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 THE ARMISTICE I 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS j 
 
 AMY REDPATH RODDICK 
 
E DONO 
 
 UNIVERSITY BOOK CLUB 
 
 No S.* 5 ! 
 
 Library of fIMill University 
 
 MONTREAL 
 
 Received \e>av 
 

THE ARMISTICE 
 
 And Other Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 AMY REDPATH RODDICK 
 
 Author of '‘The Flag and Other Poems” 
 
 (All Rights Reserved ) 
 
 jftlontrcal 
 
 John Dougall & Son 
 
 19 19 
 
PS8535 04 A 8 ) 9 / <? 
 
 Roddick, Amy Redpath, 
 
 The armistice, and other 
 poems ¥" 8 QP/n6 1a/C 71 1 17735 
 
 
 Mpfi li I 
 
 lliiiii . 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Armistice 1 
 
 A Red Cross Message 4 
 
 There Are Green Palms Afar 7 
 
 When One’s Birthday Comes in May 9 
 
 Birthday Gifts 13 
 
 His Last Birthday 15 
 
 The Day the 42nd Returned 17 
 
 W hen Each is Strung W here it Belongs .... 20 
 
 To the Twang of his Guitar 22 
 
 They Say: “He’s Dead!” 24 
 
 Where Willows Intertwine 25 
 
 Fancies 27 
 
 The Poet Plays 30 
 
 Fulfilment 31 
 
 The Warp and Woof 32 
 
 Beyond 33 
 
 Tragedy is But a Phase 34 
 
 Sorrow 37 
 
 Gloria Mundi 38 
 
 The DrviNE Essence 39 
 
 L ’Amour de Dieu 39 
 
 Our Farms 40 
 
 The Spirit of To-Day 41 
 
 The Principal 42 
 
 The Parson’s Daughter 44 
 
 The Devil’s Toll 45 
 
 The Butterflies 56 
 
 Couleur de Rose 60 
 
 iii 
 
 
THE ARMISTICE. 
 
 Shrill and loud the piercing note, 
 
 Blasted from the syren’s throat, 
 
 Shouting to the answ’ring bells 
 
 To confirm the news it tells; 
 
 And the deep-toned bells vibrate 
 
 With the message they relate : 
 
 “Victory! Victory!” 
 
 * •/ 
 
 From their work the people stream, 
 Feeling all must be a dream; 
 
 But, “ Tis true!” roll out the bells, 
 “What the shrieking whistle tells.” 
 So the banners float on high 
 And the people laugh and cry : 
 “Victory! Victory!” 
 
 ft. * 
 
 In their eyes are welling tears 
 Held in check these four long years. 
 Let emotion freely play 
 Its release on this great day! 
 
 [ 1 ] 
 
THE ARMISTICE 
 
 F orced control and aching dread 
 Melt away in tears thus shed, 
 Victory! Victory! 
 
 Citizens and soldiers run 
 In a string together spun, 
 
 Boys are clanging pots and pans; 
 Labourers and artizans, 
 
 Clerks and merchants rush along, 
 Elbowing the motley throng, 
 Victory! Victory! 
 
 Draped in flags, strange figures come, 
 Pirouetting, frolicsome, 
 
 Tall coned caps upon their heads 
 Spell the fool and nonsense spreads, 
 Children immitate and prance, 
 Blowing trumpets while they dance, 
 Victory! Victory! 
 
 Tooting motors seek to pass 
 Through the swaying human mass, 
 
 [ 2 ] 
 
THE ARMISTICE 
 
 Like the buildings they are gay 
 With the bunting’s proud display; 
 Swirling papers fill the air, 
 
 Noise and colour everywhere, 
 Victory ! Victory ! 
 
 Ah there may be mournful hearts 
 And this scene to them imparts 
 Hollow mirth or keen distress — 
 Here and there in sable dress 
 Women strive to hide their grief, 
 Bravely laugh without relief, 
 Victory! Too late, too late! 
 
 Gentle Peace! bring healing now, 
 Lightly touch each fevered brow, 
 Kiss the mourners till they smile, 
 Soften hearts that may revile, 
 
 Sow pure thoughts upon this earth, 
 Nurse them into godly birth. 
 
 Peace! for Thee, our Victory! 
 
 [ 3 ] 
 
A RED CROSS MESSAGE. 
 
 The beauty of* the thing* amazed and startled 
 him — 
 
 Amid those rows of palms, so shadowy and 
 dim, 
 
 There glowed a live-oak tree, that sparkled 
 through the night, 
 
 And over it a star of purity and light. 
 
 He gazed, and as he gazed, he felt a sickening 
 pain, 
 
 Then quickly turned aside and muttered words 
 profane, 
 
 For Christmas Eve, with joy and tree and 
 shining star, 
 
 Agreed but ill with him, who bore sin’s ugly 
 scar. 
 
 * A Community Christmas Tree in the square of a 
 Southern town at the time of the annual Red Cross Drive. 
 
 [ 4 ] 
 
A RED CROSS MESSAGE 
 
 Now as he moved away, one softly touched his 
 arm, 
 
 So furtively he looked and showed his weak 
 
 alarm ; 
 
 He tried to force a smile — his fear then pass- 
 ed to her, 
 
 Although she stood her ground, this Red 
 Cross Messenger. 
 
