Chapter III: Preface (3)

"Sound trump and drum and fife and clarion,
Sound, to the rhythmic march of warriors,
With priestly benedictions on their pride
And beauty's smiles upon their waving plumes.
(Marching in pomp
To wound the wearied spirit of their Christ!)

* * * * *

"Oh, pygmy pomp and blazon of man's war!
When Michael strove with Satan 'mid the stars,
_There_ were seraphic deeds and agonies
And not this earthly death! Nathless I crave
Unnumbered slain--
The sin of His own slayers tortured Him!

"Hail to thy memory, war of wars, that jarred
Awhile the calm of heaven, when Pride and Hate,
Stung by the still rebuke of Love supreme,
Rose, fought and fell! And to thy memory hail,
Symbolic spear,
That wounded the dead Christ on Calvary!

"Dear is the murderer's dagger; dear the rack
That strains the frame of one who testifies
With his last breath to Christ; dearest the spear
That stabbed Him on the Cross and stabs Him still,
Each thrust a balm
To soothe my sleepless memory in hell!"

JOHN ALLISTER CURRIE

MY MOTHER

There are no colors in God's heaven-bent bow,
Nor is there music in the quiring spheres,
Can paint thy smile from out these youthful years,
Recall the music of thy voice so low
And sweet, dear mother, in the long ago.
But gone art thou. Ah! how the bitter tears
Burned deep into my heart! How memory sears,
But cannot heal those wounds, while tears still flow.

Back from those bright and happy days gone by,
Echoes of childish mirth and cradle song!
Thy guiding hand and presence then were nigh,
And I am weary, and life's road seems wrong.
I miss thy smiling face, thy watchful eye.
Life's heaven was short. Eternity's is long.

MARGARET GILL CURRIE

BY THE ST. JOHN

The broad round-shouldered giant Earth
Upbears no land more sweet
Than that whereon in heedless mirth
Went free my childish feet;
No fairer river furroweth,
With its strong steel-blue share,
The hill-sides and the vales of earth,
Than that which floweth there.

For rigid fasting hermit John
They named the glorious stream,
As seamen on his holy morn
Beheld its harbor's gleam.
It was like rigid hermit John,
A voice amid the wild,
Its honey and its fatness drawn
From forests undefiled.

Now that the green is on the plain,
The azure in the sky,
Wherewith clear sunshine after rain
Decketh the rich July,
Broad is the leaf and bright the flower;
Close to the pale gray sands
Coarse alder grows, and virgin's bower
Grasps it with slender hands.

With honeysuckles, meadow-sweets,
And rue the banks are lined;
O'er wide fields dance gay marguerites
To pipe of merry wind.
By the tall tiger-lily's side
Stands the rich golden-rod,
A king's son wooing for his bride,
The daughter of a god.

When fresh and bright were all green things,
And June was in the sky,
The dandelions made them wings,
And did as riches fly;
Now the bright buttercups with gold
Empave a toil-trod road--
Can wayfarers their sheen behold
Nor sigh for streets of God?

The birds are homed amid the boughs
Of oak and elm trees grand;
As for the snipe, her lowly house
She maketh in the sand;
The robin loves the dawning's hush,
The eve's the chickadee,
The thistle-bird the garden bush,
The bobolink the lea.

From intervale and swampy dale
Are wafts of fragrance blown,
Of fern and mint and calamus,
And wild hay newly mown.
God's fiery touch hath reached the earth,
And lo! its odors rise
Like incense pure of priceless worth
Offered in sacrifice.

SARAH ANNE CURZON

VISIT OF THE PRINCE OF WALES TO LAURA SECORD

Now wherefore trembles still the string
By lyric fingers crossed,
To Laura Secord's praise and fame,
When forty years are lost?

Nay, five and forty, one by one,
Have borne her from the day
When, fired by patriotic zeal,
She trod her lonely way.

Her hair is white, her step is slow,
Why kindles then her eye,
And rings her voice with music sweet
Of many a year gone by?

O know ye not proud Canada,
With joyful heart, enfolds
In fond embrace the royal boy
Whose line her fealty holds?

For him she spreads her choicest cheer,
And tells her happiest tale,
And leads him to her loveliest haunts,
That naught to please may fail.

And great art thou, O Chippewa,
Though small in neighbours' eyes,
When out Niagara's haze thou seest
A cavalcade arise;

And in its midst the royal boy
Who, smiling, comes to see
An ancient dame whose ancient fame
Shines in our history.

