That knows no more the rushing stream It anciently has known. The emptying tide of life has drained The iron channel dry, Strange winds from the forgotten day Draw down, and dream, and sigh. The narrow heaven, the desolate moon Made wan with endless years, Seem less immeasurably remote Than laughter, love, or tears. 304 A Treasury of THE FALLING LEAVES LIGHTLY He blows, and at His breath they fall, The perishing kindreds of the leaves ; they drift, Spent flames of scarlet, gold aerial. Across the hollow year, noiseless and swift. Lighriy he blows, and countless as the falling Of snow by night upon a solemn sea. The ages circle down beyond recalling, To strew the hollows of Eternity. He sees them drifting through the spaces dim. And leaves and ages are as one to Him. AN EPITAPH FOR A HUSBANDMAN HE who would start and rise Before the crowing cocks — No more he lifts his eyes, Whoever knocks. He who before the stars Would call the cattle home, — They wait about the bars For him to come. Him at whose hearty calls The farmstead woke again, The horses in their stalls Expect in vain. Busy, and blithe, and bold. He labored for the morrow, — The plough his hands would hold Rusts in the furrow. His fields he had to leave, His orchards cool and dim ; The clods he used to cleave Now cover him, Canadian Verse 305 But the green, growing things Lean kindly to his sleep, — White roots and wandering strings. Closer they creep. Because he loved them long And with them bore his part, Tenderly now they throng About his heart. ORIGINS OUT of the dreams that heap The hollow hand of sleep,- Out of the dark sublime, The echoing deeps of time, — From the averted Face Beyond the bournes of space. Into the sudden sun We journey, one by one. Out of the hidden shade Wherein desire is made, — Out of the pregnant stir Where death and Ufe confer, — The dark and mystic heat Where soul and matter meet,; — The enigmatic Will, — We start ! and then are still. Inexorably decreed By the ancestral deed,. The puppets of our sires. We work out blind desires, And for our sons ordain The blessing or the bane. In ignorance we stand With fate on either hand, u 3o6 A Treasury of* And question stars and earth Of life, and death, and birth. With wonder in our eyes We scan the kindred skies, While through the common grass Our atoms mix and pass. We feel the sap go free When spring comes to the tree ; And in our blood is stirred What warms the brooding bird. The vital fire we breathe That bud and blade bequeathe, And strength of native clay In our full veins hath sway. But in the urge intense And fellowship of sense. Suddenly comes a word In other ages heard. On a great wind our souls Are borne to unknown goals, And past the bournes of space To the unaverted Face. THE WRESTLER WHEN God sends out His company to travel through the stars. There is every kind of wonder in the show ; There is every kind of animal behind its prison bars ; With riders in a many-colored row. The master showman, Time, has a strange trick of rhyme. And the clown's most ribald jest is a tear ; But the best drawing card is the Wrestler huge and hard. Who can fill the tent at any time of year. Canadian Verse 357 His eye is on the crowd, and he beckons with his hand, With authoritative finger, and they come. The rules of the game they do not understand, But they go as in a dream, and are dumb. They would fain say him nay, and they look the other way, Till at last to the ropes they cling ; But he throws them one by one till the show for them is done. In the blood-red dust of the ring. There's none to shun his challenge — they must meet him soon or late, And he knows a cunning trick for all heels. The king's haughty crown drops in jeers from his pate As the hold closes on him, and he reels. The burly and the proud, the braggarts of the crowd. Every one of them he topples down in thunder. His grip grows mild for the dotard and the child But alike they must all go under. Oh, many a mighty foeman would try a fall with him — Persepolis and Babylon and Rome, Assyria and Sardis, they see their fame grow dim. As he tumbles in the dust every dome. At length will come an hour when the stars shall feel his power. And he shall have his will upon the sun. Ere we know what he's about, the stars will be put out. And the wonder of the show will be undone. RECESSIONAL NOW along the solemn heights Fade the Autumn's altar-lights ; Down the great earth's glimmering chancel Glide the days and nights. 3o§ A Treasury of Little kindred of the grass, Like a shadow in a glass Falls the dark and falls the stillness j We must rise and pass. We must rise and follow, wending Where the nights and days have ending,- Pass in order pale and slow Unto sleep extending. Little brothers of the clod, Soul of fire and seed of sod, We must fare into the silence At the knees of God. Little comrades of the sky Wing to wing we wander by. Going, going, going, going. Softly as a sigh. Hark, the moving shapes confer, Globe of dew and gossamer, Fading and ephemeral spirits In the dusk astir. Moth and blossom, blade and bee, Worlds must go as well as we, In the long procession joining Mount, and star, and sea. Toward the shadowy brink we climb Where the round year rolls sublime, Rolls, and drops, and falls forever In the vast of time ; Like a plummet plunging deep Past the utmost reach of sleep, Till remembrance has no longer Care to laugh or weep. Canadian Verse 309 ASCRIPTION OTHOU who hast beneath Thy har-d The dark foundations of the land,— The motion of whose ordered thought An instant universe hath wrought ; Who hast within Thine equal hand The rolling sun, the ripening seed, The azure of the speedwell's eye, The vast solemnities of sky, — Who hear'st no less the feeble note Of one small bird's awakening throat Than that unnamed, tremendous chord Arcturus sounds before his Lord, — More sweet to Thee than all acclaim Of storm and ocean, stars and flame. In favor more before Thy face Than pageantry of time and space, The worship and the service be Of him Thou madest most like Thee,^ Who in his nostrils hath Thy breath, Whose spirit is the lord of death ! THEODORE ROBERTS THE SPEARS OF KAN-MAR EYES that we look into — so, Hands that we kiss ere we go, Keep us, — ^remember us, hold us a night and a day ; For the white road stretches ahead. And our spears have a vision of red, And our horses champ with their bits, and rear at the way. 3IO A Treasury of The tussocks of grass in the glare Are brown as a dream-maiden's hair, And over them, white in the sun, the spears of Kan- Mar; The curbs, and the froth at the lips — The bridle chains snapping like whips. And our plumes tossed red, and scenting the heels of war. The eyes that twinkle and burn — The wrists like elk-thongs that turn With the balancing, pausing, slender, murderous spear; The swords that lead us along. The thrust, the shriek and the song — Sights not fit for their eyes, nor sounds for their ears to hear. The city gates in the sun, The glory of brave deeds done. The clatter of horning hoofs and the song of old Kan- Mar, The roar of the narrow street Filled with clanging of feet — The white hands over the balconies, and the kiss on the burning scar ! COLD COLD," cried the wind on the hill, " Cold," sang the tree ; Your eyes were blue-grey and still And cold as the sea. Cold lay the snow on the land ; Cold stood the pine ; But neither as cold as your hand Lying in mine. Canadian Verse 311 Ah, Love, has the fire died so soon — Just smoldered and gone ; A kiss by the hght of the moon, A parting by dawn. THE MEN OF MY HEART'S DESIRE WHERE are the men of my heart's desire ? Of the British blood and the loyal names ? Some are North, at the home hearth-fire, Where the hemlock glooms and the maple flames, And some are tramping the old world round For the pot of gold they have never found. Oh, leal are the men of my heart's desire — Their fathers were leal in the days gone by — And their blood is blithe with the subtle fire The purple breeds, and their hearts are high, — Poor, and gallant, and dear to me, With a strong hand each, and a pedigree. Good men are bred in the East and the West, And ripe, true gentles in Boston town. But the men of my blood to my blood seem best— Who still hold the honor of Mitre and Crown. Though empty their cellars and worn their attire. These are the men of my heart's desire. So, gentles, these stumbling rhymes I send To our spruce-clad hills, for a word of cheer, — Where there's ever a welcome and ever a friend. And the brown coat covers the cavalier. Take them, I pray you, for what they are worth. For I swear by my soul you're the salt of the earth. 312 A Treasury of THE CHASE DOWN the long lanes of Arcadie My lady canters merrily ; The grain is bleaching in the sun, The russet hickories confer, And mounted on old Cheveron With laughing call I follow her. The maples stand in flaming red, The sturdy brakes are sere and dead ; But still my lady canters on Through field and wood and busy town, And mounted on old Cheveron I try to ride her down. Through the long lanes of Arcadie The crickets skip and chirp to me ; My lady's just 'round yonder bend, Methinks I hear her call to me — Methinks our chase is at an end Through these long lanes of Arcadie ! Nay, still she canters down the lane With floating skirt and loosened rein. We've traveled all this summer land. And still we mount and gallop on ; Sometimes she turns and waves her hand, A challenge to old Cheveron. Through all this land of Arcadie She leads old Cheveron and me, And how her good mount stands it so Is really more than I can see ; The valleys now are white with snow. Yet still we ride through Arcadie. Old Cheveron has cast his shoes ! The Chase is up, my Lady Muse ! Canadian Verse 313 WILLIAM CARMAN ROBERTS HISTORY HER gold hair fallen about her face Made light within that shadowy place, But on her garments lay the dust Of many a vanished race. Her deep eyes, gazing straight ahead. Saw years and days and hours long dead, While strange gems glimmered at her feet, Yellow, and green, and red. And ever from the shadows came Voices to pierce her heart like flame. The great bats fanned her with their wings. The voices called her name. But yet her look turned not aside From the black deep where dreams abide, Where worlds and pageantries lay dead Beneath that viewless tide. Her elbow on her knee was set. Her strong hand propt her chin, and yet No man might name that look she wore. Nor any man forget. AN EASTER MEMORY THE chime of bells across the waking year Peals out " The White Christ risen from the dead "— The gospel that the April winds have spread. The mystery the golden-wing makes clear. 314 A Treasury of The tender sky smiles over it ; the air Is kind with love to comfort all the earth. The brown parks have forgotten winter's dearth Since daffodils and sunlight made them fair. But still the gray church from the crowded street Allures me with the spell of broken dreams. O heart, my heart, to you and me it seems That God has left His glory incomplete. Can we not see her, as a year ago, Beyond that sunlight flaked in colored fire — The upturned face, the eyes of still desire. The dusk-gold hair that now the angels know ? What means this tender April sky to her, With bells that chime against the winds of spring ? Does memory move her when the blue birds sing. Or does she feel the old sweet pulses stir ? The organ lays its voice across our strife. What is it that the sobbing notes would say ? For you and me, my heart, another day ! For her — the Resurrection and the Life ! MY COMRADE CANOE TRUE comrade, we have tasted life together ; With the wild joy at heart have slipped the tether To follow, follow, to strange wildernesses. The frank enticement of the wind and weather. Joy of the quivering pole, the thrilling sinew. When mad black rapids shook the soul within you. As climbing toward the lakes of inland silence I laughed to see the fanged rocks stiain to win you. Canadian Verse 315 Joy of the moonlight on the quiet reaches, Where loitering we caught the word that teaches The poise of Godhead to the questing spirit, The urge of springtime to the budding beeches. When through the dusk the serried clouds were massing, Where some lost lake among the hills was glassing The stormy fire above the western spruces, The looming moose would wonder at our passing. Then, when the outland voices ceased to hold us, When winds would tell no more what once they told us, We dreamed how far away a little village Lay waiting with its welcome to infold us. GEORGE JOHN ROMANES I ASK NOT FOR THY LOVE, O LORD I ASK not for thy Love, O Lord ; the days Can never come when anguish shall atone. Enough for me were but Thy pity shown To me, as to the stricken sheep that strays, With ceaseless cry for unforgotten ways — Oh, lead me back to pastures I have known. Or find me in the wilderness alone, And slay me as the hand of mercy slays. I ask not for Thy love ; nor e'en so much As for a hope on Thy dear breast to lie ; But be Thou still my shepherd— still with such Compassion as may melt to such a cry ; That so I hear Thy feet, and feel Thy touch, And dimly see Thy face ere yet I die. 3i6 A Treasury of CARROLL RYAN From "MALTA" /), BELLA fior del mondo I to-morrow I'll leave thee to follow the path of the sun, No more to return, yet departing in sorrow — The stranger may go as the stranger hath done. I've met the hot breath of the scorching siroc As I guarded thy ramparts that frown on the sea, I've lain 'neath the shade of the vine-covered rock Weaving bright fancies of glory and thee. . . . Old Notabile * stands upon a hill With olive groves and vineyards at its base. Its lofty wall, half-ruined, beareth still Of siege and battle many a cruel trace ; The centre of this lovely isle, — The home of song and story, — Whose tranquil beauty seems to smile Forgetful of its glory. Deserted streets of marble halls. And temples grand and olden, Where startled Echo rarely calls Strange sounds thro' sunlight golden : High convent walls in ivy wrapt, Shrines of our blessed Lady, In melancholy silence lapt. In lanes of cypress shady. And now and then Queer aged men Pass where the bastions moulder, And seem to me. So strange they be. Old as the place or older. * Citta Vecchia Canadian Verse 317 And carved in stone above each door Is many a knightly crest, That flamed in hostile fields of yore — But now the sparrow's nest. The winged hand still grasps the sword Before the ancient palace ; In dungeons underneath is stored Verdala's burning chalice. And Bellfiorfe's ruined wall Frowns on the peasant's labor, While from its brow strange echoes call Of song, and pipe, and tabor. Oh ! what a host of shadows wait Before yon dark unopened gate ; Heroes from the east and west. In their iron armor drest, The white cross gleaming on each breast ; Stern warriors of the cross are they — Those shadows of a former day ! But hark ! In the dark The bells are tolling, While, up from the Levant The night cloud is rolling. O, those bells ! those Malta bells, Loudly, wildly ringing, High their deafening chorus swells. All my spirit winging. Now higher, higher, The iron choir Like tongues of fire From earth ascend j The wide air beating. Their notes repeating. Like spirits meeting They rise and blend ! 3i§ A Treasury ot Now coming softly From belfrys lofty Sweet silver voices float thro' the gloom, Then, loud as thunder, From Cassels under Rush sounds of wonder As if from the tomb ! They cease, and slowly from afar, Where Dhingli's vale reposes, 1 hear a voice and see a star That beams on paths of roses ! CHARLES SANGSTER ENGLAND AND AMERICA GREATEST twain among the nations, Bound alike by kindred ties — Ties that never should be sundered While your banners grace the skies — But united, stand and labor. Side by side, and hand in hand. Battling with the sword of Freedom For the peace of every land. Yours the one beloved language, Yours the same religious creed. Yours the glory and the power. Great as ever was the meed Of old Rome, or Greece, or Sparta, When their arms victoriously Proved their terrible puissance Over every land and sea. Let the son respect the sire. Let the father love the son, Both unitedly supporting All the glories they have won : Canadian Verse 31$ Thus in concert nobly wrestling, They may work the world's release, And when having crushed its tyrants, Stand the Sentinels of Peace — Stand the mighty twin Colossus' Giants of the latter days, Straightening for the coming kingdom All the steep and rugged ways, Down which many a lofty nation — Lofty on the scroll of fame — Has been swept to righteous judgment, Naught remaining but its name. What ! allied to Merrie England, Have ye not a noble birth ? Yours, America, her honors. Yours her every deed of worth. Have ye not her Norman courage ? Wear ye not her Saxon cast ? Boast ye not her love of Freedom ? Do ye not revere the past When her mighty men of genius — Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope — Glorified that self-same language, Since become your pride and hope ? . . . There will come a time, my Brothers, And a dread time it will be, When your swords will flash together. For your faith in jeopardy. Not for crowns, or lands, or sceptres. Will the fight be fought and won. Not for fame, or treaties broken. But for God and God alone : For the mind with which He blessed us. That a false creed would keep down, Shackle — bind it to its purpose — To uphold a falling crown. 326 A Treasury of See that then ye fail not, Brothers ! Set the listening skies aglow With such deeds as live in heaven, If your Faith be worth a blow. Proud, then, of each other's greatness, Ever struggle side by side ; Noble Son ! time-honored Parent f Let no paltry strife divide Hearts like yours, that should be mindful Only of each other's worth — Mindful of your high position 'Mongst the powers of the earth. Mightiest twain among the nations ! Bound alike by kindred ties — Ties that never should be sundered, While your banners grace the skies : Hearts and destinies once united. Steadfast to each other prove. Bind them with enduring fetters — Bind them with the Bonds of Love. A LIVING TEMPLE I SAT within the temple of her heart. And watched the living soul as it passed through, Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure. The calm, immortal presence made me start. It searched through all the chambers of her mind With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view The fastnesses of feeling, strong — secure And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined And offers incense in her heart, as on An altar sacred unto God. The dawn Of an imperishable love passed through The lattice of my senses, and I, too. Did offer incense in that solemn place — A woman's heart made pure and sanctified by grace. Canadian Verse 321 THE ILLUMINED GOAL SLOWLY rose the daedal Earth Through the purple-hued abysm, Glowing like a gorgeous prism, Heaven exulting o'er its birth. Still the mighty wonder came Through the jasper-colored sphere, Ether-winged, and crystal-clear. Trembling to the loud acclaim. In a haze of golden rain Up the heavens rolled the sun, Danae-like the earth was won. Else his love and light were vain. So the heart and soul of man Own the light and love of heaven j Nothing yet in vain was given, Nature's is a perfect plan. LOVE'S RENEWAL LOVE'S sun, like that of day, may set, and set. It hath as bright a rising in the morn. True love has no grey hairs ; his golden locks Can never whiten with the snows of time. Sorrow lies drear on many a youthful heart. Like snow upon the evergreens ; but love Can gather sweetest honey by the way. E'en from the carcass of some prostrate grief. — We have been spoiled with blessings. Though the world Holds nothing dearer than the hope that's fled, God ever opens up new founts of bliss — Spiritual Bethsaidas where the soul X 32 2 A Treasury of Can wash the earth-stains from its fevered loins. We carve our sorrows on the face of joy, Reversing the true image ; we are weak Where strength is needed most, and most is given. 