Chapter II: Preface (2)

O for the secret that the sun
Shares with the burning tree!
Elusive sweet as the witching flow
Of water to the sea.

In thought I grasp the mystic word,
And lo! it hath no form.
I only know 'tis dark without,
And here 'tis light and warm.

CHRISTMAS MORN

Come, happy morn, serene and fair,
With outstretched hand, thy breath a prayer
Come with thy faintly smiling eyes,
And brow whereon majestic rise
Suns of eternal morn.

Come, happy morn, for see and hark!
A world lies waiting in the dark,
With throbbing heart and straining gaze,
To catch thy first up-springing rays,
O, happy, happy morn!

The whispering stars will see it first,
From star to star the tidings burst--
Their paling faces earthward bowed,
While men and angels worship loud
The Christ who is the Morn.

EDWARD BLACKADDER

ANNAPOLIS ROYAL

I loiter here within this ancient town--
Long time agone the rising hope of France,
The seed of future empire--as in trance,
'Mid storied scenes, I wander up and down.

Here are the grass-grown walls which bore the frown
Of death-disgorging cannon long ago,
And wide the gleaming basin spreads below,
Where thunder-bearing ships no more are known.

Yea, death hath reaped his harvest in this place;
Along these shores have hundreds bled and died
To save this jewel for the Gallic crown.
Stern fate ordained it for another race:
The sturdy Saxon tills yon meadows wide;
Peace rules o'er all; war's trumpet sleeps unblown.

JEAN BLEWETT

THE TWO MARYS

They journey sadly, slowly on,
The day has scarce begun,
Above the hills the rose of dawn
Is heralding the sun,
While down in still Gethsemane
The shadows have not moved,
They go, by loss oppressed, to see
The grave of One they loved.

The eyes of Mary Magdalene
With heavy grief are filled;
The tender eyes that oft have seen
The strife of passion stilled.
And never more that tender voice
Will whisper "God forgives";
How can the earth at dawn rejoice
Since He no longer lives?

O, hours that were so full and sweet!
So free from doubts and fears!
When kneeling lowly at His feet
She washed them with her tears!
With head low bowed upon her breast
The other Mary goes,
"He sleeps," she says, "and takes His rest
Untroubled by our woes."

And spices rare their hands do hold
For Him the loved and lost,
And Magdalene, by love made bold,
Doth maybe bring the most.
It is not needed,--see! the stone
No longer keeps its place,
And on it sits a radiant one
A light upon his face.

"He is not here, come near and look
With thine own doubting eyes,
Where once He lay--the earth is shook,
And Jesus did arise."
And now they turn to go away,
Slow stepping, hand in hand,
'Twas something wondrous He did say,
If they could understand.

The sun is flooding vale and hill,
Blue shines the sky above,
"All hail!"--O voice that wakes a thrill,
Familiar, full of love!
From darkest night to brightest day,
From deep despair to bliss,
They to the Master run straightway,
And kneel His feet to kiss.

O Love! that made Him come to save,
To hang on Calvary,
O mighty Love! that from the grave
Did lift and set Him free!
Sing, Mary Magdalene, sing forth--
With voice so sweet and strong,
Sing, till it thrills through all the earth--
The Resurrection Song!

SHE JUST KEEPS HOUSE FOR ME

She is so winsome and so wise
She sways us at her will,
And oft the question will arise
What mission does she fill?
And so I say, with pride untold
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me.

A full content dwells in her face,
She's quite in love with life,
And for a title wears with grace
The sweet old-fashioned "Wife."

What though I toil from morn till night,
What though I weary grow,
A spring of love and dear delight
Doth ever softly flow.

Our children climb upon her knee
And lie upon her breast,
And ah! her mission seems to me
The highest and the best.--
And so I say, with pride untold
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me.

AT QUEBEC

Quebec, the grey old city on the hill,
Lies with a golden glory on her head,
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still,
Of other days and all her mighty dead.
The white doves perch upon the cannons grim,
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim
Above the battlefield so grim and wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
Of pride, of tenderness--her stirring past--
The strife, the valor, of the long ago
Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast,
She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace,
A wondrous softness on her grey old face.

JOHN BREAKENRIDGE

THE TROUBADOUR

TO THE CAPTIVE RICHARD CŒUR DE LION

O Richard, my King, lion-hearted, behold
From thy prison, near which the dark waters are rolled;
'Tis Blondell the faithful, whose troubadour lay
Would win the sad thoughts of his monarch away;
As David of old, when he played before Saul,
Could banish the demon of woe at his call.

O King of the lion-heart, oft hath thy sword
Gleamed bright in the fight, for the cause of the Lord:
How the Saracens trembled, and Saladin fled!
How thy pathway was cumbered with dying and dead!
The plume on thy helmet flew on like a bird,
Where, as by the simoon, the Moslems were stirred.

Or when, in the tourney, thy long lance in rest,
Thy spurs, all of gold, to thy charger's flank pressed;
With a bound, through the lists, to the tilt rushing on,
Down hurling some Templar, or Knight of Saint John;
When the heralds were crying--Brave Knights, have a care,
Upon ye are beaming the eyes of the fair!

O then, with what grace from your steed vaulting off,
Your helmet, all plumed, to the ladies you'd doff;
How you smiled, bent the knee, to the Queen Berengère,[A]
While thousands of handkerchiefs waved in the air!
How the charger of Saladin proud you bestrode,
And, fearless, to conquer the gallant Turk rode!

O, England, arise! for thine honour advance,
And punish the traitor-king, Philip of France;
Spread out thy broad standard--"Saint George!" be the cry;
To rescue our Richard, brave cavaliers, fly!
Alas, in the dungeons of savage Tyrol,
No hope ever comes to the poor captive's soul!