He takes the thin and faded hand,
He seats him at her side,
Of all that gay and noble band
That moment well the pride.

To him the aged Secord tells,
With many a fervid glow,
How, by her means, FitzGibbon struck
His great historic blow.

Nor deem it ye, as many do,
A weak and idle thing
That at that moment Laura loved
The praises of a king;

And dwelt on his approving smile,
And kissed his royal hand,
Who represented, and should wield,
The sceptre of our land;

For where should greatness fire her torch
If not at greatness' shrine?
And whence should approbation come
Did not the gods incline?

INVOCATION TO RAIN

O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King,
Where dost thou stay so long? our sad hearts pine,
Our spirits faint for thee. Our weary eyes
Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud
Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn
Or east or west, no vaporous haze, nor view
Of distant panorama, wins our souls
To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant.
Thy brother Spring is come.
His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray--
The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee.
Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves
Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds
Of feathery ferns, in strewing o'er his path;
The dielytra puts her necklace on,
Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose.
Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass
Grows up in single blades and braves the sun.
But thou!--O, where art thou, sweet early Rain,
That with thy free libations fill'st our cup?
The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note
From off the ridge-cap, but can find no spot
Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence
Explores the pasture with his piercing eye,
And visits oft the bushes by the stream,
But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tufts
Are there to hide a house....
A-missing thee
The husbandman goes forth with faltering step
And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard
The labouring plough, but the dry earth falls back
As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs
The plough-boy's feet with rich encumbering mould.
The willows have a little tender green,
And swallows cross the creek--the gurgling creek
Now fallen to pools--but, disappointed,
Dash away so swift, and fly so high
We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land
Doth mourn for thee.--
Ah! here thou comest, sweet Rain.
Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!
See now, what transformation in thy touch!
Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees
Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms
From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift
Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white
As angels' raiment. Little wood children
Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth
Offers rich gifts. The little choristers
Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman
Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake
And mingle with the swift roulade of streams.
The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing
Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in
The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads
From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!"
And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms,
And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks,
And the plover whistling in the fields.
The little children dream of daisy chains,
And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday,--
A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers.
O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain!
Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become
Like that Great Heart whose almoner art thou.

NICHOLAS FLOOD DAVIN

_From_ "EOS"

Now the Fraser gleamed
Below, its benches white with apple trees
In bloom. 'Neath one an Indian stood, in hand
A tom-tom rude, on which he beat, the while
He sang in sad tones looking towards the sea.
The children of his tribe impassive sat
And smoked their deep-bowled long-stemmed pipes:

With spread wings forever
Time's eagle careers,
His quarry old nations,
His prey the young years;
Into monuments brazen
He strikes his fierce claw,
And races are only
A sop for his maw.

The red sun is rising
Behind the dark pines,
And the mountains are marked out
In saffron lines,
The pale moon still lingers,
But past is her hour
Over mountain and river
Her silver to shower.

As yon moon disappeareth,
We pass and are past;
The Paleface o'er all things
Is potent at last.
He bores through the mountains,
He bridges the ford,
He bridles steam horses
Where Bruin was lord,
He summons the river
Her wealth to unfold,
From flint and from granite
He crushes the gold.

Those valleys of silence
Will soon be alive
With huxters who chaffer,
Prospectors who strive,
And the house of the Paleface
Will peer from the crest
Of the cliff, where the eagle
To-day builds his nest.

The Redskin he marred not
White fall on wild rill,
But to-morrow those waters
Will turn a mill;
And the streamlet which flashes
Like a young squaw's dark eye,
Will be black with foul refuse,
Or may be run dry.

From the sea where the Father
Of waters is lost,
To the sea where all summer
The iceberg is tost,
The white hordes will swarm
And the white man will sway,
And the smoke of his engine
Make swarthy the day.

Round the mound of a brother
In sadness we pace,
How much sadder to stand
At the grave of a race!
But the good Spirit knows
What for all is the best,
And which should be chosen,
The strife or the rest.

As for me, I'm time-weary,
I await my release;
Give to others the struggle,
Grant me but the peace,--
And what peace like the peace
Which death offers the brave?
What rest like the rest
That we find in the grave?

For the doom of the hunter
There is no reprieve;
And for me, 'mid strange customs,
'Tis bitter to live.
Our part has been played
Let the white man play his;
Then he too disappears,
And goes down the abyss.
Yes! Time's eagle will prey
On the Paleface at last,
And his doom like our own
Is to pass and be past.

