f\F THIS EDITION OF LATER POEMS KJ AND NEW VILLANELLES, BY S, FRANCES HARRISON (SERANUS), TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES HAVE BEEN PRINTED, THIS CHAP-BOOK IS A PRODUCT OF THE RYERSON PRESS, TORONTO, CANADA. Copyright, Canada, 1928 by The Ryerson Pre** Mrs. J. W. F. Harrison, of Toronto, has had a long and varied liter- ary career, having contributed largely to Canadiana under the pen- name of Seranus. At one time a journalist, Mrs. Harrison has been as well musician, composer, novelist, and poet of distinction. Some of her finest poetic output has been in the form of villanelles, which reflect the spirit of French Canada, a number of which are included in this edition. Her Canadian Birthday Book (1889) has the honour of being the first anthology of Canadian poetry, and is now very rare. Mrs. Harrison's first collection of verse, Pine, Rose and Fleur de Lis, was published in 1891. Later Poems and Villanelles By S. Frances Harrison, "Seranus" ♦ ♦ ♦ A CANADIAN ANTHOLOGY (OF FLOWERS) AS ONCE the Greek Meleager wove in verse A chaplet for the bards of his own land, Theocritus, and Simmias, Plato too, All, all of flowers, with ivy, cypress, grape, Roses of Sappho, crocus, cyclamen — So, for the dear Unknown across the seas, And under Afric stars, and where the smoke Of pulsing geysers rises in Maori-land, And even where Ganges rolls its lamp-lit flood, For all who make the Empire (and all are friends), I make a song in Canada to-day, The song of her own flowers, not England's, nor Another's, but her own. See — I have plucked In fancy, some of the ivory blood-root buds And twined with them the yellow violet, No shrinking blossom this, but strong and erect From sturdy clumps, encompassed by its leaves Of fearless mien, protectress too of one Like to itself, but timid, scented, white — Viola blanda is her gentle name; And further in the forest paths I sought One And found (for you) the ruby-tinted bells Of sweet Linnaea, with perchance a stalk Grey-curved and curious, of Indian Pipe, Pale Monotropa, loving not the sun Yet nurtured near the Trillium, all in threes, Bravest of blossoms born in moist mid-May, The children's choice, the nation's favourite, Giving its light to darkest interlace Of fallen log and fern. Still other prize I have for you — in windy open fields Blow saffron lilies and Asclepias The orange Butterfly-Weed, Lupinus blue; Calypso, Arethusa, Orchids twain, I'll find, be sure, with Kypris' Moccasin-Flower, The Painted Cup, all redolent of Spain, Gay Castilleia, Sarracenia Or Pitcher-Plant in hooded vesture drest, Weird marvel of the marsh and irised pools; Rhodora's clusters purple-rose in hue, Andromeda, and Kalmia, Wintergreen; Mitchella's scarlet berries, and the odorous Arbutus, I must have, and the wild Calla Gleaming in streamlets like a patch of snow, And where the clearing slides along the rail Pink Epilobium spires I'll gather in With blackberry and vivid Golden-Rod, Still on the prairie waves the fair Wind-Flower, Anemone, but so unlike the frail Anemone nemorosa of the wood ! And these are not all. Our Northern Rivers yield Tall spikes of Cardinal flower and sumach bright, And on the mountain slopes, corollas rare (Celestial azure, crystal-cinctured) grow, With gentian and azaleas. Maiden-hair From dripping cliffs, and birch bark satin-smooth, I must not miss, nor Nuphar's lovely cup; Waxen Nymphaea and the Dragon-Root, Wild rice, and Indian hemp, and plumed beach-grass, Polygala's fringes and the fairy star Of Trientalis whorled in emerald — Must I not wait for these, Dicentra too, And pearly "everlastings" and the spoils Of fruited moss and cinnamon fungi, mats Of hemlock twigs and tassels of the larch? Yet are there more. What of the radiant lanes Two Where warm peach-petals colour the fragrant air For miles and miles of old Niagara's strand — Not only for the rich, not glassed nor walled But full in sight for all. What of the bloom Where eastern orchards burst their bonds in spring, (And apples grow more rosy toward the sea); And then — the misty berries of the North, Blue as an infant's eye and kindly spread O'er leagues Laurentian, plateau, stone, and dyke! These will I add, and many a marvel more, And I will dream that he, Meleager, came And saw these wonders, and, working in his mind Came Envy, Malice, and all Uncharitableness, Fears, lest his own Anthology be found Wanting, till later, better feelings filled His heart; at last he spake — I