Chapter I: Preface (1)

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 institutions, 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 production 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 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 expressed--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 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 appreciation, 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 reasonable 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 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; _The 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

PAGE

THE WHITETHROAT (T. H. R.) 1

A

MARGARET H. ALDEN--
Mother's World 2

JOSEPH ANTISELL ALLEN--
_From_ "Daydreams" 2

GRANT ALLEN--
Only an Insect 3

WILLIAM TALBOT ALLISON--
"There sat the Women weeping for Thammuz" 6
The Men of the North 8
Vanishings 8

SOPHIE M. ALMON-HENSLEY--
Content 9
Song 10
There is no God 11

DUNCAN ANDERSON--
The Death of Wolfe 11
Sport 17

ALICE M. ARDAGH--
Sic Passim 20

ISIDORE G. ASCHER--
By the Firelight 22

B

SAMUEL MATHEWSON BAYLIS--
In Matabele Land 23
The Coureur-de-Bois 25

JOHN WILSON BENGOUGH--
Sir John A. Macdonald 26
Restitution 27

CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS--
In Memoriam 28
Chaucer 30
Pope 30

BLANCHE BISHOP--
The Bride o' the Sun 31
Winter Flowers 31
Christmas Morn 32

EDWARD BLACKADDER--
Annapolis Royal 33

JEAN BLEWETT--
The Two Marys 33
She just keeps house for me 35
At Quebec 36

JOHN BREAKENRIDGE--
The Troubadour 36

JOHN HENRY BROWN--
The Parliament of Man 38
A Sunset 40

EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW--
The Whippoorwill 40
The Sonnet 41

C

GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON--
The Golden Text 41
Is there a God? 43
On Tiptoe 43
What matters it? 43

BLISS CARMAN--
Low Tide on Grand Pré 45
The Gravedigger 46
The Crimson House 48
Hack and Hew 49
Phillips Brooks 51
The White Gull 52

AMOS HENRY CHANDLER--
When Dora died 59

EDWARD J. CHAPMAN--
A Summer Night 60

ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE--
The Woman's Part 63
After the Battle 64
Welcome Home 66

GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE--
Skater and Wolves 67
To a Butterfly 68
Resentment 69
Ecclesiastes 69
A Child's Evening Hymn 69

HUGH COCHRAN--
Ideal 70

HEREWARD K. COCKIN--
The Death of Burnaby 70

SARA JEANETTE DUNCAN COTES--
The Poet 72

ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD--
The Master-Builder 73
The Axe of the Pioneer 73
_From_ "The Helot" 74
The Sword 76
"These Three" 77

FRANCIS BLAKE CROFTON--
The Battle-Call of Anti-Christ 78

JOHN ALLISTER CURRIE--
My Mother 81

MARGARET GILL CURRIE--
By the St John 81

SARAH ANNE CURZON--
Visit of the Prince of Wales to Laura Secord 83
Invocation to Rain 85

D

NICHOLAS FLOOD DAVIN--
_From_ "Eos" 87

A. B. DE MILLE--
The Ice King 89
Ballad 91

JAMES DE MILLE--
_From_ "Behind the Veil" 92

EDWARD HARTLEY DEWART--
Shadows on the Curtain 96
On the Ottawa 97

FREDERICK AUGUSTUS DIXON--
A Feather's Message 98
Hinc Illæ Lachrymæ 99

WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND--
The Habitant's Jubilee Ode 101

JOHN HUNTER DUVAR--
John A'Var's Last Lay 104
The Minnesingers Lied 106
How Balthazar the King went down into Egypt 107

E

ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON--
The Egyptian Lotus 109
Purple Asters 110
Deepening the Channel 111
The Phantom Light of the Baie des Chaleurs 112
The Meadow Lands 113
My Purest Longings spring 114
I watch the Ships 114

JAMES DAVID EDGAR--
This Canada of Ours 116

F

CONSTANCE FAIRBANKS--
The Junction 117
Halifax 117
Those far-off fields 118

JOSEPH KEARNEY FORAN--
The Aurora Borealis 118

WILLIAM HENRY FULLER--
A Song of the Sea 120

G

ALEXANDER RAE GARVIE--
_From_ "Phantasy" 121

H

PIERCE STEVENS HAMILTON--
_From_ "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 131
Night 132
The Coming of the Morn 132
The Mystery of Doom 133

