OF THIS edition of By Cobequid 
 Bay, by Alexander Louis Fraser, 
 two hundred and fifty copies have been 
 printed. This Chap-book is a product 
 of The Ryerson Press, Toronto, Canada. 
 
 Acknowledgments are made to The 
 British Weekly, University Magazine, 
 Dalhousie Review, Canadian Magazine, 
 Acadiensis, MacLeans and Education, 
 in whose pages poems included in this 
 collection first appeared. 
 
 Copies of this Chap-book may be se- 
 cured from The Ryerson Press, Toronto, 
 and from Macrae Smith Company, 
 Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 Copyright, Canada. 1927 
 by The Ryerson Press 
 
 ALEXANDER LOUIS FRASER, M.A., D.D., is a native of 
 Pictou County, N.S. He studied at Dalhousie University, 
 Halifax; Pine Hill Divinity Hall, Halifax; and New College, Edinburgh. 
 At the present time he is minister of St. John's United Church, 
 Halifax. Dr. Fraser won the first prize with his poem, Memorial 
 Tower, Halifax, 1912. He taught New Testament Greek at Pine Hill, 
 one session, 1922-1923. The following collections of verse have ap- 
 peared over his name: Sonnets and Other Verses (1909); At Life's 
 Window (1910); Fugitioes (1912); He Indian Bride (1915); Aftermath 
 (1919); God's Wealth (1922); The Drained Cup (1925). 
 
B}) Cobequid Ba$ 
 
 By Alexander Louis Fraser 
 
 BY COBEQUID BAY, MASSTOWN, N.S * 
 
 LIKE a forsaken theatre art thou, 
 The lights extinguished and the actors gone, 
 Where once Wit, Gaiety and Beauty shone. 
 Twice fourscore years since their departing bow, 
 Who to the Fleur-de-lis had kept their vow. 
 From Plenty-laden field and velvet lawn, 
 And garden of the dead all were withdrawn, 
 As Fundy's tide swept round their Grief -draped prow. 
 
 Where once light-sandalled Happiness was glad, 
 With Home and sylvan voices everywhere, 
 
 Moved marshalled men, each visage passing sad, 
 Leaving their humble cross-crowned house of prayer; 
 
 And lingering by this strand to-day one hears 
 
 A tleul of sorrow down the time-washed years. 
 
 *Scene of part of the expulsion of the Acadians, 1 755. The village 
 takes its name from the site of the old French chapel. 
 
 One 
 
CANADA 
 
 GREECE in Time's ancient portraiture can show 
 A brow of chasteness rare, while Rome is seen 
 Beside a spoil-heaped chariot, serene. 
 Assyria's sinewy arms discharge a bow, 
 Phoenicia's sails to alien moorings go, 
 Egypt against a pyramid will lean 
 And dream, while Palestine, her face aglow, 
 With light supernal, 'mong them sitteth queen. 
 
 And Canada, how will thy visage look 
 Far hence beside all these? Will soulful eyes 
 
 Thy brow adorn, and blameless hands the Book 
 Of books hold fast, and high-wrought mind despise 
 
 Mere Power and Pelf? Then in this ample West 
 
 The human family may reach its best. 
 
 «b «b * 
 
 IN DRYBURGH ABBEY 
 
 WHAT though fell Time leaves here and there a heap, 
 Where long ago stood a frequented fane; 
 As some exploit transforms a nameless plain, 
 Where Industry her waving fields did reap 
 Into a storied place where strong men weep, 
 So that dear mound within Saint Mary's aisle, 
 The fortune-favoured remnant of this pile 
 From dull forgetfulness this shrine shall keep. 
 
 And while the Eildon Hills their brows make bare, 
 And his loved Tweed its plaintive lay is singing; 
 
 While on this altar-site men breathe a prayer, 
 Or to these stones their hearts like vines are clinging; 
 
 Though its own voices have been silent long, 
 
 To God this roofless fane shall still belong. 
 
 * * * 
 
 THE WILLOW TREE, HALIFAX 
 
 ONCE 'mong a brotherhood of trees I stood, 
 And flocks in summer heat sought out my shade, 
 While in my arms birds hatched their little brood. 
 And round me children played. 
 