A. B. DE MILLE

THE ICE KING

Where the world is gray and lone
Sits the Ice King on his throne--

Passionless, austere, afar,
Underneath the Polar Star.

Over all his splendid plains
An eternal stillness reigns.

Silent creatures of the North,
White and strange and fierce, steal forth:

Soft-foot beasts from frozen lair,
Noiseless birds that wing the air,

Souls of seamen dead, who lie
Stark beneath the pale north sky;

Shapes to living eye unknown,
Wild and shy, come round the throne

Where the Ice King sits in view
To receive their homage due.

But the Ice King's quiet eyes,
Calm, implacable, and wise,

Gaze beyond the silent throng,
With a steadfast look and long,

Down to where the summer streams
Murmur in their golden dreams;

Where the sky is rich and deep,
Where warm stars bring down warm sleep,

Where the days are, every one,
Clad with warmth and crowned with sun.

And the longing gods may feel
Stirs within his heart of steel,

And he yearns far forth to go
From his land of ice and snow.

But forever, gray and lone,
Sits the Ice King on his throne--

Passionless, austere, afar,
Underneath the Polar Star.

BALLAD

Good Christmas bells, I pray you
Ring him back to me;
For I am in the village,
And he is on the sea.

And out beyond the harbor
The surf is playing white;
Good Christmas bells, I pray you
Ring him home to-night!

The reef beyond the harbor
Is girt with hungry foam;
Good Christmas bells, I pray you
Ring my sailor home!

The lighthouse in the harbor
Burns clear, and keen, and still;
But a sound is in the village,
A voice is on the hill:

The voice of distant surges,
And he is on the sea--
Good Christmas bells, I pray you
Ring him back to me!

JAMES DE MILLE

_From_ "BEHIND THE VEIL"

"Son of Light,"--I murmured lowly--
"All my heart is known to thee--
Known unto thy vision holy--
All my longing and my yearning for the Loved One lost to me--
May these eyes again behold her?"--and the Shape said, "Come and
see."

'Twas a voice whose intonation
Through my feeble being thrilled
With a solemn, sweet vibration,
And at once a holy calmness all my wakeful senses stilled,
And my heart beat faint and fainter, with a dying languor filled.

Then a sudden sharp convulsion
Seized me with resistless might,
Till before that fierce compulsion
All mortality departed; like a Thought, a thing of Light,
All my spirit darted up to an immeasurable height.

I beheld bright visions darting
Past, in long and quick review,
Quick arriving, quick departing;
Mortal sense had grown immortal, and I saw not, but I knew,
And that spiritual sense was Knowledge, Absolute and True.

And there came amazement o'er me
In that infinite career,
For the scenes that rushed before me,
Long removed, but long remembered, brought me memories old and
dear,
Bearing sweet familiar faces from that far terrestrial sphere.

For the spell of earth had bound me,
And each quickly gliding scene
Brought the shapes of earth around me;--
Vales of bright unclouded verdure; hills arrayed in living green;
Limpid lakes in dim recesses overarched by skies serene;

Cooling rill and sparkling fountain,
Purple peak and headland bold,
Precipice and snow-clad mountain--
Lofty summits rising grandly into regions clear and cold,
And innumerable rivers that majestically rolled.

* * * * *

By such wondrous scenes surrounded,
O'er them all mine eyes I ran,
All bewildered and confounded;
Yet I sought amid that wonder all its mystery to scan,
Till amid the forms of Nature I beheld the face of Man.

I beheld fair cities gleaming
White on many a distant shore,
And the battle banners streaming,
And the pomp of mighty armies in the panoply of War,
And the navies of the nations speeding all the Ocean o'er.

But the human form and faces
Older still and older grew;
Races followed fast on races,
Vanished peoples seemed to rise again and robe themselves anew,
And the life and acts of all the ages passed in swift review.

Olden populations swarming
In an outward rushing tide,
Scattering o'er the earth and forming
Lines of march o'er lofty mountains, over deserts wild and wide,
Seeking evermore a country where they might in peace abide.

Then there came unpeopled spaces
Which no human token bore,
And the pathway of the races
Lessened slowly and diminished on the plain and on the shore,
Till at last amid the Vision came the form of Man no more.

And bereaved of man and lonely
Nature showed her aspect fair,
And the brute creation only
Peopled all her wilds and woodlands--lurked the tiger in his lair,
Coiled the serpent, sprang the lion, sped the bird athwart the
air.