JOHN FREDERIC HERBIN--
Simon 133
The Diver 137
Across the Dykes 137
The Sonnet 138

ANNIE CAMPBELL HUESTIS--
Gentle-Breath 138
The Little White Sun 139
Twenty-Old and Seven-Wild 140

JAMES C. HODGINS--
Once More 145
A Greek Reverie 146

JOSEPH HOWE--
The Flag of Old England 147
The Deserted Nest 148

WILLIAM EDWARD HUNT--
Golden-Rod 141
The Sea's Influence 142
The Passing of Summer 142

RICHARD HUNTINGTON--
Sunrise on the Tusket 142
Louisburg 144

J

CHARLES EDWIN JAKEWAY--
An Unfinished Prophecy 149

E. PAULINE JOHNSON (Tekahiońwake)--
The Song my Paddle sings 155
At Husking Time 156
Shadow River 157
Brier 158
Prairie Greyhounds 159

K

ROBERT KIRKLAND KERNIGHAN--
The Song of the Thaw 160
Peepy is not dead 161

WILLIAM KIRBY--
The Marquis of Lorne's visit to the North-West 162
At Spencer Grange 163
_From_ "The Sparrows" 163

MATTHEW RICHEY KNIGHT--
Jacques Cartier 166
Sovereign Moments 167
The Mercy of God 167

L

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN--
The Railway Station 168
Outlook 168
Among the Millet 169
The Loons 169
The Sun Cup 170
After Rain 170
June 172
September 174
The Goal of Life 177

MARY JANE KATZMANN LAWSON--
The Face in the Cathedral 177

SOPHIA V. GILBERT LEE--
The Brook 180

LILY ALICE LEFEVRE--
Imprisoned 180
Inspiration 181

R. E. MULLINS LEPROHON--
The Huron Chief's Daughter 182

WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL--
The Artist's Prayer 184
The Sweet Star 186
My Native Land 186

STUART LIVINGSTON--
The Volunteers of '85 187
To E. N. L. 188
The King's Fool 189
Keats 192

ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART--
Acadie 192
The Waters of Carr 193
The Lonely Pine 194

BURTON WELLESLEY LOCKHART--
_From_ "The Retrospect" 196
Love and Song 197
By the Gaspereau 197

JOHN E. LOGAN--
The Indian Maid's Lament 198

M

AGNES MAULE MACHAR--
William Ewart Gladstone 199
Schiller's Dying Vision 200
Love and Faith 202
A Madonna of the Entry 202

EVAN MACCOLL--
The Child of Promise 204
Glenorchy 205

ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD--
A Song of Seasons 205

JOHN MACFARLANE--
The Two Angels 206
A Grave in Samoa 207
A Midsummer Madrigal 208

KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN--
Ballad of the Mad Ladye 208
Bird Song 210

ELIZABETH S. MACLEOD--
Alexander Mackenzie 211

A. D. MACNEILL--
The Sea-Gull 212

DONALD M'CAIG--
The Tramp 213

JAMES M'CARROLL--
A Royal Race 215
Dawn 216
The Grey Linnet 216

WILLIAM M'DONNELL--
_From_ "Manita" 217

BERNARD M'EVOY--
A Photograph in a Shop Window 218
Revised Proofs 218

THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE--
Our Ladye of the Snow 219

WILLIAM P. M'KENZIE--
Moonlight 224
Gabrielle 224
The Mother's Song 225
Lullaby Song 226

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN--
Indian Summer 227
Bobolink 229
The Man who rose from Nothing 230

JOHN M'PHERSON--
The Mayflower 231
In the Woods 232

CHARLES MAIR--
Untamed 233
The Voice of the Pines 234
The Humming Bird 236
Innocence 236

GEORGE MARTIN--
Shelley 238
To My Canary Bird 238
Laleet 240

HELEN M. MERRILL--
The Blue Flower 241
At Edgewater 243
The Promise of Spring 243
Sun-Gold 244

SUSANNA MOODIE--
The Maple Tree 244
The Fisherman's Light 247

MARY MORGAN--
"In apprehension, so like a God" 247
Charity 248
Life 248

IRENE ELDER MORTON--
Browning 249
Completeness 250
My Garden Wall 251
In June 252
Song of the Pagan Princess 254
Song 254

CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY--
Poppœa 255

GEORGE MURRAY--
The Thistle 256

N

H. M. NICKERSON--
A Recollection 260

O

CORNELIUS O'BRIEN--
St Cecilia 261

THOMAS O'HAGAN--
Ripened Fruit 261
The Song My Mother Sings 262

P

HORATIO GILBERT PARKER--
I loved my Art 264
It is enough 264
Their Waving Hands 265

AMY PARKINSON--
The Messenger Hours 265

FRANK L. POLLOCK--
Ad Bellonam 268
The Trail of Gold 269

R

ANDREW RAMSAY--
Jephtha's Daughter 270
I will not tell 271
Atkinson's Mill 272

THEODORE HARDING RAND--
The Dragonfly 273
Beauty 276
Love 277
The Hepatica 277
"I Am" 278
The Veiled Presence 279
The Ghost Flower 280
Glory-Roses 280
The Carven Shores 281

WALTER A. RATCLIFFE--
Wanted 282

JOHN READE--
Rizpah 283
Pictures of Memory (i.-iv.) 285
In My Heart 286
To Louis Fréchette 288
Kings of Men 288
Dominion Day 289

ROBERT REID--
Poesie 290
A Song of Canada 290

CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS--
A Nocturne of Consecration 292
A Nocturne of Spiritual Love 295
An Ode for the Canadian Confederacy 296
Canadian Streams 297
The Silver Thaw 299
Epitaph for a Sailor Buried Ashore 300
The Train among the Hills 301
A Song of Growth 301
Sleepy Man 302
Night in a down-town Street 303
The Falling Leaves 304
An Epitaph for a Husbandman 304
Origins 305
The Wrestler 306
Recessional 307
Ascription 309

THEODORE ROBERTS--
The Spears of Kan-Mar 309
Cold 310
The Men of my Heart's Desire 311
The Chase 312

WILLIAM CARMAN ROBERTS--
History 313
An Easter Memory 313
My Comrade Canoe 314

GEORGE JOHN ROMANES--
I ask not for Thy love, O Lord 315

CARROLL RYAN--
_From_ "Malta" 316

S

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 Irénée 323
Off Rivière 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
Easter 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
_From_ "The Prelude" 340
A Little While before the Fall was done 341

GOLDWIN SMITH--
Flossy to her Mistress 341

LYMAN C. SMITH--
Canada to Columbia 342
_From_ "A Day with Homer" 343

WILLIAM WYE SMITH--
The Canadians on the Nile 344

ALBERT E. STAFFORD SMYTHE--
The Forgotten Poet 345
Death the Revealer 346

HIRAM LADD SPENCER--
The River 346
A Hundred Years to come 347

EZRA HURLBURT STAFFORD--
Chinook 348
The Strange Vessel 349
The last Orison 350

ALEXANDER CHARLES STEWART--
_From_ "The Wanderer" 351

PHILLIPS STEWART--
Hope 351
_From_ "Corydon and Amaryllis" 352
_From_ "De Profundis" 353

BARRY STRATON--
Love's Harvest 353
Charity 354
America 356

ARTHUR J. STRINGER--
A Song in Autumn 356
Beside the Martyr's Memorial 357
Canada to England 357
Beethoven 358

ALAN SULLIVAN--
Venice 359
The White Canoe 360

T

BERTRAM TENNYSON--
Gordon 361

EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON--
A Day-Dream 363
The Song-Sparrow 364
The Bad Year 364

JOHN STUART THOMSON--
The Vale of Estabelle 365
Even-Time 367
Late Autumn 368

W

FRANCIS L. DOMINICK WATERS--
_From_ "The Water Lily" 369

ARTHUR WEIR--
A Snowshoe Song 370
Voyageur Song 372
The Little Trooper 373
Little Miss Blue Eyes 374
A Christmas Lullaby 375

AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD--
The House of the Trees 376
At the Window 377
To February 377
The Hay Field 378

WILLIAM HENRY WITHROW--
October 379
Cloud Castles 379

R. WALTER WRIGHT--
Easter Morn 380
A Still Small Voice 381

G. F. W.--
Sense and Spirit 382

Y

EVA ROSE YORK--
I shall not pass this way again 382

PAMELIA VINING YULE--
The Beautiful Artist 384
Warble thy lays to me 386

NOTES OF AUTHORS 387

INDEX OF FIRST LINES 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."