 Two 
 
But when the city past me pushed its way, 
 
 And left me like a sentinel alone, 
 The joys of country life the livelong day 
 
 To me were all unknown. 
 
 The robber years have spoiled me as they passed. 
 
 And of my sightly tresses I am shorn, 
 Till like a pensioned guard I stand — the last 
 
 Of a regime, forlorn. 
 
 Sometimes I speak to travellers of old trees 
 
 That by a long-forsaken doorway grew; 
 Or listening ears are wrought to ecstasies 
 
 By secrets no one knew. 
 
 I hear kind things as men pass up and down; 
 Last night two lingered, and this made me start: 
 "This tree is now the centre of the town, 
 And in the people's heart." 
 
 V * * 
 
 ANNIVERSARIES 
 
 FROM Now to Then my way I make 
 O'er Fancy's bridge, for thy sweet sake, 
 And see, with bosom heaving, 
 The place we met, the day we wed, 
 And where in life our tears were shed 
 Of deepest joy — or grieving. 
 
 It may be far from shore to shore. 
 
 Thick mists upon Time's piers may lower — 
 
 Oblivion's waves be tossing; 
 But Memory daily will repair 
 The spans that lie twixt Here and There, 
 
 And aid our feet when crossing. 
 
 V * * 
 
 AN ECHO 
 
 HE DEEMED it dead,— the sound of that which flew 
 From his once careless hand, when morning dew 
 So softly lay upon his verdant field; 
 But, ah! that missile struck Convention's shield, 
 It whizzed and sang above dead years, so when 
 He stood on life's sere slopes, — they met again. 
 
 Three 
 
THE PIONEERS OF PICTOU 
 
 OUR SIRES — brave hearts that crossed estranging seas 
 And broke the hush of the primeval wood, 
 Who lit their candles in the solitude, 
 And met the saffron morn upon their knees — 
 What though their homes were void of luxuries, 
 Learning ne'er begged, nor altars smokeless stood, 
 Nor Cheer nor Friendship lacked the joys their rude, 
 Kind, log-heaped hearths could give. It is to these 
 I bare my head! They wrought without the aid 
 
 Invention brings, ere smoke of Industry 
 Hung o'er these hills and vales; with care they made 
 
 This place a garden of the mind; and we, 
 Cradled in comfort, now bid Mem'ry hold 
 The fragrance of their lives in jars of gold. 
 
 DALHOUSIE UNIVERSITY CENTENARY 
 1818-1918 
 
 HERE where the mighty pulse of Empire beats, 
 Here where the iron gates of Commerce swing 
 That room be made for sinewy Trade to bring 
 To anchor, or to send abroad her fleets, 
 Rose modest, thorough, one of Learning's seats, 
 
 Whence for a hundred years Thought showed the way 
 To realms where Beauty, Truth and Wisdom lay, 
 Like to some trusted guide a traveller meets 
 'Mid storied scenes. Here came they, young, keen-eyed — 
 
 Those thousands now upon her sacred roll; 
 Here taught to see, to think, to do, to bide, 
 
 Here taught their kinship with the mighty Whole 
 Of things, they, going world-wide did their part 
 In war, or peace, at council, altar, mart. 
 
 THE PILGRIM of the sky has pitched his tent 
 Beneath the hills that slope to yonder west; 
 He could no farther fare, his light was spent, 
 And Darkness hard upon his pathway pressed. 
 
 * * * 
 
 * * * 
 
 SUNDOWN 
 
 Four 
 
On either side his track the fire-flakes fell, 
 As sparks that blow from off a passing train; 
 
 And on the skyey fields his course they'll tell. 
 Till with relighted torch he comes again. 
 
 * V * 
 
 THE EXILE 
 
 THE CEASELESS car, the tramp of horses' feet, 
 The restless, human pacings to and fro, 
 The many faces that I do not know, 
 The aching impact of the flinty street, 
 The tired night-watchman on his lonely beat, 
 The blaring bugles Labour loves to blow, 
 The city's glance that everywhere must go, 
 The winds, dust-laden, leagued with winking heat — 
 
 All make me pant for grassy lanes, dew-wet, 
 For clover-fields, ahum with plundering bees. 
 