Alas, in her bower the Queen ever weeps,
And treason o'er all thy broad realm, England, sweeps!
Thy brother hath risen, and seized on the crown,
And still the usurper no hand hurleth down.
Doth England forget Cœur de Lion? O, no!
For him the bright tears of her people still flow.

On my soul there comes rushing a foresight of woe,
And before me long years of the dark future flow.
The Palace of Austria, proud Schoenbrunn,
The Gaul hath invaded, the conqueror won.
Long years have gone by, but the Heavens are just,
And Austria's hopes trodden down in the dust.

But ere the avenger shall rise in his might,
Long ages will pass, wherein wrong conquers right;
Months and years, it may be, shall flow over thy head;
Thy people will mourn thee, believing thee dead;
But now, and forever, there beats in one heart
Devotion, that living, shall thence never part.

Cœur de Lion, farewell! But again, when at eve
The world sunk in slumber, thy gaolers believe,
O then, 'neath these battlements sternly that frown,
I'll weep for thy wrongs, and I'll sing thy renown.
King of England, farewell! for the night falleth fast,
And I hear the dull tramp of the sentry at last.

[A] Berengaria.

JOHN HENRY BROWN

THE PARLIAMENT OF MAN

What shall withstand her? who shall gainsay her?
The mighty nation!
Nation of freemen with hearts linked together--
None to betray her.
When from the strong soul leaps forth indignation,
How shall the wrong live? how should the false thrive?
How prosper liars?
Down with dissemblers, far hence be each dastard,
Hence all deniers!

Chaunt the great nation with hands locked together.
North, South, East, West, one bond binds the true-hearted.
Each one for the nation and the nation for each one.
Where the millions are one fears no one of the millions.
See the monster, Behemoth, stride from ocean to ocean,
From the pole to equator, from the pole to the pole.
Did he slumber--you dreamed?--lo! a single man's wronged there,
And the turbulent crowds raise a cry smites the welkin:
As one pulse beat the millions swift help to the wronged one,
And the wronger slinks back. Justice now hath a pleader.

Stem the steep waves of ocean when Boreas hath stirred them--
Quell the riotous billows when tempest doth lash them--
O the free waves of ocean, how resistless their forces!
O each man of the millions a light-crested fighter!
O the millions oceanic with souls linked together!
O the surging, triumphant, troth-plighting, united--
The many in one, the sure tie forged by freedom.

How sing fit praise? how raise the pæan?
Say ye who love her.
How of true hearts breathe the single devotion--
A song empyrean?
Mingle a voice from strong souls the land over,
Voices of maidens, wives, husbands and lovers,
A voice from the sea--
Chaunting deep faith in the nation of freemen!
Forever to be!

A SUNSET

A perfect artist hath been here; the scene
Is grandly imaged; with what breadth of hand,
What noble grace of freedom, all is planned!
The woods, the water and the lakelet's sheen;
The magic hues--gold-pink, rose-pearl, sea-green,
And now the western gateway, see, is spanned!
A nameless glory gilds the favored land,
And still the spirit-artist works unseen.

Belike upon the chamber of a king
My erring steps have stumbled; yet, meseems,
These, like myself, are common men, who spring
From rock to rock where the mid-splendor gleams.
Perchance the king's sons we, and I, who sing,
Co-heir to wealth beyond yon realm of dreams.

EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

When early shades of evening's close
The air with solemn darkness fill,
Before the moonlight softly throws
Its fairy mantle o'er the hill,
A sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.

The Nightingale unto the rose
Its tale of love may fondly trill;
No love-tale this--'tis grief that flows
With pain that never can be still.
The sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.

Repeated oft, it never grows
Familiar, but is sadder still,
As though a spirit sought repose
From some pursuing, endless ill.
The sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.

THE SONNET

The sonnet is a diamond flashing round
From every facet true rose-colored lights;
A gem of thought carved in poetic nights
To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned;
A miniature of soul wherein are found
Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights;
A drop of blood with which a lover writes
His heart's sad epitaph in its own bound;
A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep
Rocked in its frenzied passion; the last note
Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark's throat;
A cascade small flung in a canyon steep,
With crystal music. At this shrine of song
High priests of poesy have worshipped long.

GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON

THE GOLDEN TEXT

You ask for fame or power?
Then up and take for text:
This is my hour,
And not the next, nor next!

Oh, wander not in ways
Of ease or indolence!
Swift come the days,
And swift the days go hence.

Strike! while the hand is strong:
Strike! while you can and may
Strength goes ere long,--
Even yours will pass away.

Sweet seem the fields, and green,
In which you fain would lie:
Sweet seems the scene
That glads the idle eye:

Soft seems the path you tread,
And balmy soft the air,--
Heaven overhead
And all the earth seem fair:

But, would your heart aspire
To noble things,--to claim
Bard's, statesman's fire--
Some measure of their fame;

Or, would you seek and find
Their secret of success
With mortal kind?
Then, up from idleness!

Up--up! all fame, all power
Lies in this golden text:--
_This is my hour--
And not the next, nor next!_

IS THERE A GOD?

Is there a God, then, above us?
I ask it again and again:
Is there a good God to love us--
A God who is mindful of men?

Is there a God who remembers
That we have our nights as our noons?
Our dark and our dismal Decembers
As well as our garden-gay Junes?

ON TIPTOE

Standing on tiptoe ever since my youth,
Striving to grasp the future just above,
I hold at length the only future--Truth,
And Truth is Love.

I feel as one who, being awhile confined,
Sees drop to dust about him all his bars:--
The clay grows less, and, leaving it, the mind
Dwells with the stars.

WHAT MATTERS IT?

What reck we of the creeds of men?--
We see them--we shall see again.
What reck we of the tempest's shock?
What reck we where our anchor lock?
On golden marl or mould--
In salt-sea flower or riven rock--
What matter--so it hold?