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!

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!

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!

GRANT ALLEN

ONLY AN INSECT

I

On the crimson cloth
Of my study desk
A lustrous moth
Poised statuesque.
Of a waxen mould
Were its light limbs shaped,
And in scales of gold
Its body was draped:
While its luminous wings
Were netted and veined
With silvery strings,
Or golden grained,
Through whose filmy maze
In tremulous flight
Danced quivering rays
Of the gladsome light.

II

On the desk hard by
A taper burned,
Towards which the eye
Of the insect turned.
In its vague little mind
A faint desire
Rose, undefined,
For the beautiful fire.
Lightly it spread
Each silken van;
Then away it sped
For a moment's span.
And a strange delight
Lured on its course
With resistless might
Towards the central source:
And it followed the spell
Through an eddying maze,
Till it fluttered and fell
In the deadly blaze.

III

Dazzled and stunned
By the scalding pain,
One moment it swooned,
Then rose again;
And again the fire
Drew it on with its charms
To a living pyre
In its awful arms;
And now it lies
On the table here
Before my eyes
Shrivelled and sere.

IV

As I sit and muse
On its fiery fate,
What themes abstruse
Might I meditate!
For the pangs that thrilled
Through that martyred frame
As its veins were filled
With the scorching flame,
A riddle enclose
That, living or dead,
In rhyme or in prose,
No seer has read.
"But a moth," you cry,
"Is a thing so small!"
Ah, yes; but why
Should it suffer at all?
Why should a sob
For the vaguest smart
One moment throb
Through the tiniest heart?
Why in the whole
Wide universe
Should a single soul
Feel that primal curse?
Not all the throes
Of mightiest mind,
Nor the heaviest woes
Of human kind,
Are of deeper weight
In the riddle of things
Than that insect's fate
With the mangled wings.

V

But if only I
In my simple song
Could tell you the Why
Of that one little wrong,
I could tell you more
Than the deepest page
Of saintliest lore
Or of wisest sage.
For never as yet
In its wordy strife
Could Philosophy get
At the import of life;
And Theology's saws
Have still to explain
The inscrutable cause
For the being of pain.
So I somehow fear
That in spite of both,
We are baffled here
By this one singed moth.

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;
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.

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,
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.

I have grown younger; I can scarce believe
It is the same sad woman full of dreams
Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems
I am a child again, and can deceive
My soul with daisies, plucking, one by one,
The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.

Almost with old-time eagerness I try
My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup,"
Then, lower, "passionément, pas du tout";
Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly
I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch
The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."

I can remember how, in childish days,
I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall
Must love me "passionately" or "not at all."
Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays
It knows not what, and heedlessly demands
The best that life can give with outstretched hands!

Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize
Peace above passion, and the summer life
Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife
Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise
Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold
Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.

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!)

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.
We _feel_, and _see_, and therefore _know_,--the morn
With blush of youth ne'er left us till it brought
Promise of full-grown day. "The man is blind!"

DUNCAN ANDERSON

THE DEATH OF WOLFE.

I

Behind Jacques Cartier's hills the sun sinks low
Low burn the beacon fires along the shore;
The drowsy watch dreams of his Norman home,
And dusky warriors sleep, and deem their toils are o'er.

Beneath the raven wing of sable night,
A little band, with martial fire aglow,
Sweeps down, while he who nobly leads them on
Chides every tardy hour that parts him from the foe.

Not glory's star allures that dauntless breast,
Nor lust of conquest fires that eagle eye;
For hearth and home, for King and Crown, his brand
Unsheathes at duty's call, and Wolfe will win or die.

And while no ghostly form unveils the fate
That, ere to-morrow's eve, awaits the brave,--
Love's gifts all laid aside,--he grasps his sword,
And sighs, "The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

Adown the stream, past watch and ward they glide;
And as the keel grates on the rocky shore,
Silent and stern, and lithe as roe, each Gael
Upsprings o'er crag and fell, to meet the battle's roar.

II

And had New France no arm to rule the fight,
Or guard her oriflamme with dauntless breast?
Had the great Marquis wearied of the strife,
His war-worn blade to sheathe, and claim a soldier's rest?