 “You do not wear our badge, you’ll buy per- 
 haps from me?” 
 
 She held the button high that he might clearly 
 see. 
 
 Then slowly he drew forth a fifty dollar bill 
 •/ * 
 
 And offered it to her, as though against his 
 will. 
 
 “It’s all I have,” he said, “it’s stolen money 
 too! 
 
 Will fifty stolen dollars buy that cross from 
 
 «• 
 
 you ? 
 
 She took the proffered bill, then gravely shook 
 her head 
 
 And opened up a bag of neatly crocheted 
 thread. 
 
A RED CROSS MESSAGE 
 
 “Your fifty stolen dollars are, I fear, too few; 
 
 But this is Christmas Eve! So one I’ll add 
 for you.” 
 
 Most solemnly she pinned the badge upon his 
 breast, 
 
 “Who wears the scarlet cross must follow its 
 behest.” 
 
 He understood the words and humbly bent his 
 head; 
 
 When lie at length looked up, the Red Cross 
 girl had fled; 
 
 But joy was in his heart, his chance had come 
 again 
 
 For this was Christmas Eve — her deed was not 
 in vain! 
 
THERE ARE GREEN PALMS 
 AFAR. 
 
 Oh Sorrow! you and I have wandered 
 Through arid wastes of time; 
 
 Both youth and beauty I have squandered 
 While in this torrid clime. 
 
 Mine eyes are dull from heavy weeping, 
 Though now they weep no more ; 
 
 A death-like chill is o’er me creeping, 
 
 My throat is parched and sore. 
 
 My hands and feet are torn and mangled 
 By cruel cactus spikes; 
 
 My hair falls loose, with dust entangled; 
 The hot sun fiercely strikes! 
 
 My heart at times is beating wildly, 
 
 And then a sinking pain 
 
 But now a breeze is blowing mildly, 
 There comes a soothing rain. 
 
 I stretch my arms and breathe new vigour, 
 And see one misty star: 
 
 [ 7 ] 
 
THERE ARE GREEN PALMS AEAR 
 
 And lo! the world is growing bigger, 
 
 There are green palms afar, 
 
 And fruitful laurel too and myrtle, 
 
 And brooks that lead to seas, 
 
 While lending strength to make earth fertile 
 With flowers and shrubs and trees. 
 
 My steps have ceased to shift and falter, 
 
 A purpose beckons me! 
 
 In prayer I kneel at duty’s altar, 
 
 Then rise, refreshed and free! 
 
WHEN ONE’S BIRTHDAY COMES 
 
 IN MAY! 
 
 How can one be sad? 
 
 When one’s birthday comes in May, 
 In the spring-time, in the flower-time, 
 In the gladsome month of May, 
 When the fairies hold high revels 
 And young Eros seeks his prey 
 With a quiverful of arrows 
 That are gold in May. 
 
 Leaden arrows are for autumn 
 
 When flowers fruit and then decay, 
 Arrows blunted with earth’s sorrows, 
 Dulled with passions’ gruesome sway, 
 F rom whose wounds there grows aversion 
 Never known in May. 
 
 Golden arrows are for spring-time, 
 Flashing as in wanton play, 
 
 m 
 
WHEN ONE’S BIRTHDAY COMES IN MAY 
 
 Sharply pricking hearts athrobbing 
 With the life, new-born in May, 
 Arrows tipped with lovers’ potions, 
 Quickened with expectant play 
 Of the riper joys of summer 
 Coming after May. 
 
 But the flowers, however perfect, 
 Opened wide on summer day, 
 
 F ail to spread the same elation 
 As the buds, upspringing, gay, 
 Redolent with hopes and wonders, 
 That unfold in May. 
 
 Flowers, that Aphrodite’s footsteps 
 Leave to trace her airy way, 
 
 Filching beauty from the goddess 
 While with mortals she doth stray, 
 Pink from cheeks ablush with laughter, 
 Violet that eyes purvey, 
 
 Pearly tints from teeth are stolen 
 By the flowers in May. 
 
 [ 10 ] 
 
WHEN ONE’S BIRTHDAY COMES IN MAY 
 
 If with dew a babe be sprinkled 
 On a birthday that’s in May, 
 
 Never will the heart grow older 
 
 Though the hair be streaked with grey, 
 Years revolving leave deep furrows, 
 
 But the heart is May! 
 
 Raise the pole and twist the ribbons, 
 
 Dance around in bright array, 
 
 Choose the King and Queen of May-games, 
 Crowned with wreathes of hawthorn- 
 spray, 
 
 Laugh and sing for nature with you 
 Celebrates her birth to-day, 
 
 Flowers and sunshine, vouth and love-time! 
 All are born in May! 
 
 How did I forget 
 The dog-tooth violet, 
 
 The marsh-grown marigolds, 
 [ 11 ] 
 
WHEN ONE’S BIRTHDAY COMES IN MAY 
 
 The daffodil that holds 
 A poet’s thoughts of glee 
 And tosses them to me, 
 
 The primrose nestling low, 
 Where English cowslips grow, 
 The yellow colouring 
 That glimmers in the spring ? 
 
 Yellow, steeped with Apthrodite’s 
 Ringlets, loosely bound in May, 
 
 Pale, when Artemis goes roving, 
 Brightening with Apollo’s ray. 
 
 Yellow, pink, pure white, mauve-purple 
 Are the flowers of May! 
 