 For knolls where I mild-mannered Twilight met, 
 For pools that mirror scudding clouds, for trees 
 
 Athrill with flutes. My soul can ne'er forget 
 That it for long was nursed on Nature's knees. 
 
 * * * 
 
 NOSTALGIA 
 
 NOW, THAT the spring has come, I'd like to go 
 And follow her across Acadian fields 
 To well-known haunts where first the Mayflowers blow, 
 
 And drink the fragrance that the forest yields. 
 To go and sit where old Atlantic beats 
 
 His endless music — walk beside the bays, 
 Upon whose bosom Fancy saw strange fleets 
 Set seaward 'neath the skies of yesterdays. 
 
 I'd like to go straight to that dell of green 
 Where Spring's first cup of colour overflowed; 
 
 To walk till sunset, where Surprise is seen 
 At every turn, upon a country road; 
 
 Then, ere I left, once more to view the spot 
 
 Where Time has laid our friends — dear, unforgot. 
 
 Five 
 
AN OLD NURSE 
 
 WITHIN the cradle of her arm 
 To-day I had a peep; 
 A madcap child, so snug and warm, 
 Therein was fast asleep. 
 
 I gazed upon her furrowed face, 
 
 Set with kind eyes of grey, 
 And thought how in that safe embrace 
 
 Two generations lay. 
 
 What wonder if her weary head 
 
 Should think of resting now? 
 Come back then, all her brood, far-sped, 
 
 And crown her queenly brow. 
 
 But after-years too oft beget 
 
 Ingratitude, alas! 
 As those on star-decked heights forget 
 
 The hidden Alpine pass. 
 
 * * * 
 
 TO AN INKWELL, FOUND AT ETON 
 COLLEGE, 1916 
 
 THOU humble servant unto noble Thought 
 Which lived at Eton once — ah, couldst thou tell 
 With what rich legends thy sealed lips are fraught, 
 How would I listen to thee, little well! 
 
 Perhaps some poet fed from thee his pen- 
 Impulsive Shelley, clad in robes of flame, 
 
 Or shy and studious Gray, for high-souled men 
 Like these gave Eton its immortal fame. 
 
 Or did rare Gladstone call thee once his own, 
 Or Wellington touch thee with iron hand? 
 
 0, tantalizing silence!— thou hast known, 
 I ween, such gifted lads, a happy band, 
 
 Who left the Berkshire fields, and went afar 
 To arts of Peace, or agonies of War. 
 
ON THE DEDICATION OF THE MEMORIAL 
 TOWER, HALIFAX, BY H.R.H. THE DUKE 
 OF CONNAUGHT, AUG. 14, 1912. 
 
 (The park was given to the city by Sir Sandford Fleming.) 
 
 OLD FREEDOM greets this Royal throng to-day 
 In these Elysian haunts — largess of one 
 Whom Time has amply proved Britannia's son. 
 And when or Age or Love or Ease may stay, 
 In years unborn, this pillar to survey. 
 Its walls will tell not of War's stunning shock; 
 But how long since kind Liberty did rock 
 Her cradle by this old Atlantic bay. 
 
 And if far-scattered children turn their feet 
 To where their father's earliest hearth did blaze. 
 
 And bathe the very stones in tears, 'tis meet 
 That we of British blood this pile should raise 
 
 Where first a daughter of our ancient throne 
 
 Sat down beside a fireside of her own, 
 
 V * * 
 
 THE HAWTHORN TREE 
 
 THERE'S a hawthorn tree that I'm sure will be 
 All covered with blooms in May, 
 To which long ago, from a school I know 
 The children found their way. 
 
 Though the school is out, and they've wandered about 
 
 The world, — ah! well I ween 
 Past the old grey mill, to the foot of the hill. 
 
 The pilgrims go, unseen. 
 
 Then their wealth or fame, their praise or blame, 
 
 And their years, or grave or gay, — 
 The sight is so much like a fairy's touch — 
 
 From their shoulders slip away. 
 
 And the lost is found, and out of the ground 
 
 Life from the dead they see, 
 The noon is morn, and they are re-born 
 
 Under the hawthorn tree. 
 