Deserted by a ribald court and King,--
Ruled by a shameless minion's reckless hand,--
A thousand vampires battening on her blood,--
And knaves, or boastful fools deemed noblest of the land;--

Cape Breton's capital laid with the ground,--
Acadia lost,--of Western Empire shorn,--
No friendly fleet to shield her smouldering homes,
And Stadacona's walls crumbling in sun and storm.

Such was New France;--but in her bosom glowed
That patriot fire that burned while life was there;
Not Vandreuil's iron rule could cool her love,
Nor Bigot's vile Friponne hound her to mad despair.

To arms! Grandsire and striplings seek the field;
The Censitaires obey their Seigneurs' call;
Both high and low together ply the spade,
And dainty hands weave gabions for the battered wall.

And on that morn, when like their mountain mist
The Highland plumes waved o'er the beetling height,
One sentinel stood faithful at his post,--
One watchful eye gazed wondering at the sight.

But ere the warning shot could tell the tale,
The Scottish steel found sheath within his breast;
Long may his mother wait to greet her boy;--
He sleeps with kindred brave on Abraham's lofty crest.

One cheer above! one answering shout below!
Swift ply the boats across the ebbing tide;
Victors of Louisbourg press proudly on,
And cheerily the gun toils up the mountain side.

The pass is won, and as grey morning breaks,
The living wave rolls o'er the grassy plain,--
Grass that ere noon shall reek with human blood
From heaps of dead, like weeds upheaved by storm-tost main.

III

Hark! the loud 'larum through the welkin rings;--
Down drop the sere leaves with the cannon's roar;--
The red line forms;--revenge in every eye,
For comrades slain on Montmorenci's blood-stained shore.

Firm as yon stalwart pines, that phalanx stands,
Waiting the chiefs command to deal the blow,--
And silent all, save but the mountain pipe
Yelling forth fierce defiance to the gathering foe.

And on yon ridge Guienne's fair banners claim
The spot where empire's sway will prove the prize,
And where, from hostile ashes kindly blent,
A nobler form, like wakening Phœnix will arise.

In fiery haste, from Beauport's battered shore;
From feint and bloodless field, now hurry by
La Sarrè, Roussilon, Languedoc, Béarn, and all
Burning from baffled foe to wrest fresh victory.

No braver sons, to bear her banners well,
Or laurels fresh to win, fair France might yield;
Oswego won, Fort-William Henry theirs,--
And noblest still, Ticonderoga's hard-fought field.

On sweeps that band beneath the rampart wall;--
On through the crowded streets and teeming gates;--
On, where Guienne has watched since morn the lines,
Where calm as coming storm the proud invader waits.

IV

Silent and stern, Montcalm rides on that morn,
Heedless of warlike shouts, or battle songs;
Victor of Carillon! thy palms may fade,
And Abraham's plains avenge Fort William Henry's wrongs.

Rank forms on rank, and as the managed hawk
Strains on its leash to swoop upon the prey,
So curbs the ardent chief his champing steed,
And longs to bid his warriors mingle in the fray.

What stays the heart that panted for the strife?
Why lags the bold Vaudreuil, when battle calls?
Why guard a thousand men our peaceful lines?
Why linger Ramesay's guns behind the sheltering walls?

"On with the charge!" he cries, and waves his sword;
One rolling cheer five thousand voices swell;
The levelled guns pour forth their leaden shower,
While thundering cannons' roar half drowns the Huron yell.

"On with the charge!" with shout and cheer they come;
No laggard there upon that field of fame.
The lurid plain gleams like a seething hell,
And every rock and tree send forth their bolts of flame.

On! on! they sweep. Uprise the waiting ranks--
Still as the grave--unmoved as granite wall;--
The foe before--the dizzy crags behind--
They fight, the day to win, or like true warriors fall.

Forward they sternly move, then halt to wait.
That raging sea of human life now near;--
"Fire!" rings from right to left,--each musket rings,
As if a thunder peal had struck the startled ear.

Again, and yet again that volley flies,--
With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field;--
All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam,
And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely wield.

And down the line swells high the British cheer,
That on a future day woke Minden's plain,
And the loud slogan that fair Scotland's foes
Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear again.