'TIS SUMMER STILL "T'lS Summer still, yet now and then a leaf A Falls from some stately tree. True type of life I How emblematic of the pangs that grief Wrings from our blighted hopes, that one by one Drop from us in our wrestle with the strife And natural passions of our stately youth. And thus we fall beneath life's summer sun. Each step conducts us through an opening door Into new halls of being, hand in hand With grave Experience, until we command The open, wide-spread autumn fields, and store The full ripe grain of Wisdom and of Truth. As on life's tottering precipice we stand. Our sins, like withered leaves, are blown about the land. DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL PALLID saffron glows the broken stubble, Brimmed with silver lie the ruts, Purple the ploughed hill ; Down a sluice with break and bubble Hollow falls the rill ; Falls and spreads and searches. Where, beyond the wood. Starts a group of silver birches, Bursting into blood. Canadian Verse 323 Under Venus sings the vesper sparrow, Down a path of rosy gold Floats the slender moon ; Ringing from the rounded barrow Rolls the robin's tune ; Lighter than the robin — hark ! Quivering silver-strong From the field a hidden shore-lark Shakes his sparkling song. Now the dewy sounds begin to dwindle, Dimmer grow the burnished rills, Breezes creep and halt, Soon the guardian night shall kindle In the violet vault,. All the twinkling tapers. Touched with steady gold. Burning through the lawny vapors Where they float and fold. ABOVE ST IR^NEE I RESTED on the breezy height. In cooler shade and clearer air, Beneath a maple tree ; Below, the mighty river took Its sparkling shade and sheening light Down to the sombre sea. And clustered by the leaping brook The roofs of white St Iren^e. The sapphire hills on either hand Broke down upon the silver tide. The river ran in streams, In streams of mingled azure-grey, With here a broken purple band. And whorls of drab, and beams Of shattered silver light astray, Where far away the south shore gleams. 324 A Treasury of I walked a mile along the height Between the flowers upon the road, Asters and golden-rod ; And in the gardens pinks and stocks, And gaudy poppies shaking light, And daisies blooming near the sod. And lowly pansies set in flocks, With purple monkshood overawed. And there I saw a little child. Between the tossing golden-rod. Coming along to me ; She was a tender little thing. So fragile-sweet, so Mary-mild, I thought her name Marie ; No other name methought could cling To any one so fair as she. And when we came at last to meet, I spoke a simple word to her, " Where are you going, Marie ? " She answered, and she did not smile. But oh ! her voice, — her voice so sweet, " Down to St Irenee," And so passed on to walk her mile. And left the lonely road to me. And as the night came on apace. With stars above the darkened hills, I heard perpetually, Chiming along the falling hours, On the deep dusk that mellow phrase, " Down to St Irenee : " It seemed as if the stars and flowers Should all go there with me. Canadian Verse 325 OFF RlVlfeRE DU LOUP OSHIP incoming from the sea With all your cloudy tower of sail, Dashing the water to the lee, And leaning grandly to the gale ; The sunset pageant in the west Has filled your canvas curves with rose, And jewelled every toppling crest That crashes into silver snows ! You know the joy of coming home After long leagues to France or Spain ; You feel the clear Canadian foam And the gulf water heave again. Between these sombre purple hills That cool the sunset's molten bars, You will go on as the wind wills, Beneath the river's roof of stars. You will toss onward toward the lights That spangle over the lone pier. By hamlets glimmering on the heights, By level islands black and clear : You will go on beyond the tide, Through brimming plains of olive sedge, Through paler shallows light and wide, The rapids piled along the ledge. At evening off some reedy bay You will swing slowly on your chain. And catch the scent of dewy hay, Soft blowing from the pleasant plain, 326 A Treasury of THE END OF THE DAY I HEAR the bells at eventide Peal slowly one by one, Near and far off they break and glide ; Across the stream float faintly beautiful The antiphonal bells of Hull ; The day is done, done, done. The day is done. The dew has gathered in the flowers. Like tears from some unconscious deep : The swallows whirl around the towers, The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars, And leaves the single stars ; 'Tis time for sleep, sleep, sleep, 'Tis time for sleep. The hermit thrush begins again, — Timorous eremite — That song of risen tears and pain, As if the one he loved was far away : ' Alas ! another day — ' ' And now Good Night, Good Night,' • Good Night.' A FLOCK OF SHEEP OVER the field the bright air clings and tingles In the gold sunset, while the red wind swoops ; Upon the nibbled knolls, and from the dingles. The sheep are gathering in frightened groups. From the wide field the laggards bleat and follow, A drover hurls his cry and hooting laugh ; And one young swain, too glad to whoop or hollo, Is singing wildly as he whirls his staff. Canadian Verse 32;^ Now crowding into little groups and eddies They swirl about and charge and try to pass ; The sheep-dog yelps and heads them off and steadies And rounds and moulds them in a seething mass. They stand a moment with their heads uplifted Till the wise dog barks loudly on the flank, They all at once roll over and are drifted Down the small hill toward the river bank. Covered with rusty marks and purple blotches Around the fallen bars they flow and leap ; The wary dog stands by and keenly watches As if he knew the name of every sheep. Now down the road the nimble sound decreases, The drovers cry, the dog delays and whines, And now with twinkling feet and glimmering fleeces They round and vanish past the dusky pines. The drove is gone, the ruddy wind grows colder, The singing youth puts up the heavy bars, Beyond the pines he sees the crimson smoulder, And catches in his eyes the early stars. MEMORY I SEE a schooner in the bay Cutting the current into foam ; One day she flies and then one day Comes like a swallow veering home. I hear a water miles away Go sobbing down the wooded glen ; One day it falls and then one day Comes sobbing on the wind again. 528 A Teasury of Remembrance goes but will not stay ; That cry of unpermitted pain One day departs and then one day Comes sobbing to my heart again. HOME SONG THERE is rain upon the window, There is wind upon the tree ; The rain is slowly sobbing, The wind is blowing free : It bears my weary heart To my own country. I hear the whitethroat calling. Hid in the hazel ring ; Deep in the misty hollows I hear the sparrows sing ; I see the bloodroot starting, All silvered with the spring. I skirt the buried reed-beds. In the starry solitude : My snowshoes creak and whisper, I have my ready blood. I hear the lynx-cub yelling In the gaunt and shaggy wood. I hear the wolf-tongued rapid Howl in the rocky break ; Beyond the pines at the portage I hear the trapper wake His En roulant ma bouU, From the clear gloom of the lake. O ! take me back to the homestead, To the great rooms warm and low, Canadian Verse 329 Where the frost creeps on the casement, When the year comes in with snow. Give me, give me the old folk Of the dear long ago. Oh, land of the dusky balsam, And the darling maple tree, Where the cedar buds and berries, And the pine grows strong and free ! My heart is weary and weary For my own country. LIFE AND DEATH T THOUGHT of death beside the lonely sea, -L That went beyond the limit of my sight, Seeming the image of his mastery, The semblance of his huge and gloomy might. But firm beneath the sea went the great earth. With sober bulk and adamantine hold, The water but a mantle for her girth, That played about her splendor fold on fold. And life seemed like this dear familiar shore. That stretched from the wet sands' last wavy crease, Beneath the sea's remote and sombre roar, To inland stillness and the wilds of peace. Death seems triumphant only here and there ; Life is the sovereign presence everywhere. OTTAWA CITY about whose brow the north winds blow. Girdled with woods and shod with river foam, Called by a name as old as Troy or Rome, Be great as they, but pure as thine own snow ; 330 A Treasury of Rather flash up amid the auroral glow, The Lamia city of the northern star, Than be so hard with craft or wild with war, Peopled with deeds remembered for their woe. Thou art too bright for guile, too young for tears, And thou wilt Hve to be too strong for Time j For he may mock thee with his furrowed frowns. But thou wilt grow in calm throughout the years, Cinctured with peace and crowned with power sublime. The maiden queen of all the towered towns. GEORGE FREDERICK SCOTT A REVERIE O TENDER love of long ago, O buried love, so near me still On tides of thought that ebb and flow, Beyond the empire of the will ; To-night with mingled joy and pain I fold thee to my heart again. And down the meadows, dear, we stray, And under woods still clothed in green. Though many springs have passed away And many harvests there have been, Since through the youth-enchanted land We wandered idly hand in hand. Then every brook was loud with song. And every tree was stirred with love, And every breeze that passed along Was like the breath of God above ; — And now to-night we go the ways We went in those sweet summer days. Canadian Verse 331 Dear love, thy dark and earnest eyes Look up as tender as of yore, And, purer than the evening skies, Thy cheeks have still the rose they wore ; I — I have changed, but thou art fair And fresh as in life's morning air. What little hands these were to chain So many years a wayward heart ; How slight a girlish form to reign As queen upon a throne apart In a man's thought, through hopes and fears, And all the changes of the years. Dear girl, behold, thy boy is now A man, and grown to middle-age ; The lines are deep upon his brow. His heart hath been griePs hermitage ; But hidden where no eye can see. His boyhood's love still lives for thee, — Still blooms above thy grave to-day, Where death hath harvested the land, Though such long years have passed away Since down the meadows hand in hand We went, with hearts too full to know How deep their love was long ago. EASTER ISLAND 'T'HERE lies a lone isle in the tropic seas, — A mountain isle, with beaches shining white, Where soft stars Smile upon its sleep by night. And every noonday fans it with a breeze. Here on a cliff, carved upward from the knees. Three uncouth statues of gigantic height. Upon whose brows the circling sea-birds light, Stare out to ocean over the tall trees. 332 A Treasury of Forever gaze they at the sea and sky, Forever hear the thunder of the main, Forever watch the ages die away ; And ever round them rings the phantom cry Of some lost race that died in human pain, Looking towards heaven, yet seeing no more than they. A DREAM OF THE PREHISTORIC NAKED and shaggy, they herded at eve by the sound of the seas. When the sky and the ocean were red as with blood from the battles of God, And the wind like a monster sped forth with its feet on the rocks and the trees, And the sands of the desert blew over the wastes of the drought-smitten sod. Here, mad with the torments of hunger, despairing they sank to their rest, Some crouching alone in their anguish, some gathered in groups on the beach ; And with tears almost human the mother looked down at the babe on her breast. And her pain was the germ of our love, and her cry was the root of our speech. Then a cloud from the sunset arose, like a cormorant gorged with its prey, And extended its wings on the sky till it smothered the stars in its gloom. And. ever the famine-worn faces were wet with the wind-carried spray. And dimly the voice of the deep to their ears was a portent of doom. Canadian Verse 333 And the dawn that rose up on the morrow, apparelled in gold like a priest, Through the smoke of the incense of morning, looked down on a vision of death ; For the vultures were gathered together and circled with joy to their feast On hearts that had ceased from their sorrow, and lips that had yielded their breath. Then the ages went by like a dream, and the shore- line emerged from the deep, And the stars as they watched through the years saw a change on the face of the earth ; For over the blanket of sand that had covered the dead in their sleep Great forests grew up with their green, and the sources of rivers had birth. And here in the aftertimes, man, the white faced and smooth-handed, came by. And he built him a city to dwell in and temples of prayer to his God ; He filled it with music and beauty, his spirit aspired to the sky, While the dead by whose pain it was fashioned lay under the ground that he trod. He wrenched from great Nature her secrets, the stars in their courses he named, He weighed them and measured their orbits; he harnessed the horses of steam ; He captured the lightnings of heaven, the waves of the ocean he tamed, — And ever the wonder amazed him as one that awakes from a dream. But under the streets and the markets, the banks and the temples of prayer. Where humanity laboured and plotted, or loved with an instinct divine, 334 A Treasury of Deep down in the silence and gloom of the earth that had shrouded them there Were the fossil remains of a skull and the bones of what once was a spine. Enfolded in darkness forever, untouched by the changes above, And mingled as clay with the clay which the hands of the ages had brought, Were the hearts in whose furnace of anguish was smelted the gold of our love, And the brains from whose twilight of instinct has risen the dawn of our thought. But the law, that was victor of old with its heel on the neck of the brute. Still tramples our hearts in the darkness, still grinds down our face in the dust ; We are sown in corruption and anguish — whose fingers will gather the fruit? Our life is but lent for a season — for whom do we hold it in trust ? In the vault of the sky overhead, in the gulfs that lie under our feet. The wheels of the universe turn, and the laws of the universe blend ; The pulse of our life is in tune with the rhythm of forces that beat In the surf of the furthest star's sea, and are spent and regathered to spend. Yet we trust in the will of the Being whose fingers have spangled the night With the dust of a myriad worlds, and who speaks in the thunders of space ; Though we see not the start or the finish, though vainly we cry for the light, Let us mount in the glory of manhood and meet the God-Man face to face. Canadian Verse 335 DAWN THE immortal spirit hath no bars To circumscribe its dwelling-place ; My soul hath pastured with the stars Upon the meadow-lands of space. My mind and ear at times have caught, From realms beyond our mortal reach, The utterance of Eternal Thought, Of which all nature is the speech. And high above the seas and lands. On peaks just tipped with morning light, My dauntless spirit mutely stands With eagle wings outspread for flight. VAN ELSEN GOD spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul ; He spake by sickness first, and made him whole ; Van Elsen heard Him not, Or soon forgot. God spake to him by wealth ; the world outpoured Its treasures at his feet, and called him lord ; Van Elsen's heart grew fat And proud thereat. God spake the third time when the great world smiled, And in the sunshine slew his little child ; Van Elsen like a tree Fell hopelessly. Then in the darkness came a voice which said, "As thy heart bleedeth, so My heart hath bled; As I have need of thee. Thou needest Me." 336 A Treasury of That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet, And kneeling by the narrow winding sheet, Praised Him with fervent breath Who conquered death. CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY THE WALKER OF THE SNOW SPEED on, speed on, good Master ! The camp lies far away ; We must cross the haunted valley Before the close of day. How the snow-blight came upon me I will tell you as I go, — The blight of the Shadow hunter. Who walks the midnight snow. To the cold December heaven Came the pale moon and the stars, As the yellow sun was sinking Behind the purple bars. The snow was deeply drifted Upon the ridges drear, That lay for miles around me And the camps for which we steer. 'Twas silent on the hill-side. And by the solemn wood. No sound of life or motion To break the solitude, Save the wailing of the moose-bird With a plaintive note and low, And the skating of the red leaf Upon the fro2en snow. Canadian Verse 33i7 And said I, " Though dark is falling, And far the camp must be, Yet my heart it would be lightsome If I had but company." And then I sang and shouted, Keeping measure, as I sped, To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe As it sprang beneath my tread. Nor far into the valley Had I dipped upon my way, When a dusky figure joined me. In a capuchon of grey. Bending upon the snow-shoes. With a long and limber stride ; And I hailed the dusky stranger As we travelled side by side. But no token of communion Gave he by word or look, And the fear-chill fell upon me At the crossing of the brook. For I saw by the sickly moonlight As I followed, bending low. That the walking of the stranger Left no footmarks on the snow. Then the fear-chill gathered o'er me. Like a shroud around me cast. As I sank upon the snow-drift Where the Shadow-hunter passed. And the other-trappers found me. Before the break of day. With my dark hair blanched and whitened As the snow in which I lay. Y 338 A Treasury of But they spoke not as they raised me ; For they knew that in the night I had seen the Shadow-hunter, And had withered in his blight. Sancta Maria speed us ! The sun is falling low, — Before us lies the valley Of the Walker of the Snow ! FRANCIS SHERMAN THE BUILDER COME and let me make thee glad In this house that I have made ! Nowhere (I am unafraid !) Canst thou find its like on Earth : Come, and learn the perfect worth Of the labor I have had. I have fashioned it for thee, Every room and pictured wall ; Every marble pillar tall, Every door and window-place ; All were done that thy fair face Might look kindlier on me. Here, moreover, thou shalt find Strange, delightful, far-brought thuigs : Dulcimers, whose tightened strings Once dead women loved to touch ; (Deeming they could mimic much Of the music of the wind !) Heavy candlesticks of brass ; Chess-men carved of ivory ; Canadian Verse 33$ Mass-books written perfectly By some patient monk of old ; Flagons wrought of thick, red gold, Set with gems and colored glass ; Burnished armor, once some knight (Dead, I deem, long years ago !) Its great strength was glad to know When his lady needed him : (Now that both his eyes are dim Both his sword and shield are bright !) Come, and share these things with me, Men have died to leave to us ! We shall find life glorious In this splendid house of love ; Come, and claim thy part thereof, — I have fashioned it for thee ! BETWEEN THE BATTLES LET us bury him here. Where the maples are red ! He is dead, And he died thanking God that he fell with the fall of the leaf and the year. Where the hillside is sheer. Let it echo our tread Whom he led ; Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who never knew fear. Ere he died they had fled ; Yet they heard his last cheer Ringing clear, — When we lifted him up, he would fain have pursued, but grew dizzy instead. j40 A Treasury of Break his sword and his spear ! Let this last prayer be said By the bed We have made underneath the wet wind in the maple trees moaning so drear : " O Lord God, by the red Sullen end of the year That is here, We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our swords till his slayers be dead ! " From "A PRELUDE" O COVERING grasses ! O unchanging trees ! Is it not good to feel the odorous wind Come down upon you with such harmonies Only the giant hills can ever find ? O little leaves, are ye not glad to be ? Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind, That falls at noontide over you and me ? O gleam of birches lost among the firs. Let your high treble chime in silverly Across the half-imagined wind that stirs A muffled organ-music from the pines ! Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines Till the young maples are no longer gray. And stronger grows their faint, uncertain lines ; Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day, And purpler swell the cones hung overhead, Until the sound of their far feet who stray Canadian Verse 341 About the wood, fades from me ; and, instead, I hear a robin singing — not as one That calls unto his mate, uncomforted — But as one sings a welcome to the sun. A LITTLE WHILE BEFORE THE FALL WAS DONE A LITTLE while bef6re the fall was done A day came when the frail year paused and said : " Behold ! a little while and I am dead ; Wilt thou not choose, of all the old dreams, one?" Then dwelt I in a garden, where the sun Shone always, and the roses all were red ; Far off the great sea slept, and overhead Among the robins matins had begun. And I knew not at all it was a dream Only, and that the year was near its close ; Garden and sunshine, robin-song and rose. The half-heard murmur and the distant gleam Of all the unvext sea, a little space Were as a mist above the Autumn's face. GOLDWIN SMITH FLOSSY (WITH HER OWN PORTRAIT) TO HER MISTRESS ON HER WEDDING DAY OF all the tiny race of Skye, The prettiest, so friends say, am I ; My name is Flossy, well-bestowed, A silkier coat Skye never shewed ! With sable back, and silver head. Blue bow, and feathery paws outspread. As on my crimson rug I lie. What fairer sight for painter's eye ? 34^ A Treasury of Short are my legs, yet mark my pace Whene'er I cats or postmen chase ! In human language if I fail, What so expressive as my tail ? See how it wags, as if to say, " Dear mistress, a glad weddfng day ! " Though bounded is my being's range. And knows no world beyond The Grange- A universe by half-a-span Less than the universe of man — Yet am I Queen of all I see. The household are but slaves to me. Let others toil the livelong day, I play and sleep, and sleep and play ; Or in my carriage proudly ride With two fair ladies at my side. Gaily I live, by all caressed. And in a doting mistress blessed ! Affection's happiness I prove. And see no fault in those I love ; Nor when my little bones are laid Beneath the turf on which I played. Nor when the rug which now I press Each winter's eve is Flossieless, Shall Flossy die ; but pictured here To her loved mistress still be dear. LYMAN C. SMITH CANADA TO COLUMBIA O ELDER sister, though thou didst of yore Forsake thy mother's ancient hall and flee To be the chosen bride of Liberty, She cherishes her grief and wrath no more, Nor seeks her broken circle to restore. Yet fain would clasp thee to her breast again. But thou aloof uncertain dost remain. Canadian Verse 343 O canst thou not the one mistake forget Of her that bore thee, taught thy lips to frame Thy early words, thy God in prayer to name ; That in the paths of right and justice set Thy feet, where not infrequent walk they yet ; That stood devoted at thy youthful side, Nor e'en her blood in thy defence denied ? But if thy younger sister yet abide Content and happy in her mother's hall, Nor feel the bond of blood a menial thrall. But, leaning heart to heart, of choice confide In mother yet as dearest guard and guide — If thou wilt not thy mother's love regain. Why must thy cradle sister plead in vain ? Yet all the best that bubbles in our veins We sisters drew from that one Saxon breast. Where oftentimes thy maiden cheek has pressed, Mine resting still in loving trust remains. Our bonds of blood should be unbroken chains ! Obey thy heart and grasp the proffered hand. Then all the world our wills may not withstand. From "A DAY WITH HOMER" METHOUGHT the stream of Time had back ward rolled. And I was standing on the fruitful plain That lay between the sea and ancient Troy. I saw one standing on the curving beach Whose hoary locks were playthings for the wind That freshening came across the swelling waves I listened to the mystic music of a voice That chanted to their measured beat, in tones Now whispering soft and low as rustling leaves, Now rolling with the boom of tumbling waves. Now clanging as the clash of brazen arms. 344 A Treasury of There sat the virgin queen whose buskined feet Are swift to chase at early dawn, across The breezy hills, the flying stag that falls By winged shaft shot from her sounding bow ; And Venus, favored child of mighty Jove, With perfect moulded arm and breast of snow, Mirth-lighted eye and soft-caressing hand ; — Love, fairest form that ever found a home On earth, or in the golden halls of heaven. WILLIAM WYE SMITH THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE O, THE East is but the West, with the sun a little hotter; And the pine becomes a palm by the dark Egyptian water ; And the Nile's like many a stream we know that fills its brimming cup ; We'll think it is the Ottawa as we track the batteaux up ! Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the batteaux up ! It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top. O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river ; But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sun- beams quiver ; And the mocking mirage spreads its view afar on either hand ; But strong we bend the sturdy par towards the Southern land ! Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the batteaux up ! It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top ! Canadian Verse 345 O, we've tracked the Rapids up, and o'er many a portage crossing ; And it's often such we've seen, though so loud the waves are tossing ! Then it's homeward when the run is o'er ! o'er stream and ocean deep — To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows sleep ! Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the batteaux up ! It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top! And it yet may come to pass that the hearts and hands so ready May be sought again to help when some poise is off the steady ! And the Maple and the Pine be matched with British Oak the while. As once beneath Egyptian suns the Canadians on the Nile! Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the batteaux up ! It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top! ALBERT E. S. SMYTHE THE FORGOTTEN POET WITH fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud. The little song I sing with so much care. Sweet for a day, will swoon upon the flood Of days that will forget my song was fair. The master-song is mighty rushing wind Mixed with all fragrance, strong with a great breath From cloudland, and the climes that win the mind. And full of pulses to awaken death. 346 A Treasury of Full well I know the storm will smite my flower, My tiny short-stemmed blossom of the sod ; But when my flower and I have lived an hour I'll bear it on the wind away to God : And wind and flower and spirit may adorn Some Eden-garden where new worlds are born. DEATH THE REVEALER I KNOW that death is God's interpreter: His quiet voice makes gracious meanings clear In grievous things that vex us deeply here Between the cradle and the sepulchre. We, gazing into darkness, greatly err, And fear the shrouded shadow of a fear Till dawn reveals the vestments of a Seer With gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh. There is a mystery I cannot read Around the mastery I no more dread ; For love is but a heart to brood and bleed, And life is but a dream among the dead Whose wisdom waits for us. God give me heed Till the day break and shadows all be fled ! HIRAM LADD SPENCER THE RIVER BY cliffs grown gray, as men grow gray With weariness and sorrow. Awhile I pause, and then away. And in the wild and restless Bay I lose myself to-morrow, Canadian Verse 347 I turn the wheels of many mills, By many islands dally ; I gossip with the daffodils, And to my bosom take the rills That from the woodlands sally. I love the songs that childhood sings — Its smiles and roguish glances, — A picture paint of many things That o'er the mind a halo flings As onward time advances. I listen to the tender chime Of city bells a-swaying : O dower of youth 1 O wealth of time ! O pleasant dreams ! O hopes sublime, When all the world's a-swaying ! By cliffs grown gray, as men grow gray With weariness and sorrow. Awhile I pause, and then away, Like you who loiter here to-day, And lose myself to-morrow. A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME WHERE, where will be the birds that sing, A hundred years to come ? The flowers that now in beauty spring, A hundred years to come ? The rosy cheek. The lofty brow. The heart that beats So gaily now : Where, where will be our hopes and fears, Joy's pleasant smiles and Sorrow's tears, A hundred years to come ? 34^ A Treasury of Who'll press for gold this crowded street, A hundred years to come ? Who'll tread yon aisles with willing feet, A hundred years to come ? Pale, trembling Age, And fiery Youth, And Childhood with Its brow of truth ; The rich, the poor, on land and sea, Where will the mighty millions be, A hundred years to come ? We all within our graves will sleep, A hundred years to come ; No living soul for us will weep, A hundred years to come ; But other men Our homes will fill, And others then Our lands will till. And other birds will sing as gay. And bright the sunshine as to-day, A hundred years to come. EZRA HURLBURT STAFFORD CHINOOK (Af Stampede Pass) MILDLY through the mists of night Floats a breath of flowers sweet. Warmly through the waning light Wafts a wind with perfumed feet, Down the gorge and mountain brook. With the sound of wings — Chinook ! Canadian Verse 349 By no trail his spirits go, Through the mountain passes high, Where the moon is on the snow And the screaming eagles fly, Where the yawning canyon roars With memories of misty shores. On still prairies, mountain-locked, Frost lies white upon the grass, But where the witch of winter walked. Now the summer's masquers pass ; And at May's refreshing breath Tender flowers rose from death. And the breeze, that on the Coast Wakened softly at the morn. Is on snowy prairies lost When the twilight pales forlorn ; Sweet Chinook ! who breathes betimes Summer's kiss in winter climes. THE STRANGE VESSEL {Quebec, 1759) AND no one saw, while it was dark, The outline of a sweeping barque, Without a flag or light ; And no one counted, one by one, Along her decks each silent gun. That glimmered through the night. And far above the water's swell, Upon a guarded citadel. Arose the laugh of men ; But some upon the ramparts there J'-elt Evil hurrying through the air, And never laughed again. 350 A Treasury of The creak of sail, the splash of oar, Were heard by none upon the shore ; And in the forest vale None knew the ambush that was kept, Nor saw a thousand men who crept Along the narrow trail. When day at last was breaking forth There came two eagles flying north. And on the morn awoke The solemn pageantry of war, And o'er the shining hills afar Floated the rolling smoke. THE LAST ORISON C HAPER of breathing hves, and Lord of all above. Thy name I learned beside my mother's knee ; She drew me to her arms, and said that Thou wert Love — Oh, art Thou Love to me ? I cannot rear my thoughts amid the golden spheres, Where roll the stars about Thy throne on high. But here in lowly wise I call on Thee with tears. And feel Thy presence nigh. Childlike to Thee I looked when came the night of fear. On Thee I laid my sorrows of the day ; The whole earth spake of One who seemed to be so near. It was not hard to pray. The bolted doors that lock the corridors of Time, And bar the awful avenues of Space, My soul at last shall pass, and then, O dream sublime ! I shall gaze on Thy face. Canadian Verse 351 ALEXANDER CHARLES STEWART From "THE WANDERER ADIEU to these ! — Niagara, thy roar Is as the voice of freedom sounding far, And thundering Liberty to either shore, With boom that puts to shame the breath of war. The clouds which hover softly o'er thee are Symbolical of peace ; while thou, fierce flood. Hast all the fury of a plunging star. Churning its liquid flames to foaming blood, And overturning worlds that have for ages stood. Forever pour thy dashing speed along Between the homes of Freedom and the Free ; And chant forever thy resounding song To hearts that may re-echo liberty. The first who dares destroy thy purity. Or bridge thee for enslavers, may thy roar Cease like a thunderbolt, and o'er thy sea The chill of horror fall and wrap him o'er, Dry up thy foaming flood and be thy voice no more ! PHILLIPS STEWART HOPE IN shadowy calm the boat Sleeps by the dreaming oar. The green hills are afloat Beside the silver shore. Youth hoists the white-winged sail, Love takes the longing oar — The oft-told fairy tale Beside the silver shore. 552 A Treasury of Spft lip to lip, and heart To heart, and hand to hand, And wistful eyes depart Unto another strand. And lovely as a star They tremble o'er the wave, With eager wings afar, Unto the joys they crave. In a sweet trance they fare Unto the wind and rain, With wind-tossed waves of hair, And ne'er return again. And at the drifting side, Changed faces in the deep They see, a changing tide. Like phantoms in a sleep. Slow hands furl the torn sail Without one silver-gleam, And, sad and wan and pale, They gaze into a dream. From " CORYDON AND AMARYLLIS " PALE MELANCHOLY, faithfully thou lov'st The human soul when youth and passion fail ; How precious all things grow beneath thy smile ! Sad sister of the poet's lonely hours. Thy clinging arms embrace us all, thy feet Are in all paths, and Nature saddens 'neath Thine eyes. The lotus and the poppy have Thee in their dreamy veins ; thine image dwells For ever in the jewelled wine ; thou art The hungry beauty of Love's crescent eyes, Canadian Verse 353 The tremor of white hands, the ashy gleam Of noble brows, and thou dost startle Love's Young dream into a dying swoon, and strew A flowery sadness on some new-made grave. From " DE PROFUNDIS " I HEAR the wondrous lyre Of the blind bard, and see the Grecian throng About Troy's lofty walls, and Hector slain, The white-stained face and blackened crest, And great Achilles crumbling on his pyre. Then comes Ulysses sighing for his home Afar, leaving the ruins of old Troy For Ithaca, where oft, a glad-faced boy, He played amid the ripening vines and heard His father's voice ere he began to roam The weary waves. His heart is stirred With thoughts of home, and son, and wife. And ever Circe holds him in her arms. How have I longed to drift on some fair isle, Like thee, from feverish alarms, And voices of reproach, and earth's vain strife- Some urnless land beyond the wile Of grief and gold, where man can quite forget All pain, and sleep and dream not of regret. BARRY STRATON LOVE'S HARVEST THE furrows of life Time is plowing, But we mourn not the Spring which departs, For the husbandman Fate, in his sowing, Scattered love in the soil of our hearts, z 354 A Treasury of The sunshine of virtue and beauty Shall wake the sweet seedhngs to bloom ; The warm dews of mercy and duty Shall moisten the tractable loam. Oh, blow, grains of love to the binding ! Oh, blush, golden fruit on the hill ! 'Tis a dreary, long day to the grinding. But a short, pleasant way from the mill. But fondness and faith will be growing, Be the sky clear or cloudy above. When fortune is ripe to the mowing We shall gather our harvest of love ! CHARITY COME ! walk with the world and go down to the destitute homes of the poor, Where weeping is louder than laughter, where sorrow and famine abide ; Where Azrael reaps a full harvest and darkens each desolate door ; And learn of the lowly and meek to lessen your thoughtless pride. I have seen my Lady flash by — a beauteous vision of ease ; I have seen the widow at work till the shadows of night fled the day ; I have seen God's poor drink the cup of sorrow and toil to the lees ; I have seen the wicked get wealth, and the good go empty away. " The poor are unworthy, and sinning is found In the homes of the low. If we give we but pander to vice : the beggars our gifts will aKuse." Canadian Verse 355 So say you, and pass in your pride, but your heart cries out as you go, "The vile are the first to ape virtue; the wicked the first to accuse ! " Communist ? Not I ! But I hold that the miser who hugs to his heart What for him is but clay and a curse, but to some would be blessing and bread, Is selling his merciful Saviour. Better throw down the price and depart ; Better, belike, do as Judas, put a rope to his miserable head. 'T would be well with you, Midas, to pity the poor who are tarrying here. They may count to your just condemnation the tears which their hungry babes weep. Though you harden your heart for a lifetime, and turn an adamant ear. Their wails may pierce through to your cofifin and trouble your long, last sleep. How read you the Scriptures ? What say they ? " These three with the world now abide, Hope, charity, faith, and the greatest is charity — blessed above all." Our hands should be fruitful and open ; the field for our giving is wide, And blessing shall follow the gifts, though the power to give may be small. Then time may toil on with its tumults, its troubles and tempests of tears ; The sweet, voiceless shadows shall hold us till striving and sorrow are past. We shall wake full refreshed to the judgment, though we slumber for eons of years ; And the Lord shall shew us His glory, we shall be like to God at the last. 35<5 A Treasury of AMERICA COLUMBUS came to thee and called thee new ! New World to him, but thy rich blood, bright gold, Lay cold where once the fires manifold Raged fiercely. New ? Primeval forests grew, Had fallen, and were coal ! Thine eagles flew Undaunted then as now, and where the bold South Rocky Mountains rise in fold on fold The Aztec to his God the victim slew. The tropic verdure of thy far north world Had passed forever, moon-like fading out. Sky-piercing mounts have reared them from the seas — The lost Atlantis has been depth-ward hurled, Since thou wert new !