Chapter I: Ask Not for Thy Love, O Lord (2)

Pass, if you will, beneath the five great domes
Of old Saint Mark's; watch how the glittering height
Soars in quick curves; see how each sunbeam roams
And fills the nave with soft pure amber light;
This is the heart of Venice, and the tomb
Which folds her story in its sacred gloom.

So leave her sunlight, enter now her cells,
By frowning black-browed ports and massy bars,
Where pestilence in foul dank vapor dwells,
Far, far from sun and day, from moon and stars;
The only sound when whispering waters glide
In on the bosom of a sluggish tide.

Then turn again into her solitudes,--
Things of to-day will faint and fade like smoke,--
Drift through the darkened nooks where silence broods,
Let memory fall upon you like a cloak:
Venice will rise around you as of old,
Decked out in marble, amethyst, and gold.

But that was years ago; to-day the notes
Of wild free song have left her silver streets;
Her blazoned banner now no longer floats
In aureate folds, no more the sunrise greets;
She lives but in a past so strong and brave
It serves alike for monument and grave.

THE WHITE CANOE

There's a whisper of life in the gray dead trees,
And a murmuring wash on the shore,
And a breath of the south in the loitering breeze,
To tell that a winter is o'er.
While, free at last from its fetters of ice,
The river is clear and blue,
And cries with a tremulous, quivering voice
For the launch of the White Canoe.

Oh, gently the ripples will kiss her side,
And tenderly bear her on;
For she is the wandering phantom bride
Of the river she rests upon;
She is loved with a love than cannot forget,
A passion so strong and true
That never a billow has risen yet
To peril the White Canoe.

So come when the moon is enthroned in the sky,
And the echoes are sweet and low,
And Nature is full of the mystery
That none but her children know.
Come, taste of the rest that the weary crave,
But is only revealed to a few:
When there's trouble on shore, there's peace on the wave,
Afloat in the White Canoe.

BERTRAM TENNYSON

GORDON

Son of Britannia's isle,
There by the storied Nile,
The dust has claimed him e'er his work was done;
But not for that alone
Has Fame's clear trumpet blown
Most mournful music o'er her bravest son.
Alas! for England, when the dead
Fell by a coward's hand her honor fled!

No English squadrons broke
Through the thick battle smoke,
At that last hour when the hero fell;
He hoped to see again
(But ah! that hope was vain)
Those English colors he had served so well;
He fell, forsaken, undismayed,
True to the land that thus his trust betrayed.

His was the hardest part,
That tries the staunchest heart;
Better the headlong charge when hundreds die,
Than the relentless foe
Watching to strike the blow,
And the slow waiting while the bullets fly--
No friends, no hope, but, like a star,
High duty shining through the clouds of war.

No stately Gothic fane
Roofs in the hero slain,
But the wide sky above the desert sands;
No graven stone shall tell
Where at the last he fell,
And, if interred at all, by alien hands,--
Thrust in a shallow grave to wait
The last loud summons to the fallen great.

No more can England boast
Her name from coast to coast
Shall be a passport to her wandering sons;
Once they could freely roam,
As in their Island home,
Safe far abroad as underneath her guns;
Or, should mishap for vengeance call,
Swift would her anger on the oppressor fall.

But let the meed of blame
Fall with its weight of shame
On those who lacked the courage to command;
The heart of England beats
In London's thronging streets,
And in the quiet places of the land,
Still to its old traditions true,
In spite of all our rulers failed to do.

EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON

A DAY-DREAM

When, high above the busy street,
Some hidden voice poured Mary's song.
Oh, then my soul forgot the heat
And roaring of the city's throng:
Then London bells and cries fell low,
Blent to a far and murmured tone
That changed and chimed in mystic flow,
Weaving a spell for me alone.

No more the towering blocks were there,
No longer pressed the crowds around:
All freely roamed a magic air
Within what vast horizon's bound:
Beneath a sky of lucent gray
Far stretched my circled northern plain,
Wild sunflowers decked a prairie gay,
And one dear Autumn came again.

Before me trod a winsome maid,
And oh, the mien with which she stept!
Her soft brown hair, without a braid,
Hiding the shoulders where it swept;
And glancing backward now she gave
To me the smile so true and wise,
The radiant look from eyes so grave
That spoke her inmost Paradise.

Divinely on my daughter went,
The wild flowers leaning from her tread;
Dreaming she lived, I watched intent
Till, ah, the gracious vision fled;
The plain gave place to blocks of grey,
The sunlit heaven to murky cloud--
Staring I stood in common day.
And never knew the street so loud.