hear the names Of Graecia's Nymphs and Goddesses given to flowers Growing in this far land, new land, of snows And boundless waters — I marvel much at this. — And I, divining, answered — It is true, And true of other things, for, like the Greek, We love all waters. Mariners all are we, Each one a proud Odysseus sailing thro' The island channels or on craggy shores Building the beacons that shall lead us home Across the many-rivered, rocky plain, Spangled with lakes and foaming waterfalls. Mirth-merry at the thought I gave him roots Of Aquilegia, gallant, spurred and gay — Of Erythronium, saying — "Go and plant These (if you have them not) in Ithaca And watch if they flourish." But for all the rest They are for all the friends in distant climes, For all who make the Empire (plucked by one, A lover of her country, coast to coast) For whom this floral wreath I weave to-day Bound with a branch of crimson Maple Leaf, And may my loving Coronal of Song "Be for all such as love these holy things." (From the "Canadian Bookman," December, f928)< TO THE SPIRIT OF THE WEST GOD OF the rivers and lakes, Maker of manifold blooms, Dweller in woodland brakes, Weaver of violet glooms, Sower of immortelles, Pearly, and grey, and white, Painter of roseate dells, Heart of the heron in flight, Lord of the torrents that forge Their foam-cleft path to the wave, Soul of the deep green gorge Whose bosom the waters lave, Builder of bastion tall, Hewn from the rose-red rock, Carver of mystical scrawl Cut in the jaspered block, Keeper of homes that lift Brown thatch to a bright blue sky, Lover of snows that sift Their glittering powder dry O'er clearing and farm and field — Guardian of garnered grain, Hope of the Empire, and shield, Heir of the prodigal plain. ♦ ♦ # THE HILLS OF HULL I THE SUN will set to-night in gold Behind the hills of Hull, But Thou and I, my friend, will not be there. The book is closed, the story told, And over Life has crept a lull Half-rooted in despair. Four II What time we watched the rosy cloud Flush the Laurentians grim, And in the icy air beheld our breath, We did not think of shoulders bowed, Of faltering footsteps, eyes grown dim, We did not think of Death. Ill We loved the scene: the fields of snow Beyond the hills of Hull, The curls of smoke grey-feathered next the sky, The pines and distant spires aglow, The river flowing brown and dull — We loved it, you and I. IV Peaceful and strong, we viewed it oft, It seemed a Promised Land Where nothing evil lived to lure to harm, Where no one sinned, nor strove, nor scoffed, Where pain and suffering were banned By some celestial charm. And if with years we wiser grew And saw those glittering plains With different eyes and moral strenuousness, Knowing each mortal draws his due Of trouble, penalties and pains, We loved it none the less. VI 0 happy days, when we were young Beside the hills of Hull! When river, earth, and sky in one were blent, With eye and ear and heart and tongue In such accord, nought could annul With chill presentiment. VII Perchance the dead, in spirit gleams, Still glimpse the glistening hills, Still breathe the crystal airs they loved so well, As memory brings to me in dreams The flashing chute, the busy mills, The old Laurentian spell. VIII The sun to-night will set in gold, The moon in silver shine Upon the hills of Hull where once we met. Friend of the radiant days of old, My path no longer links with thine, Yet do I not forget. * * * CHRYSOPRASE SEA-FOAM fast frozen to an emerald cream For nymphs and all who like such; tinted pearl That holds, within, waves that no longer whirl But rest content in soft translucent gleam Like grassgreen ledge where slides the fall to stream; Opal that lackest fire; ferns that unfurl In dark cool caves laved daily, unhurt by hurl Of white or sable surges — of these I dream, When, on a counter strewn with doubtful gold, Fraudulent turquoise, tarnished filigree, This jewel meets my view, and when I see, (In Wardour St.) a wrinkled claw enfold In miserly grasp the heart of milky green, I shrink and shudder. Chaste is near Unclean! «i» «|» TOPAZ THE EYES of cats, huge cats, in the deepest lair Of the deepest jungle; the eyes of unblinking birds; The red-brown fox; all roan and russet herds; An autumn wood flooded with golden glare; All pebbled brooks; all flasks of amber wine; Wings of a butterfly, the "Queen of Spain"; / Six The cloth-of-gold of some great princess* train; The burnished copper of