And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed
On dark Culloden moor o'er trampled dead,
Now sounds the "Onset" that each Clansman knows,
Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood is shed.

V

And on that day no nobler stained the sod,
Than his, who for his country laid life down;
Who, for a mighty Empire battled there,
And strove from rival's brow to wrest the laurel crown.

Twice struck,--he recks not, but still heads the charge,
But, ah! fate guides the marksman's fatal ball:--
With bleeding breast, he claims a comrade's aid,--
"We win,--let not my soldiers see their Leader fall."

Full well he feels life's tide is ebbing fast,--
When hark! "They run; see how they run!" they cry.
"Who run?" "The foe." His eyes flash forth one gleam,
Then murmuring low he sighs, "Praise God, in peace I die."

VI

Far rolls the battle's din, and leaves its dead,
As when a cyclone through the forest cleaves;--
And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain,
As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn leaves.

The "Fleur de Lys" lies trodden on the ground,--
The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave,--
"All's well" resounds from tower and battlement,
And England's banners proudly o'er the ramparts wave.

Slowly the mighty war ships sail away,
To tell their country of an empire won;
But, ah! they bear the death-roll of the slain,
And all that mortal is of Britain's noblest son.

VII

With bowëd head they lay their Hero down,
And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;--
Loud salvos sing the soldier's lullaby,
And weeping millions bathe with tears his honored grave.

Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion's hills,--
And rends the very sky a people's joy;--
And even when grief broods o'er the vacant chair,
The mother's heart still nobly gives her gallant boy.

And while broad England gleams with glorious light,
And merry peals from every belfry ring;--
One little village lies all dark and still,
No fires are lighted there--no battle songs they sing.

There in her lonely cot, in widow's weeds,
A mother mourns--the silent tear-drops fall;--
She too had given to swell proud England's fame,
But, ah! she gave the widow's mite--she gave her all!

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.

To Grondine's flats the Ibis yet returns;
The snowy Goose loves well the sedgy shore;
Loud booms the Bittern 'midst the clustering reeds,
And the famed Heron nests on pine-top as of yore.

If shapely form and splendour charm the eye,
The graceful Wood-Duck claims fair beauty's prize;
No gorgeous plumes like his adorn the crest;
No lovelier shades could feathers yield or sparkling eyes.

The shady copse the wary Woodcock haunts;
From Château Richer's swamps the Snipe upsprings;
Ontario's fields know well the scurrying Quail,
And o'er the glassy lake the Loon's weird laughter rings.

Afar 'midst forest glades, where Red Men lie;
On mossy log the Ruffled Grouse strut and drum;
The plump Tetrao courts the spruce tree's shade;
And spotless Ptarmigan with boreal tempests come.

Resplendent thro' the grove the Turkey roams,
And lends a deeper grace to Christmas cheer;
Our silvery lakes still claim the graceful Swan;
And o'er the uplands shrill the Plover's pipe we hear.

Or come, where far on rolling Western plains,
Beneath the brushwood Sagefowl snugly lie;
And Prairie Hens rush boldly at the foe,
Their cowering brood to shield, as swoops the Falcon by.

A hunter thou? The grim Bear courts thy skill,
And fearless roams ere yet he seeks his den;
His glossy robes might grace triumphal car,--
His pearly spoils proclaim the rank of dusky men.

The Wolf, still tireless, tracks his victim's trail;
The prowling Lynx, like sleuth-hound, wends his way;
And by the well-worn path the Carcajou
Drops from his hidden perch upon the unwary prey.

Shy Reynard follows where the startled Hare
Darts thro' the matted elders like a gleam;
And the sleek Otter on his titbits dines,
Nor dreads the Hound's loud bark upon his lonely stream.

Far from men's haunts the Beaver builds his dam
And ponderous mound, to keep him safe from harm;
His larder filled with choicest winter stores,--
Cold winds may bite and blow, his lair is soft and warm.

Thro' rushing chute and pool the Fisher swims;
And Mink and Martin sport right merrily;
While overhead the angry Squirrel chides,
And warns the rude intruder from his nut-stored tree.

And when the maple trees are stripped and bare,--
When land and stream with snow are mantled o'er,--
When light toboggans down the mountains sweep,
And the bold skater skims the lake from shore to shore,

Then don thy snowshoes, grasp thy rifle true;
The timid Red Deer thro' the forest bounds,--
The wary Caribou rests on the frozen lake,
And browse the mighty Moose upon their endless rounds.