Myriad scenes in swift succession
Still with earnest gaze I viewed;
But in rapid retrogression
Nature faded;--forms of beauty followed fast by figures rude,
Ending in the dismal prospect of a world-wide solitude.

But my soul the vast procession
Of those countless vistas bore
With a marvellous impression,
Like the picture on the tablet by the sunbeam painted o'er
Instantaneous; all-embracing; with a power unknown before.

Then my Heavenly Guide addressing--
For a wondrous power had birth
In my nature, all expressing--
"What are these, and where belong they?"--and my Guide
responded--"Earth--
For thy spirit turns spontaneous to its own domestic hearth."

"Where am I, O Radiant Spirit?
Where amid the realms of space?
Distant from the Earth, or near it?"--
"Where the rays projected from it at the birth-time of thy race
Have not yet attained;--a distance more than mortal thought may
trace."

"Whence these shapes of things terrestrial?"--
"Shadows from the Earth that fall,
Gliding into space celestial"--
"Does the Earth thus tell her story;--thus are all things
imaged?"--"All--
Forms and actions all are imaged; naught is hidden, great or
small."

--"They at last are dissipated,"--
I exclaimed in sorrow sore,
--"At the brink of things created?"--
--"Things created know no limit; infinite space they traverse
o'er;
Still the starry vistas open and recede for evermore."--

Then a mighty woe came o'er me,
Deep despair arose within,
And a thought stood black before me--
Shall Infinity forever write the records of my sin?
Is it thus that space shall treasure proofs of all that I have
been?

EDWARD HARTLEY DEWART

SHADOWS ON THE CURTAIN

I awoke from the dreams of the night,
From restful and tranquil repose,
And looked where the sunbeams lay bright,
To see what the morn might disclose.
My window looked out on the east,
And opened to welcome the sun,
As he rose, from the darkness released,
All girded, his journey to run.
I watched, as I lay,
The leaf-shadows play--
For the trees were still mantled in green--
As they silently danced,
Curvetted and pranced,
On the curtain suspended between.

Then I said to my soul: Here's some thought
For thee to decipher and read;
Every form, that in nature is wrought,
Bears some lesson to those who give heed.
Between our weak eyes and the light
A thick-woven curtain is spread;
All the future it screens from our sight,
And the home and the fate of the dead.
The phantoms which still
With perplexity chill,
Which doubting despondency brings,
Are cast, as they shine,
By the sunbeams divine,
And are shadows of beautiful things.

Then I drew the broad curtain aside,
And looked out on the beautiful world;
The dewdrops were flashing, and wide
Were the banners of beauty unfurled.
The leaves that had silently flung
Their shadows to darken my room,
Each answered with musical tongue
To the zephyrs that played with its bloom.--
And thus it may be
At life's ending with me,
When death rends the curtain away;
I may rise to behold
In beauty unrolled
The morn of a shadowless day.

ON THE OTTAWA

The sun has gone down in liquid gold
On the Ottawa's gleaming breast;
And the silent night has softly rolled
The clouds from her starry vest;
Not a sound is heard--
Every warbling bird
Has silenced its tuneful lay,
As with calm delight,
In the moon's weird light,
I noiselessly float away.

As down the river I dreamily glide--
The sparkling and moonlit river--
Not a ripple disturbs the glassy tide,
Not a leaf is heard to quiver;
The lamps of night
Shed their trembling light,
With a tranquil and silvery glory,
Over river and dell,
Where the zephyrs tell
To the night their plaintive story.

I gently time my gleaming oar
To music of joy-laden strains,
Which the silent woods and listening shore
Re-echo in soft refrains:--
Let holy thought
From this tranquil spot
Float up through the slumbering air;
For who would profane
With fancies vain
A scene so ineffably fair!

FREDERICK AUGUSTUS DIXON

A FEATHER'S MESSAGE

At the close of the day, when the year was a-dying,
From the chilly north to the southern sun,
High in the sky came the wild swans flying--
(Great white wings had each glorious one),--
And a snowy feather fluttered down
On the muddy street of a dirty town.

Poverty passed, and wealth came speeding;
Business and pleasure turned their wheels;
But the feather lay, as men trod, unheeding,
Stamped and crushed by a thousand heels.
And the message it brought remained untold,
Save to a child with a head of gold.

Up in a garret, all tearfully fretting,
She peeped in her rags through the broken pane;
And she clapped her hands with delight, forgetting
Hunger and misery, cold, and the rain,
As the strange white thing caught her wondering eye,
Dropped down from nowhere, out of the sky.