some secret shrine — All these lie pictured in a limpid pool Of glowing bronze; a Rajah's rich bequest The gems themselves, lying flat and smooth and cool In rows upon the honey-coloured breast Of one whose charms the world may never know, Whose home is in the dim seraglio. * * * AMETHYST SHADOWS of distant pines outlined aloft Against the blue of some bright summer sky; Veins in a delicate eyelid, or the eye Itself, an Irish eye, of violet soft; Tips of proud thistles, purple after raining; Throat of the pigeon, the harebell's timid spire; Edges of sunset cloud when skies are waning To a pale brightness from a field of fire — All these caught up, commingled, reappear In one deep lake of Amethyst unpriced. Jewel auspicious, worn in winter sere, For thy dear sake are gladly sacrificed The richer emblems of a season tender, The gayer gems that wait on Summer's splendour. * * * RIVIERE PERDUE LOST RIVER hides— Riviere Perdue. Between steep banks of slaty shale, Known but to Emile's sullen crew. 'Tis a strange stream that meets their view, Among its rushes, starved and pale, Lost River hides — Riviere Perdue! To where it goes there seems no clue, It follows some mysterious trail Known but to Emile's sullen crew, Seoen And even they fail to pursue Farther than lonely Ste. Adele, Lost River hides — Riviere Perdue, Perchance a secret shared by few, Some sorry deed — so runs the tale — Known but to Emile's sullen crew. Thus comes it, silence fills the blue, No song is heard, no friendly hail. Lost River hides — Riviere Perdue! Known but to Emile's sullen crew. 4* + 4 LOST RIVER WELL — let it be! The tales persist. Lost River only sees the sun Close shrouded in the mountain mist. What was the deed? With knife, with fist, With rope, was some poor soul undone? Well — let it be! But tales persist, For no one ever makes a tryst Beside these waters wise men shun, Close shrouded in the mountain mist. They say — a palsy plucks your wrist If e'er you try to fire a gun! Well — let it be; such tales persist, For where the river takes a twist, They say — so all the legends run — Close shrouded in the mountain mist, Unknown, unnamed, unmourned, unkissed, You see her face — a drowning nun! ****** Well — let it be! Such tales persist, Close shrouded in the mountain mist. AT ST. JEROME AMONG the hills of St. Jerome, Though woods are thick and winds are bleak I would not fear to make my home. White lilies blow amid the foam Of waterfalls that outlets seek Among the hills of St. Jerome. With blueberries and honeycomb, At Whitefish Lake or Ste. Monique I would not fear to make my home, Nor fear to sleep, beneath the dome Of arching trees with creatures sleek, Among the hills of St. Jerome; My bed the bracken — book, the tome Scripted for me on rocky peak, I would not fear to make my home Where the Black Mountain grisly gnome Might nightly wake me with his shriek! Among the hills of St. Jerome I would not fear to make my home. * + * AT LAC LABELLE I PITY those who have not been — Where'er their feet have strayed before — To Lac Labelle when woods are green. No matter what they may have seen, If they know not that charmed shore, I pity those who have not been To this, a Paradise terrene, Where northern airs the soul restore, To Lac Labelle when woods are green. A sheet of silver in the sheen Of moonlight! Daytime's golden floor! I pity those who have not been To stay within this fair demesne, (Whose wayside Calvary all implore) To Lac Labelle when woods are green. Ah — when shall I be free to glean Peace in thy midst for evermore! Pray pity me — I have not been To Lac Labelle when woods were green. THE LUMBERJACK WHAT colour lurks in Lac Labelle, As summer comes and summer goes, Young Philemon can easily tell. His home is near, at La Chapelle, He cannot read or write, but knows What colour lurks in Lac Labelle. Pink, in the sunset, like a shell, From emerald, back to jade, it flows — Young Philemon can easily tell By purplish black of angry swell The coming storm that hourly grows. What colour lurks in Lac Labelle? All colours that on earth do dwell, Peacock, and turquoise! Lovely rose? Young Philemon can easily tell. A "Lumberjack," in whom the spell Of Poetry has conquered Prose, What colour lurks in Lac Labelle Young Philemon can easily tell. ♦ ♦ ♦ LES SUCRERIES LES SUCRERIES! Les Sucreries! The sugar bush is quickly manned, It is not far from Ste. Lucie; The schools will close at ten to three, For young and old must give