 Only yellow have we chosen 
 For our garden-bed’s display, 
 
 Saffron like Athena’s peplus, 
 
 Woven with the scenes of fray; 
 
 As the Goddess won the battle, 
 
 Women gain new birth to-day! 
 
 Dead the Giants, Sloth and Custom, 
 Wisdom grows this May! 
 
 [121 
 
BIRTHDAY GIFTS. 
 
 Oh silent Dead ! now share with me 
 The morning of another year ; 
 
 As in the past bring gifts for me, 
 
 So wipe away the falling tear! 
 
 The many things you gave me once 
 
 I treasure for the thought that planned ; 
 
 Now only thoughts I ask from you, 
 
 Such thoughts as I can understand ; 
 
 To give yourselves, just as you were, 
 
 In tender love on my fete-day, 
 
 To smile as you were wont to smile 
 When hidden presents you’d display, 
 
 To give me, each, the birthday kiss 
 Now softly on my up-turned brow, 
 
 To wish me every happiness 
 
 Whilst I repeat that oft-made vow 
 
 [ 13 ] 
 
BIRTHDAY GIFTS 
 
 That I will try to live this year 
 
 As you would wish that I should live, 
 Thus bring to fruit your loving thoughts 
 My present that to you I give! 
 
 [14 
 
HIS LAST BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Step lightly, love, step lightly, 
 
 My thoughts are far away; 
 
 In silence have they drifted, 
 
 Where once with soul uplifted, 
 
 I lay beneath the flowering May, 
 
 It bloomed that year on my birthday. 
 
 I’m resting on the soft young grass 
 Where violets still linger, 
 
 Their daintiness I finger, 
 
 While watching feathered clouds that 
 pass — 
 
 And now I see but clouds, alas! 
 
 The flowers I smell are bound with wire 
 And wound in wreaths and crosses, 
 Whose short-lived beauty glosses 
 The sombreness of death’s attire 
 And breathes the love such gifts inspire. 
 
 [ 15 ] 
 
HIS LAST BIRTHDAY 
 
 To show man’s love these flowers must fade; 
 But living flowers above me 
 Are whispering they love me, 
 
 No sign of death is here displayed; 
 
 For spring has kissed each gleaming blade 
 
 That shimmers in the morning sun, 
 
 Has filled me with such pleasure 
 In overflowing measure, 
 
 I feel myself and nature one, 
 
 Myself, the flowers — and then the sun! 
 
 I lie in joyous ecstasy 
 
 And watch the flowers above me 
 That whisper how they love me, 
 
 As through the branches I can see 
 
 The blue of clear eternity 
 
 That’s softly, — softly, — calling me — 
 
 ‘Oh! Mother, Mother,” cried the child, 
 ‘Grandad looks no longer old; 
 
 But his hands have grown so cold, so cold.” 
 
 r ] 
 
THE DAY THE 42nd RETURNED. 
 
 She lav within her darkened room; 
 
 No ray of light must pierce the gloom 
 Where all was silent as the tomb 
 In which he lay; 
 
 But she could weep and clench her hands 
 And so reply to grief’s demands ; 
 
 She could feel its burning brands, 
 
 Its fierce dismay. 
 
 i 
 
 Great heaving sobs now shook her frame 
 And thus she wept till some one came, 
 Whose soothing touch helped quell the flame 
 Of passion’s play. 
 
 “Please Mother, let us go and see 
 The men who’ve fought for you and me, 
 And Daddy said for liberty 
 They went away!” 
 
 [17] 
 
THE DAY THE 42nd RETURNED 
 
 She dried her eyes and changed her dress 
 In answer to his eagerness. 
 
 N o one should pity her distress — 
 
 No sign betray! 
 
 They heard the whistles’ cheering blast 
 And sought the crowds now thickly massed 
 To see the Highlanders who passed, 
 
 With welcome gay. 
 
 The sun w T as shining on these men! — 
 
 Her man would never come again, 
 
 He was beyond all earthly ken, 
 
 So far away. 
 
 The child appeared to understand, 
 
 With all his might he pressed her hand, 
 She felt his gentle reprimand, 
 
 His kindly sway. 
 
 The boy she loved was bv her side. 
 
 Her husband’s love had never died, 
 
 The love he bore her as his bride 
 Was hers to-day! 
 
 [ 18 ] 
 
THE DAY THE 42nd RETURNED 
 
 And so the crowds were right to cheer 
 The splendid men now marching here, 
 Xo one forgot the men — still — there, 
 Not far away! 
 
 [ 19 ] 
 
WHEN EACH IS STRUNG 
 WHERE IT BELONGS! 
 
 I lay awake and many songs, 
 
 Now sad, now sweet, 
 
 All incomplete, 
 
 Came drifting from the shades of night; 
 Some dwelt on sin and cruel wrongs, 
 
 Some breathed pure love and sheer delight; 
 But all were fleet, 
 
 All incomplete! 
 
 I fell asleep and from those songs 
 A meaning grew, 
 
 That formed the clue 
 Of life and death, of good and ill; 
 
 The knowledge which to God belongs 
 Seemed mine — I understood His will! 
 
 The wonder grew! 
 
 Eternal! True! 
 