And she cried as it fell, with the faith of seven,
(Fanciful, credulous, innocent elf):
"Look, mother, look! Here's a letter from Heaven!
God didn't forget us--He's written Himself!"

Was it useless, that feather that so fluttered down
On the muddy street of a dirty town?

HINC ILLÆ LACHRYMÆ

(_Hence these tears_)

Last night, and there came a guest,
And we shuddered, my wife and I;
A guest, and I could not speak;
A guest, and she could but cry;
And he went, but with no good-bye.

A little before the dawn
He came, but he did not stay;
And he left us alone with our tears,
For he carried our babe away.
Was there ever a sadder day!

Had you ever a babe of a year,
With curls on a tiny head,
With limbs like the peach's bloom,
And learnt that your babe was dead?--
Could you have been comforted?

Had it bound itself to your heart,
As with fairy gossamer strand,
Slight as that of the worm,
Strong as the hempen band
Which holds tall ships to the land?

Did you look in its baby eyes
As your treasure lay on your knee,
And wonder what things they saw,
And see, what they could not see,
The life that was yet to be?

Did it lie at your breast day by day
While you gathered it near and more near?
Did it sleep on your bosom by night,
Ever growing so dear, oh, so dear,--
Your darling, your babe of a year;

While you dreamed of the wonder you held,
A thing of so perfect a plan,
Of the wonderful mystery of birth,
Of the wonderful mystery of man,
As only a mother can,--

Till your heart, like a human thing,
Seemed to yearn for the child at your side--
Yearn to gather it in to itself,
To the love that swept up, like a tide
Whose fulness is ever denied?

If to you came that terrible guest
We so dreaded, my wife and I,
You will know why I could not speak,
You will know why she could but cry--
You have seen your own baby die.

WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND

THE HABITANT'S JUBILEE ODE

I read on de paper mos' ev'ry day, all about Jubilee
An' grande procession movin' along, an' passin' across de sea,
Dat's chil'ren of Queen Victoriaw comin' from far away
For tole Madame w'at dey t'ink of her, an' wishin' her bonne
santé.

An' if any wan want to know pourquoi les Canayens should be dere
Wit' res' of de worl' for shout "Hooraw" an' t'row hees cap on de
air,
Purty quick I will tole heem de reason, w'y we feel lak de oder
do,
For if I'm only poor habitant, I'm not on de sapré fou.

Of course w'en we t'ink it de firs' go off, I know very strange it
seem
For fader of us dey was offen die for flag of L'Ancien Regime,
From day w'en de voyageurs out all de way from ole St Malo,
Flyin' dat flag from de mas' above, a' long affer dat also.

De English fight wit' de Frenchman den over de whole contree,
Down by de reever, off on de wood, an' out on de beeg, beeg sea,
Killin' an' shootin', an' raisin' row, half tam dey don't know
w'at for,
W'en it's jus' as easy get settle down, not makin' de crazy war.

Sometam' dey be quiet for leetle w'ile, you t'ink dey don't fight
no more,
An' den w'en dey're feelin' all right agen, Bang! jus' lak' she
was before.
Very offen we're beatin' dem on de fight, sometam' dey can beat
us, too,
But no feller's scare on de 'noder man, an' bote got enough to do.

An' all de long year she be go lak' dat, we never was know de
peace,
Not'ing but war from de wes' contree down to de St Maurice;
Till de las' fight's comin' on Canadaw, an' brave Generale
Montcalm
Die lak' a sojer of France is die, on Battle of Abraham.

Dat's finish it all, an' de English King is axin' us stayin' dere
W'ere we have sam' right as de 'noder peep comin' from Angleterre.
Long tam' for our moder so far away de poor Canayens is cry,
But de new step-moder she's good an' kin', an' it's all right
bimeby.

If de moder come dead w'en you're small garçon, leavin' you dere
alone,
Wit' nobody watchin' for fear you fall, and hurt youse'f on de
stone,
An' 'noder good woman she tak' your han' de sam' your own moder
do,
Is it right you don't call her moder, is it right you don't love
her too?

Bâ non, an' dat was de way we feel, w'en de ole Regime's no more,
An' de new wan come, but don't change moche, w'y it's jus' lak' it
be before,
Spikin' Français lak' we alway do, an' de English dey mak no fuss,
An' our law de sam', wall, I don't know me, 'twas better mebbe for
us.