— Old ! all thy landmarks shout, And bid us read thy waiting mysteries. ARTHUR J. STRINGER A SONG IN AUTUMN OLOVE, can the tree lure the summer bird Again to the bough where it used to sing. When never a throat in the autumn is heard. And never the glint of a vagrant wing ? Love, Love, can the lute lure the old-time touch Unto fingers forgetful of melody ? And we, who have loved for a time overmuch. Bring back the old life as it used to be ? Nay, though there is little in me to love. Come back as the bird to a songless bough : Back now as you came when the blue was above, And summer gleamed soft on your girlish brow. Canadian Verse ^57 Come home, O Heart, for the autumn is grey. And I, who have looked for your coming so long, En-isled in your arms, in the old lost way Shall dream our December estranged by a song. So come, Vernal-Heart, now summer is flown ; Let autumn elude the return of the rime, And the sad sea change with the season alone : Not us who have loved — loved well in our time. Shall summer not know the autumnal touch ? Shall love when forlorn of the spring be green ? Or we, who were lovers of old overmuch, Regain what is lost, or relume what has been ? BESIDE THE MARTYR'S MEMORIAL (Oxford) THEIR very gods, it seems, we have forgot ; And drawing back the riven veil once more. Too late we learn that theirs the happier lot Who had their foolish gods to perish for. CANADA TO ENGLAND SANG one of England in his island home : "Her veins are million, but her heart is one;" And looked from out his wave-bound homeland isle To us who dwell beyond its western sun. And we among the northland plains and lakes, We youthful dwellers on a younger land, Turn eastward to the wide Atlantic waste. And feel the clasp of England's outstretched hand. .3j8 A Treasury of For we are they who wandered far from home To swell the glory of an ancient name ; Who journeyed seaward on an exile long, When fortune's twilight to our island came. But every keel that cleaves the midway waste Binds with a silent thread our sea-cleft strands, Till ocean dwindles and the sea-waste shrinks, And England mingles with a hundred lands. And weaving silently all far-off shores A thousand singing wires stretch round the earth, Or sleep still vocal in their ocean depths. Till all lands die to make one glorious birth. So we remote compatriots reply, And feel the world-task only half begun : " We are the girders of the ageing earth. Whose veins are million, but whose heart is one." BEETHOVEN HE wandered down, an Orpheus wiJder-souled, From some melodious world of love and song, And through our earthly vales strange music rolled. Who heard that alien note could only long. As pale Eurydice once longed, to know again The happier ways, the more harmonious air. Where once they heard that half-remembered strain, — Where once their exiled feet were wont to fare. A gleam of some strange golden life now gone, A sad remembrance of celestial things. Some old-time glory, like the gods', outshone From men's rapt souls, wherein a memory clings Of that diviner day, from them withdrawn. For all the dreams that smouldered in man's breast, And all the clearer ways he yearned to reach, — The fugitive ideal, the old unrest, — Found utterance in song, that slept in speech. Canadian Verse 359 And like a minstrel in an alien land, Who sings his native strains while men crowd round And hearken long, but cannot understand, He sang to us, and through the unknown sound We caught a passing glimmer of the soul Those foreign runes concealed, and strove to glean From out the uninterpretable whole Some earthlier harmony. It must have been He heard far-off that low uranian strain That only maddens him who vainly hears ; For they, the gods, soon saw the god-like pain That mocked a man, and closed his listening ears. ALAN SULLIVAN VENICE IF you would see Venice as she is. Wander by night in silence and alone Among her towers and sculptured palaces. And read the story she has writ in stone ; Then, as you read, she will upon you cast The fascination of her wondrous past. Muse on, and let the silent gondolier Wind at his will 'mid tortuous, twisting ways And broad lagoons, with waters wide and clear. On whose unruffled breast the moonbeam plays ; And move not, speak not, for the mystery Of Venice is with you on the sea. Pass, if you will, beneath the five great domes Of old Saint Mark's ; watch how the glittering height Soars in quick curves ; see how each sunbeam roams And fills the nave with soft pure amber light j 360 A Treasury of This is the heart of Venice, and the tonfb Which folds her story in its sacred gloom. So leave her sunlight, enter now her cells, By frowning black-browed ports and massy bars. Where pestilence in foul dank vapor dwells, Far, far from sun and day, from moon and stars ; The only sound when whispering waters glide In on the bosom of a sluggish tide. Then turn again into her solitudes, — Things of to-day will faint and fade like smoke, — Drift through the darkened nooks where silence broods, Let memory fall upon you like a cloak : Venice will rise around you as of old, Decked out in marble, amethyst, and gold. But that was years ago; to-day the notes Of wild free song have left her silver streets ; Her blazoned banner now no longer floats In aureate folds, no more the sunrise greets ; She lives but in a past so strong and brave It serves alike for monument and grave. THE WHITE CANOE THERE'S a whisper of life in the gray dead trees, And a murmuring wash on the shore. And a breath of the south in the loitering breeze, To tell that a winter is o'er. While, free at last from its fetters of ice. The river is clear and blue. And cries with a tremulous, quivering voice For the launch of the White Canoe. Oh, gently the ripples will kiss her side. And tenderly bear her on ; For she is the wandering phantom bride Of the river she rests upon ; Canadian Verse 361 She is loved with a love than cannot forget, A passion so strong and true That never a billow has risen yet To peril the White Canoe. So come when the moon is enthroned in the sky, And the echoes are sweet and low, And Nature is full of the mystery That none but her children know. Come, taste of the rest that the weary crave. But is only revealed to a few : When there's trouble on shore, there's peace on the wave, Afloat in the White Canoe. BERTRAM TENNYSON GORDON SON of Britannia's isle. There by the storied Nile, The dust has claimed him e'er his work was done ; But not for that alone Has Fame's clear trumpet blown Most mournful music o'er her bravest son. Alas ! for England, when the dead Fell by a coward's hand her honor fled ! No English squadrons broke Through the thick battle smoke, At that last hour when the hero fell ; He hoped to see again (But ah ! that hope was vain) Those English colors he had served so well ; He fell, forsaken, undismayed, True to the land that thus his trust betrayed. 362 A Treasury of His was the hardest part, That tries the staunchest heart ; Better the headlong charge when hundreds die, Than the relentless foe Watching to strike the blow, And the slow waiting while the bullets fly— j- No friends, no hope, but, like a star, High duty shining through the clouds of war. No stately Gothic fane Roofs in the hero slain, But the wide sky above the desert sands ; No graven stone shall tell Where at the last he fell, And, if interred at all, by alien hands, — Thrust in a shallow grave to wait The last loud summons to the fallen great. No more can England boast Her name from coast to coast Shall be a passport to her wandering sons ; Once they could freely roam, As in their Island home. Safe far abroad as underneath her guns ; Or, should mishap for vengeance call. Swift would her anger on the oppressor fall. But let the meed of blame Fall with its weight of shame On those who lacked the courage to command ; The heart of England beats In London's thronging streets. And in the quiet places of the land. Still to its old traditions true. In spite of all our rulers failed to da Canadian Verse 363 EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON A DAY-DREAM WHEN, high above the busy street, Some hidden voice poured Mary's song. Oh, then my soul forgot the heat And roaring of the city's throng : Then London bells and cries fell low. Blent to a far and murmured tone That changed and chimed in mystic flow. Weaving a spell for me alone. No more the towering blocks were there, No longer pressed the crowds around : All freely roamed a magic air Within what vast horizon's bound : Beneath a sky of lucent gray Far stretched my circled northern plain, Wild sunflowers decked a prairie gay, And one dear Autumn came again. Before me trod a winsome maid, And oh, the mien with which she stept ! Her soft brown hair, without a braid. Hiding the shoulders where it swept ; And glancing backward now she gave To me the smile so true and wise, The radiant look from eyes so grave That spoke her inmost Paradise. Divinely on my daughter went. The wild flowers leaning from her tread ; Dreaming she lived, I watched intent Till, ah, the gracious vision fled ; The plain gave place to blocks of grey, The sunlit heaven to murky cloud — Staring I stood in common day. And never knew the street so loud, 364 A Treasury of THE SONG-SPARROW WHEN plowmen ridge the steamy brown, And yearning meadows sprout to green, And all the spires and towers of town Blent soft with wavering mists are seen : When quickened woods in freshening hue Along Mount Royal billowy swell, When airs caress and May is new, Oh, then my shy bird sings so well ! Because the blood-roots flock in white, And blossomed branches scent the air. And mounds with trillium flags are dight, And myriad dells of violets rare ; Because such velvet leaves unclose. And newborn rills all chiming ring, And blue the dear St Lawrence flows — My timid bird is forced to sing. A joyful flourish lilted clear, — Four notes — then fails the frolic song. And memories of a vanished year The wistful cadences prolong : " A vanished year — O, heart too sore — I cannot sing ; " thus ends the lay : Long silence, then awakes once more His song, ecstatic of the May ! THE BAD YEAR MAY, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June No blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves. And arid Summer wilted these full soon, And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves ; Plaintive October saddened for the year, But wild November raged that hope was past, Canadian Verse 365 Shrieking, "All days of life are made how drear — Mad whirl of snow ! and Death comes driving fast." Yet sane December, when the winds fell low. And cold, calm light with sunshine tinkled clear. Hearkened to bells more sweet than long ago, ^nd meditated in a mind sincere : — " Beneath these snows shining from yon red west How sleep the blooms of some delighted May, And June shall riot, lovely as the best That flung their odors forth on all their way : Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath, Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air. Her gentle colors" — sane December saith " They come, they come— O heart, sigh not ' They were.'" JOHN STUART THOMSON THE VALE OF ESTABELLE THEY hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell, The little time-stained headstones in the vale of Estabelle. I often looked across them when I lounged upon the hill; I never walked among them, nor could cross the moody rill. I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face. And feared at night to meet their ghosts haunting a lonely place. The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, , dismal toll ; The aged by the cranny heard, and sighed : " How grows Death's roll ! " 366 A Treasury of Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring ; But seasons through I never heard a bird in grave- yard sing. A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eve Look at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve. The church was old; its tower bold, and dust be- dimmed the panes ; The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains. The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came ; " 'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame." They often asked me why it was I shunned the head- stones so ; " I fear them not," I said, " to some new grave with you I'll go." I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep ; I'd walk behind, — he was so old, — there'd be no need to weep. The morrow morn came darkly ; there was awe with- in the town ; Three days of dread before they said, " 'Twas pretty Alice Brown." Oh ! 'tis not she of hazel eyes ; of plaited golden hair ; Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care ! Canadian Verse 367 Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh, That kissed the rose aswoon : tell me, did God let Alice die? "The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town ; They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice Brown." I linger in the village still ; I cannot go away ; I walk the ways alone at eve ; sometimes I pause and pray ; — It is not much I say of her ; I say it very low ; But somehow it is sweet to think, " Perhaps the spirits know." One house there is I never pass ; one way I never look; I never climb the hill at eve ; I never cross the brook ; But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone. Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most: "Alone." They hide within the hollows and they creep into the dell, Those little crumbling headstones in the vale of Estabelle. EVEN-TIME IN meadows deep with hay, I see The reapers' steel flash sparklingly ; And bobolinks at play ; — And in the iris-bordered coves Frail lilies, shaded by the groves. Moor all the golden day. 368 A. Treasury of I watch the flicker rise on sun-lit wings High where a pewee sings, — Apollo's messenger To the lone piper of the fir. Where rolling western hills look like Waves of aerial seas, the sunsets strike ; And wrecking, dye the clouds with gold. Moon-wheeled, Eve's chariot is rolled On through the high star-spangled doors, To Night's dark murmurous shores. LATE AUTUMN BEHOLD ! the maize fields set their pennons free, .^ In this rich golden ending of the year ; ^hd asters bloom upon the sunny lea, Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere. Deep in the dell, the gentle turtle-head Lifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells. And cardinals ring out a richer chime ; — A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cells A farewell taste of honeyed spring, for dead Is all the clover on its fragrant bed ; — And bloomless rose vines o'er the trellis climb. Sometimes across the still and cheerless night, The farewells of the flocks are softly heard, As to the warm savannahs they take flight. Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird. And numerous winds are murmuring sudden loss, Like cries of Hylas through the Mysian land ; Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns played By tearful maidens of a funeral band. Of all the wealth of Autumn now is left But that to wound the memory ; bereft Is he who wanders in this barren glade. Canadian Verse 369 No more I linger in the Lydian wood, And wait Silenos by each dell and spring ; No more the gloaming seems or warm or good When everything of joy has taken wing. I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain ; I walk an endless line of cypress shade ; I wreck upon the tossing coast of night, When everything of loveliness light made Dissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain, That sweeps interminably o'er the plain, And leaves the dying world in piteous blight. The reaper Winter cometh on apace, And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod. And parsley wild of timid peaceful face, — Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod. The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leaf From the poor bough that treasured it in hope ; — ■ The chilling mists unroll their purple folds. Leaving the outcast through the wilds to grope, Or fall beneath a silent, hopeless grief. Gathered to ruin with the forsaken sheaf. And all the wreckage of the blasted wolds. FRANCIS L. DOMINICK WATERS From "THE WATER LILY" THEN sighed the Wandering Angel sore, Arid turned one lingering look, and last, Upon the dead ; and, rising o'er The lake, the groves, the dell, he passed On sailing pinions, broad and bright. Along the footsteps of the night, And down the pathway of the wind. Until he faded westward far, — A glory in the deep enshrined, 2 A 370 A Treasury of The brother of the morning star — And dropt upon the burning bar Of the horizon, and passed on Under its shadow, and was gone. And loud and shrilly sang the lark ; And lovely waxed the risen day, And laughed through every dewy spark That on the groves and meadows lay ; And all the level leas o'erflowed With light ; and all the copses glowed Throughout ; and over every slope Trembled a glory, like the hope Of future summers, seen through tears Of autumn, down the rolling years ; And from the bosom of the brook A thousand happy memories shook ; And on the still and smiling lake The lingering lilies seemed to wake Once more into their bygone bloom. And breathed a soul of fresh perfume : And all the sombre cypress lit In the light shaking over it ; And even the hoary willow took A smile from Nature's happy look. ARTHUR WEIR A SNOWSHOE SONG HILLOO, hilloo, hiUoo, hiUoo ! Gather, gather ye men in white ; The wind blows keenly, the moon is bright. The sparkling snow lies firm and white : Tie on the shoes, no time to lose, We must be over the hill to-night. Canadian Verse 371 Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo ! Swiftly in single file we go, The city is soon left far below : Its countless lights like diamonds glow, And as we climb we hear the chime Of church bells stealing o'er the snow. Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo ! Like winding sheet about the dead O'er hill and dale the snow is spread, And silences our hurried tread. The pines bend low, and to and fro The maples toss their boughs o'erhead. Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo ! We laugh to scorn the angry blast, The mountain top is gained and past. Descent begins, 'tis ever fast, — A short quick run, and toil is done. We reach the welcome inn at last. Shake off, shake off the clinging snow. Unloose the shoe, the sash untie. Fling tuque and mittens lightly by. The chimney fire is blazing high. And, richly stored, the festive board Awaits the merry company. Remove the fragments of the feast 1 The steaming coffee, waiter, bring. Now tell the tale, the chorus sing. And let the laughter loudly ring. Here's to our host, come drink the toast, Then up ! for time is on the wing. Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo ! The moon is sinking out of sight. 372 A Treasury of Across the sky dark clouds take flight, And dimly looms the mountain height. Tie on the shoes, no time to lose, We must be home again to-night. VOYAGEUR SONG OUR mother is the good green earth, Our rest her bosom broad ; And sure, in plenty and in dearth, Of our six feet of sod, We welcome Fate with careless mirth And dangerous paths have trod, Holding our lives of little worth And fearing none but God. Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slide Above the fretted sand. Our frail canoes, like shadows, glide Swift through the silent khd ; Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide Rocks rise on every hand, Our path will we confess denied. Nor cowardly seek the strand. The foam may leap like frightened cloud That hears the tempest scream, The waves may fold their whitened shroud Where ghastly ledges gleam ; With muscles strained and backs well bowed, And poles that breaking seem, We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proud Itself our lord did deem. The broad traverse is cold and deep. And treacherous smiles it hath. And with its sickle of death doth reap With woe for aftermath : Canadian Verse -^7^ But though the wind-vexed waves may leap, Like cougars, in our path, Still forward on our way we keep, Nor heed their futile wrath. Where glitter trackless wastes of snow Beneath the northern light. On netted shoes we noiseless go, Nor heed though keen winds bite. The shaggy bears our prowess know. The white fox fears our might, And wolves, when warm our camp-fires glow, With angry snarls take flight. Where forest fastnesses extend, Ne'er trod by man before. Where cries of loon and wild duck blend With some dark torrent's roar. And timid deer, unawed, descend Along the lake's still shore. We blaze the trees and onward wend To ravish nature's store. Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eve These calls the echoes wake. We rise and forward fare, nor grieve Though long portage we make. Until the sky the sun-gleams leave And shadows cowl the lake ; And then we rest and fancies weave For wife or sweetheart's sake. THE LITTLE TROOPER SWIFT troopers twain ride side by side Throughout life's long campaign. They make a jest of all man's pride. And oh, the havoc ! As they ride, They canftot count their slain. 374 A Treasury of The one is young and debonair, And laughing swings his blade. The zephyrs toss his golden hair, His eyes are blue ; he is so fair He seems a masking maid. The other is a warrior grim, Dark as a midnight storm. There is no man can cope with him : We shrink and tremble in each limb Before his awful form. Yet though men fear the sombre foe More than the gold-tressed youth, The boy with every careless blow More than the trooper grim lays low, And causes earth more ruth. Keener his mocking word doth prove Than flame on winter's breath. Men bear his wounds to the realm above. For the little trooper's name is Love, His comrade's only Death. LITTLE MISS BLUE EYES LITTLE Miss Blue Eyes opens the door, " Nobody's in," says she. Little Miss Blue Eyes has evermore Stolen my heart from ihe. Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door, "Will you come in?" says she. " Papa'U be back in an hour or more " ; — Blue Eyes has seen through me. Canadian Verse 375 Little Miss Blue Eyes opes her heart's door, "Nobody's in," says she. (Would I might venture that threshold o'er Into its sanctity.) Little Miss Blue Eyes, if you are kind. Keep me not at the door ; Into your love, from the cold and wind, Take me, dear, evermore. Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door. Archly smiling at me : " Papa'll be back in an hour or more. Come in and wait," says she. A CHRISTMAS LULLABY THE restless clock is ticking out The hours that go before the dawn, And icy moonbeams dart about The snow that shrouds the slumbering lawn,- The lawn that Santa Glaus must cross Ere he shall reach my baby's cot, — Ah ! who shall measure Bertie's loss Should Santa Claus come not ! Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one ; I hear the neighing of the steeds, — Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds. What has the little man for thee, My precious babe who slumb'rest there ? He brings, sweet one, a gift from me, A mother's love, a mother's care, — A mother's care that shall not wane, While hands can toil or brain can think, Until that day shall come again When thou shalt cross life's brink, 376 A Treasury of Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one ; I hear the neighing of the steeds, - Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds. He brings a cross, he brings a crown, And places them on either hand. Upon the cross thou must not frown. For some day thou shalt understand, — Shalt understand the preciousness That to the sombre cross pertains, And thou wilt hold the crown far less Than of the cross the pains. Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one ; I hear the neighing of the steeds, - Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds. He brings the greatest gift of all In bringing thee this Christmas Day : The deathless love it doth recall Of Him who took thy sins away; And when no more thy mother's care Can guide thy footsteps. Baby Mine, Thy steps shall be secured, eachwhere. By love of One divine. Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one ; I hear the neighing of the steeds, - Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds. AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD THE HOUSE OF THE TREES OPE your doors and take me in. Spirit of the wood ; Wash me clean of dust and din. Clothe me in your mood. Canadian Verse m Take me from the noisy light To the sunless peace, Where at midday standeth Night Signing Toil's release. All your dusky twilight stores To my senses give ; Take me in and lock the doors, Show me how to live. Lift your leafy roof for me, Part your yielding walls, Let me wander lingeringly Through your scented halls. Ope your doors and take rae in. Spirit of the wood ; Take me — make me next of kin To your leafy brood. AT THE WINDOW HOW thick about the window of my life Buzz insect-like the tribe of petty frets : Small cares, small thoughts, small trials, and small strife, Small loves and hates, small hopes and small regrets. If 'mid this swarm of smallnesses remain A single undimmed spot, with wondering eye 1 note before my freckled window-pane The outstretched splendor of the earth and sky ? TO FEBRUARY O MASTER-BUILDER, blustering as you go About your giant work, transforming all The empty woods into a glittering hall. And making lilac lanes and footpaths grow 37^ A Treasury of As hard as iron under stubborn snow, — Though every fence stand forth a marble wall, And windy hollows drift to arches tall, There comes a might that shall your might o'er- throw. Build high your white and dazzling palaces, Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers, Storm with a loud and a portentous lip ; And April with a fragmentary breeze, And half a score of gentle, golden hours, Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship. THE HAY FIELD \A/ITH slender arms outstretching in the sun The grass lies dead ; The wind walks tenderly, and stirs not one Frail, fallen head. Of baby creepings through the April day Where streamlets wend, Of childlike dancing on the breeze of May, This is the end. No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew. No more they reach To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue A whispered speech. No more they part their arms, and wreathe them close Again to shield Some love-full little nest — a dainty house Hid in a field. Canadian Verse 379 WILLIAM HENRY WITHROW OCTOBER LIKE gallant courtiers, the forest trees Flaunt in their crimson robes with broidered gold; And, like a king in royal purple's fold. The oak flings largess to the beggar breeze. Forever burning, ever unconsumed. Like the strange portent of the prophet's bush, The autumn flames amid a sacred hush ; The forest glory never brighter bloomed. Upon the lulled and drowsy atmosphere Fall faint and low the far-off muffled stroke Of woodman's axe, the school-boy's ringing cheer, The watch-dog's bay, and crash of falling oak ; And gleam the apples through the orchard trees, Like golden fruit of the Hesperides. CLOUD CASTLES DID you see the snowy castle, Shining far off in the air ? Did you mark its massy bulwarks, And its gleaming turrets fair ? Deep and broad seemed its foundations, Stable as the solid rock. Braving in their stern defiance Tempest roar and battle sh&ck. And its huge and strong escarpment Rose sheer up into the sky, And above its sunset banners Streamed and waved right royally. 380 A Treasury of Hark ! throughout that lordly castle Trumpets peal and lightnings glare, And the thunder's haughty challenge Shakes the wide domains of air. Now before the rushing tempest All its cloudy pillars bend, And the leven bolts of heaven Smite its bastions deep, and rend. And the castle sways and totters ; A vast breach is in its walls ; Now its turrets sink and crumble. And its lofty rampart falls. So I've seen a gorgeous castle, Built of hopes and visions bright, Sink and disappear for ever. Like a phantom of the night. O the gay and glorious castles ! How we build them up again But to see them melt and vanish As the clouds dissolve in rain. O my soul ! look thou up higher, Where the many mansions be, To that bright and glorious palace That thy Lord hath built for thee. R. WALTER WRIGHT EASTER MORN HUSHED is the voice of scorn. Anew the worlcj is born, — Sweet morn ! sweet morn ! Canadian Verse 381 Sing songs so loud and clear That all the world must hear Their notes of cheer. White angels of surprise Whisper from morning skies, Arise ! Arise ! 'Neath the lightning countenance Sleep men of sword and lance, In heavy trance. Broken the sceptic's seal, Backward the devils reel, The nations kneel. Christ bids the Old adieu, Christ lives the Ever-New, Faithful and True. Hushed is the voice of scorn. Anew the world is born, — Sweet morn ! sweet morn ! A STILL SMALL VOICE IN the silence of the morning, through the softly- rising mist. As the chrysolite of dawning ripened into amethyst. Came a voice so clear, peremptory, that my soul could not but list : " Unto thyself be true ! " • In the rush and swirl of noontide, 'mid a gale of , voices loud. And keen eyes that flashed their lightnings over faces thunder-browed. Came a voice imperious, alien to the voices of the crowd : " Be to thy brother true ! " 3^2 A Treasury of In the calmness of the evening, when the winds had sunk to rest, When no earthquake heaved its fury, burned no fire within my breast, Came a still small voice so tender, it the heart of Christ confessed : "Unto thy God be true!" G. F. W. SENSE AND SPIRIT THE bloom of the roses, the youth of the fair, The voice of the lover, the love-lighted eye, The music of birds as they move through the air, The bright glow of sunshine that tinges the sky, And scintillant dewdrops, the green of the grass — They will pass, they will pass, they will pass. But, glory of honor, the freedom of truth, The might of the spirit, the breath of our call, The soul of essentials, eternity's youth, The essence of beauty, the pith of them all. The that which did make them the powers unto me,- They shall be, they shall be, they shall be ! EVA ROSE YORK I SHALL NOT PASS THIS WAY AGAIN I SHALL not pass this way again — Although it bordered be with flowers, Although I rest in fragrant bowers, And hear the singing Of song-birds winging To highest heaven their gladsome flight Though moons are full and stars are bright, Canadian Verse 38; And winds and waves are softly sighing, While leafy trees make low replying ; Though voices clear in joyous strain Repeat a jubilant refrain ; Though rising suns their radiance throw On summer's green and winter's snow, In such rare splendor that my heart Would ache from scenes like these to part ; Though beauties heighten, And life-lights brighten. And joys proceed from every pain, — I shall not pass this way again. Then let me pluck the flowers that blow, And let me listen as I go To music rare That fills the air ; And let hereafter Songs and laughter Fill every pause along the way ; And to my spirit let me say : " O soul, be happy ; soon 'tis trod, The path made thus for thee by God. Be happy, thou, and bless His name By whom such marvellous beauty came." And let no chance by me be lost To kindness show at any cost. I shall not pass this way again. Then let me now relieve some pain, Remove some barrier from the road. Or brighten some one's heavy load ; A helping hand to this one lend, Then turn some other to befriend. O God, forgive That now I live As if I might, sometime, return To bless the weary ones that yearn 384 A Treasury of For help and comfort every day, — For there be such along the way. God, forgive that I have seen The beauty only, have not been Awake to sorrow such as this ; That I have drunk the cup of bliss Remembering not that those there be Who drink the dregs of misery. 1 love the beauty of the scene, Would roam again o'er fields so green ; But since I may not, let me spend My strength for others to the end, — For those who tread on rock and stone. And bear their burdens all alone, Who loiter not in leafy bowers. Nor hear the birds nor pluck the flowers. A larger kindness give to me, A deeper love^nd sympathy; Then, O, one day May someone say — Remembering a lessened pain — " Would she could pass this way again ! " PAMELIA VINING YULE THE BEAUTIFUL ARTIST THERE'S a beautiful Artist abroad in the world, And her pencil is dipped in heaven, — The gorgeous hues of Italian skies, The radiant sunset's richest dyes, The light of Aurora's laughing eyes. Are each to her pictures given. As I walked abroad yestere'en, what time The sunset was fairest to see. Canadian Verse 385 I saw her wonderful brush had been Over a maple tree — half of it green — And the fairest coloring that ever was seen She had left on that maple tree. There was red of every possible hue, There was yellow of every dye, From the faintest straw-tint to orange bright, Fluttering, waving, flashing in light, With the deUcate green leaves still in sight. Peeping out at the sunset sky. She had touched the beech, and the scraggy thing In a bright new suit was dressed ; Very queer, indeed, it looked to me. The sober old beech tree thus to see, So different from what he used to be. Rigged out in a holiday vest. Red, and russet, and green, and grey — He had little indeed of gold — For the beech was never known to be gay. Being noted a very grave tree alway. Never flaunting out in a fanciful way Like other trees, we are told. But the beautiful artist had touched him off With an extra tint or so ; And he held his own very well with the rest. On which, I am sure, she had done her best. Dressing each in the fairest kind of a vest. Till the forest was all aglow. There were the willow that grew by the brook, And the old oak on the hill. The graceful elm tree down in the swale, The birch, the ash, and the bass-wood pale. The orchard trees clustering over the vale. And weeds that fringed the rill. 386 A Treasury of Canadian Verse One she had gilt with a flood of gold, And one she had tipped with flame j One, she had dashed with every hue That the laughing sunset ever knew, And one — she had colored it through and through Russet, all sober and tame. Now this beautiful artist will only stay A very few days, and then She will finish her gorgeous pictures all. And hurry away ere the gusty squall Ruins her work, and the sere leaves fall Darkly in copse and glen. WARBLE THY LAYS TO ME COME down from the heights, my bird And warble thy lays to me ! I shall pine and droop in my grassy nook For the passionate song that my spirit shook, And the low, sad voice of the grieving brook Will murmur all night of thee. I shall sit alone — alone. While the noontide hours steal by ; And mournful the woodland's music will be, — Mournful the blue, calm heavens to me, — Mournful the glory on earth and sea, — And mournful the sunset sky. O voice of exulting song ! — bright, unwavering eye ! — free wing soaring in fetterless flight Up to the Fountain of quenchless Light ! O, Earth that darkenest in sudden night, 1 shudder, and faint, and die 1 •^l-l^^ NOTES OF AUTHORS PAGE 2 Mrs, Margaret H. Alden, born at Caledonia, Ontario, 1863— now resident in Saginaw, Michigan. Sister of EdwardWilliam Thomson (p. 403). Has published booklets of verse. a Rev. Joseph Antisell Allen, b. at Arbor Hill, Ireland, February 27, 1814. Came to Canada, 1842. Published (anonymously), 1854, Day Dreams by a Butterfiy (a booklet from which the extract in the text is taken) ; The Lambda- na-Tercentenary Poem on Shakespeare, 1864 ; The True and Romantic Love Story of Colonel and Mrs Hutchinson, a drama in verse, 1884; and several prose works. Resides at "Al- wington," Kingston, Ontario. 3 Grant Allen, son of the preceding, b. at Alwington House Kingston, Ontario, February 24, 1848. Educated at Merton College, Oxford. A distinguished naturalist, and author of many scientific works and novels. Published, in 1894, The Lower Slopes, a volume of poems. Died October 25, 1899, at Hazelmere, Surrey, England. 6 William Talbot Allison, b. at Unionville, Ontario, December 20, 1874. Educated at Victoria University. He has published occasional verse in the Magazines. Resides in Toronto. . Mrs Sophie M. Almon-Hensley, b. at Bridgetown, Nova Scotia, May, 1866, — a direct descendant of Cotton Mather. Educated largely in England and Paris. Published, in 1895, a volume of verse entitled A Woman's Love Letters. Now resident in New York, where she devotes much time to philanthropic work, but spends her summers at Brighton, Nova Scotia. II Rev. Duncan Anderson, b. in Rayne, Scotland, 1828. Edu- cated at King's College and University, Aberdeen. For many years chaplain to the Imperial troops stationed at L^vis, Quebec. An expert ornithologist. Author of Lays of Canada, 1890, and of a prose work, Scottish Folklore, or Reminiscences of Aberdeenshire, 1895. Resides at "Mony- musk," Chaudiire Basin, Quebec. 22 Isidore G. Ascher, b. in Glasgow, Scotland, 1835. Educated in Montreal, and called to the bar, 1862. \\iMnot oi Voices from the Hearth, and Other Poems, 1863. Removed to England, 1864, where he has published several novels. One of bis comediettas was produced at the Crystal Palace. 387 388 Notes of Authors 20 Alice M. Ardagh ("Esperance"), b. in Monmouthshire, Wales, July 15, 1866. Writer of occasional verse. Re- sides at Barrie, Ontario. 23 Samuel Mathewson Baylis, b. in Montreal, September 3, 1854. Published, in association with W. H. Whyte, Our City and Our Sports, 1894 ; and, in 1897, a, volume of prose and verse entitled Camp and Lamp. Reside? in Montreal. 26 John Wilson Bengough, b. in Toronto, April 5, 1851. Printer, caricaturist, lecturer, and poet. Author of several works, among them Motley: Verses Grave and Gay, 1895. Resides in Toronto. 28 Craven Langstroth Betts, b. in St John, New Brunswicl<, April 23, 1853. Educated at St John Grammar School, and Fredericton Normal School. Most of his life has been given to business pursuits, but he has done a variety of literary work. Besides contributions to Harper's Weekly, the New York Independent, the Youth's Companion, Puck, and Judge, he edited for a year a New York magazine. Author of Songs from Berenger (in the original metres), 1888 ; The Perfume Holder, a Persian Love Poem, 1891. For some years he held the office of secretary to the American Authors' Guild. Resides in New York. 31 Blanche Bishop, b. at Greenwich, Nova Scotia, and educated at Acadia Seminary, and Acadia University. After study and travel in Europe, she taught five years in Moulton College, Toronto. Writer of occasional verse. Resides at Harding Hall, London, Ontario. 33 Edward Blackadder, b. at Wolfville, Nova Scotia, 1871. Educated at Acadia University. Author of Poems, Sonnets, and Lyrics, 1895. Since 1894 has been engaged as a public lecturer on Temperance, under the direction of the Sons of Temperance of Nova Scotia. Resides in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. 