 [ 20 ] 
 
WHEN EACH IS STRUNG WHERE IT BELONGS 
 
 At last I woke and many songs, 
 
 Now sad, now sweet, 
 
 All incomplete, 
 
 Came flitting with the morning light. 
 Alas! the thread that strung those songs 
 Had vanished from my waking sight; 
 But all’s complete 
 And ever sweet, 
 
 When each is strung where it belongs. 
 
TO THE TWANG OF HIS 
 GUITAR. 
 
 In the soft Hawaiian language, 
 
 To the twang of his guitar, 
 
 Low he sobs his droning anguish 
 For the Love he’s left afar; 
 
 For a distant Island City 
 
 Where the warm waves roll and break, 
 
 Rise and swell and fall like music; 
 
 Where one dreams while still awake. 
 
 He can see her, as she stood there, 
 Palpitating from the dance, 
 
 Flushed and burning with love’s fever, 
 Paling at his answ’ring glance. 
 
 Loose her robe of coloured cotton, 
 Garlanded with leaf and flower; 
 
 Lithe and willowy her figure 
 
 Wielding youth’s persuasive power. 
 
 [ 22 ] 
 
TO TEE TWANG OF HIS GUITAR 
 
 But he left her, as she stood there, 
 
 For a cold and friendless shore. — 
 Now he sobs his moaning anguish 
 For the Love he’ll see no more. 
 
 [ 23 ] 
 
THEY SAY: “HE’S DEAD!” 
 
 The heavy fragrance from the orange bloom 
 
 Is wafted through the windows of my room, 
 
 And mingles with the perfume of the rose, 
 
 That only round my heart now twines and 
 grows. 
 
 Some crumpled leaves, long treasured in a 
 note, 
 
 Are faded as the ink with which he wrote: 
 
 “The sweetness of this rose must all reveal, 
 
 The tender hopes and fears that lovers feel!” 
 
 They say: “he’s dead” — like these poor 
 crumpled leaves — 
 
 But hopes and fears the living rose still 
 weaves, 
 
 The rose that grows and twines around my 
 heart, 
 
 While wedded joys the orange blooms impart! 
 
 [ 24 ] 
 
WHERE WILLOWS 
 INTERTWINE. 
 
 I’ve clothed my thoughts in written words 
 And tuned them for the lyre, 
 
 And borrowed trills from mating birds 
 To sing my soul’s desire. 
 
 Such wealth of harmony and charm 
 I conjure all in vain, 
 
 For not one jot can I disarm 
 My cruel Love’s disdain; 
 
 She treats me as a singing bird 
 That chirrups at her call, 
 
 And if with tears my eyes are blurred 
 She answers not at all; 
 
 But turns to suitors who can woo 
 With gifts of moneyed worth, 
 
 As note of love one purring coo 
 Of pride in landed birth. 
 
 [ 25 ] 
 
WHERE WILLOWS ENTERTWINE 
 
 I hate those suitors for their pride, 
 I hate their vain conceit! 
 
 My shabby clothes I wish to hide. 
 (I might at least be neat!) 
 
 But I’ll not try to ape those fools, 
 My Love’s no Love of mine! 
 
 I’ll seek for peace by shady pools 
 Where willows intertwine; 
 
 And there I’ll lie upon the moss. 
 
 In sweetest solitude, 
 
 And dream away my aching loss, — 
 My Love’s ingratitude! 
 
 [ 26 ] 
 
FANCIES. 
 
 The fairies of my early years 
 Are hov’ring round me still, 
 
 Invisible elf’n engineers 
 That ply their magic skill, 
 Transforming things one sees and hears 
 By effort of their will. 
 
 They curve the angles of my life 
 And smooth its pebbled way, 
 
 And turn the bitterness of strife 
 To honied roundelay, 
 
 They soften sounds of drum and fife, 
 The martial notes of fray, 
 
 Until I catch the melting strains 
 That warble through the flute, 
 
 The harmonies and odd refrains 
 That suit the stringed lute, 
 
 [ 27 ] 
 
FANCIES 
 
 The spirit voice that faints and wanes 
 When facts alone bear fruit. 
 
 The music of the dulcimer 
 Re-echoes from the past, 
 
 When prophet and astrologer 
 Saw visions that still last, 
 
 Of wonders, spun like gossamer, 
 
 To veil fair truth’s forecast. 
 
 For truth thrives best in mystery 
 Where faith upholds the torch; 
 The golden veiled Divinity, 
 
 Too closely pressed will scorch. 
 How grasp that thing, eternity! 
 Though trembling in its porch. 
 
 A parable this world of ours 
 Whose meaning none may read, 
 For time begets and time devours 
 The man and man-made creed, 
 While truth eternal, heav’nly powers. 
 From age to age succeed. 
 
 [ 28 ] 
 
FANCIES 
 
 The fairies of my early years, 
 
 The fancies of to-day, 
 
 Are threaded with the tales of seers, 
 Who’ve caught perchance some ray 
 Of that which leads from night and fears 
 To everlasting day. 
 
 [ 29 ] 
 
THE POET PLAYS. 
 
 All the gamut of emotions 
 He has felt and played upon, 
 
 Sorrows deep as deepest oceans, 
 
 Joys as light as tossed up foam; 
 
 Some with fleeting touch are gone, 
 Scarce caught by highest note of treble, 
 Others aimlessly may roam 
 To be ground like finest pebble 
 In the roar of heavy bass 
 Which absorbs with its embrace. 
 