So de sam' as two broder we settle down, leevin' dere han' in
han',
Knowin' each oder, we lak' each oder, de French an' de Englishman,
For it's curi's t'ing on dis worl', I'm sure you see it agen an'
agen,
Dat offen de mos' worse ennemi, he's comin' de bes', bes' fren'.

So we're kipin' so quiet long affer dat, w'en las' of de fightin's
done,
Dat plaintee is say, de new Canayens forget how to shoot de gun;
But Yankee man's smart, all de worl' know dat, so he's firs' fin'
mistak' wan day--
W'en he's try cross de line, fusil on hae's han', near place dey
call Chateaugay.

Of course it's bad t'ing for poor Yankee man, De Salaberry be dere
Wit' habitant farmer from down below, an' two honder Voltiguers,
Dem feller come off de State, I s'pose, was fightin' so hard dey
can
But de blue coat sojer he don't get kill, is de locky Yankee man!

Since den w'en dey'se comin on Canadaw, we alway be treat dem
well,
For dey're spennin' de monee lak' gentilhommes, an' stay on de
bes'
hotel,
Den "Bienvenu," we will spik dem, an' "Come back agen nex' week,
So long you was kip on de quiet an' don't talk de politique?"

Yaas, dat is de way Victoriaw fin' us dis jubilee,
Sometam' we mak' fuss about not'ing, but it's all on de familee,
An' w'enever dere's danger roun' Her, no matter on sea or lan',
She'll find that les Canayens can fight de sam as bes' Englishman.

An' onder de flag of Angleterre, so long as dat flag was fly--
Wit' deir English broder, les Canayens is satisfy leev an' die.
Dat's de message our fader geev us w'en dey're fallin' on
Chateaugay,
An' de flag was kipin' dem safe den, dat's de wan we will kip
alway!

JOHN HUNTER DUVAR

JOHN A'VAR'S LAST LAY

(_He becomes a Carmelite_)

Take not from me my lute!
There is a spirit caught among its wires
That sentient thrills as if with living fires,--
Frères! let me keep my lute.

It may not be? ah, well,--
Once more ere yet thou diest, O breathing string!
That plainest like the heart of sad sea-shell,
And talk'st to me with voice of living thing.
Sad now art thou and I--
Loved lute, ring out, ring out ere yet we die.

Ring out the clash of swords!
The meeting shock! ring out the victor's strain!
Or dirge, when peasants tramp o'er knights and lords,--
Jarring when the war trumpet blows amain,
And scattered all afield
The shivered lance-shaft and the shattered shield.

Ring out to ladies' eyes!
To love's wild ecstasy of joy and woe,
To morning's mantling blush, to passionate sighs
That heave the rose-tipped mamelons of snow,
To gage d'amor, I ween,
That wakes the rapturous thought of--once hath been.

Ring out the words of fire!
'Gainst pride and hate and tyranny the strong,
'Gainst proud man's arrogance, and weak man's ire,
And all the lusts that work the world wrong,
'Gainst envy, lie and ill
Ring out protest once more, and then be still!

Wake gently softer themes!
Of white-frocked children dead on cottage floors,
Of dances 'neath the jasmine-clustered beams,
Of greybeards drinking at the trellised doors,
Of immortelles on graves,
Of red-cheeked lasses where the ripe corn waves.

This world hath been so fair,
So full of joyousness! Then what am I
That I should thankless spurn God's blessëd air
And shut my lids against the sunshine sky?
But that is idle breath,
Life may be quiet, even if life in death.

Dying as echo dies,
Faint, and more faint, loved lute, expires my lay,
And though my Lays have not been overwise
Yet now methinks with thee I best could pray.
Our mission now is o'er,
O Soul of Song! fly free! No more. No more.

Loved lute, farewell. Farewell with other things.
But though, for me, I henceforth am the Lord's,
No meaner hand shall ever touch thy chords--
Thus--thus--I rive thy strings!

THE MINNÉSINGERS LIED

In the Rheingan standeth Aix,
And in Aix is La Chapelle;
On a royal marble daïs,
Underneath a vaulted dome,
With his feet upon a tomb,
Sits a dread and fearsome Thing
As ever minstrel-poet sang!
Dead two hundred years! a King
On his throne sits Charlemagne
In his capital of Aix!

In awful state that mighty Shade
Sitteth in its chair of stone;
In the hand, long ages dead,
The sword with unsheathed blade
And sceptre bright with gems;
On the breast a cross of lead,
On the form a golden gown,
And circling on his head
The French and German diadems
And the Lombard crown!