33 Mrs Jean Blkwett, b. at Scotia, Lake Erie, Ontario, November 4, 1862 (Janet M'Kishney). Educated at St Thomas Collegiate Institute. She has written much prose for the public press. Author of Songs of the Heart, 1897. Resides in Toronto. 36 John Breakenridge, b. at Niagara, Ontario, February 13, 1820; d. July 18, 1854, at Belleville, Ontario, Educated at Upper Canada College. Barrister at Law. Author of The Crusades, and Other Poems, 1846. 38 John Henry Brown, b. in Ottawa, Ontario, April 29, 1859. A member of the Civil Service. Author of Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic, 1892. Resides in Ottawa. 40 Edward Burrough Brownlow ("Sarepta"), b. in London, England, November 27, 1857 ; d. in Montreal, September 8, 1895. In 1895 The Pen and Pencil Club of Montreal Notes of Authors 389 published Orpheus and Other Poems, a. collection of his verse. 41 George Frederick Cameron, b. in New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, September 24, 1854. He was editor of the Kings- ton, Ontario, JVews at the time of his death, September 1885. Lyrics on Freedom, Love, and Death, edited by his brother Charles J. Cameron, appeared in 1887. 45 Bliss Carman, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, April 15, 1861. Educated at the Collegiate School there and at the University of New Brunswick, and with subsequent study at Edinburgh and Harvard Universities. In 1890 was literary editor bf the New York Independent, and was also connected with the Cosmopolitan and Atlantic Monthly Magazines. In 1894 he established the Chap Book. Author of Low Tide on Grand Pri, A Book of Lyrics, 1893 ; Songs from Vaga- bondia (in conjunction with R. S. Hovey, Boston), 1894; A Sea-Mark, 1895 ; Behind the Arras : a Book of the Unseen, 1895 ; More Songs from Vagaiondia, 1896 ; and By the Aurelian Wall, and Other Elegies, 1898. Moves back and forth freely between the Maritime Provinces and the United States. His present address is Independent Office, 114 Nassau Street, New York. 59 Amos Henry Chandler, M.D., son of the late Governor Chandler, b. at Dorchester, New Brunswick, August 8, 1837. Author of Lyrics, Songs, and Sonnets (conjointly with the late Rev. C. P. Mulvaney), 1880. Resides at Dbrchester, New Brunswick. 60 Edward J. Chapman, Ph.D., F.C.S., b. in England. Pro- fessor of Mineralogy in University College, Toronto, for many years. He recently resigned his professorship. Author oi A Song of Charity, 1857. 63 Mrs Annie Rothwell Christie, b. in London, England, 1837. Came to Canada when four years of age, living with her family on Amherst Island, near Kingston, Ontario. Some of her best poems are to be found in the Magasine of Poetry. The examples given in the text were written at the time of the Half-Breed Rebellion. She has published no volume of poems, but is the author of four novels of much interest. Resides at The Rectory, North Gower, Ontario. 67 George Herbert Clarke, b. at Gravesend, England, August 27, 1873. Educated at Woodstock College, and M 'Master University. Has published occasional verse in the Magazines. He is Assistant Editor of the Baptist Union of Chicago, where he at present resides. 70 Hugh Cochrane, for some time City Editor of the Montreal Witness, Author of booklets Rhy-fne and Roundelay, and Ideal and Other Poems. For the past two years he has been employed on the Literary World, London, England, — which is his present address. 39(^ Notes of Authors 70 Hereward K. Cockin, b. at Prizing Hall, near Manningliam, Yorkshire, England. Author of Gentleman Dick 0' the Greys, and Other Poems, 1889. Present occupation is divided between journalism and prospect mining in the Michipicoten district, on the north-east shore of Lake Superior. Resides in Guelph, Ontario. 72 Mrs Sara JEANETTE Duncan Cotes, b. at Brantford, Ontario, 1862, and educated at the Collegiate School there. Has published very occasional verse, but since 1890 has issued many popular books, travels and novels. Resides in Calcutta, India, since her marriage in 1891. 73 Isabella Valancy Crawford, b. near Dublin, Ireland, December 25, 1851. Came to Canada when five years of age, living with her father, Stephen Crawford, M.D., in Peterboro, Ontario. Removed to Toronto, where she died February 12, 1887. Author of Old Sfookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and Other Poems, 1884, and much occasional verse. 78 Francis Blake Crofton, b. at Crossboyne, Ireland, 1842, and educated at Trinity College, Dublin. He is librarian of the Parliamentary Library, Halifax, Nova Scotia. Writer of occasional verse, and author of several works, among them Haliburton, the Man and the Writer, and The Imperialism of Haliburton. Resides in Halifax. 81 John Allister Currie, b. at Nottawa, Ontario, February 25, 1862. Was for thirteen years engaged as a journalist on the Toronto Mail and Empire and the Toronto News. Is now engaged in the brokers' business. Author oiA Quartette of Lovers, 1892. Resides in Toronto. 81 Mrs Margaret Gill Currie, b. at Lower St Mary's, New Brunswick, June 14, 1843. Author of John Saint John and Anna Gray, 1897, a colonial romance in verse. Resides in Fredericton, New Brunswick, 83 Mrs Sarah Anne CuRZON, b. near Birmingham,England,i833. Came to Toronto in 1862 ; d. at Toronto, October 6, 1898. Was a frequent contributor in prose and verse to the Canadian press. Author of Laura Secord, the Heroine of 1812, a drama, 1887. The issue of this volume led to the formation of several historical societies. Since 1887, Mrs Curzon's literary work was chiefly on historical subjects. 87 Nicholas Flood Davin, Q.C, M.P., b. at Kilfinane, Ireland, January 13, 1843. Connected himself with the press in Toronto, 1872, and established the Regina Leader in 1883, — the first newspaper issued in Assiniboia. Published in 1889, Eos : an Epic of the Dawn ; and subsequently several works in prose. Resides at Regina, N.W.T. 89 A. B. De Mille, son of the following, b. in Halifax, Nova Scotia, March 7, 1873. Recently appointed professor of English Literature in King's College, Windsor. Has Notes of Authors 391 published occasional verse in the Magazines. Resides at Windsor, Nova Scotia. 92 James De Mille, b. in St John, New Brunswick, August 23, 1836 ; d. in Halifax, Nova Scotia, January 28, 1880. Writer of occasional verse. The extract in the text is taken from a posthumous publication issued by Allan & Co. , of Halifax, Nova Scotia, — a poem entitled Behind the Veil. Mr De Mille was professor in Acadia College, and subsequently in Dalhousie College. He is the author of numerous works in prose, among them Helena's House- hold : a tale of the First Century ; The Dodge Club ; and Elements of Rhetoric. (See note under Richard Huntington. ) 96 Edward Hartley Dewart, D.D., b. in the Co. Cavan, Ireland, 1828. Came to the County of Peterboro, Ontario, with his family in 1834. For twenty-five years he was Editor of the Christian Guardian, Toronto. Author of Selections frOTn Canadian Poets, 1864 ; Songs of Life, i86g ; Essays for the Times (including later poems), 1898. Resides in Toronto. 98 Frederick Augustus Dixon, b. in England, May 7, 1843, and came to Canada in the early seventies. He was tutor at Rideau Hall during Earl Dufferin's Governor-Generalship. He is now Chief Clerk of correspondence, Department of Railways and Canals. Is the author of several dramas, among them The Mayor of St Brieux, and A Masque of Welcome, the latter in honour of the arrival in Canada of the Marquis of Lome and the Princess Louise. A con- tributor of occasional verse to the Magazines. Resides in Ottawa. loi William Henry Drummond, M.D., b. at Cunawn House, Co. Leitrira, Ireland, April 13, 1854. Author of The Habitant, and Other French - Canadian Poems, 1898. Resides in Montreal. 104 John Hunter Duvar, b. August 29, 1830 ; d. January, 1899. Of Scoto-English birth and education. He lived the greater part of his life in Canada, serving as Lt.-Col. of the 3rd Brigade Halifax Garrison Artillery, and later in command of Prince County, Prince Edward Island Battalion of active militia. For ten years he was Dominion Inspector of Fisheries for the Province of Prince Edward Island. •Author of The Enamorado, a drama, 1878; Roberval, a drama, 1888 ; The Emigration of the Fairies and The Triumph of Constancy, a romaunt. He has written other works, also : The Judgment of Osiris, The Enchanted Mooress, and Annals of the Court of Oberon. His char- acteristic is very marked, — the romantic with a bias towards the mystic. Respecting the poem in the text, beginning "In the Rheingan standeth Aix," it may be remarked that it is a matter of history that the crowned corpse of Charle- 392 Notes of Authors PAGE magne sat in the crypt of the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle, until 1166, when the tomb was opened and the chair taken away by the Emperor, Frederick Barbarossa. Mr Duvar resided at " Hernewood," Fortune Cove, Prince Edward Island. log Rev. Arthur Wentyitorth Hamilton Eaton, b. at Kent- ville. Nova Scotia. A graduate of Harvard University. Author oi Acadian Legends and Lyrics, 1889 ; and of several prose works, among them The Church of England in Nova Scotia, and the Tory Clergy of the Revolution \ and Tales of a Garrison Town (collaborated with C. L. Betts). He has in preparation a History of the People of Nova Scotia. Resides in New York. 116 Sir James David Edgar, Speaker of the House of Commons of Canada, b. at Hatley, Quebec, August 10, 1841. Author of This Canada of Ours, and Other Poems, 1893 ; and of Canada and its Capital, prose, 1898. Died July 31, 1899, at Toronto. 117 Constance Fairbanks, b. at Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, May 10, 1866. She edited, in conjunction with Mr H. Piers, the volume of the poems of the late Mrs Lawson. Writer of oc- casional verse in the Magazines. Resides at Halifax, Nova Scotia. 118 Joseph Kearney Foran, b. at Aylmer, Quebec, 1857. Educated at the University of Ottawa. A journalist. Author of Poems and Canadian l^yrics, 1895, also of a prose work, The Spirit of the Age; Faith and Infidelity. Resides in Montreal. 120 William Henry Fuller, b. at Ramsgate, England. Came to Canada in the early seventies. Author of alocal burlesque, H.M.S. Parliament, and other plays ; Ye Ballad of Lyttel John A ; and several essays and brochures. Resides at Ottawa. 121 Rev. Alexander Rae Garvie, b. at Vilcoy Estate, Demerara, British Guiana, January 6, 1839 ; d. at Montreal, March 5, 1874 ; buried at Chatham, New Brunswick. He was of Scotch parentage. His ministerial service was rendered chiefly, if not wholly, in the Maritime Provinces. A singularly interesting man. Thistledown, a posthumous volume of Poems and Essays, 1875. 123 Pierce Stevens Hamilton, b. in, or near, Truro, Nova Scotia, 1826 ; d. in Halifax, February 1893. A journalist and versatile political writer. Author of The Feast of Si Anne and Other Poems, 1890. 126 Mrs S. Frances Harrison ( ' ' Seranus " ), b. inToronto upwards of thirty years ago, and educated in Toronto and Montreal. She is a musical critic, and has written widely for the Magazines, in prose and verse. Author of The Canadian Notes of Authors 393 Birth-Day Book, 1887 ; Pine, Rose and Fleur-de-Lis, 1891. Resides in Rosedale, Toronto. 129 Theodore Arnold Haultain, b. at Kannanur, Madras Presidency, November 3, 1857. A graduate of Toronto University. Author of Versiculi, 1893 ; and of several prose publications. A contributor to many well-known Magazines. Resides in Toronto. 131 Charles Heavysege, b. in Huddersfield, England, 1816; d. at his residence in Bleury St., Montreal, July 14, 1879. He was a cabinetmaker by trade, — and a journalist. Author of Saul, a tragedy, 1857 ; JefhthaKs Daughter, 1865 ; Count Filippo; or the Unequal Marriage, i860. Saul was first published by Mr John Lovell, Montreal ; a second edition was issued in Boston. Mr Heavysege was a powerful dramatic writer. The North British Review for August, 1858, characterizes Saul as "one of the most remarkable English poems ever written out of Great Britain." There is an unfinished work in the hands of his widow, who resides at Winnipeg, Manitoba. 133 John Frederic Herein, b. in Windsor, Nova Scotia, February 8, i860. His mother was an Acadien (Robichau), and his father French. Educated at Acadia University. Author of Marshlands, a volume of Poems. Also of Grand Prd, a brief history of the Acadien occupation of Minas. Resides in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. 138 Annie Campbell Huestis, b. in Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1876. Writer of occasional verse. Resides in Halifax. 14s Rev. James CoBOURG HoDGiNS, b. in Hamilton, Ontario, 1866. In the past seven years he has resided in the United States ; and is at present pastor of the church in Philadelphia formerly in charge of Rev. Samuel Longfellow. Author of Fugitives, a booklet, 1891 ; and ^ Sheaf of Sonnets., printed for private circulation, 1896. 147 Hon. Joseph Howe, b. at North West Arm, Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1804 ; of loyalist parentage ; d. in Halifax, June i, 1873. A most distinguished son of Nova Scotia, and one of the ablest of Canadian Statesmen. He was Governor of his native Province at the time of his death. Poems and Essays, a posthumous publication, 1874. 141 William Edward Hunt ("Keppell Strange"), b. at Brighton, England, of ancient Sussex ancestry. Educated at South Kensington, and at the Berbeck Institute. Is a member of the editorial staff of the Montreal Witness, Author of Poems and Pastels, i8g6. Resides in Montreal. 142 Richard Huntington, b. at Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, February 13, 1819 ; d. at Yarmouth, May 13, 1883. He was for thirty years editor and publisher of the Yarmouth Tribune. Mr Huntington was a nephew of the late Hon. 394 Notes of Authors Herbert Huntington, and a grandson of Miner Huntington, one of the loyalist settlers of Yarmouth (mentioned in Sabine's History of the Loyalists) ; and a distant relative oi the late Hon. L. S. Huntington, of Quebec. A writer of occasional verse. In Lighthall's Songs of the Great Dominion, a poem entitled The Indian Names of Acadia is erroneously attributed to De Mille (the late professor James De Mille). It was written by Richard Huntington. 149 Charlbs Edwin JAKEWAY, M.D., b. at Holland Landing, Ontario, 1847. Graduated M.D. at Toronto, 1871. Author of The Lion and the Lilies ; a Tale of the Conquest, and Other Poems, 1897. Resides at Stayner, Ontario. iSS E. Pauline Johnson,— Tekahionwake—, b. at "Chief- wood," Six Nations Reserve, County of Brant, Ontario. She is the daughter of the late George Henry M. Johnson, head chief of the Mohawk Indians, by his wife, Emily S. Howells, of Bristol, England. Educated by private tuition, and at the Brantford Model School. She is a frequent contributor to the periodical press. In 1894 she visited England, and while there published The White Wampum, a book of poems. She has publicly recited her poems throughout Canada and the United States. Resides at Winnipeg, Manitoba. 160 Robert Kirkland Kernighan (" The Khan "), b. at Rush- dale Farm, near Hamilton, Ontario, April 25, 1857. A journalist, and widely known as the author of many clever songs, and of patriotic and humorous verse. He pub- lished The Tattleton Papers, prose, 1894 ; and The Khan's Canticles, 1896. Resides at Rushdale Farm, Rockton, Ontario. 162 William Kieby, b. at Kingston-upon-HuU, England, October 13, 1817. Came to Canada with his parents, 1832. A journalist, novelist, and poet. Was Collector of Customs at Niagara (where he settled in 1839) from July i, 1871, till his retirement from the public service, 1895. Author of The U. E., 1859, an epic poem, very valuable as a series of pictures of loyalist personages and times ; Canadian Idyls (2nd ed. ), 1894. He has published four volumes in prose, the chief of which is The Golden Dog, a Legend of Quebec, 1877, and 1896. A new American edition of this work was published in 1898. Mr Kirby resides at Niagara, Ontario. 166 Rev. Matthev? Richey Knight, b. at Halifax, Nova Scotia, April 21, 1854. Educated at Mount Allison University. He has written considerable, in prose and verse. Author of Poems of Ten Years, 1887. Present residence, Boistown, New Brunswick. 168 Archibald Lampman, b. at Morpeth, Ontario, November 17, 1861 ; d. at Ottawa, February 10, 1899. Educated at Trinity University, Toronto. He was a member of the Notes of Authors 395 Canadian Civil Service, in the Post Office Department. Elected F.R.S. Can., 1895. Author of Among the Millet, and Other Poems, 1888; Lyrics of Earth, 1895. Resided in Ottawa. His complete poems, edited with a Memoir, were published under the supervision of Duncan Campbell Scott, March, igoo. 177 Mrs Mary Jane Katzmann LAvirsoN, b. at "Maroon Hall," Preston, about five miles from Dartmouth, Nova Scotia. Her mother — a Nova Scotian — was a granddaughter of Dr Joshua Prescott, of Massachusetts. She was largely self- educated. For two years she edited the Provincial Magazine. In 1887 she obtained the Aikin's Historical Prize of King's College for her History of the Townships of Dartmouth, Preston, and Lawrencetown, — since published. She died at Halifax, March 23, 1890. In 1893, Frankincense and Myrrh (selections from the poems of the late Mrs Lawson) appeared under the joint editorship of Mr Harry Piers and Miss Constance Fairbanks. 180 Mrs Sophia V. Gilbert Lee, author of Wayside Echoes, a volume of verse, 1894. Resides at Penetanguishene, Ontario. 180 Mrs Lily Alice Lefevee ( " Fleurange "), b. at Stratford, Ontario, but reared at Brockville. Educated at Villa Maria Convent, Montreal. Author of The Lion's Gate, and Other Verses, 1895. (The two highest peaks of the mountains that overlook the harbor of Vancouver bear a strong resemblance in outline to the lions of Trafalgar Square. ) Has resided at Vancouver, British Columbia, the past fifteen years. 182 Mrs R. E. MuLLiNS Leprohon, b. in Montreal, 1832. Educated at the Convent of the Congregation of Notre Dame. She was a leading contributor to the Literary Garland, and contributed freely to other periodicals. She wrote many tales. After her death at Montreal, September 20, 1879, John Lovell & Son published The Poetical Works of Mrs Lefrohon (Miss R. E. Mullins), 1881. 184 William Douw Lighthall, b. in Hamilton, Ontario, December 27, 1857. Educated at M'Gill University. He is the head of the law firm Lighthall & Harwood, Montreal ; and was one of the founders of the Soc. of Can. Lit. , and of the Chateau de Ramezay Museum. Author of Thoughts, Moods, and Ideals, a booklet of verse, 1887. In i88g he edited Songs of the Great Dominion (Windsor Series, London), and Canadian Poems and Lays (Canterbury Poets Series, 1891). He has written several prose works, the latest being the novel. The False Chevalier, a Canadian Adventurer at the Court of Louis XVI. (1898). Resides in Montreal. 187 Stuart Livingston, Q. C, b. in Canada of U. E. Loyalist stock. Was educated at Toronto University. He is the head of the law firm Livingston & Garrett, Hamilton, but is well known in literary and artistic circles as a writer 39^ Notes of Authors and a painter. Besides Th£ History of Professor Paul, a novel, and contributions to the Magazines, he has published In Various Moods, a book of poems, 1894. Resides in Hamilton, Ontario. 