 But he tries to catch each feeling 
 With soft notes of sweet accord, 
 
 Half concealing, half revealing, 
 
 Thoughts that linger, thoughts that go ; 
 Seeking interval and chord, 
 
 That best express the meditation, 
 
 Where both thoughts and feelings glow 
 Fused in placid exaltation; 
 
 And the tune he seeks to play 
 Is neither sad nor over gay. 
 
 [ 30 ] 
 
FULFILMENT. 
 
 I search for unaccomplished deeds 
 Among the days that once were mine ; 
 And here and there I gather seeds, 
 
 That failed their part in life’s design. 
 
 And now my days I feel are few, 
 
 And weak my will that once was strong, 
 And yet those seeds I’ll watch anew 
 Until they blossom into song, 
 
 Until they blossom into deed; 
 
 For what is song which leads to nought ? 
 A wilted stock, a broken reed, 
 
 But sprung from seed of useless thought! 
 
THE WARP AND WOOF. 
 
 Let the warp and woof be flawless, 
 Woven in the mental web, 
 
 Warp of thought and woof of action, 
 Solace of the hours that ebb. 
 
 If the warp be loose or fraying 
 Even though the woof pull taut, 
 Memory will search that weakness 
 And the flaws, so lightly wrought, 
 May disturb those hours, that should be 
 Ebbing like a gentle tide, 
 
 Whose calm waters, — clear, reflective — 
 Will in wondrous depths subside! 
 
 [ 32 ] 
 
BEYOND. 
 
 Always I have sought beyond, 
 Ever restless; seeking, seeking: 
 Then there’s always still beyond! 
 
 But now their gentle movements show 
 I may be drifting soon beyond. — 
 
 Am I pleased or am I grieved 
 That I shall know what is beyond? 
 
 At last I feel relief and peace — 
 
 I may have found what is beyond! 
 
 [ 33 ] 
 
TRAGEDY IS BUT A PHASE. 
 
 I try to write of tragic things, enlarge the 
 subject of my lays; 
 
 But I can only write of truth, and tragedy is 
 but a phase, 
 
 A passing phase, a cloud that dims the comedy 
 of human life; 
 
 For all is well whose end is well, and love is 
 stronger far than strife; 
 
 What strife destroys, strife cannot mend; but 
 love can mould to fairer form 
 
 By closing wounds with tender art, till beauty 
 springs where once was storm. 
 
 No tragedy the thing called death, it is but 
 change and life is change. 
 
 Why should we shudder when it comes as at 
 * 
 
 a phantom, cold and strange? 
 
 [ 34 ] 
 
TRAGEDY IS BUT A PHASE 
 
 We face each day some change that shifts or 
 rocks the tenor of our ways; 
 
 We face this change with fortitude, why not 
 the change that death conveys? 
 
 No tragedy the thing called pain, disturber of 
 our work and rest; 
 
 If we but have the will to rise and meet it 
 with a laugh or jest, 
 
 Or meet it with a stern resolve to bear it as 
 our cross in life — 
 
 That cross may be some day our crown, when 
 we have conquered in the strife! 
 
 But sin is tragedy indeed, we cannot gloss, or 
 smile at it, 
 
 And feeble will is tragic too and life that 
 feeble wills transmit. 
 
 Of each perhaps is only asked, the good that’s 
 born within his soul, 
 
 And he who’s strong should help the weak 
 until they reach the final goal. 
 
 [ 35 ] 
 
TRAGEDY IS BUT A PHASE 
 
 Though sin may crawl upon this earth, it never 
 climbs to realms above. 
 
 As finite as the earth is sin; but infinite — 
 protecting love! 
 
 So tragedy is but a phase, a cloud that dims, 
 nor start, nor end ; 
 
 Why try to write of evil things? When all 
 our thoughts toward good should tend! 
 
 [ 36 ] 
 
SORROW. 
 
 Sorrow, linger still beside me, stay for yet 
 another day! 
 
 Till I pause to gird myself, so face you in 
 your stubborn fray; 
 
 Go not swiftly thus, and leave me frail as 
 when you harshly came; 
 
 Stay, that I may rend your heart, then joy- 
 fully my strength proclaim! 
 
GLORIA MUNDI. 
 
 The glory of this world is ours indeed, 
 
 While we have eyes to see its ruddy light, 
 And ears to catch the whispers of the night, 
 While we have storied books in which to read 
 Of thoughts, that link with thoughts, till men 
 succeed 
 
 In rising from the beast to such great height, 
 That God Himself must smile in calm delight 
 To gain rich harvest from his scattered seed. 
 And yet this glory all may pass away 
 When we have closed our eyes, have sunk in 
 sleep, 
 
 To wake, we know not when, we know not 
 where ; 
 
 This destiny, for all we hold most dear! 
 
 But I have faith that when He comes to reap, 
 Xo worthy thought will He let fall astray! 
 
 [ 38 ] 
 
THE DIVINE ESSENCE. 
 
 Transcendent Power that binds the Universe, 
 Whose attributes no human mind may grasp, 
 Whose Will permits, but seems not to coerce 
 The Destiny that each himself must clasp, 
 Who gives to each, perchance, a spark divine, 
 Both creature and Creator to combine! 
 
 L’ AMOUR DE DIEU. 
 