THE SONG-SPARROW

When plowmen ridge the steamy brown,
And yearning meadows sprout to green,
And all the spires and towers of town
Blent soft with wavering mists are seen:
When quickened woods in freshening hue
Along Mount Royal billowy swell,
When airs caress and May is new,
Oh, then my shy bird sings so well!

Because the blood-roots flock in white,
And blossomed branches scent the air,
And mounds with trillium flags are dight,
And myriad dells of violets rare;
Because such velvet leaves unclose,
And newborn rills all chiming ring,
And blue the dear St Lawrence flows--
My timid bird is forced to sing.

A joyful flourish lilted clear,--
Four notes--then fails the frolic song,
And memories of a vanished year
The wistful cadences prolong:
"A vanished year--O, heart too sore--
I cannot sing;" thus ends the lay:
Long silence, then awakes once more
His song, ecstatic of the May!

THE BAD YEAR

May, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June
No blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves,
And arid Summer wilted these full soon,
And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves;
Plaintive October saddened for the year,
But wild November raged that hope was past,
Shrieking, "All days of life are made how drear--
Mad whirl of snow! and Death comes driving fast."
Yet sane December, when the winds fell low,
And cold, calm light with sunshine tinkled clear,
Hearkened to bells more sweet than long ago,
And meditated in a mind sincere:--
"Beneath these snows shining from yon red west
How sleep the blooms of some delighted May,
And June shall riot, lovely as the best
That flung their odors forth on all their way:
Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath,
Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air.
Her gentle colors"--sane December saith
"They come, they come--O heart, sigh not 'They were.'"

JOHN STUART THOMSON

THE VALE OF ESTABELLE

They hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell,
The little time-stained headstones in the vale of Estabelle.

I often looked across them when I lounged upon the hill;
I never walked among them, nor could cross the moody rill.

I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face,
And feared at night to meet their ghosts haunting a lonely place.

The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, dismal toll;
The agëd by the cranny heard, and sighed: "How grows Death's
roll!"

Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring;
But seasons through I never heard a bird in graveyard sing.

A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eve
Look at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve.

The church was old; its tower bold, and dust bedimmed the panes;
The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains.

The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came;
"'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame."

They often asked me why it was I shunned the headstones so;
"I fear them not," I said, "to some new grave with you I'll go."

I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep;
I'd walk behind,--he was so old,--there'd be no need to weep.

The morrow morn came darkly; there was awe within the town;
Three days of dread before they said, "'Twas pretty Alice Brown."

Oh! 'tis not she of hazel eyes; of plaited golden hair;
Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care!

Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh,
That kissed the rose aswoon: tell me, did God let Alice die?

"The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town;
They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice
Brown."

I linger in the village still; I cannot go away;
I walk the ways alone at eve; sometimes I pause and pray;--

It is not much I say of her; I say it very low;
But somehow it is sweet to think, "Perhaps the spirits know."

One house there is I never pass; one way I never look;
I never climb the hill at eve; I never cross the brook;

But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone,
Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most: "Alone."

They hide within the hollows and they creep into the dell,
Those little crumbling headstones in the vale of Estabelle.

EVEN-TIME

In meadows deep with hay, I see
The reapers' steel flash sparklingly;
And bobolinks at play;--
And in the iris-bordered coves
Frail lilies, shaded by the groves,
Moor all the golden day.
I watch the flicker rise on sun-lit wings
High where a pewee sings,--
Apollo's messenger
To the lone piper of the fir.
Where rolling western hills look like
Waves of aërial seas, the sunsets strike;
And wrecking, dye the clouds with gold.
Moon-wheeled, Eve's chariot is rolled
On through the high star-spangled doors,
To Night's dark murmurous shores.

LATE AUTUMN

Behold! the maize fields set their pennons free,
In this rich golden ending of the year;
And asters bloom upon the sunny lea,
Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere.
Deep in the dell, the gentle turtle-head
Lifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells,
And cardinals ring out a richer chime;--
A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cells
A farewell taste of honeyed spring, for dead
Is all the clover on its fragrant bed;--
And bloomless rose vines o'er the trellis climb.

Sometimes across the still and cheerless night,
The farewells of the flocks are softly heard,
As to the warm savannahs they take flight,
Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird.
And numerous winds are murmuring sudden loss,
Like cries of Hylas through the Mysian land;
Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns played
By tearful maidens of a funeral band.
Of all the wealth of Autumn now is left
But that to wound the memory; bereft
Is he who wanders in this barren glade.