What matters it the spot we fill
On Earth's green sod when all is said?--
When feet and hands and heart are still
And all our pulses quieted?
When hate or love can kill nor thrill,--
When we are done with life, and dead?

So we be haunted night nor day
By any sin that we have sinned,
What matter where we dream away
The ages?--In the isles of Ind,
In Tybee, Cuba, or Cathay,
Or in some world of winter wind?

It may be I would wish to sleep
Beneath the wan, white stars of June,
And hear the southern breezes creep
Between me and the mellow moon;
But so I do not wake to weep
At any night or any noon,

And so the generous gods allow
Repose and peace from evil dreams,
It matters little where or how
My couch be spread:--by moving streams,
Or on some ancient mountain's brow
Kist by the morn's or sunset's beams.

For we shall rest; the brain that planned,
That thought or wrought or well or ill,
At gaze like Joshua's moon shall stand,
Not working any work or will,
While eye and lip and heart and hand
Shall all be still--shall all be still!

BLISS CARMAN

LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ

The sun goes down, and over all
These barren reaches by the tide
Such unelusive glories fall,
I almost dream they yet will bide
Until the coming of the tide.

And yet I know that not for us,
By any ecstasy of dream,
He lingers to keep luminous
A little while the grievous stream,
Which frets, uncomforted of dream--

A grievous stream, that to and fro
Athrough the fields of Acadie
Goes wandering, as if to know
Why one beloved face should be
So long from home and Acadie.

Was it a year, or lives ago,
We took the grasses in our hands,
And caught the summer flying low
Over the waving meadow lands,
And held it there between our hands?

The while the river at our feet--
A drowsy inland meadow stream--
At set of sun the after-heat
Made running gold, and in the gleam
We freed our birch upon the stream.

There down along the elms at dusk
We lifted dripping blade to drift,
Through twilight scented fine like musk,
Where night and gloom awhile uplift,
Nor sunder soul and soul adrift.

And that we took into our hands
Spirit of life or subtler thing--
Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands
Of death, and taught us, whispering,
The secret of some wonder-thing.

Then all your face grew light, and seemed
To hold the shadow of the sun;
The evening faltered, and I deemed
That time was ripe, and years had done
Their wheeling underneath the sun.

So all desire and all regret,
And fear and memory, were naught;
One to remember or forget
The keen delight our hands had caught;
Morrow and yesterday were naught.

The night has fallen, and the tide ...
Now and again comes drifting home,
Across these aching barrens wide,
A sigh like driven wind or foam:
In grief the flood is bursting home.

THE GRAVEDIGGER

Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old,
And well his work is done.
With an equal grave for lord and knave,
He buries them every one.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
He makes for the nearest shore;
And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
Will send him a thousand more;
But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,
And shoulder them in to shore,--
Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,
Shoulder them in to shore.

Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre
Went out, and where are they?
In the port they made, they are delayed
With the ships of yesterday.

He followed the ships of England far,
As the ships of long ago;
And the ships of France they led him a dance,
But he laid them all arow.

Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him
Is the sexton of the town;
For sure and swift, with a guiding lift,
He shovels the dead men down.

But though he delves so fierce and grim,
His honest graves are wide,
As well they know who sleep below
The dredge of the deepest tide.

Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip,
And loud is the chorus skirled;
With the burly note of his rumbling throat
He batters it down the world.

He learned it once in his father's house,
Where the ballads of eld were sung;
And merry enough is the burden rough,
But no man knows the tongue.

Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see,
And wilful she must have been,
That she could bide at his gruesome side
When the first red dawn came in.

And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those
She greets to his border home;
And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep
That beckons, and they come.

Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough
To handle the tallest mast;
From the royal barque to the slaver dark,
He buries them all at last.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
He makes for the nearest shore;
And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
Will send him a thousand more;
But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,
And shoulder them in to shore,--
Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,
Shoulder them in to shore.

THE CRIMSON HOUSE

Love built a crimson house--
I know it well--
That he might have a home
Wherein to dwell.

Poor Love that roved so far
And fared so ill,
Between the morning star
And the Hollow Hill,

Before he found the vale
Where he could bide,
With memory and oblivion
Side by side.

He took the silver dew
And the dun red clay,
And behold when he was through
How fair were they!

The braces of the sky
Were in its girth
That it should feel no jar
Of the swinging earth;

That sun and wind might bleach
But not destroy
The house that he had builded
For his joy.

"Here will I stay," he said,
"And roam no more,
And dust when I am dead
Shall keep the door."

There trooping dreams by night
Go by, go by.
The walls are rosy white
In the sun's eye.

The windows are more clear
Than sky or sea;
He made them after God's
Transparency.

It is a dearer place
Than Kirk or inn;
Such joy on joy as there
Has never been.

HACK AND HEW

Hack and Hew were the sons of God
In the earlier earth than now;
One at his right hand, one at his left,
To obey as he taught them how.

And Hack was blind and Hew was dumb,
But both had the wild, wild heart;
And God's calm will was their burning will,
And the gist of their toil was art.

They made the moon and the belted stars,
They set the sun to ride;
They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea,
The wind and the purple tide.

Both flower and beast beneath their hands
To beauty and speed outgrew,--
The furious fumbling hand of Hack,
And the glorying hand of Hew.

Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man,
And painted him rosy brown;
And God Himself blew hard in his eyes:
"Let them burn till they smoulder down!"

And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought Hew,
"We'll rest, for our toil is done."
But "Nay," the Master Workman said,
"For your toil is just begun.

"And ye who served me of old as God
Shall serve me anew as man,
Till I compass the dream that is in my heart,
And perfect the vaster plan."

And still the craftsman over his craft,
In the vague white light of dawn,
With God's calm will for his burning will,
While the mountain day comes on,

Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild,
Toils with those shadowy two,--
The faltering restless hand of Hack,
And the tireless hand of Hew.