 Genius winged its way above, 
 
 And poets made the gods of Greece. 
 
 In men’s hearts came simple love, 
 
 And through that love was learned the Christ. 
 
 [ 39 ] 
 
OUR FARMS. 
 
 Aphrodite! art thou jealous 
 Of the birds in gay attire? 
 
 That thou let’st thy sober sparrows 
 Chase sweet comers, who desire 
 Nesting quarters in our bushes — 
 
 Fair- plumed visions that inspire! 
 
 Chirping sparrows are most useful; 
 
 But we long for Psyche’s charms. 
 Steal what’s venom from thy workers — 
 Quarrelling and all that harms, 
 
 Let both diligence and beauty 
 Thrive together on our farms ! 
 
THE SPIRIT OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Youth came scrambling round the corner, 
 Heedless of restraining Age. 
 
 “Though she looks so wise, I scorn her! 
 
 Times have changed, now I’m the Sage! 
 
 I can understand new wonders, 
 
 I’m the Spirit of to-day!” 
 
 Age looked on and saw Youth’s blunders, 
 Once her own of yesterday. 
 
 Restless Youth, slow-moving Age, 
 
 Which is truly now the Sage? 
 
 Stir them round like pudding batter, 
 
 Now we’ve found what is the matter: 
 
 Each the complement of each, 
 
 Mingling thoughts, might learn and teach. 
 
 [ 41 ] 
 
THE PRINCIPAL. 
 
 January l*2th, 1919. 
 
 In service of the Greeks he loved 
 And of the Scot, his countryman, 
 lie struggled to command himself, 
 
 To carry out a promised plan. 
 
 Before two thousand Greeks he spoke, 
 Espoused with eloquence their cause, 
 Dilating on their mighty past 
 
 Which gave us freedom and our laws. 
 
 To them we owe what now we are! 
 
 Shall we be deaf to their demand 
 To free them from the strangers’ yoke? 
 
 For where dwells Greek should be Greek 
 land! 
 
THE PRINCIPAL 
 
 And then he hastened to the church, 
 Where he had promised to preside 
 At Lauder’s plea to reconstruct 
 A world reversed by German pride. 
 
 To build on rock and build to God 
 A better, simpler, truer life! 
 
 And he — who promised to preside — 
 Had ever sought to live that life. 
 
THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 My little love has kind grey eyes, 
 
 My little love’s a fairy; 
 
 For when she’s near me worry flies; 
 
 My little love, my Mary! 
 
 I may be cross and out of sorts 
 While trying to write my sermon : 
 
 The war disturbs, the war distorts! 
 Should we forgive the German? 
 
 But Mary smiles, the little witch! 
 
 And finishes the sentence: 
 
 “When we do wrong, we need the switch, 
 Until we show repentance.” 
 
 Perchance if all, who wield the cane, 
 
 Had kind grey eyes like Mary, 
 
 Then peace and joy might ever reign — 
 So wave your wand, my Mary! 
 
 [ 44 ] 
 
THE DEVIL’S TOLL. 
 
 Upon the great bronze door of Charlemange’s 
 church 
 
 I saw a mark, and wondered whence it came, 
 Then, in an ancient book, I read this tale: — 
 
 With burning zeal and loving care each stone 
 Was deftly placed, and so a Minster grew, 
 While Charlemagne watched, with smile or 
 frown, and called 
 
 For greater haste. From all the Provinces, 
 From Italy, from England, workmen trooped; 
 From Rome and from Ravenna marble blocks 
 And rounded columns and from strong Ver- 
 dun 
 
 Great stones were brought. From many near- 
 by parts, 
 
 [ 45 ] 
 
THE DEVIL’S TOLL 
 
 From Maestricht and from other ancient 
 towns 
 
 Material was drawn by day and night, 
 
 And yet the towering Minster was but half 
 Complete, when Charlemagne once again was 
 called 
 
 To fight the pagan tribes of Saxony. 
 
 Now as he journeyed forth, the Emperor 
 Entrusted to his Councillors the task 
 He had so willingly imposed upon 
 Himself, and thus he spoke: “Ere my return 
 The Minster must be finished! Yours is now 
 This burden and how light to what is mine!” 
 Then to the working men he said: “Take heed 
 That all be done as though I still were here 
 To supervise, encourage, and command!” 
 
 So Charlemagne went, with all his court, to 
 join 
 
 His well-trained troops, and soon he thought 
 to quell 
 
 Those sinful Saxon hordes; by sword to teach 
 That Christ was Lord, not heathen deities. 
 
 [ 46 ] 
 
THE DEVIL’S TOLL 
 
 But wearily the war dragged on and drained 
 The Empire of its gold, till those, who worked 
 Upon the Minster, would no longer work 
 For promises alone, and left the church 
 An idle ruin, where grass seeds might root 
 For all they cared! The Councillors, in sore 
 Distress, now wondered where to turn for 
 gold, 
 
 While writing Charlemagne fairy tales of how 
 Each week the work progressed! First one 
 and then 
 
 Another said: “The money must be found. 
 We cannot face the Emperor, should he 
 Return and see his Minster but a grass 
 Grown ruin. Better from the Devil’s self 
 To borrow gold than suffer Charlemagne’s 
 wrath.” 
 