No more I linger in the Lydian wood,
And wait Silenos by each dell and spring;
No more the gloaming seems or warm or good
When everything of joy has taken wing.
I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain;
I walk an endless line of cypress shade;
I wreck upon the tossing coast of night,
When everything of loveliness light made
Dissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain,
That sweeps interminably o'er the plain,
And leaves the dying world in piteous blight.

The reaper Winter cometh on apace,
And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod,
And parsley wild of timid peaceful face,--
Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod.
The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leaf
From the poor bough that treasured it in hope;--
The chilling mists unroll their purple folds,
Leaving the outcast through the wilds to grope,
Or fall beneath a silent, hopeless grief,
Gathered to ruin with the forsaken sheaf,
And all the wreckage of the blasted wolds.

FRANCIS L. DOMINICK WATERS

_From_ "THE WATER LILY"

Then sighed the Wandering Angel sore,
And turned one lingering look, and last,
Upon the dead; and, rising o'er
The lake, the groves, the dell, he passed
On sailing pinions, broad and bright,
Along the footsteps of the night,
And down the pathway of the wind,
Until he faded westward far,--
A glory in the deep enshrined,
The brother of the morning star--
And dropt upon the burning bar
Of the horizon, and passed on
Under its shadow, and was gone.

And loud and shrilly sang the lark;
And lovely waxed the risen day,
And laughed through every dewy spark
That on the groves and meadows lay;
And all the level leas o'erflowed
With light; and all the copses glowed
Throughout; and over every slope
Trembled a glory, like the hope
Of future summers, seen through tears
Of autumn, down the rolling years;
And from the bosom of the brook
A thousand happy memories shook;
And on the still and smiling lake
The lingering lilies seemed to wake
Once more into their bygone bloom,
And breathed a soul of fresh perfume:
And all the sombre cypress lit
In the light shaking over it;
And even the hoary willow took
A smile from Nature's happy look.

ARTHUR WEIR

A SNOWSHOE SONG

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!
Gather, gather ye men in white;
The wind blows keenly, the moon is bright,
The sparkling snow lies firm and white:
Tie on the shoes, no time to lose,
We must be over the hill to-night.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!
Swiftly in single file we go,
The city is soon left far below:
Its countless lights like diamonds glow,
And as we climb we hear the chime
Of church bells stealing o'er the snow.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!
Like winding sheet about the dead
O'er hill and dale the snow is spread,
And silences our hurried tread.
The pines bend low, and to and fro
The maples toss their boughs o'erhead.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!
We laugh to scorn the angry blast,
The mountain top is gained and past.
Descent begins, 'tis ever fast,--
A short quick run, and toil is done.
We reach the welcome inn at last.

Shake off, shake off the clinging snow,
Unloose the shoe, the sash untie,
Fling tuque and mittens lightly by.
The chimney fire is blazing high,
And, richly stored, the festive board
Awaits the merry company.

Remove the fragments of the feast!
The steaming coffee, waiter, bring.
Now tell the tale, the chorus sing,
And let the laughter loudly ring.
Here's to our host, come drink the toast,
Then up! for time is on the wing.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!
The moon is sinking out of sight,
Across the sky dark clouds take flight,
And dimly looms the mountain height.
Tie on the shoes, no time to lose,
We must be home again to-night.

VOYAGEUR SONG

Our mother is the good green earth,
Our rest her bosom broad;
And sure, in plenty and in dearth,
Of our six feet of sod,
We welcome Fate with careless mirth
And dangerous paths have trod,
Holding our lives of little worth
And fearing none but God.

Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slide
Above the fretted sand,
Our frail canoes, like shadows, glide
Swift through the silent land;
Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide
Rocks rise on every hand,
Our path will we confess denied,
Nor cowardly seek the strand.

The foam may leap like frightened cloud
That hears the tempest scream,
The waves may fold their whitened shroud
Where ghastly ledges gleam;
With muscles strained and backs well bowed,
And poles that breaking seem,
We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proud
Itself our lord did deem.

The broad traverse is cold and deep,
And treacherous smiles it hath,
And with its sickle of death doth reap
With woe for aftermath;
But though the wind-vexed waves may leap,
Like cougars, in our path,
Still forward on our way we keep,
Nor heed their futile wrath.

Where glitter trackless wastes of snow
Beneath the northern light,
On netted shoes we noiseless go,
Nor heed though keen winds bite.
The shaggy bears our prowess know,
The white fox fears our might,
And wolves, when warm our camp-fires glow,
With angry snarls take flight.