And throughout the centuries old,
Underneath the vaulted dome,
With his feet upon a tomb,
Alone and ghastly, stern and cold,
In silence save when midnight tolls
And its heavy murmur rolls
All among the columns round
With a solemn measured clang,--
In the silentness profound,
Sits the shade of Charlemagne
Armed and crowned!

HOW BALTHAZAR THE KING WENT DOWN INTO EGYPT

Nilus! Nilus! and before them rolled
The mystic river, while a barge of gold
Lay moored with its carved prow against a pier,
From which the King embarked with all his train.
The reis on the fore-deck drew the spear
From out the ringbolt and cast off the chain,
And they were floating upon Nile the old.

Full bravely led the galley of the King,
And all at once, like flap of ibis' wing,
Flashed out the gilt and crimson-bladed oars
And lightly o'er the molten surface skimmed;
While slow unrolled the low and level shores,
Like to a landscape on a curtain limned,
And blended with the shadows, lessening.

Music was on the Nile boats: conch and horn,
Flute answering flute, while zittern and lycorn
Took up the keynote from the leading barge,
And part and counterpart in measured strain,
In gathering volume, rolled on to the marge,
The while the swelling chorus grew amain
And inland o'er the standing rice was borne.

Along the shore, as down the mystic river
Floated the King, the boughs without a shiver
Drooped in the breathless air, and ibises
And birds of scarlet plumage waded grave;
While small deer, timorous as their nature is,
And panthers, to the brink came down to lave,
But drew back as they saw the oar-blades quiver.

Along the burnished water meadow flowers
Floated, and buds with berries, which the scours
Of melted torrents, moons ago, had shred
From Afric's inland mountain range of snows,
And torn up with the rich mould from its bed
And brought to Egypt when the waters rose
To pour into her lap full harvest dowers.

The cortege passed the swamp of crocodiles,
And labyrinth of submerged bulrush isles,
With matted lilies growing on the ooze,
While round the shallow bars the eddies swum,
All changeless, as in old time when the Jews
Mustered at beat of the Egyptian drum
And laid their tale of brick upon the piles.

Upon the left bank of the river loomed
A massive wall where Pharaohs lay entombed
With their deeds vaguely limned in hieroglyph,
In tincts of vivid azure, green and red,
Ochre and vermeil,--standing stark and stiff
Their rigid forms; while 'mong the mummied dead
The frogs croaked and the woeful bittern boomed.

As they swept on they saw a form of stone
Cleaving the yellow sky-line, stern and lone
And awful, so no man might bear to dwell
'Neath its eyes glaring with unwinking lids,
As if of beings it alone could tell
The giant mystery of the pyramids
Ere centuries of sand had round them blown.

Now on the left bank of the river's flow,
Where sentinelled with watch-towers and aglow
With half-mooned vanes all flickering like jets
Uprose a city walled, in proud estate,
Full of domed roofs and tall white minarets
The King's fleet veered towards a water-gate
And anchored 'neath the walls of Cairo.

ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON

THE EGYPTIAN LOTUS

(NYMPHÆA LOTUS)

Proud, languid lily of the sacred Nile,
'Tis strange to see thee on our western wave,
Far from those sandy shores that, many a mile,
Papyrus-plumed, lie silent as the grave.

O'er dark, mysterious pool and sheltered bay,
And midst soft-sleeping isles thy leaves expand,
Where Alexandrian barges plow their way,
Full freighted, to the ancient Theban land.

On Karnak's lofty columns thou wert seen,
And Luxor's spacious temple palace walls,
Each royal Pharaoh's emeralded queen
Chose thee to deck her glittering banquet halls;

Yet thou art blossoming in this fairy lake
As regally, amidst these common things,
As on the shores where Nile's soft ripples break,
As in the halls of old Egyptian kings.

Thy beauty daily lures men's curious eyes,
But he who finds in thought his richest feasts,
Looking at thee, sees stately temples rise
About him, and long lines of white-robed priests,

That chant strange music as they slowly pace
Dim, columned aisles; hears trembling over head
Echoes that lose themselves in that vast space,
Of Egypt's solemn ritual for the dead.

Aye deeper thoughts than these, though undefined,
Wake in reflective souls at sight of thee,
For this majestic orient faith enshrined
Man's yearning hope of immortality.