 Now whether Satan heard these words or news 
 Of them was brought to him we have no means 
 Of telling; but we’ve sometimes found when 
 
 men 
 
 [ 47 ] 
 
THE DEVIL’S TOLL 
 
 Are in extremities, the Devil’s not 
 Far off. One evening when the Council met 
 To gloomily discuss the Minster’s plight 
 A handsome man in fine attire appeared 
 And, smiling, bowed with courtly grace, then 
 spoke 
 
 Most kindly: “Gentlemen, the whole town 
 knows 
 
 You suffer from a very old complaint 
 Whose cure is — well filled coffers. Now the 
 war 
 
 Has emptied yours, and money in these days 
 Is hard to find as honest Councillors. 
 
 But you, I’m sure, would never lie, and I 
 Am rich, while gold can buy what I require. 
 To do you pleasure is my will. Accept 
 From me your Minster’s price!” The Coun- 
 cillors 
 
 Could scarce believe the offer_was sincere; 
 
 But from their faces one might see that hope 
 Was chasing blank despair; as, with one voice, 
 They gasped: “The interest, how much? and 
 then 
 
 [ 48 ] 
 
THE DEVIL’S TOLL 
 
 How long the lending?” “Interest!” replied 
 The stranger, “did not Aristotle preach 
 That interest was most improper? I 
 Am even more considerate. My gold 
 I freely give, nor ever ask again. 
 
 I do but stipulate, as my reward, 
 
 The soul, who first shall find its way beneath 
 The finished Minster’s dome. Small recom- 
 pence 
 
 For such a gift! but ’tis my whim.” These 
 words 
 
 Were scarcely uttered when, displaying great 
 Alarm, the Councillors slid off their seats 
 And crept, with nervous, trembling haste, be- 
 hind 
 
 The council board for who but Satan’s self 
 Would traffic gold for human souls, they 
 thought. 
 
 Disdainfully the stranger looked at these 
 Wise Councillors who sought to fortify 
 Themselves behind the council board, then 
 spoke 
 
 [49 1 
 
THE DEVIL’S TOLL 
 
 With cool contempt. “I hardly had supposed 
 My presence would disturb you, Gentlemen. 
 
 I understood you wished to borrow gold 
 From me; but now that I appear in most 
 Complacent mood, you crawl like boys who 
 fear 
 
 The cane or dogs that crouch beneath the 
 lash. 
 
 What sort of Councillors are you! to shrink 
 From such a kindly Devil, well disposed 
 A nd so obliging! Surely you will not 
 Refuse the one condition which I make! 
 With half the sum I offer you I might 
 Obtain a dozen souls, at least! for I 
 Have learnt, through long experience, that 
 fish 
 
 Are soonest caught when money baits the 
 hook. 
 
 You reckon falsely too, forgetting all 
 The souls your church will save if you accept 
 My gold, and I but ask for one! You see, 
 Dear friends, I only wish to demonstrate 
 The Devil is not always black; he’s most 
 
 [ 50 ] 
 
THE DEVIL’S TOLL 
 
 Good natured when it pleases him, but I’ll 
 No longer press the point, all argument 
 Is waste of words on men whose minds are set. 
 Unfinished and neglected churches suit 
 My nesting owls. Look for your gold else- 
 where, 
 
 You may gain better terms. I hold by what 
 I’ve said.” The Councillors took courage from 
 This courteous address, whose logic proved 
 That one soul lost meant thousands that were 
 saved ; 
 
 Nor interest to pay, nor principal 
 Returned! No men with sense could well 
 refuse 
 
 Such favourable terms. Again around 
 The council board with dignity they sat 
 And each in turn affixed his name to this 
 Auspicious deed, one single soul for so 
 Much gold, they chuckled at the thought. The 
 deed 
 
 Was sealed and, with low bows, delivered to 
 The stranger, who departed as he came, 
 
 [ 51 ] 
 
THE DEVIL’S TOLL 
 
 No man knows how. The Councillors now 
 rubbed 
 
 Their eyes, they must have all been dreaming ; 
 but 
 
 A faint sardonic laugh they heard and then, 
 F rom walls and ceiling, golden coins appeared 
 And fell, an avalanche of wealth, each coin 
 A golden florin, freshly stamped, and so 
 They fell until enough were heaped to fill 
 The empty coffers. How the Councillors 
 Rejoiced in the bargain they had made! 
 
 And yet they realized that secrecy 
 
 Was best, as each now swore a solemn oath 
 
 No word of these proceedings to divulge. 
 
 All Councillors, we fear, are not discreet 
 For some one must have whispered to his wife, 
 Who whispered to her dearest friend, and so — 
 Till whisperings became the market talk. 
 Again the Minster grew; but as it grew 
 The Councillors were ill at ease and felt 
 More troubled than before. The Devil had 
 
 [ 52 ] 
 
TEE DEVIL’S TOLL 
 
 Their bond and seal; now who would step 
 within 
 
 The church their contract to fulfill? Might 
 not 
 
 The people rightfuly demand that one 
 
 Of them, who signed the deed, should pay the 
 price 
 
 As well? So worried days brought sleepless 
 nights 
 
 To these misguided men, who had approved 
 
 Thus thoughtlessly the Devil’s subtleties. 
 