These all and more await the hunter's skill;
Such trophies well our antlered halls adorn;
Their shining coats may win a golden prize,
Or keep us snug and warm amid the winter storm.

But yet, possessed of aught that hands could win,
Or all that pleasure puts within our ken,
We joy to know a nobler gift is ours,--
We own the heaven-sent heritage of freeborn men.

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.

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.

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!

The wrathful storm tramps wildly by
The desert waste of snows abroad;
The keen winds rush with sullen cry,
Like shrieks of horror on the road:
Within, the lustre of a light,
Like Israel's pillar-flame at night!

No mystic seer looks upward now
In stars to read his destiny:
We watch the flame's pure vestal glow
Shine like a beacon, steadfastly,
And read our fireside cheering lore
Imaged in light upon the floor.

SAMUEL MATHEWSON BAYLIS

IN MATABELE LAND

"Saddle and mount and away!"--loud the bugles in Durban are
pealing:
Carbine and cartridge and girth-buckle, look to it, troopers,
and ride!
Ride for your lives and for England! Ride in your hot saddles
reeling!
Red in the blaze of their homesteads, the trail in your kin's
blood is dyed.
Up! who be men, and no other--rank, title, or no name, what
matter?
Brood of the lion-cub litter, your birthmark's your passport
to-day.
Hard is the ride, and the fight ere they break for their coverts
and scatter:
Spring to the bugle's quick challenge, then, saddle and mount,
and away!

"Find them and fight them and stand!" down the line ran the
captain's curt orders--
Hot as the mission's red embers, they burned to the hearts of
the men.
Swift o'er the track's desolation, tho' peril each foot of it
borders,
On thro' the assegais' hurtling and make for the jungle-king's
den!
There, where the waggons are creaking, with ill-gotten booty
encumbered,
Rush the Zareba! It weakens--it breaks! but to close as the sand
Follows the swirl of the tide-beat--a handful by thousands
outnumbered!--
England shall hear that we failed not to find them and fight
them and stand.

Stand for the Queen! Ay, God save her! and save us, for sure
there's no other;
Trapped, with no chance for our lives, let the black devils see
we can die.
Scrawl them a line or a letter--sweetheart, wife, sister or
mother--
Quick, for their bullets fly faster; a handclasp--"old
fellow--goodbye!"
Round up the horses and shoot them--close up the dead comrade's
places--
Pray if you can, but shoot steady--the last cartridge gone!--all
is still,
Save for the yells of the victors, that hush as they see the white
faces
Kindle when comes the last order: "Men! hats off, God
save!"--Ay, He will.

THE COUREUR-DE-BOIS.

In the glimmering light of the Old Régime
A figure appears like the flushing gleam
Of sunlight reflected from sparkling stream,
Or jewel without a flaw.
Flashing and fading but leaving a trace
In story and song of a hardy race,
Finely fashioned in form and face--
The Old Coureur-de-Bois.

No loiterer he 'neath the sheltering wing
Of ladies' bowers where gallants sing.
Thro' his woodland realm he roved a king!
His untamed will his law.
From the wily savage he learned his trade
Of hunting and wood-craft; of nothing afraid:
Bravely battling, bearing his blade
As a free Coureur-de Bois.

A brush with the foe, a carouse with a friend,
Were equally welcome, and made some amend
For the gloom and silence and hardships that tend
"To shorten one's life, _ma foi_!"
A wife in the hamlet, another he'd take--
Some dusky maid--to his camp by the lake;
A rattling, roving, rollicking rake
This gay Coureur-de-Bois.

Then peace to his ashes! He bore his part
For his country's weal with a brave stout heart
A child of nature, untutored in art,
In his narrow world he saw
But the dawning light of the rising sun
O'er an Empire vast his toil had won.
For doughty deeds and duty done
_Salût!_ Coureur-de-Bois.

JOHN WILSON BENGOUGH

SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD

JUNE 6, 1891

Dead! dead! And now before
The threshold of bereavëd Earnscliffe stand,
In spirit, all who dwell within our land,
From shore to shore!