a hand, Les Sucreries! Les Sucreries! To start the sap all will agree, Love's labour, this, you understand. It is not far from Ste. Lucie — Come out and watch them tap the tree, And taste the famous "Maple Brand," Les Sucreries ! Les Sucreries! The sap has started, flowing free, Come out and join a joyous band. It is not far from Ste. Lucie. The snow is not all gone, maybe, But what of that? The air is grand! Les Sucreries! Les Sucreries! It is not far from Ste. Lucie! + * * NEAR FILION WOOD NEAR Filion Wood I met a maid, — Years ago, at Pointe Clairville — Fair — so fair I was afraid, For ne'er before had I delayed Going to my work, until Near Filion Wood I met a maid. Blue her eyes, but black her braid, Cheek of cream above its frill — Fair — so fair I was afraid Other loves might quickly fade, Other lips give back no thrill. ****** Near Filion Wood I met a maid. Whether roguish, wild, or staid, I know not, yet she haunts me still. Fair, so fair — I was afraid We might have loved, and might have — paid, So I went on, across the hill. ****** Near Filion Wood I met a maid. Fair — so fair, I was afraid! Elecen TO ONE WHO RENTED BOATS SHADE of Villon— have at thee! Take thy face from out the camp, Nothing shalt thou get of me. Neither guerdon, bribe or fee. Take thy "Uke" away, thou — scamp! Shade of Villon — have at thee! What thou singest, verily Hath no true and Bardic stamp. Nothing shalt thou get of me, Save the boat rent ere I flee, And the cushions, mostly damp. Shade of Villon — have at thee! Go back whence thou came — Perdie! Must I tell thee twice to — tramp? Nothing shalt thou get of me But what I owe. Bien. Merci. So take thy boat, thy stove, thy lamp. Shade of Villon — have at thee! No more shalt thou get of me. + * * MARKET DAY D£PECHE-TOI done— plus vite, Achille, The sun is up, the sky is bright, Tis Market Day at St. Basile. So, as we wish to make a deal With farmers keen on prices right, Depeche-toi done — plus vite, Achille! Charrette and buckboard, horse of steel, Are speeding past with all their might, Tis market day at St. Basile. What shall we buy? Some "feesh," some eel, Some cabbage, currants red and white? Depeche-toi done — plus vite, Achille! By boat, by rail, afoot, awheel, Five parishes to-day unite, Tis market day at St. Basile. Twdu Chez Madame Tarte there waits a meal, Twelve of the clock, with good appetite, Depeche-toi done— plus vite, Achille, Tis Market Day at St. Basile! * * * MADAME TARTE (1) IN GLADES where moonbeams lightly stray, In dim sequestered forest dell, Good fairies still are found, they say. I doubt it. Yet I know one fay, Although 'tis clear she doth not dwell In glades where moonbeams lightly stray But keeps an Inn with strong-armed sway, And rings with will her dinner-bell. Good fairies still are found, they say, But Madame Tarte, I think, must weigh Two hundred, easy— truth to tell! In glades where moonbeams lightly stray Such sprites are not supposed to play! Yet — hostess, cook, gendarme as well — Good fairies still are found, they say, Where one exists the others may. Her virtues all my doubts dispel. In glades where moonbeams lightly stray, Good fairies still are found, they say. # + 4 THE RIVER DU MOULIN AMARKET-set beneath a Tree And by the River of the Mill, A Paradise appears to be. The farmer folk seem to agree While marshalling their goods to fill Their market set beneath a tree. The cure you may chance to see, The notary, too, who brings his quil! — ****** A Paradise appears to be Thirteen This rustic roadside coterie. Who could regard with aught of ill A Market, set beneath a Tree, So merry, hearty, brisk and free! Beside these waters brown and still A Paradise appears to be And surely is, it seems to me. Here in the shadow of the mill A market, set beneath a tree, A Paradise appears to be. * * * THE CRIPPLES YET EVEN here is life full sore, Here mopes the hunchback, young Tremblay. (Alas — the cripples' stalls are four!) Surely, he thinks, ere summer's o'er, He'll seek the shrine at Cote Beaupre, Yes— even here is life full sore. Here knits and weaves her homespun store, Madame's blind daughter, Desiree. Alas— the cripples' stalls are four! Here, withered, wise, long past threescore, Madame's old mother shakes all day. Yes — even here is life full sore! She still gets worse, despite her lore Of plant and herb and sap and spray — (Alas— the cripples' stalls are four!) The blacksmith's little Polidore Will never walk, or so they