PHILLIPS BROOKS

This is the white winter day of his burial.
Time has set here of his toiling the span
Earthward, naught else. Cheer him out through the portal,
Heart-beat of Boston, our utmost in man!

Out in the broad open sun be his funeral,
Under the blue for the city to see.
Over the grieving crowd mourn for him, bugle!
Churches are narrow to hold such as he.

Here on the steps of the temple he builded,
Rest him a space, while the great city square
Throngs with his people, his thousands, his mourners;
Tears for his peace and a multitude's prayer.

How comes it, think you, the town's traffic pauses
Thus at high noon? Can we wealthmongers grieve?
Here in the sad surprise greatest America
Shows for a moment her heart on her sleeve.

She who is said to give life-blood for silver,
Proves, without show, she sets higher than gold
Just the straight manhood, clean, gentle, and fearless,
Made in God's likeness once more as of old.

Once more the crude makeshift law overproven,--
Soul pent from sin will seek God in despite.
Once more the gladder way wins revelation,--
Soul bent on God forgets evil outright.

Once more the seraph voice sounding to beauty,
Once more the trumpet tongue bidding, no fear!
Once more the new, purer plan's vindication,--
Man be God's forecast, and Heaven is here.

Bear him to burial, Harvard, thy Hero!
Not on thy shoulders alone is he borne;
They of the burden go forth on the morrow,
Heavy and slow, through a world left forlorn.

No grief for him, for ourselves the lamenting;
What giant arm to stay courage up now?
March we a thousand file up to the City,
Fellow with fellow linked,--he taught us how!

Never dismayed at the dark nor the distance!
Never deployed for the steep nor the storm!
Hear him say, "Hold fast, the night wears to morning!
This God of promise is God to perform."

Up with thee, heart of fear, high as the heaven!
Thou hast known one wore this life without stain.
What if for thee and me,--Street, Yard, or Common,--
Such a white captain appear not again!

Fight on alone! Let the faltering spirit
Within thee recall how he carried a host,
Rearward and van, as Wind shoulders a dust-heap;
One Way till strife be done, strive each at his most.

Take the last vesture of beauty upon thee,
Thou doubting world; and with not an eye dim
Say, when they ask if thou knowest a Saviour,
"Brooks was His brother, and we have known him."

THE WHITE GULL

_For the Centenary of the birth of Shelley_

I

Up by the idling reef-set bell
The tide comes in;
And to the idle heart to-day
The wind has many things to say;
The sea has many a tale to tell
His younger kin.

For we are his, bone of his bone,
Breath of his breath;
The doom tides sway us at their will;
The sky of being rounds us still;
And over us at last is blown
The wind of death.

II

A hundred years ago to-day
There came a soul,
A pilgrim of the perilous light,
Treading the spheral paths of night,
On whom the word and vision lay
With dread control.

Now the pale summer lingers near,
And talks to me
Of all her wayward journeyings,
And the old, sweet, forgotten things
She loved and lost and dreamed of here
By the blue sea.

The great cloud-navies, one by one,
Bend sails and fill
From ports below the round sea-verge;
I watch them gather and emerge,
And steer for havens of the sun
Beyond the hill.

The grey sea-horses troop and roam;
The shadows fly
Along the wind-floor at their heels;
And where the golden daylight wheels,
A white gull searches the blue dome
With keening cry.

And something, Shelley, like thy fame
Dares the wide moon
In that sea-rover's glimmering flight,
As if the Northland and the night
Should hear thy splendid valiant name
Put scorn to scorn.

III

Thou heart of all the hearts of men,
Tameless and free,
And vague as that marsh-wandering fire,
Leading the world's outworn desire
A night march down this ghostly fen
From sea to sea!

Through this divided camp of dream
Thy feet have passed,
As one who should set hand to rouse
His comrades from their heavy drowse;
For only their own deeds redeem
God's sons at last.

But the dim world will dream and sleep
Beneath thy hand,
As poppies in the windy morn,
Or valleys where the standing corn
Whispers when One goes forth to reap
The weary land.

O captain of the rebel host,
Lead forth and far!
Thy toiling troopers of the night
Press on the unavailing fight;
The sombre field is not yet lost,
With thee for star.

Thy lips have set the hail and haste
Of clarions free
To bugle down the wintry verge
Of time forever, where the surge
Thunders and crumbles on a waste
And open sea.

IV

Did the cold Norns who pattern life
With haste and rest
Take thought to cheer their pilgrims on
Through trackless twilights vast and wan,
Across the failure and the strife,
From quest to quest,--

Set their last kiss upon thy face,
And let thee go
To tell the haunted whisperings
Of unimaginable things,
Which plague thy fellows with a trace
They cannot know?

So they might fashion and send forth
Their house of doom,
Through the pale splendor of the night,
In vibrant, hurled, impetuous flight,
A resonant meteor of the North
From gloom to gloom.

V

I think thou must have wandered far
With Spring for guide,
And heard the sky-born forest flowers
Talk to the wind among the showers,
Through sudden doorways left ajar
When the wind sighed;

Thou must have heard the marching sweep
Of blown white rain
Go volleying up the icy kills,--
And watched with Summer when the hills
Muttered of freedom in their sleep
And slept again.

Surely thou wert a lonely one,
Gentle and wild;
And the round sun delayed for thee
In the red moorlands by the sea,
When Tyrian Autumn lured thee on,
A wistful child,

To rove the tranquil, vacant year,
From dale to dale;
And the great Mother took thy face
Between her hands for one long gaze,
And bade thee follow without fear
The endless trail.

And thy clear spirit, half forlorn,
Seeking its own,
Dwelt with the nomad tents of rain,
Marched with the gold-red ranks of grain,
Or ranged the frontiers of the morn,
And was alone.