Before that black-draped gate,
Men, women, children mourn the Premier gone,
For many loved and worshipped old Sir John,
And none could hate.

And he is dead, they say!
The words confuse and mock the general ear--
What! can there yet be House and members here,
And no John A.?

So long all hearts he swayed,
Like merry monarch of some olden time,
Whose subjects questioned not his right divine,
But just obeyed

His will's e'en faintest breath.
We had forgotten, 'midst affairs of State,
'Midst Hansard, Second Readings and Debate,
Such things as death!

Swift came the dread eclipse
Of faculty, and limb and life at last,
Ere to the Judge of all the earth he passed,
With silent lips,

But not insensate heart!
He was no harsh, self-righteous Pharisee--
The tender Christ compassioned such as he,
And took their part.

As for his Statesman-fame,
Let History calm his wondrous record read,
And write the truth, and give him honest meed
Of praise or blame!

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 men."

But see, within the temple, as in Solomon's of old,
The money-changers haggle, and souls are bought and sold;
And that is called an _owner's_ which can only be the Lord's,
And Christ is not remembered--nor His whip of knotted cords.

But Christ has not forgotten, and wolfish human greed
Shall be driven from our heritage; God's bounties shall be freed;
And from out our hoary statutes shall be torn the crime-stained
leaves,
Which have turned the world, God's Temple, into a den of thieves.

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-crownëd head
Lies peaceful midst the thunder of your marts;
Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien,
His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline.

Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt,
Amidst the dust of your illustrious great,
He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped,
Peer of the grandest of your race and state;
Yea, prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime--
A monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time!

For, even while the trembling hand of age
Dwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain sound
Smote false your hearts; the venerable Mage,
The Master-minstrel all your being found;
Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth,
And charmed with music the high paths to truth.

Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone,
And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse;
Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone;
Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse;
All, all in vain--no Star of Song doth rise
Above the grave where your great Laureate lies.

The laurel wreath of Spencer should not grace
A front less high than this majestic brow,
The stamp imperial graved upon the face,
Fervently lighted with the poet's vow;
And with the outgrowth of a fertile heart
Blooming and fruiting in the close of art.

That hand which _might_ have grasped yon silent lyre,
And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might,
Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir,
Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light;
Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ran
Strains that could rouse or sink the heart of man.

But now, the Arthur of your poet realm,
Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme,
Whom will ye find to wear _his_ wingëd helm
Or ride _his_ charger down the lists of time?
The new Pendragon--where can such be found?
Alas, not one of all your Table Round!

Let none the storied chords of that clear harp
Restrike in service dissonant and vain;
Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp;
Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain;
Hang up the shining wires above his head
And leave your laureate's wreath upon the dead.

CHAUCER

The heart of Merrie England sang in thee,
Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of morn!
How, from that dim and mellow distance borne,
Come floating down thy measures pure and free,
Thou prime old minnesinger! Pageantry,
And Revel, blowing from his drinking-horn
The froth of malt, and Love that dwells forlorn--
Though England perish, these will live in thee!

Thine is the jocund springtime--winsome May,
Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight;
The breath of freeland fields is in thy lay,
And in thy graver verse thy nation's might;
O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day,
Still echo through her noon thy clear delight!

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 Mæcenas of the time,
And shoving all the dunces from their stools.

And you'd deny him greatness? Would to-day
Your acrobatic bards could fill his place!
He lacked variety? But who can sway
More forceful measures in a narrow place?
Yield him, O Fame, brightest three-leaved bay.
Mind, manners, men, the Horace of his race!

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 to flower o'er all her fair frame,
Sweet bride o' the sun.

O glorious bridal of fire and earth!
O ancient of miracles! new as at birth
Of the bride o' the sun.
All creation doth wear a more rapturous face,
For the joy of the earth as she circles thro' space,
Ever bride o' the sun.

WINTER FLOWERS

When tree and bush are comfortless,
And fields are piteous bare,
A garden blooms upon my hearth,
And it is summer there.

From the gray log's quiescent length
Burst the bright flowers of flame,--
Like the far flashings of the stars,
Too rare for earthly name.

Now rosy-hearted, rosy tipt,
Their petals softly blow;
Now clear as water in the sun,
When the blue sky lies below.

And daintily they toss and sway
To the breath of soundless airs,--
The memories of wooing winds
That made the forest theirs.