 Most bitterly they now repented (all 
 Who call on Satan must) , and turned this time 
 To Mother Church to help them in their woe. 
 She did not fail; an aged monk, much learned 
 In legal lore, suggested that no word 
 Was used to qualify the soul. A wolf 
 Or bear’s would answer; why a Christian’s, 
 then? 
 
 The Councillors now breathed relief and 
 watched 
 
THE DEVIL’S TOLL 
 
 With joy their Minster grow, until it soared, 
 A masterpiece, to justify their pride. 
 
 One night, when all was finished, stealthily 
 The Devil crept behind the great bronze door 
 That hung, invitingly, wide open; he 
 Awaited there, with greediness, his long 
 Expected prey. The Councillors kept watch 
 As well throughout that autumn night and by 
 Their side a caged she-wolf which snarled the 
 hours 
 
 Away. When morning dawned, with trem- 
 bling hands, 
 
 They gave the beast her liberty; but just 
 So much — the streets were lined — she dashed 
 within 
 
 The finished church. The Devil heard the 
 wild 
 
 In-rush, with lighning speed he struck the 
 wolf 
 
 And grasped her living soul — then ground 
 his teeth 
 
 And howled with rage to find his prey was but 
 
 [ 54 ] 
 
THE DEVIL’S TOLL 
 
 A senseless beast. With imprecations foul 
 To hear, lie fiercely slammed the great church 
 door 
 
 And left his mark upon the bronze. 
 
 We see to-day ! 
 
 The mark. 
 
 A moral sad 
 I now must add 
 
 To strengthen this most weird of tales; 
 Who listens to the Devil’s voice 
 Soon finds no reason to rejoice, 
 
 And all repentant sighs and wails 
 Will never wash the stain awav 
 Of crooked paths and miry clay ; 
 
 The sin may go, its mark prevails. 
 
 No perfect whole 
 The Devil’s toll! 
 
 [ 55 ] 
 
THE BUTTERFLIES. 
 
 Beside the Ranger’s house, where we now 
 drive, 
 
 There flutters upward from a flowering 
 bush 
 
 A whirl of pearl-white butterflies that push 
 And jostle daintily, then dip and dive; 
 
 And in their midst a lordly one, all brown, 
 With jewelled wings that languidly unfold 
 As though perchance to say: “Behold! be- 
 hold! 
 
 This swarm, with which I flutter up and down 
 Is not for me. Go find my proper mate!” 
 Three times upon our mountain drive we 
 pass 
 
 That spot where lightly float above the 
 grass 
 
 The pearly butterflies and one which fate 
 Has doomed, it seems, to dismal loneliness 
 Amid that happy, busy, drifting swarm; 
 Where all but it alone are uniform, 
 
 And none but me to pity its distress. 
 
 [56 1 
 
THE BUTTERFLIES 
 
 Such hazy, tranquil summer days! such wealth 
 Of bloom in neatly starred and circled beds 
 That dot the Ranger’s lawn with flaming 
 reds 
 
 And vivid blues and yellows, where by stealth 
 
 No shadow creeps; but just the gloom that 
 hangs 
 
 Around my lonely butterfly — a gloom 
 That passes then to me. What sadder doom! 
 
 To live where all is lovely; but the pangs 
 
 Of longings unfulfilled. Poor butterfly! 
 That has so much and yet still grieves its 
 loss, 
 
 For play without a playmate is but dross — 
 
 An emptiness that nought can satisfy. 
 
 And thus I muse until we reach the bend, 
 Where one may see the polished stones that 
 mark 
 
 The dead, who rest beneath the sloping 
 park. 
 
 What longings once were theirs! and for what 
 end! 
 
 [ 57 ] 
 
TEE BUTTERFLIES 
 
 To live in vain, and die unsatisfied! 
 
 A mournful world if only one must crave, 
 Then hopelessly alone sink to his grave. 
 But what floats up? With wings outstretch- 
 ed in pride! 
 
 A message from the dead that comes to me, 
 This living sign of joy and hope fulfilled 
 Which upward flies as though some Master 
 willed 
 
 That I myself assist its destiny. 
 
 For straight to me the butterfly now heads, 
 Alights upon my lap with airy grace 
 And there stays perched upon a fold of lace, 
 A refuge from the breeze the filmy threads! 
 
 A great brown butterfly with jewelled wings! 
 The mate, which seemingly it was designed, 
 That I, through sympathy, should truly 
 find, 
 
 Serenely poised! New confidence it brings 
 That somehow, somewhere comfort ever waits 
 As rests this burnished butterfly! And now 
 
 [ 58 ] 
 
THE BUTTERFLIES 
 
 We turn around the Mountain’s eastern 
 brow, 
 
 Descending by the road that separates 
 The peaceful garden from the wind-blown 
 pines ; 
 
 And near the honeysuckle bush uptwirl 
 The pearl-white butterflies that dip and 
 whirl 
 
 And one that darts away, and soon entwines 
 In happy play with our wee passenger. 
 Together two brown butterflies in glee 
 Now spiral up above the topmost tree! — 
 What gracious boon do simple joys confer. 
 
COULEUR DE ROSE. 
 
 There’s music in the sunshine 
 That glints upon the lawn, 
 There’s colour in the bird’s note 
 That hails the early dawn. 
 
 The music of the sunshine 
 Is throbbing in my heart! 
 The colour of the bird’s note — 
 The rose that dreams impart ! 
 
 FINIS