VI

One brief perturbed and glorious day!
How couldst thou learn
The quiet of the forest sun,
Where the dark, whispering rivers run
The journey that hath no delay
And no return?

And yet within thee flamed and sang
The dauntless heart,
Knowing all passion and the pain
On man's imperious disdain,
Since God's great part in thee gave pang
To earth's frail part.

It held the voices of the hills
Deep in its core;
The wandering shadows of the sea
Called to it,--would not let it be;
The harvest of those barren rills
Was in its store.

Thine was a love that strives and calls
Outcast from home,
Burning to free the soul of man
With some new life. How strange, a ban
Should set thy sleep beneath the walls
Of changeless Rome!

VII

More soft, I deem, from spring to spring,
Thy sleep would be
Where this far western headland lies
With its imperial azure skies,
Under thee hearing beat and swing
The eternal sea.

Where all the livelong brooding day
And all night long,
The far sea-journeying wind should come
Down to the doorway of thy home,
To lure thee ever the old way
With the old song.

But the dim forest would so house
Thy heart so dear,
Even the low surf of the rain,
Where ghostly centuries complain,
Might beat against thy door and rouse
No heartache here.

For here the thrushes, calm, supreme,
Forever reign,
Whose gloriously kingly golden throats
Regather their forgotten notes
In keys where lurk no ruin of dream,
No tinge of pain.

And here the ruthless noisy sea,
With the tide's will,
The strong grey wrestler, should in vain
Put forth his hand on thee again--
Lift up his voice and call to thee,
And thou be still.

For thou hast overcome at last;
And fate and fear
And strife and rumour now no more
Vex thee by any wind-vexed shore,
Down the strewn ways thy feet have passed
Far, far from here.

VIII

Up by the idling, idling bell
The tide comes in;
And to the restless heart to-day
The wind has many things to say;
The sea has many a tale to tell
His younger kin.

The grey sea-horses troop and roam;
The shadows fly
Along the wind-floor at their heels;
And where the golden daylight wheels,
A white gull searches the blue dome
With keening cry.

AMOS HENRY CHANDLER

WHEN DORA DIED

Dreary, dreary,
Fundy's mists are sweeping
Up the stricken vales of Westmoreland:
Weary, weary
Is my heart and weeping,
While the cold waves dash upon the strand.

Fillëd, fillëd
Is the land with sorrow,
In loud wailing roars the angry sea:
Stillëd, stillëd
Will they be to-morrow--
Summer notes, and murmurs on the lea....

Coldly, coldly
Blent with autumn mists lie
Eve's dark shadows 'pon the hills away;
Boldly, boldly,
Like a giant sentry,
_Chapeau Dieu_ keeps vigil o'er the bay....

Lay me, lay me,
While the world is waking,
Down to dream on what has gone before;
Pray ye, pray ye,
Lest my heart be breaking,
God to bring her to my side once more....

EDWARD J. CHAPMAN

A SUMMER NIGHT

I

The purple shadows dreamingly
Upon the dreaming waters lie,
And darken with the darkening sky.

Calmly across the lake we float,
I and thou, my little boat--
The lake with its grey mist-capote.

We lost the moon an hour ago:
We saw it dip, and downward go,
Whilst all the west was still aglow.

But in those blue depths moon-forsaken
A moon-like star its place hath taken;
And one by one the rest awaken.

II

With noiseless paddle dip we glide
Along the bay's dark-fringëd side,
Then out--amidst the waters wide!

With us there floated here last night
Wild threatening waves with foam-caps white,
But these have now spent all their might.

We knew they would not injure us,
Those tossing waves, so boisterous--
And where is now their fret and fuss?

Only a ripple wrinkleth now
The summer lake--and plashes low
Against the boat, in fitful flow.

III

Still callest thou--thou Whip-poor-will!
When dipped the moon behind the hill
I heard thee, and I hear thee still.

But mingled with thy plaintive cry
A wilder sound comes ebbing by,
Out of the pine-woods, solemnly.

It is the blinking owls that sit
Up in the trees, and wait a-bit
Ere yet along the shores they flit.

And hark, again! It comes anew--
Piercing the dark pine-forest through,
With its long too-hoo, too-hoo!

IV

Swifter and swifter, on we go;
For though the breeze but feigns to blow,
Its kisses catch us, soft and low.

But with us now, and side by side,
Striving awhile for place of pride,
A silent, dusky form doth glide.

Though swift and light the birch canoe,
It cannot take the palm from you,
My little boat, so trim and true.

"Indian! where away to-night?"
"Homeward I wend: yon beacon-light
Shines out for me--good-night!"--"Good-night!"

V

Shoreward again we glide--and go
Where the sumach shadows flow
Across the purple calm below.

There, the far-winding creeks among,
The frogs keep up, the summer long,
The murmurs of their soft night-song--

A song most soft and musical,
Like the dulled voice of distant Fall,
Or winds that through the pine-tops call.

And where the dusky swamp lies dreaming,
Shines the fire-flies' fitful gleaming--
Through the cedars--dancing, streaming!

VI

Who is it hideth up in a tree
Where all but the bats asleep should be,
And with his whistling mocketh me?

Such quaint, quick pipings--two-and-two:
Half a whistle, half a coo--
Ah, Mister Tree-Frog! gare-à-vous!

The owls on noiseless wing gloom by,--
Beware, lest one a glimpse espy
Of your grey coat and jewelled eye!

And so, good-night!--We glide anew
Where shows the lake its softest blue
With mirror'd star-points sparkling through.

VII

The lights upon the distant shore,
That shone so redly, shine no more:
The Indian-fisher's toil is o'er.

Already in the eastern skies,
Where up and up new stars arise,
A pearly lustre softly lies.

And time it were for us to take
Our homeward course across the lake,
Ere yet the tell-tale morn awake.

O Night--where old shape-hauntings dwell,
Though now, calm-eyed:--for thy soft spell,
O soothing Night! I thank thee well.

ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE

THE WOMAN'S PART

Gone! brother, lover, son!
Gone forth to certain peril, toil and pain,
And chance of death--for country counted gain.
Our part to let them go; to say, "Not one
Would we hold back," to give
Our hearts' best treasures to our mother-land
Though the gift break them; firm of lip and hand
To bid farewell; to say, "Be strong, and live
Victors, or die deserving." Who shall deem
Our part the easier? or the place we hold--
Patience for courage--for the deed the dream--
Waiting for action,--service slight or cold?

What shall we give them? Words?
To them, obedient to the bounds of faith,
To them, enduring danger, fencing death,
Words were as stones for bread. Were our speech swords,
And were our frail hopes shields,
Then might we give them; but how frame our thought
Nor mar the harvest-gift their truth has brought
With the poor fruit a woman's nature yields
When love sows seed? Hush! let us keep our souls
In silence--Words of comfort, words of cheer,
But mock the senses when the war-cloud rolls
Black 'twixt the eyes and all the heart holds dear.

What can we give them? Prayers?
Shall not the God of battles work His will?
He guards, He smites. Our strength is to be still
And wait His word; to cast aside our cares
And trust His justice. Strife
And peace are in His hand. They who shall see
Victorious days, and in the time to be
Shall share again the toils and joys of life
Are His--but not less His are they who fall,
(Sealing their soul's devotion with their breath)
And not less loved that, true to duty's call,
Their crown of honor comes to them in death.

What shall we give them? Tears?
Tears least of all! Shame not their valor so--
Honor and manhood call them; let them go,
Nor make farewell twice parting by your tears.
O, woman-heart, be strong!
Too full for words--too humble for a prayer--
Too faithful to be fearful--offer here
Your sacrifice of patience. Not for long
The darkness. When the dawn of peace breaks bright
Blessed she who welcomes whom her God shall save,
But honored in her God's and country's sight
She who lifts empty arms to cry, "I gave!"

AFTER THE BATTLE

Ay, lay them to rest on the prairie, on the spot where for honor
they fell,
The shout of the savage their requiem, the hiss of the rifle their
knell.

For what quiet and sheltered God's air would they barter that
stained desert sod
Where at His trumpet summons of duty they gave back their souls to
their God?

"Private, Number One Company, shot through the heart. First to
fall." Words immortal, sublime
In their teaching, their power to move, and their pathos to plead,
for all time.

Shall we blench where they led? Shall we falter where they at such
cost won their crown?
"Greater love hath no man--" we all know it; they obeyed it and
laid their lives down.

"Friends" then, martyrs now, heroes both ways, they bequeath us
their strength for our parts;
Their example their fittest memorial, their epitaphs deep in our
hearts.

From those graves on the far blood-stained prairie, on the field
where their battle was done,
They shall speak to our souls, and new fire through the veins of
our patriots shall run.

Wail orphans--weep sisters--look upward, sad mothers and desolate
wives;
But mourn not as those without comfort the loss of the sanctified
lives.

Can you mourn unconsoled for their taking, though your heads may
in anguish be bowed,
With a nation's tears falling above them, their country's flag
draped for their shroud?

As the blood of the martyr enfruitens his creed, so the hero sows
peace,
And the reaping of war's deadly harvest is the earnest his havoc
shall cease.

If the seed sown in blood you must water with tears, shrink not
back from the cost;
What _they_ gave ungrudging for honor _you_ have lent to your
country, not lost.

And forgive us, who bear not your burden of pain and who share not
your pride,
If we grudge you your glory of giving in the cause where your
heroes have died.

WELCOME HOME

_July, 1885_

War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil,
And battle-scarred they come--victorious.
Exultantly we greet them; cleave the sky
With cheers, and fling our banners to the winds;
We raise triumphant songs, and strew their path
To do them homage--bid them "Welcome Home."

We laid our country's honor in their hands
And sent them forth undoubting; said farewell
With hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame
To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow.
To-day they come again, and bring their gift--
Of all earth's gifts most precious--trust redeemed.
We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry,
Words of all words the sweetest--"Welcome Home!"

Oh, brave true hearts! oh, steadfast loyal hearts!
They come, and lay their trophies at our feet:
They show us work accomplished, hardships borne,
Courageous deeds, and patience under pain,
Their country's name upheld and glorified,
And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil.
What guerdon have we for such service done?
Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers;
Our country's smile, and her most just rewards;
The victor's laurel laid upon their brows,
And all the love that speaks in "Welcome Home!"

Bays for the heroes: for the martyrs, palms!
To those who come not, who "though dead yet speak"
A lesson to be guarded in our souls
While the land lives for whose dear sake they died--
Whose lives, thrice sacred, are the price of peace,
Whose memory, thrice belovëd, thrice revered,
Shall be their country's heritage, to hold
Eternal pattern to her living sons--
What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all.
A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves,
Are all the tribute left,--already theirs
A nation's safety, gratitude, and tears,
Imperishable honor, endless rest!

And ye, O stricken-hearted! to whom earth
Is dark though Peace is smiling, whom no pride
Can soothe, no triumph-pæan can console,
Ye surely will not fail them--will not shrink
To perfect now your sacrifice of love?

GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE

SKATER AND WOLVES

Swifter the flight! Far, far and high
The wild air shrieks its savage cry,
And all the earth is ghostly pale,
While the young skater, strong and hale,
Skims fearlessly the forest by.

Hush! shrieking blast, but wail and sigh!
Well sped, O skater, fly thee, fly!
Mild moon, let not thy glory fail!
Swifter the flight!

O, hush thee, storm! thou canst not vie
With that low summons, hoarse and dry.
He hears, and oh! his spirits quail,--
He laughs and sobs within the gale,
On, anywhere! He must not die,--
Swifter the flight!