192 Rev. Arthur John Lockhart ("Pastor Felix"), b. at Lockhartville, Nova Scotia, May 5, 1850. For some years he was a printer, but entered the ministry in 1872. He is widely known as a writer in prose and verse in Canadian and American periodicals. A Masque of Minstrels, poems by himself and his brother, 1887 ; and Beside the Narraguagus and Other Poems, 1895. Contributed in prose to Burnsiana, 1893. Resides at Pemaquid, Maine, U.S. 196 Rev. Burton Wellesley Lockhart, D.D., brother of the preceding, b. at Lockhartville, Nova Scotia, January 24, i8sS' Educated at Acadia University. Among his poems of special note, included in A Masque of Minstrels, are The Retrospect, Sir Richard Grenville, In Solemn Vision, The Old Home, Wordsworth, and Talking by the Sea. Resides at Manchester, New Hampshire, U.S. 198 John E. Logan (" Barry Dane"). A writer of fugitive verse of much beauty. Resides in Montreal. 199 Agnes Maule Machar ("Fidelis"), b. in Kingston, Ontario. Has for years contributed both in prose and verse to Canadian and American periodicals. She is best known as a novelist. Resides at Kingston, Ontario, but lives at "Fern Cliff," among the Thousand Islands, in the summer. 204 Evan MacColl, b. at Kenmore, Scotland, September 21, 1808 ; d. at Toronto, July 1898. Came to Canada, 1850, filling a position in the Customs at Kingston, Ontario, till he retired on a pension, 1880. Author of Clasach nam Beann: or, Poems and Songs in Gaelic, -iZ'^; The Mountain Minstrel : or. Poems and Songs in English, 1838 ; and Poems and Songs, chiefly written in Canada, 1883 (2nd ed. 1866). He was appointed a Fellow of the R. S. Can. on its organisation, 1880. The Child of Promise, given in the text, is a translation from the author's Gaelic poem, by Dr Buchannan. 205 Mrs Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald, b. at Westcock, New Brunswick. Educated at the Collegiate School of Fredericton, and at the University of New Brunswick, and was for some time teacher in the School for the Blind, Halifax, Nova Scotia. Her poems have appeared chiefly in the Magazines. In 1891 she issued a booklet of poems for private circulation. Resides at Fredericton, New Bruns- wick; S06 John Macfarlane ("John Arbory"), b. at Abingtbn, Scot- land, May 1857. Author of Heather and Harebell ; Songs and Lyrics, 1892. He contributed to Burnsiana. In 1895 he edited The Harp of the Scottish Covenant, — an anthology Notes of Authors 397 of poetry " intended to do for the Covenanters, what has long ago been done for the Cavaliers and the Jacobites." Resides in Montreal. 808 Mrs Kate Seymour Maclean, b. at Fulton, Oswego County, New York. She is a well-known writer of verse for the Magazines. Author of The Coming of the Princess, and Other Poems, i8Si. Resides at Kingston, Ontario. an Mrs Elizabeth S. MacLeod, b. in Edinburgh, Scotland. Is a frequent contributor to the Magazines. Author of Carols of Canada, 1893. Resides in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. 212 A. D. MacNeill, of Orangedale, Nova Scotia. Author of a booklet. Woodlands and Other Rhymes (without date). 213 Donald M'Caig, b. in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, May 15, 1832. Educationist. Author of Milestone Moods arid Memories, poems, 1893 ; and A Reply to John Stuart Mill, on the Subjection of Women, prose, 1871. Resides at CoUingwood, Ontario. 215 James M'Carroll, b. in Lanesboro', Co. Longford, Ireland, August 3, 1814, d. — ?. Came to Ontario, 1831. Journalist. Author of Madeline, and Other Poems, 1889. 217 William M'Donnell, b. at Cork, Ireland, September 1824. Author of Manila, and other booklets of poems. He is the undoubted author of the original of the many poems entitled Beautiful Snow. Resides at Lindsay, Ontaria 218 Bernard M'Evoy, b. in Birmingham, England, February 7, 1842. Came to Canada in 1888, and was employed as a journalist on the Toronto Mail and Empire, till 1898. His great grandfather. Rev. John Augustus Nisbitt M'Evoy, was vicar of Kineton, Warwick, for forty years, preaching once a month in the church at Stratford-upon Avon, in which Shakespeare is buried. Author ot Away from Newspaperdom and Other Poems, 1897. Resides in Toronto. aig Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, M.P., b. at Carlingford, Ireland, April 13, 1825. Came to Canada, 1857. He was assassi- nated in Ottawa, Canada, April 7, 1868. Author of Canadian Ballads and Occasional Verses, 1858. A Canadian statesman of high repute. 224 William P. M'Kenzie, b. at Almonte, Ontario, about 1855. Educated at Toronto University and Knox College. Was Professor for some time of English Literature in the University of Rochester, U.S. Author of A Song of Trust, 1887; Voices and Undertones, 1889 ; Songs of the Human, 1892 ; and Heartsease Hymns and Other Verses, 1895. Present residence, Boston, U.S. 227 Alexander M'Lachlan, b. in Johnstone, Renfrewshire, Scotland, August 12, 1818. Came to Canada, 1840. Died at Orangeville, Ontario, March 20, 1896. Author of Lyrics, 39S Notes of Authors 1858 ; The Emi^ant and Other Poems, 1861 ; Poems and Songs, 1888. His complete poems, with Memoir, published April, igoo. A representative poet, and widely known. 231 John M'Pherson (" Harp of Acadia"), b. in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, February 4, 1817; d. at Brookfield, Nova Scotia, July 26, 184s, and is buried near Lake Tupper. He was a teacher. In 1862 his collected poems were published at Halifax under the title of Poems, Descriptive and Moral. 233 Charles Mair, b. at Lanark, Ontario, September 21, 1840. Educated at Queen's University, Kingston. Author of Dreamland and Other Poems, 1868 ; Tecumseh, a Drama, 1886. A Fellow of the R. S. Can. Resides at Winnipeg, Manitoba. 238 George Martin, b. at Kilrae, Ireland, 1822. Came to Canada, 1832, and has lived in Montreal since 1835. Was educated at the Black River Literary Institute, Watertown, New York ; and subsequently studied Medicine. Author of Marguerite: or the Isle cf Demons, and Other Poems, 1887. It is said he contemplates the publication of another volume of poems at an early day. Resides in Montreal. 241 Helen M. Merrill, b. in Napanee, Ontario. Educated at the Ladies' College, Ottawa. An Entomologist, She has published no volume of verse. In 1892 she published a small holiday volume, entitled Picturesque Prince Edward County. The poem in the text. The Blue Flower, is a personification of the unattainable. Resides at Picton, Ontario. 244 Mrs Susanna (Strickland) Moodie, b. in Suffolk, England, December 6, 1803 ; came to Canada, 1832 ; d. in Toronto, April 8, 1885. Author of Roughing it in the Bush and Life in the Clearings, 1853, prose, with poetry interspersed, — both written in Canada. Enthusiasm, and Other Poems, 1830. Published considerable fugitive verse. 247 Mary Morgan ("Gowan Lea"), a native of Scotland, but came in childhood to Montreal. Author of Woodnotes in the Gloaming, 1887 ; Sonnets from Switzerland, 1896. Travels extensively in Europe, — ' ' a citizen of the world. " 249 Mrs Irene Elder Morton, b. at Hantsport, Nova Scotia, February 17, 1849. Educated at Acadia Seminary. She has written much verse, and some prose, but has not published any volume. Resides at " The Bluffs," Clements- port, Nova Scotia.. 25s Rev. Charles Pelham Mulvaney, b. in Dublin, Ireland, May 20, 183s ; d. in Toronto, May 31, 1885. A classical scholar of distinction. Published in 1880, conjointly with A. H. Chandler, Lyrics, Songs and Sonnets. 256 George Murray, b. in London, England. Educated at King's College, London, and at Oxford University. Before Notes of Authors 399 taking his degree in i860 he published The Oxford Ars Poetica ; or, How to Write a Newdigaie. Came to Canada 1859, and was connected with the Montreal High School until his retirement on a pension in 1892. He was one of the editors of the literary remains of Hon. D'Arcy M'Gee. Author of Verses and Versions, 1891. Resides in Montreal. 260 H. M. NiCKERSON, b. in Nova Scotia. Author of Carols of the Coast, 1892. Mr Niokerson is known as the " Fisherman Poet. " Resides at Clark's Harbor, Nova Scotia. 261 Cornelius O'Brien, His Grace the Archbishop of Halifax, b. near New Glasgow, Prince Edward Island, May 4, 1843. Besides many works in prose he published in 1890, Aminta, a Modem Life Drama. Was President of the Royal Soc. of Can. , 1896-7. Resides at Halifax, Nova Scotia. 261 Thomas O'Hagan, Ph.D., b. near Toronto, Ontario, 1855. Educated at St Michael's College and at Ottawa University, taking subsequent studies at Syracuse and Cornell Universi- ties. K\x\h.oxoi A Gate of Flowers, ■iZ'&T, In Dreamland and Other Poems, 1893 ; Songs of the Settlement, 1899. Resides in Toronto. 264 Horatio Gilbert Parker, b. at Camden East, Addington, Ontario, 1859. Educated at Trinity University, Toronto. A novelist of wide repute, and author of A Lover's Diary, poems (and ed. 1894). Has lived in Australia, but now resides in London, England, making frequent visits to Canada. 265 Amy Parkinson was born in Liverpool, England, and came to Toronto, Ontario, with her parents when a child. Her formal education ceased when she was twelve years of age, her health faiUng her. For eight or nine years past, she has not risen froiii her bed. Her poems are dictated to her father, and it is noteworthy that her mind is specially vigorous in composition as she is passing into or recovering from the severe attacks which seize her, any one of which might prove fatal. Author of booklets of verse, Love Through All, and In His Keeping. Resides in Toronto. 268 Frank L. Pollock, b. February 1876. Has resided for the most part in St Mary's, Ontario, and in Toronto. His literary productions have appeared chiefly in the Youth's Companion, The Criterion, Ainslee's Magazine and Town Topics. His present residence is in New York City. 270 Andrew Ramsay, b. in 1849, near the village of West Flamboro, Ontario. "After two years of torture under the mad manipulation of a savage schoolmaster," he "escaped to the wilderness for what scanty education " he obtained. Author of The Canadian Lyre, 1859; Win- on-ah ; The Forest Light, and Other Poems, 1869 ; One Quiet Day, prose and poetry, 1873 ; Muriel, The Fotmd- 400 Notes of Authors PAGE ling, and Other Poems, i886. Is a house decorator, and has won distinction in landscape work in that art. Resides at Westover, Ontario. 273 Theodore Harding Rand, D.C.L., b. at Cornwallis, Nova Scotia, February 8, 1835. Educated at Horton Academy and Acadia University. Has devoted his life to Education. Organised the systems of Free Public Schools of both Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. Ex-Principal of Woodstock College, and Ex-Chancellor of M'Master University, — by whom the founding of the University was promoted, and organised as such. Author of At Minus Basin, and Other Poems, 1897 (second edition, enlarged, 1898). Resides in Toronto. 282 Walter A. Ratcliffe, b. in London, England, August 23, 1865. Came to Canada with his parents at the age of seven years. He is almost totally blind and deaf. Published Morning Songs in the Night, 1897. Resides at Port Hope, Ontario. 283 John Reade, b. at Ballyshannon, Ireland, November 13, 1837. Educated at Queen's College, Belfast. Came to Canada, 1856. Author of The Prophecy of Merlin, and Other Poems, 1870. In association with Professor Pen- hallow of M'Gill University, he inaugurated the Montreal branch of the Am. Folk-lore Soc. He has been president of the Eng. Lit. and Hist, section of the Royal Soc. Can. Elected a Fellow of the Royal Soc. of Lit. of Great Britain, 1896. Since 1870 he has been literary and general assistant editor of the Montreal Gazette. Resides in Montreal. 290 Robert Reid ("Rob Wanlock"), b. at Wanlockhead, Scotland, June 8, 1850. Came to Canada 1877, and has since then filled a responsible position in the mercantile establishment of Henry Morgan & Co. , Montreal. Author of Moorland Rhymes, 1874 ; and Poems, Songs and Sonnets, 1894. Resides in Montreal. 292 Charles George Douglas Roberts, b. at Douglas, near Fredericton, New Brunswick, January 10, i860. Educated at the University of New Brunswick. He became editor of the Toronto Week, 1883, and later Professor of English Literature and Economics in King's College, Windsor, Nova Scotia. Since 1895 he has devoted himself ex- clusively to literary work. Author of Orion and Other Poems, 1880 ; In Divers Tones, 1887 ; Poems of Wild Life : an Anthology, 1888 ; Ave : An Ode for the Shelley Centenary, 1892 ; Songs of the Common Day, and Ave, 1893; The Book of the Native, poems, 1896; and New York Nocturnes and Other Poems, 1898. He has also pub- lished several novels and other works. He was one of the literary arbiters at the World's Fair, Chicago. Resides in Fredericton, New Brunswick (and in New York). Note. — The two following are younger brothers of Mr Roberts. Notes of Authors 401 and Mrs Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald is a sister, while Mr Bliss Carman and Mr Barry Straton are cousins of the foregoing. They are children of three sisters. 309 Theodore Roberts, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, July 7, 1877. Educated at the Collegiate School of that city. His verse has appeared in the Magazines. He was war correspondent for the New York Independent in the Spanish-American War. Resides at Fredericton, New Brunswick. 313 William Carman Roberts, b. at Fredericton, New Bruns- wick, December 6, 1874. Educated at the Collegiate School, and the University of that city. He has published verse in the Magazines and literary periodicals. Has done journal- istic work in New York. Resides at Fredericton, New Brunswick. 31S George John Romanes, b. at Kingston, Ontario, May ao, 1848 ; d. at Oxford, England, May 23, 1894. Educated at Caius College, O-rford. A distinguished naturalist, and brilliant scientific and philosophical writer. During his somewhat prolonged illness he preserved to the last his mental vigour and keenness of interest in scientific pursuits. Not long before his death he said : " I have now come to see that faith (the Christian faith) is intellectually justifiable." The sonnet of the text has a pathos all its own. Longmans, Green & Company published a vohime of selections of his poetry, 1896. -316 Carroll Ryan, b. in Toronto, Ontario, February 3, 1839. Educated at St Michael's College. He served as a volunteer in the British German Legion and Turkish Contingent, during the Crimean war, and in H.M.'s looth Royal Can. Regt., 1859. After his return to Canada he commanded a battery of volunteer artillery at Ottawa, and was extra A.D.C. to Gen. Sir E. S. Smyth. Mr Ryan is a veteran of the Canadian press. Author of Oscar and Other Poems, 1857 ; Songs of a Wanderer, 1867 ; and Picture Poems, 1884. Resides in Montreal. 318 Charles Sangster, b. at Kingston, Ontario, 1822; d. at Ottawa, Ontario, 1893. Author of The St Lawrence, and the Saguenay, and Other Poems, 1856, and of Hesperus and Other Poems and Lyrics, i860. A representative Canadian poet, widely known: 322 Duncan Campbell Scott, b. at Ottawa, Ontario, August 2, 1862. Educated at Stanstead Wesleyan College. Is Accountant of the Department of Indian Affairs. He is a contributor to Magazines in prose and verse. Author of The Magic House and Other Poems, 1893, and ol Labor and the A?igel, 1898. Resides at Ottawa. 330 Rev. Frederick George Scott, b. in Montreal, April 7, 1861. Educated at Bishop's College, Lennoxville, Quebec, 2 C 402 Notes of Authors PAGE , and at King's College, London, England. Author of The SouTs Quest, and Other Poems, 1888 ; Elton Ha%lewood, a dramatic life-story, and ed., 1893; My Lattice and Other Poems, 1894 ; The Unnamed Lake and Other Poems, 1897 ; and Poems Old and New, 1899. Resides in Quebec city. 336 Charles Dawson Shanly, b. in Dublin, Ireland, March 9, 1811. Came to Canada, 1836, and settled near London, Ontario. He edited Punch in Canada. A writer of oc- casional verse. He became noted as an Art Critic in New York. Died at Arlington, Florida (whither he had gone in search of health), April 15, 1875, and is buried near London, Ontario. Best known as engineer of the Hoosac Tunnel. 338 Francis Sherman, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, 1871. Educated at the Collegiate School and the University there. Author of Matins, 1896 ; In Memorabilia Mortis, a booklet of Sonnets, 1896 ; and A Prelude, privately printed, 1897. Resides in Fredericton. 341 GoLDwiN Smith, LL.D., D.C.L., author, and a distinguished Professor of History, b. at Reading, England, August 23, 1823. His published works are numerous and widely known , — among them, Bay Leaves : Translations from the Latin Poets, 1894. A very occasional writer of verse. Resides at " The Grange," Toronto. 342 Lyman C. Smith, b. at Glanford, near Hamilton, Ontario, September 8, 1850. Educated at Victoria University. He has been for the past eighteen years the principal of the High School, Oshawa, Ontario. Author of Mabel Gray and Other Poems, 1896. 344 Rev. William Wye Smith, b. in Jedburgh, Scotland, March 18, 1B27. Came to Canada, 1837. A man of considerable journalistic experience. Author of Poems, 1888 ; The New Testament in Broad Scotch, i8g6. Resides at St Catharines, Ontario. 345 Albert Ernest Stafford Smythe, b. at Gracehill, Ireland, December 27, 1861. Educated at Belfast Inst., and holds certificates from the Science and Art Department, South Kensington. Author of Poems, Grave and Gay, 1891, He is editor of the Lamp, a paper devoted to theosophy. Resides in Toronto. 346 Hiram Ladd Spencer, b. at Castleton, Vermont, April 28, 1829, and educated there. Among his classmates were Henry Cabot Lodge, W. C. Wilkinson, W. C. Langdon, and Redfield Proctor. He became a resident of St John, New Brunswick, 1863. A journalist. Author of Poems, 1848 ; A Song of the Years : a Memory of Acadia, 1889, (widely known, — published by J. & A. M'Millan, St John, N. B.). Resides in St John. 348 Ezra Hurlburt Stafford, M.D., b. 1865. Is an associate editor of Canadian Journal of Medicine and Surgery. An Notes of Authors 403 occasional contributor to periodicals. Author of Saints' Day Ballads, and Sundry Other Measures, a booklet, 1895. Resides in Toronto. 351 Alexander Charles Stewart, b. — ? Author oi Poems and Songs, 1890 ; The Pensioner, 1890, — a booklet. Resides in Toronto. 351 Phillips Stewart, b. 1864; d. in Toronto, Ontario, Februarjr 2, 1892. Author of Poems, 1887. A dominant sadness Inspired the muse of this gifted youth. His early death was a loss to Canadian literature. 353 Barry Str aton, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, December 27, 1854. Educated at the Collegiate School of that city. Studied law, but the confinement proving detrimental to his health, he resorted to farming. Author ol Lays of Love, and Miscellaneous Poems, 1884 ; The Building of the Bridge : an Idyl of the St John, 1887 ; and The Hunter's Hand Book. Resides at MaugerviUe, New Brunswick. 356 Arthur J. Stringer, a journalist of the Montreal Herald, till very recently. Author of Watchers of TvAligkt, 1894 ; Pauline and Other Poems, 1895 ; and Epigrams, i8g6. Present residence, New York. 3S9 Alan Sullivan, b. in Montreal, November 29, 1867. Educated at Loretto School, Musselburgh, near Edinburgh. A civil engineer. Author of a booklet of verse. Resides at Rat Portage, Ontario. 361 Bertram Tennyson, Q.C, b. — ? Author of The Land of Napioa and Other Essays in Prose and Verse, 1896. Resides at Moosomin, N. W. T., Canada. 