 Saen 
 
THE DISCIPLINE OF DELAY 
 
 "XyTlNE hour is not yet come" — thus often He 
 
 i\JLMet Haste's insistent challenge with that word. 
 Thus often He, whose inmost soul was stirred 
 
 At what He saw: slaves thinking they were free, 
 
 Devotion wedded to Formality, 
 Lives in a spacious ocean islanded, 
 While thirty summers blossomed and were dead. 
 
 And He toiled on in deep obscurity. 
 
 Yet morn by morn to His dim shop He went, 
 
 And heard the humble villagers recall 
 The little happenings of their narrow round, 
 While His hand plied Toil's rude-made implement. 
 
 What wonder that in Pilate's judgment hall 
 Mere Power was met by Silence so profound? 
 
 * *» % 
 
 THE LONGEST DAY 
 
 THERE is a sadness in the longest day. 
 We feel somehow the year has seen his best; 
 He seems to look around, then make his way, 
 
 With shortening breath, down to his snow- wrapt rest. 
 But 'tis not so — his best is yet to be, 
 
 When his child, Autumn, shall with gifts abound, 
 And when, at happy Yuletide, we shall see 
 His snow-white head with wreaths of holly crowned. 
 
 Then tell me not that life's best part is gone. 
 
 Because the high noon of the day is here; 
 There is a beauty in the twilight deep 
 One has not felt at any hour since dawn; 
 
 And what is there for tired man to fear 
 When night comes in with stars and dreams and sleep? 
 
 * * * 
 
 ABSENCE 
 
 BY A COTTAGE with ivy o'ergrowing 
 Where opens a garden gate, 
 For me, or coming or going, 
 An angel face would wait. 
 
 Eight 
 
To-day the same brook gleameth 
 
 Beneath our old willow tree, 
 But, ah! how strange it seemeth 
 
 That no one welcometh me. 
 
 Blithe bird, sing there in thy gladness, 
 
 So happy in thine estate, 
 Thou canst not know my sadness — 
 
 Beside thee swingeth thy mate. 
 
 V «b * 
 
 IN THE GRAVEYARD AT FORT 
 MONCKTON, N.B. 
 
 (Graves marked 1755 and 1756.) 
 
 'HIS lonely garden more than half-way round 
 Hath a sea-wall, and then a Time-filled moat — 
 
 The Fort's sole remnant now — to else denote 
 
 How 'tis marked off from all the common ground; 
 
 And here and there in knee-deep grass are found 
 Prone slabs that speak of prowess in the past, 
 O'er which unheeding feet do trample fast, 
 
 Deaf to the message of each mouldering mound. 
 
 I sit, and varied voices make me start: 
 Glad lovers listening to the lapping tide, 
 
 The team-song of the swain on yonder lea, 
 Children at play who are their parents' pride, 
 
 And that sweet bell — echoes of Liberty 
 From out these graves in this old garden's heart. 
 
 * * «b 
 
 THE CHOICE OF MOSES 
 
 GRAVE and thought-burdened, ere his noon of day, 
 His stairs he climbed, and in the distance viewed 
 The countless tents where o'er-wrought Slavery lay, 
 
 And wondered if the stream of Promise would 
 End like a river in the fruitless sand. 
 
 Self bade him close his eyes; but Jochebed, 
 Pale, thin, and worn, before him seemed to stand, 
 And all his early dreams rose from the dead. 
 
 Nine 
 
Then as he left, bidding the place good-bye, 
 He crossed Fame's doorway, though he knew it not, 
 
 Life could not be — to eat, play, sleep, and die; 
 So, while those jewelled courtiers are forgot, 
 
 To him the centuries have gone to school, 
 
 Where priests have learned to worship, kings to rule. 
 
 * * * 
 
 AT GOLDSMITH'S GRAVE 
 
 TO WHERE he sleeps, — not near the honoured dead 
 In the dim aisle of some cathedral grand, 
 But in behind old London's noisy Strand, 
 Where late or soon you hear a hurrying tread, 
 One spring-like day my tired feet were led 
 By fond desire, his sacred shrine to view; 
 Finding thereon a bunch of violets blue, 
 I stood a while with an uncovered head, 
 
 And heard their message sweet: "He was not laid 
 Beside his brothers in poetic art; 
 
 He sleeps alone in his loved Temple's shade. 
 But is embalmed within the human heart" — 
 Happy all they who like asylum find 
 Within the warm affections of mankind. 
 