TO A BUTTERFLY

Butterfly,
Flutter by,
Under and over,
Haunting the clover,
Each flashing wing
Fashioning
Quivering glories,
Luminous stories!

Life in a miniature!
Swiftly to win a pure
Realm of ideals,
Hoping it heals.

The best, the best
Is the endless quest.

Is hopefulness vain
To feel or to feign?
Know you not, save to say:
"It is glittering, glittering day,--

"The sun to me sings,
Beauty dowers my wings,
All of joy I attain."--
Flutter by,
Butterfly!

RESENTMENT

The ocean bursts in very wrath,
The waters rush and whirl,
As the hardy diver cleaves a path
Down to the treasured pearl.

ECCLESIASTES

God speaks. Life beats within the brain,
And crowding onward comes the cry
Of worlds,--and in the senses, pain!
And in the heart, eternity!

A CHILD'S EVENING HYMN

Shepherd Jesus, in Thy arms
Let Thy little lamb repose,
Safe and free from all alarms
In the love the Shepherd shows;
May my slumber quiet be,
Angels watching over me!

Often mother dear has told
How the children Thou didst bless,
And I know that in Thy fold
All is joy and happiness:
May my slumber quiet be,
Angels watching over me!

Shepherd Jesus, make Thy child
Pure and gentle as the dew,
Keep my spirit undefiled
Waking, sleeping, kind and true:
May my slumber quiet be,
Angels watching over me!

HUGH COCHRANE

IDEAL

The song unsung more sweet shall ring,
Than any note that yet has rung;
More sweet than any earthly thing
The song unsung!
A harp there lies, untouched, unstrung
As yet by man, but time shall bring
A player by whose art and tongue
This song shall sound to God the King;
The world shall cling as ne'er it clung
To God and heaven, and all shall sing
The song unsung.

HEREWARD K. COCKIN

THE DEATH OF BURNABY

"Close up in front, and steady, lads!" brave Stewart cries,
"They're here":
And distant Cheops echoes back our soldiers' answering cheer;
One moment's pause--a year it seems--and swift the Arab horde
Pours forth its mingled tide of hate and yells and spear and
sword;
As demons fight, so fight the children of the desert plain,
Their naked breasts defy our steel again and yet again;
But steady as the granite cliff that stems a raging sea,
Above the van of battle looms our "Bayard"--Burnaby.

Broken! The square is pierced! But only for a moment, though,
And shoulder-strap to shoulder-strap our brave lads meet the foe;
And on this day the Bedouin learns, in the Mahdi's shattered
might,
With what a god-like majesty the island legions fight.
But, oh! the cost, the bitter cost! for ere the set of sun
The bravest heart of Alba's isle its earthly course has run;
And Britain weeps sad, bitter tears whilst flushed with victory,
For on Metemneh's blood-red sand lies noble Burnaby.

Avenged? Behold what hecatombs around the dead man lay
(The royal paw is heaviest when the lion's brought to bay);
And as the shades of even fall upon this day of strife
That heap of slain exceedeth far the foes he slew in life.
And when a sneering alien tongue shall speak of him with scorn,
Or hint at our decaying might, the child as yet unborn
Shall beard the dastard to his teeth, and tell exultingly
How like the Israelite in death was "Samson" Burnaby.

Intriguing Russia's prestige waned in far-off Persia's State
When England's lonely horseman stood at Khiva's guarded gate,
Ay! Bruin of the northern steppes, roll forth thy fœtid breath:
Exult since now that lion heart is stilled for aye in death;
And scream thine hate, proud bird of France, beyond thy northern
shore,
Perfidious Albion drapes her halls for one who is no more.
Farewell, the last and brightest star of England's chivalry,
'Neath orient skies thou sleepest well, O gallant Burnaby!

SARA JEANETTE DUNCAN COTES

THE POET

O very, very far from our dull earth,
The land where poets spring to glorious birth.
Thrice blessed land, where brood thrice happy skies,
Where he increaseth joy who groweth wise;
Where truth is not too beautiful to see,
Action is music, life a harmony.
There dwells the poet, till some luckless day
Prisons his spirit in our coarser clay,
And in our dull and dusty commonplace
He loses memory of his name and race,--
Till some bird twitters from a wayside thorn,
The language of the land where he was born;
Or west winds, whispering to the tall pine trees,
Waken his soul to wonder; or he sees
In some first fairness when the day is new,
In some dear dimness i' the time o' the dew,
A loveliness that steals about his heart,
And lays soft fingers on dumb chords that start.

Then he uprises joyously and binds
His poet's robes upon him, yea, he finds
This drear existence a most glorious thing
And sings because he cannot choose but sing.

ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD

THE MASTER-BUILDER

O Love builds on the azure sea,
And Love builds on the golden sand;
And Love builds on the rose-winged cloud,
And sometimes Love builds on the land.

O, if Love build on sparkling sea,
And if Love build on golden strand,
And if Love build on rosy cloud,
To Love these are the solid land.

O, Love will build his lily walls,
And Love his pearly roof will rear,
On cloud, or land, or mist, or sea,--
Love's solid land is everywhere!

THE AXE OF THE PIONEER

Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree,
What doth thy bold voice promise me?

"I promise thee all joyous things,
That furnish forth the lives of Kings

For every silver ringing blow
Cities and palaces shall grow!"

Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree,
Tell wider prophecies to me.

"When rust hath gnawed me deep and red,
A nation strong shall lift its head!

His crown the very heavens shall smite,
Æons shall build him in his might!"

Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree;
Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!

_From_ "THE HELOT"

Helot, drink--nor spare the wine;
Drain the deep, the maddening bowl;
Flesh and sinews, slave, are mine,
Now I claim thy Helot soul.

Gods! ye love our Sparta; ye
Gave with vine that leaps and runs
O'er her slopes, these slaves to be
Mocks and warnings to her sons!

Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes
(God-touched still their frank, bold blue)
On the Helot--mark the rise
Of the Bacchic riot through

Knotted vein and surging breast:
Mark the wild, insensate mirth:
God-ward boast--the drivelling jest,
Till he grovel to the earth.

"Drink, dull slave!" the Spartan cried:
Meek the Helot touched the brim;
Scented all the purple tide;
Drew the Bacchic soul to him.

Cold the thin-lipped Spartan smiled:
Couched beneath the weighted vine,
Large-eyed gazed the Spartan child
On the Helot and the wine.

Rose pale Doric shafts behind,
Stern and strong, and thro' and thro',
Weaving with the grape-breathed wind,
Restless swallows called and flew.

Dropped the rose-flushed doves and hung
On the fountains' murmuring brims;
To the bronzed vine Hermos clung--
Silver-like his naked limbs

Flashed and flushed: rich coppered leaves,
Whitened by his ruddy hair;
Pallid as the marble eaves,
Awed he met the Helot's stare.

Clanged the brazen goblet down;
Marble-bred loud echoes stirred:
With fixed fingers, knotted, brown,
Dumb, the Helot grasped his beard.

Heard the far pipes mad and sweet,
All the ruddy hazes thrill:
Heard the loud beam crash and beat
In the red vat on the hill.

Wide his nostrils as a stag's
Drew the hot wind's fiery bliss:
Red his lips as river flags
From the strong Cæcuban kiss.

On his swarthy temples grew
Purple veins like clustered grapes;
Past his rolling pupils blew
Wine-born, fierce, lascivious shapes.

Cold the haughty Spartan smiled--
His the power to knit that day
Bacchic fires, insensate, wild,
To the grand Achean clay.

His the might--hence his the right!
Who should bid him pause? nor Fate
Warning passed before his sight,
Dark-robed and articulate....

"Lo," he said, "he maddens now!
Flames divine do scathe the clod:
Round his reeling Helot brow
Stings the garland of the god."

THE SWORD

At the forging of the sword--
The mountain roots were stirred
Like the heart-beats of a bird;
Like flax the tall trees waved,
So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword--
So loud the hammers fell,
The thrice-sealed gates of Hell
Burst wide their glowing jaws;
Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword--
Kind mother Earth was rent
Like an Arab's dusky tent,
And monster-like she fed
On her children, at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword--
The startled air swift whirled
The red flames round the world,
From the anvil where was smitten
The steel the Forgers wrought into the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword--
The maid and matron fled,
And hid them with the dead;
Fierce prophets sang their doom,
More deadly than the wounding of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword--
Swift leaped the quiet hearts
In the meadows and the marts;
The tides of men were drawn
By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword!

Thus wert thou forged, O lissome Sword;
On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought;
In such red flames thy metal fused;
From such deep hells that metal brought;
O Sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word,
But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

"THESE THREE"

A star leant down and laid a silver hand
On the pale brow of death;
Before it roll'd black shadows from the land--
That star was Faith!

Across fierce storms that hid the mountains far
In funeral cope,
Piercing the black there sailed a throbbing star--
The star was Hope!

From God's vast palm a large sun grandly rolled,
O'er land and sea;
Its core of fire, its stretching hands of gold--
Large Charity!

FRANCIS BLAKE CROFTON

THE BATTLE-CALL OF ANTI-CHRIST

Aforethought of the fated reign of peace
Fell on the soul of Anti-Christ, I dreamed;
And his brow darkened, and his hate-lit eyes
Aloft glared lurid through the mist of space.
Then vast and shadowy rose the Lord of War,
And shook his right hand at a far White Throne,
Brooding unutterable blasphemies.
Anon he gazed upon our shuddering world,
The while, with voice that fires or freezes souls,
He spake his message to the circling winds
And roused to battle all his myrmidons:

"Up, despot, trembling for a blood-bought crown!
The smouldering flame that threatens thine own house
Hurl at another's; lead thy people on
By glory's flaring torches to their doom.
(Ever the spear
Pierces the spirit of the Prince of Peace!)

"Yoke Victory to thy chariot and ride on,
Trampling the pride of nations, Conqueror!
Let thy maimed warriors writhe alone; for thou
Art scorn of God for His vile images.
(And scorn of mine
For Him who pleads for them at God's right hand.)

"Pause not to reck the ruin thou hast made:
Is not the comet's course foredoomed, and thine?
A deathless name outweighs a million deaths,
And orphans' sighs are mute 'mid the acclaim
Of multitudes.
(What is the grief of Jesus unto thee?)

"Statesman, behold, thy trustful neighbors sleep,
And rust is on their swords, your blades are sharp!
Swift and relentless press thy specious claim;
Not thine the toil or risk, thine the fame to win
With others' blood.
(That human blood that filled the veins of Christ!)

"Flushed with a spotless triumph, patriots,
From brave defence advance to stern revenge,
And urge a war of conquest and bequeath
A heritage of hatred to your sons.
(For freedom's sake
Stabbing His soul who 'came not to destroy'!)

"Wake, silent trump of holy discord! Sword
Of God and Gideon, hew the Gentiles down!
Slay, in your ruth for graceless babes unborn!
Clash, rival crosses, mock the Crucified!
Blaze, lethal fires!
(_I_ will accept the incense that _He_ loathes.)

"Poets sublime who sway the souls of men!
Sing still of arms and human hecatombs,
And wrath and glory and the pride of race;
Let rhymesters mumble of love, pity, peace.
(Sing ye the spear
That glances from its victims to Christ's heart.)

"And thou, enthusiast, whose genius caught
The soul of Revolution and enchained
The fiery spirit in a song, thy strains
Again shall stir rapt throngs to fratricide:
'To arms! to arms!'
(Christ mocks me with His pity from His throne!)