363 Edward William Thomson, b. in the township of Toronto, Ontario, February 12, 1849. Educated at Trinity College Grammar School, Weston, fie served with the army of the Potomac during the closing scenes of the Am. Civil War. Served in the field vrith the Queen's Own Rifle's, Toronto. In 1889-90 was chief editorial writer on the Toronto Globe. He removed to Boston to accept a lucrative post on the Youth's Companion. Writer of occasional verse, and author of several volumes of short stories. Resides in Boston, Mass. 365 John Stuart Thomson, b. in Montreal, 1870, where he was educated at the old "Senior School," and in special work at M'Gill University. He also enjoyed special advantages of private classical study in New York City.- He is a frequent contributor to the Magazines. Author of Estabelle and Other Poems, 1897. Resides in New York City. 369 Francis L. Dominick Waters, b. in Fermoy, Ireland, April 4, 1857. Educated at St Colman's College. Compelled by ill health to abandon his medical studies, he came to Canada, 1879. He has devoted himself chiefly to literature. Author 2 C* 404 Notes of Authors PAGE of The Water Lily : an Oriental Fairy Tale, 1888. Resides at Cornwall, Ontario. 370 Arthur Weir, b. in Montreal, June 17, 1864. Educated at M'Gill University. He has had considerable journalistic experience. Author of Pleur de Lys, poems, 1877 ; The Romance of Sir Richard, Sonnets, and Other Poems, i8go ; The Snowflake, and Other Poems, 1896. He was selected to read the inaugural poem at the unveiling of the national monument to Sir John A. Macdonald, at Ottawa, 1895 ; and he also wrote the inaugural poem for the unveiling of the monument to Maisonneuve, dedicated on the same day. Resides in Montreal. 376 Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald (" Bel Thistlewaite "), b. in Rockwood, Ontario, of English Quaker parentage, and educated at Friends' Schools in New York and Ontario. She has done much journalistic work. Author of The Algonquin Maiden, a romance of the early days of Upper Canada, written in collaboration with G. Mercer Adam ; and The House of Trees, a volume of verse, 1896. Resides at Fenwick, Ontario. 379 Rev. William Henry Withrow, D.D., author and journa- list, b. in Toronto, August 6, 1839. Educated at Victoria and Toronto Universities. Elected a Fellow of the Eng. Lit. Sec. of the Royal Soc. of Can., 1884. He is editor of the Methodist Magazine and Review, and author of numerous volumes, the best known of which is The Catacombs cf Rome, and their Testimony Relative to Primitive Christianity, Writer of occasional verse. Resides in Toronto. 380 Rev R. Walter Wright, b. near Toronto, Ontario, December 29, 1852. Educated at Streetsville High School, and was graduated in Theology in connection with Chautauqua Uni- versity. Author of The Dream of Columbus, a poem, 1894. Present residence, Arthur, Ontario. 382 Mrs Eva Rose York, b. in Western Ontario, December 22, 1858. Educated at Woodstock College, and at the New England Conservatory of Music. Writer of occasional verse. Resides in Toronto. 384 Mrs Pamelia Vining Yule, wife of the late professor J. C. Yule, of Woodstock College, Ontario. Author of Poems of the Heart and Home, 1881, and of several prose works. She was born in Clarendon, State of New York, and her early life was spent in EUicottville in that State. Died at IngersoU, Ontario, 1896. INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE A BLOOD-RED ring hung round the moon . , . 198 Adieu to these ! — Niagara, thy roar . . . 351 A forethought of the fated reign of peace . . .78 After her bath yet early in the day .... 270 Ah, list the music of the whistling wings . . .17 Ah, what if the mind ..... 2 A lark sprang up to greet the dawn . . , 181 A little while before the fall was done . . , 341 All day the sun drops gold, the grassy mead . , 244 All hail to the day when the Britons came over . . 147 Among the fine old kings that reign . . . 215 An ashen grey touched faint my night-dark room . . 279 And no one saw, while it was dark .... 349 And this is Louisburg, whose moss-grown ruin . . 144 A perfect artist hath been here ; the scene . . .40 A rocky channel from the harbor led . . .111 Around the world the fame is blown . . . 230 Art thou not sweet, Oh world ..... 210 As hills seem Alps, when veiled in misty shroud . . 288 A shell lies silent on a lonely shore .... 261 A star leant down and laid a silver hand . . • 77 A stream of tender gladness .... 157 As the light beyond draws nearer .... 200 As the twilight's grey was swallowed . . . 118 As time past onwards, day by day .... 217 At husking time the tassel fades .... 156 At the close of the day, when the year was a- dying . . 98 At the forging of the Sword . . . . .76 At the postern gate of Day ..... 208 Awake, my country, the hour is great with change . 296 Ay, lay them to rest on the prairie . . . .64 A young-eyed seer, amid the leafy ways . . . 192 Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm . , 158 Behind Jacques Cartier's hills the sun sinks low . . 11 Behold the foe of Grub Street's lettered fools . . 30 Behold, the maize fields set their pennons free . . 368 Beshrew the coined gold ! — and so, take heed . . 141 Birds that were grey in the green are black in the yellow . 128 Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree . . -73 Blue-black like the breast of the gusty sea . . . 243 Borne on the wavelets of thy fluent notes . . . 238 Butterfly, Flutter by . . . . .68 By cliffs grown grey, as men grow grey . . . 346 4o6 Index of First Lines PAGE Canada, Canada, land of the maple . , . 289 City about whose brow the north wind blows . . 329 "Close up in front, and steady, lads ! " brave Stewart cries, " They're here " ...... 70 " Cold," cried the wind on the hill .... 310 Columbus came to thee and called thee new . . 356 Come and let me make thee glad .... 338 Come down from the heights, my bird, . . . 386 Come, happy morn, serene and fair . . .32 Come hither, Sleep, from Chio's isle . . . 225 Come, walk with the world and go down to the destitute homes of the poor ..... 354 Cradled within the arms of night . . . .22 Dark tresses made rich with all treasures . . . 255 Dead ! dead ! And now before . . . .26 Deserted nest, that on the leafless tree . , , 148 Did you see the snowy castle .... 379 Down from the blue the sun has driven . . , 227 Down the long lanes of Arcadia .... 312 Do you remember, dear, a night in June , . . 197 Draw nigh with reverence, Canada . . . .211 Dreary, dreary, Fundy's mists are sweeping . , 59 Enough ! the lie is ended. God only owns the land . 27 Eyes of blue and hair of gold .... 2 Eyes that we look into — so ..... 309 Facing the ocean, guardian of our land . . . 117 Fair bird, whose silvery pinions sweep . . . 212 Faith spread her wings to seek the realms of day . . 202 Fancy many forms assumes ..... 121 For three whole days across the sky . . . 170 From out the cold house of the north ... 8 God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul . . 335 God speaks, life beats within the brain' . . .69 Gone, brother, lover, son ! . . . . .63 Good Christmas bells, I pray you . . . .91 Greatest twain among the nations .... 318 Hack and Hew were the sons of God . . ,49 Had I two loaves of bread — ay — ay ! ... 276 Hail, first of the Spring ..... 277 Hail to the pride of the forest — hail ! ... 244 Helot drink — nor spare the wine . . . .74 Here at the change of ways, the steel steed halts . . 117 Here is the old church. Now I see it all . . . 285 Her gold hair fallen about her face .... 313 He sits at last among his peers .... 249 He wandered down, an Orpheus wilder-souled . . 358 He who but yesterday would roam .... 300 Index of First Lines 407 He who would start and rise . Hilloo, hiUoo, hilloo, hilloo, . How beautiful she was, the little maiden How bold the Imagination and how strong How fair thou art the poets long have known How thick about the window of my life Hushed is the voice of scorn . 1 AM, and therefore these I ask not for Thy love, O Lord ; the days I awoke from the dreams of the night I came upon a drawer to-day 1 come, ye lovely wildwood groves "If Peepy had lived," the mother sighed If, pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead If you would see Venice as she is I had a garden when I was a boy I have been wandering where the daisies grow I hear the bells at eventide I hear the wondrous lyre I know not what my heart has lost I know that death is God's interpreter I know thee not, O spirit fair I'll sing you a song of the sea I loiter here within the ancient town . I loved my Art, I loved it when the tide In a city of churches and chapels In a veil of white vapor, hushed stars moving through In meadows deep with hay, I see In my heart are many chambers through which I wander free In shadowy calm the boat In sooth he was a mighty king In the glimmering light of the Old Regime . In the heart of a man ..... In the Rheingan standeth Aix In the silence of the morning, through the softly rising mist I read on de paper mos' ev'ry day, all about Jubilee I rested on the breezy height . I sat within the temple of the heart . I see a schooner in the bay I shall not pass this way again . . Is there a God, then, above us r I stood and saw the angel of the dawn I swing to the sunset land . . . I swing to the land of morn . I talked about you, Dear, the other night It comes ! This strange bird from a distant clime It comforts me through all my days . I thought as I watched in the dawning dim . I thought of death beside the lonely sea It is enough that in this burdened time It is growing dark .... 304 370 240 281 138 377 380 278 315 96 20 232 161 219 359 326 353 261 346 1S4 120 33 264 202 31 367 286 3SI 1S9 25 301 106 381 lOI 323 320 327 382 43 2o6 159 159 292 236 251 265 329 264 283 4o8 Index of First Lines PAGE It was one of those grand cathedrals .... 177 I watch the printer's clever hand .... 218 I watch the ships by town and lea . , . , 114 I will not tell thee why the land .... 271 Joy came in youth as a humming-bird . . .10 Last night, and there came a guest . . . • 99 Let other tongues in older lands . . . . n6 Let us bury him here ...... 339 Life gives us better than it takes away . . , 250 Life has two sovereign moments .... 167 Lightly He blows, and at His breath they fall . . 304 Like gallant courtiers, the forest trees . . . 379 Like Israel's seer I come from out the earth . . , 280 Like marble, nude, against the purple sky . . . 137 Like mists that round a mountain grey . . , 192 Little Miss Blue Eyes opens the door . . . 374 Long, long ago, it seems, this summer morn . . 172 Love built a crimson house . . . . ,48 Lover of man, if not of God, the Sea . . . 238 Love sayeth : Sing of me ! . . . . . 197 Love's sun, like that of day, may set, and set . . 321 May, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June . , 364 Merry mad-cap on the tree ..... 229 Methought the stream of Time had backward rolled . 343 Mildly through the mists of night .... 348 Mother of Swords ! while the river runs . . , 268 My purest longings spring ..... 114 My sandalled feet are firm and fleet .... 160 Mysterious life ! we speak as if we knew . . . 248 Naked and shaggy,they herdedat eve by the sound of the seas 332 Nilus ! Nilus ! and before them rolled . . 107 No flame of war was he, no flower of grace . . . 166 Not in eyed, expectant gloom .... 303 Not to be conquered by these headlong days . . 168 Now along the solemn heights .... 307 Now hath the summer reached her golden close . . 174 Now the Fraser gleamed ..... 87 Now wherefore trembles still the string . . .83 O, BELLA fior del mondo ! to-morrow . . . 316 O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King . . .85 O brothers ! thro' how many lands .... 196 O covering grasses ! O unchanging trees . . ■ 340 O do you hear the merry waters falling . . . 193 O elder sister, though thou didst of yore . . . 342 O'er the white waste of drifted sands unstable . . 260 Of all the tiny race of Skye . . . . 341 Olt I have met her ...... 236 Index of First Lines 409 PAGE O gifted son of our dear land and time , . , 288 Oh, Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing through the grass ....... 138 Oh the shambhng sea is a sexton old . . .46 Ob, what could wake life that first sweet flame . , 286 O, Love builds on the azure sea . . . .73 O Love, can the tree lure the summer bird . . . 356 O master-builder, blustering as you go . . , 377 On a stone by the wayside, half-naked and cold . . 213 Once more the robin flutes in glee .... 145 Once ye were happy, once by many a shore . . . 169 One by one they pass away ..... 243 " Only a penny. Sir I " ..... 280 Only in dreams she appears to me . . . . 129 On the crimson cloth ...... 3 Open, ray heart, the ruddy valves .... 131 Ope your doors and take me in ... . 376 O Richard, my King, lion-hearted, behold . . .36 O rivers rolling to the sea ..... 297 O ship incoming from the sea .... 325 O sweet unto my heart is the song my mother sings . 262 O tender love of long ago ..... 330 O, the East is but the West, with the sun a little hotter . 344 O Thou who hast beneath Thy hand . . . 309 O Twenty, running through the wood . . . 140 Our mother is the good green earth .... 372 Out of the dreams that heap ..... 305 Over the field the bright air clings and tingles . . 326 O very, very far from our dull earth . . , .72 Pale Melancholy, faithfully thou lov'st . . . 352 Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble . . . 322 Proud, languid Uly of the sacred Nile . , . 109 Quebec, the grey old city on the hiU . . .36 Remote, upon the sunset shrine .... 194 Ripple, ripple, ripple ...... 180 Rome, Florence, Venice, — noble, fair and quaint . . 186 " Saddle and mount and away " , . . 23 Sang one of England in his island home . . . 357 Sans peur et sans reproche ! — our lion-heart . . 199 See how the Morn awakes. Along the sky . . . 132 She died — as die the roses ..... 204 She is so winsome and so wise . . . .35 Shaper of breathing lives, and Lord of all above . . 350 Shepherd Jesus, in Thy arms . , . . 6g Shy bird of the silver arrows of song . . . i Simon bent to his hissing saw .... 133 Since I rose out of child-oblivion .... 265 Sing a song of springtime ..... 205 410 Index of First Lines Sing me a song of the great Dominion . . . 290 Sleep, sleep imperious heart ! Sleep, fair and undefiled I , 29s Slowly rose the doedal Earth ..... 321 Some glad thing comes to me .... 252 Son of Britannia's isle ..... 361 " Son of Light," I murmured lowly . . . .92 So sat I yesterday, with weary eyes .... 163 So tremulous the flame of thinking burns . , . 224 Speed on, speed on, good Master .... 336 Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars . . . 126 Standing on tiptoe ever since ray youth . . .43 Still, in the light of morning grey .... 142 Still, though the sun is setting .... 241 "Summer is dead I " — it was the wind that spake . . 142 Sweet child of an April shower .... 231 Swifter the flight ! Far, far and high . . ', 67 Swift troopers twain ride side by side . . . 373 Take not from me my lute ..... 104 Take the mouldering dust ..... 247 Talk not to me of Tempe's flowery vale . . . 205 The air is still, the night is dark .... 247 The blooming flowers, the galaxies of space . . 277 The bloom of the roses, the youth of the fair . . 382 The brine is in our blood from days of yore . . . 142 The broad round-shouldered giant Earth . . .Si The chime of bells across the waking sky . . 313 The dark has passed and the chill Autumn morn . . 8 The darkness brings no quiet here, the light . . 168 The days begin to wane and evening lifts ... 6 The dew is gleaming in the grass .... 169 The dusky warriors stood in groups .... 182 The dykes, half-bare, are lying in the bath . . . 137 The earth is the cup of the sun .... 170 The furrows of life Time is plowing .... 353 The heart of Merrie England sang in thee . . .36 Their very gods, it seems, we have forgot . . . 357 The immortal spirit hath no bars . . . 335 The mountains gather round thee as of yore . . 285 Then sighed the wandering Angel sore . . 369 The ocean bursts in very wrath . . .69 The purple shadows, dreamingly . . . .60 There are no colors in God's heaven bent bow . . 81 There came a day of showers .... 299 There is a beauty at the goal of life .... 177 There's a beautiful Artist abroad in the world . . 384 There's a little gray friar in yonder green bush . . 216 The red-til'd towers of the old Chateau . . . 127 There is no God ! if one should stand at noon . . 11 There is rain upon the window .... 328 There is the school-house ; there the lake, the lawn . 285 The restless clock is ticking out .... 375 Index of First Lines 411 The livers that sweep to the sea There lies a lone isle in the tropic seas There's a whisper of life in the grey dead trees There was a time on this fair continent The rowan tree grows by the tower foot These are the days that try us ; these the hours The sky had a grey, grey face The song unsung more sweet shall ring The sonnet is a diamond flashing round The sweet Star of the Bethlehem night The sun goes down, and over all The sun has gone down in liquid gold The tide flows in and out, and leaves . The twilight land toyed with the night The wild birds strangely call . They have a saying in the East They hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell They journey sadly, slowly on This is the white winter day of his burial This Canada of ours .... This is the purple sea of ancient song This river of azure with many a weed in Those far-off fields, how fair they seem Thou askest not to know the creed . rhou sweet-souled comrade of a time gone by Through a Gethsemane of city streets 'Tis dawn, but not such morning-tide 'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway 'Tis the sound of a silver-toned bell . 'Tis solemn darkness, the sublime of shade . 'Tis summer still, yet now and then a leaf , True comrade, we have tested life together , 'Twas midnight. Darkness, like the glow of some funereal pall 'Twas on a day, and in high radiant heaven . Under the ward of the Polar Star . Up by the idling reef-set bell . . . Upon the heights of Sillery one day . Vast, unrevealed, in silence and the night . Wanted, a stalwart man War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil We fear not the thunder, we fear not the rain West wind blow from your prairie nest What reck we of the creeds of men ? — What shall withstand her ? Who shall gainsay her ? What went ye to the wilderness to see ? When early shades of evening close . Whence comes the charm that broods along the shore When God sends out His company to travel through the stars 254 331 360 233 2oS 128 139 70 41 186 45 97 113 149 207 167 365 33 51 116 146 272 Il3 248 188 218 123 112 224 132 322 314 256 133 269 52 163 301 282 66 234 15s 43 38 162 40 290 306 412 Index of First Lines When high above the busy street When ploughmen ridge the steamy brown . When the Sleepy Man comes with dust on his eyes When tree and bush are comfortless . Where are the men of my heart's desire Where does my sweetheart Baby go . . Where the soft shadows fall . Where the world is grey and lone Where, where will be the birds that sing Whom would you choose? for, lo, the chief is dead Wide are the plains to the north and the westward Winged wonder of motion Within, a panic-stricken throng With folded wings of dusky light With fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud With slender arms outstretching in the sun . You ask for fame and power . PAGE 363 364 302 31 3" 226 254 89 347 28 187 273 180 216 34S 378 41 ■J] (-