Where forest fastnesses extend,
Ne'er trod by man before,
Where cries of loon and wild duck blend
With some dark torrent's roar,
And timid deer, unawed, descend
Along the lake's still shore,
We blaze the trees and onward wend
To ravish nature's store.

Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eve
These calls the echoes wake.
We rise and forward fare, nor grieve
Though long portage we make,
Until the sky the sun-gleams leave
And shadows cowl the lake;
And then we rest and fancies weave
For wife or sweetheart's sake.

THE LITTLE TROOPER

Swift troopers twain ride side by side
Throughout life's long campaign.
They make a jest of all man's pride,
And oh, the havoc! As they ride,
They cannot count their slain.

The one is young and debonair,
And laughing swings his blade.
The zephyrs toss his golden hair,
His eyes are blue; he is so fair
He seems a masking maid.

The other is a warrior grim,
Dark as a midnight storm.
There is no man can cope with him:
We shrink and tremble in each limb
Before his awful form.

Yet though men fear the sombre foe
More than the gold-tressed youth,
The boy with every careless blow
More than the trooper grim lays low,
And causes earth more ruth.

Keener his mocking word doth prove
Than flame on winter's breath.
Men bear his wounds to the realm above,
For the little trooper's name is Love,
His comrade's only Death.

LITTLE MISS BLUE EYES

Little Miss Blue Eyes opens the door,
"Nobody's in," says she.
Little Miss Blue Eyes has evermore
Stolen my heart from me.

Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door,
"Will you come in?" says she.
"Papa'll be back in an hour or more";--
Blue Eyes has seen through me.

Little Miss Blue Eyes opes her heart's door,
"Nobody's in," says she.
(Would I might venture that threshold o'er
Into its sanctity.)

Little Miss Blue Eyes, if you are kind,
Keep me not at the door;
Into your love, from the cold and wind,
Take me, dear, evermore.

Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door,
Archly smiling at me:
"Papa'll be back in an hour or more,
Come in and wait," says she.

A CHRISTMAS LULLABY

The restless clock is ticking out
The hours that go before the dawn,
And icy moonbeams dart about
The snow that shrouds the slumbering lawn,--
The lawn that Santa Claus must cross
Ere he shall reach my baby's cot,--
Ah! who shall measure Bertie's loss
Should Santa Claus come not!
Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one;
I hear the neighing of the steeds,--
Good Santa Claus has just begun
His round of kindly deeds.

What has the little man for thee,
My precious babe who slumb'rest there?
He brings, sweet one, a gift from me,
A mother's love, a mother's care,--
A mother's care that shall not wane,
While hands can toil or brain can think,
Until that day shall come again
When thou shalt cross life's brink.
Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one;
I hear the neighing of the steeds,--
Good Santa Claus has just begun
His round of kindly deeds.

He brings a cross, he brings a crown,
And places them on either hand.
Upon the cross thou must not frown,
For some day thou shalt understand,--
Shalt understand the preciousness
That to the sombre cross pertains,
And thou wilt hold the crown far less
Than of the cross the pains.
Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one;
I hear the neighing of the steeds,--
Good Santa Claus has just begun
His round of kindly deeds.

He brings the greatest gift of all
In bringing thee this Christmas Day:
The deathless love it doth recall
Of Him who took thy sins away;
And when no more thy mother's care
Can guide thy footsteps, Baby Mine,
Thy steps shall be secured, eachwhere,
By love of One divine.
Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one;
I hear the neighing of the steeds,--
Good Santa Claus has just begun
His round of kindly deeds.

AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD

THE HOUSE OF THE TREES

Ope your doors and take me in,
Spirit of the wood;
Wash me clean of dust and din,
Clothe me in your mood.

Take me from the noisy light
To the sunless peace,
Where at midday standeth Night
Signing Toil's release.

All your dusky twilight stores
To my senses give;
Take me in and lock the doors,
Show me how to live.

Lift your leafy roof for me,
Part your yielding walls,
Let me wander lingeringly
Through your scented halls.

Ope your doors and take me in,
Spirit of the wood;
Take me--make me next of kin
To your leafy brood.

AT THE WINDOW

How thick about the window of my life
Buzz insect-like the tribe of petty frets:
Small cares, small thoughts, small trials, and small strife,
Small loves and hates, small hopes and small regrets.

If 'mid this swarm of smallnesses remain
A single undimmed spot, with wondering eye
I note before my freckled window-pane
The outstretched splendor of the earth and sky?