 V * * 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY'S WELCOME TO 
 THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER 
 
 I AM THE shrine of universal things, 
 So fitting 'tis that no one knows your name; 
 'Tis only those who honour win, or fame, 
 Who shelter find beneath my holy wings. 
 Here you are one with poets, statesmen, kings; 
 And while none knows under what skies you grew, 
 An empire's mothers will be claiming you, 
 And Love from far will here lay offerings. 
 
 So rest, assured that Glory's beams are shed 
 In fadeless splendour where your comrades lie, 
 
 And that Affection's hands will tend each bed, 
 And God will keep above them His calm sky — 
 
 While I will tell forever with what pride 
 
 Brave, common, happy men for England died. 
 
 Ten 
 
THE SLEEPING CHILDREN 
 
 THE HOUSE is quiet now, but all the day 
 The sound of patt'ring feet was in the hall. 
 How tired they grew ere night began to fall; 
 Come view them as they lie,—no cares have they. 
 If dreams do cause them in their sleep dismay, 
 Perhaps the reason is to-day a doll 
 Was broken, or some mishap did befall 
 A toy. That these are trifles none will say 
 Who knows a child. Let them sleep sweetly on; 
 The time will come when they will all be gone, 
 
 And no to-morrow will bring back the din 
 Which only dies with sundown now, and yet 
 A truth this is which we too soon forget. 
 Before we leave we'll snugly tuck them in. 
 
 * * * 
 
 THE ARBITER 
 
 FIT AUDIENCE let me find, though few"— I read 
 In one who sang his song because he must; 
 Now all those listless ears are filled with dust, 
 And all that brood of Jealousy is dead. 
 All honour to the heedful few who said: 
 "Sing on; undaunted be, for you may trust 
 That Time's wise jury to you will be just," 
 And now that noble brow is garlanded. 
 
 So blinded Prejudice shall pass away, 
 And Time shall clear his court of all the throng 
 
 That fills the air as with a Babel voice; 
 
 Then as some lyre, which long-forgotten lay, 
 And on whose strings there slept Orphean song, 
 
 Thrills to the touch, so Beauty shall rejoice. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A SCHOOLHOUSE OF LONG AGO 
 
 FOUR grey walls and a door. 
 Six windows, dim and small, 
 A desk, map, seats, plain floor, — 
 Again I see it all. 
 
Remote, side-tracked it rose; 
 
 But who can estimate 
 Where Learning's pathway goes, 
 
 Whence world-roads radiate? 
 
 For boys by whom those trees 
 
 Where climbed, or that pool stirred, 
 
 Have captained argosies, 
 Or been in senates heard. 
 
 So, plain old place, on you, 
 
 And on your solitude, 
 Oft will a retinue 
 
 Of yesterdays intrude. 
 
 V V V 
 
 UNDER THE BRIDGE 
 
 SHRUNK to a rivulet in Summer time, 
 In Winter on through crystal walls it flows. 
 Glad Spring and burdened Autumn hear its rhyme 
 As, year by year, beneath the bridge it goes. 
 
 Here played I oft, here built my mill — and here, 
 
 After a lapse of years, I stand again 
 With you; and think of all the water, dear, 
 
 That seaward passed beneath the bridge since then. 
 
 The echoes of this bridge woke me at morn- 
 Big country waggons to the city bound; 
 
 One passed but now; 'twas like a hunter's horn, 
 For troops of memories started at the sound. 
 
 Those days were long, long days, and at night-fall, 
 Oft by this bridge my mother found me when 
 
 The dark began— but ah! to think of all 
 The water that has passed this bridge since then. 
 
 I'll wait at dusk and watch the stars come out, 
 And count the lights around the circling hill 
 
 For the sake of those who once played hereabout, 
 And heard the water turn my little mill. 
 
 Twelve 
 
THE 
 
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