And thou wert Egypt's symbol of the power
That under all decaying forms lies hid;
The old world worshipped thee, O Lotus flower!
Then carved its Sphinx and reared its pyramid.

PURPLE ASTERS

I had a garden when I was a boy
Wherein I planted fondly many a flower,
And watched it grow until I felt the joy
That every gardener feels, as Nature's power
To make rare perfumes burst from stalks of green
And dash rich colours o'er dull earth is seen.

In that old garden, bright with varied bloom
From early tulip time till winter fell,
It seemed as if no sombre growth or gloom
Had any place, or could desire to dwell;
Yet o'er one corner wildness still held sway,
And there, I always felt, a shadow lay.

In that strange spot pale purple asters came,
When earth wore gorgeous colours on her breast,
And fields were ripe, and autumn's flood of flame
From scarlet maples swept from east to west;
They bore no wealth of royal purple bloom,
But seemed meet products of great Nature's gloom.

The lives of men are gardens, from whose soil
Spring rich red-petalled roses, violets blue
As heaven; where, too, the passion-flower's strong coil
Closes round frail anemones, hearts-ease, and rue;
But in some sheltered spots, bright blooms beside,
Pale purple fringëd asters love to hide.

They tell us there are gardens always clad
With summer's richest robes, awaiting men
Beyond the stars, where hearts at once grow glad,
And never to low levels sink again;
Perhaps even such light lands may need to see
The purple asters of despondency.

DEEPENING THE CHANNEL

A rocky channel from the harbor led
The ships to sea, a blue but shallow sound
With surging tides, upon whose treacherous bed
The keels of heavy vessels ground and ground.
The channel must be deepened, men agree,
And so great thunderous blasts of rock they blew,
And all the sleepy sands were dredged; till, free
From fear, the heaviest ships went swiftly through.

We fret and foam as if our surface tide
Was fathoms deep, and never know the truth
Till love or sorrow through the water ride
And grate its keel upon the sands of youth;
God cleaves the rock beneath the channel blue,
And then his noblest ships sail safely through.

THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS

'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway
Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay;
'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide
In ripples that reach to the forest side;
'Tis the fisherman's boat, in a track of sheen,
Plying through tangled seaweed green
O'er the Baie des Chaleurs.

Who has not heard of the phantom light
That over the moaning waves, at night,
Dances and drifts in endless play,
Close to the shore, then far away,
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
Cold as the winter light that lies
On the Baie des Chaleurs?

They tell us that many a year ago,
From lands where the palm and the olive grow,
Where vines with their purple clusters creep
Over the hillsides gray and steep,
A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold,
Famed, in that chivalrous time of old,
For valorous deeds and courage rare,
Sailed with a princess wondrous fair
To the Baie des Chaleurs.

That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea,
A murderous band as e'er could be,
With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night,
That flaunted and flew in heaven's sight,
Sailed in the wake of the lovers there,
And sank the ship and its freight so fair
In the Baie des Chaleurs.

Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell:
They say that a ball of fire fell
Straight from the sky, with crash and roar,
Lighting the bay from shore to shore;
Then the ship, with shudder and with groan,
Sank through the waves to the caverns lone
Of the Baie des Chaleurs.

That was the last of the pirate crew;
But many a night a black flag flew
From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed
By a spectre band that wept and wailed
For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land,
For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand
Of the Baie des Chaleurs.

This is the tale of the phantom light
That fills the mariner's heart, at night,
With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay,
Now by the shore, then far away,
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
Cold as the winter moon that lies
On the Baie des Chaleurs.

THE MEADOW LANDS

The tide flows in and out and leaves
Its richness on the meadow lands,
The furrowed surface-soil upheaves,
And sprinkles life among the sands.

Across the meadow lands of life
The tide of time flows and recedes,
Its muddy wave brings woe and strife,
But forms the soil for noble deeds.

The tide flows in and out and brings
New beauty to the meadow lands,
With lavish tenderness it flings
Fair flowers across the silver sands.

MY PUREST LONGINGS SPRING

My purest longings spring
From the divine,
The sweetest songs I sing
They are not mine.

I chisel the rude stone
With trembling hand,
The statue comes alone
At God's command.

Beyond earth's tainted air
I sometimes fly
On wings of faith and prayer;
Yet 'tis not I.

Not I but He who lights
My flickering creeds;
The Power that writes
My broken deeds.

Not I but God; for He,
My larger life,
Fulfils Himself in me
With ceaseless strife.