say. Yes, even here is life full sore, Alas — the cripples' stalls are four! * * * MADAME TARTE LOQUITUR BUT THE Bon Dieu is over all, He knows our woes. He sees our cares, ****** Each one be cheerful at his stall! Show Madame now this fine grey shawl, And good thick socks, and mitts— five pairs. Look — the Bon Dieu is over all And does not wish a bird to fall. So the Cure at Mass declares. (Each one be cheerful at his stall .And sit up straight, not lounge, nor sprawl.) Regard this quilt all sewn in squares. *»**♦* Yes — the Bon Dieu is over all And hears his children when they call! Show Monsieur now these strong-made chairs. Each one be cheerful at his stall, Nor charge too high, nor fight and brawl, But most politely count your wares, For the Bon Dieu is over all. {Each one be cheerful at his stall!) * * + HEART OF GOLD NO HARDSHIP lies in growing old, No cause for sighs, regrets, or fears, If one has grown a heart of gold, And such has Madame Tarte. Behold- How well she carries fifty years! No hardship lies in growing old While one can still dictate and scold, When one has eyes and tongue and ears. If one has grown a heart of gold Nought comes amiss, the manifold Mishaps of life, the gibes, the jeers, No hardship lies in growing old For one whose hearth is never cold, Who warms, then wipes away the tears. If one has grown a heart of gold, Strong, kindly, wise (maybe too bold) One still is loved by all one's peers. No hardship lies in growing old If one has grown a Heart of Gold. Fifteen MADAME TARTE (2) GREAT faith is hers. Her steadfast soul Not lightly is cast up and down, Is never hurt by hint of dole, But keeps its stalwart course. Her role To minister to — priest and — clown. Great faith is hers. Her steadfast soul, (Which first saw light in Trois Pistoles) Though garbed in ancient fuzzy gown Is never hurt by hint of dole. Black silk for Mass, with rabbit stole, Enhances office, gives renown. Great faith is hers. Her steadfast soul Is constant as the Northern Pole; Believes Good beats the Evil down, Is never hurt by hint of dole. Au reste, she lives, upon the whole, For others, and, despite her frown, Great faith is hers. Her steadfast soul Is never hurt by hint of dole. THE MARKET PLACE 0 MATTER where, nor which the race, iNI It's just a mimic world, you'll find, The Market Place ! The Market Place ! Food, fuel, flowers, clothing, lace, All are beneath one roof combined, No matter where nor which the race. To sell and barter's no disgrace! The chief desire of all mankind — "The Market Place! The Market Place!" Cry vendors noble, vendors base, As up and down they groan and grind; No matter where, nor which the race. Banker and butcher, sportsman, ace, Each has his goods marked and designed To suit the nearest market place. And poets often join the chase, While preachers run, not far behind, (No matter where, nor which the race) To reach the fittest Market Place. * * * Sixteen THE RYERSON POETRY CHAP-BOOKS Lome Pierce — Editor THE SWEET 0' THE YEAR By Charles <7. D. Roberts COMPANIONSHIP AND THE CROWD By W. H. F. Tenny FORFEIT AND OTHER POEMS By Kathryn Munro *THE EAR TRUMPET By Annie C Dalton A VALE IN LUXOR By W, V. Newson THE PROPHET'S MAN By Geoffrey B. Riddehough SHEEP-FOLD By Leo Cox *THE SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS By Agnes Joynes BY COBEQUID BAY By Alexander Louis Fraser TWELVE POEMS By Esme Isles-Brown SONGS FOR SWIFT FEET By Gosttckh Roberts ECSTASY AND OTHER POEMS By Elaine M. Catley BITS 0* VERSE IN SCOTS By William P. McKenzie DESTINY AND OTHER POEMS By Maty Matheson FOWLS 0' THE AIR AND OTHER VERSES IN SCOTS By William P. McKenzie THE BATTLE OF ST. JULIEN By Kate Colquhoun SPENDTHRIFTS By Guy Mason THE TIDE OF LOVE By Thomas O'Hagan LATER POEMS AND NEW VILLANELLES 5. Frances Harrison (Seranus) Fifty cents *A POOL OF STARS By Lionel Stevenson SPRING IN SAVARY By Alice Brewer ♦THE CAPTIVE GYPSY By Constance Dades-Woodrow THE LOST SHIPMATE By Theodore Goodridge Roberts *A BREATH OF THE WOODS By Lilian Leceridge VAGRANT By Frederick B. Watt WHAT-NOTS By Geoffrey Warburton Cox TWENTY AND AFTER By Nathaniel A. Benson THE CRY OF INSURGENT YOUTH By Guy Mason THE POET CONFIDES By H. T. J. Coleman Sixty cents *SONGS By John Hanlon ♦OTHER SONGS By John Hanlon COCKLE-SHELL AND SANDAL-SHOON By H. r. J. Coleman WAIFS OF THE MIND By W. V. Newson Seventy-five cents PAUL PERO By R. Dn Cumming One Dollar •The Chap-Bookt marked with an asterisk are now out of print.