TO FEBRUARY

O master-builder, blustering as you go
About your giant work, transforming all
The empty woods into a glittering hall,
And making lilac lanes and footpaths grow

As hard as iron under stubborn snow,--
Though every fence stand forth a marble wall,
And windy hollows drift to arches tall,
There comes a might that shall your might o'erthrow.

Build high your white and dazzling palaces,
Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers,
Storm with a loud and a portentous lip;
And April with a fragmentary breeze,
And half a score of gentle, golden hours,
Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship.

THE HAY FIELD

With slender arms outstretching in the sun
The grass lies dead;
The wind walks tenderly, and stirs not one
Frail, fallen head.

Of baby creepings through the April day
Where streamlets wend,
Of childlike dancing on the breeze of May,
This is the end.

No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew,
No more they reach
To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue
A whispered speech.

No more they part their arms, and wreathe them close
Again to shield
Some love-full little nest--a dainty house
Hid in a field.

WILLIAM HENRY WITHROW

OCTOBER

Like gallant courtiers, the forest trees
Flaunt in their crimson robes with broidered gold;
And, like a king in royal purple's fold,
The oak flings largess to the beggar breeze.
Forever burning, ever unconsumed,
Like the strange portent of the prophet's bush,
The autumn flames amid a sacred hush;
The forest glory never brighter bloomed.

Upon the lulled and drowsy atmosphere
Fall faint and low the far-off muffled stroke
Of woodman's axe, the school-boy's ringing cheer,
The watch-dog's bay, and crash of falling oak;
And gleam the apples through the orchard trees,
Like golden fruit of the Hesperides.

CLOUD CASTLES

Did you see the snowy castle,
Shining far off in the air?
Did you mark its massy bulwarks,
And its gleaming turrets fair?

Deep and broad seemed its foundations,
Stable as the solid rock,
Braving in their stern defiance
Tempest roar and battle shock.

And its huge and strong escarpment
Rose sheer up into the sky,
And above its sunset banners
Streamed and waved right royally.

Hark! throughout that lordly castle
Trumpets peal and lightnings glare,
And the thunder's haughty challenge
Shakes the wide domains of air.

Now before the rushing tempest
All its cloudy pillars bend,
And the leven bolts of heaven
Smite its bastions deep, and rend.

And the castle sways and totters;
A vast breach is in its walls;
Now its turrets sink and crumble,
And its lofty rampart falls.

So I've seen a gorgeous castle,
Built of hopes and visions bright,
Sink and disappear for ever,
Like a phantom of the night.

O the gay and glorious castles!
How we build them up again
But to see them melt and vanish
As the clouds dissolve in rain.

O my soul! look thou up higher,
Where the many mansions be,
To that bright and glorious palace
That thy Lord hath built for thee.

R. WALTER WRIGHT

EASTER MORN

Hushed is the voice of scorn,
Anew the world is born,--
Sweet morn! sweet morn!

Sing songs so loud and clear
That all the world must hear
Their notes of cheer.

* * * * *

White angels of surprise
Whisper from morning skies,
Arise! Arise!
'Neath the lightning countenance
Sleep men of sword and lance,
In heavy trance.
Broken the sceptic's seal,
Backward the devils reel,
The nations kneel.

Christ bids the Old adieu,
Christ lives the Ever-New,
Faithful and True.

Hushed is the voice of scorn,
Anew the world is born,--
Sweet morn! sweet morn!

A STILL SMALL VOICE

In the silence of the morning, through the softly-rising mist,
As the chrysolite of dawning ripened into amethyst,
Came a voice so clear, peremptory, that my soul could not but
list:
"Unto thyself be true!"

In the rush and swirl of noontide, 'mid a gale of voices loud,
And keen eyes that flashed their lightnings over faces
thunder-browed,
Came a voice imperious, alien to the voices of the crowd:
"Be to thy brother true!"

In the calmness of the evening, when the winds had sunk to rest,
When no earthquake heaved its fury, burned no fire within my
breast,
Came a still small voice so tender, it the heart of Christ
confessed:
"Unto thy God be true!"

G. F. W.

SENSE AND SPIRIT

The bloom of the roses, the youth of the fair,
The voice of the lover, the love-lighted eye,
The music of birds as they move through the air,
The bright glow of sunshine that tinges the sky,
And scintillant dewdrops, the green of the grass--
They will pass, they will pass, they will pass.

But, glory of honor, the freedom of truth,
The might of the spirit, the breath of our call,
The soul of essentials, eternity's youth,
The essence of beauty, the pith of them all,
The that which did make them the powers unto me,--
They shall be, they shall be, they shall be!

EVA ROSE YORK