Chapter C: P. R. EASTBOUND--No. 2 (2)

No room for one tiny infant
In that city of churches fair,--
But the Father hath "many mansions"
And room for the baby _there_!

EVAN MACCOLL

THE CHILD OF PROMISE

She died--as die the roses
On the ruddy clouds of dawn,
When the envious sun discloses
His flame, and morning's gone.

She died--like snow glad-gracing
Some sea-marge fair, when, lo!
Rude waves, each other chasing,
Quick hide it 'neath their flow.

She died--like snow fair showering
Some sea-marge, when, anon,
In comes the wave devouring--
The beautiful is gone.

She died--as dies the glory
Of music's sweetest swell:
She died--as dies the story
When the best is still to tell!

She died--as dies moon-beaming
When scowls the rayless wave;
She died--like sweetest dreaming
That hastens to its grave.

She died--and died she early;
Heaven wearied for its own.
As the dipping sun, my Mary,
Thy morning ray went down!

GLENORCHY

Talk not to me of Tempe's flowery vale,
With fair Glenorchy stretched before my view!
If of _its_ charms he sung, I would right well
Believe the Grecian poet's picture true.
What were his boasted groves in scent and hue
To lady-birches and the stately pine,
The crimsoned heather and the hare-bell blue?
Be his the laurel--the red heath be mine!
No faun nor dryad here I care to see,
More pleased by far to mark the bounding roe
Sport with his mate behind the forest tree;
Nor less the joy when in the glen below
Some milking Hebe sings her _luinneag_ free,
All hearts enchanting by its graceful glow.

ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD

A SONG OF SEASONS

Sing a song of Spring-time!
Catkins by the brook,
Adders-tongues uncounted,
Ferns in every nook;
The cataract on the hillside
Leaping like a fawn;
Sing a song of Spring-time,--
Ah, but Spring-time's gone!

Sing a song of Summer!
Flowers among the grass,
Clouds like fairy frigates,
Pools like looking-glass,
Moonlight through the branches,
Voices on the lawn;
Sing a song of summer,--
Ah, but Summer's gone!

Sing a song of Autumn!
Grain in golden sheaves,
Woodbine's crimson clusters
Round the cottage eaves,
Days of crystal clearness,
Frosted fields at dawn;
Sing a song of Autumn,--
Ah, but Autumn's gone!

Sing a song of Winter!
North-wind's bitter chill,
Home and ruddy firelight,
Kindness and good-will,
Hemlock in the churches,
Daytime soon withdrawn;
Sing a song of Winter,--
Ah, but Winter's gone!

Sing a song of loving!
Let the seasons go;
Hearts can make their gardens
Under sun or snow;
Fear no fading blossom,
Nor the dying day;
Sing a song of loving,--
That will last for aye!

JOHN MACFARLANE

THE TWO ANGELS

I stood and saw the angel of the dawn,
Whose rest had been in heaven the dark night through,
Pressing, with jewelled feet, the silent lawn
In radiant robes of dew.

And slowly to the west, in ebon gloom,
Upbearing in his lifted hands on high
The scroll of destiny--of life and doom--
The night-watch passëd by.

But ere he turned his step from earth away
I gazed upon his countenance again,
And, lo! I thought upon his brow there lay
A shadow as of pain.

But he, the brother-angel of the day,
Bore on his breast the beaming star of hope,
And in his golden chalice balm, alway,
On bruisëd hearts to drop.

And so to men there cometh evermore
One angel fraught with promise, making glad;
And one who taketh from the stricken sore
Much anguish, wild and sad.

A GRAVE IN SAMOA

The wild birds strangely call,
And silent dawns and purple eves are here,
Where Southern stars upon his grave look down,
Calm-eyed and wondrous clear!

No strife his resting mars!
And yet we deem far off from tropic steeps
His spirit cleaves the pathway of the storm,
Where dark Tantallon keeps.

For still in plaintive woe,
By haunting mem'ry of his yearning led,
The wave-worn Mother of the misty strand
Mourns for her absent dead:

"_Ah! bear him gently home,
To where Dunedin's streets are quaint and gray,
And ruddy lights across the steaming rains
Shine soft at close of day!_"

A MIDSUMMER MADRIGAL

At the postern gate of Day
Stands Apollo, clad in light,
Trilling forth a summons gay
To the wrinkled warder Night:

"Ho! old laggard, what has kept?
Dost not hear this challenge mine?
Well I wot thy beard has dipt
In the wassail's ruddy wine.

Song and story, gibe and jest,
With thy boon companions all;
To the donjon of the West
Now betake thee, Seneschal.

Ward and watch, and vigil keen,
Still thy beacon fires confest,
Blazing in the blue serene;
Hie thee, warrior, to thy rest!"

And in armor silver-dight,
As becomes a knight to win,
At the postern held by Night
Crowned Apollo enters in.

KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN

BALLAD OF THE MAD LADYE

The rowan tree grows by the tower foot,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
Can the dead feel joy or pain?_)
And the owls in the ivy blink and hoot,
And the sea-waves bubble around its root,
Where kelp and tangle and sea-shells be,
When the bat in the dark flies silently.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)

The ladye sits in the turret alone,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
The dead--can they complain?_)
And her long hair down to her knee has grown,
And her hand is cold as a hand of stone,
And wan as a hand of flesh may be,
While the bird in the bower sings merrily.
(_Hark to the wind and rain!_)

Sadly she leans by her casement side,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
Can the dead arise again?_)
And watcheth the ebbing and flowing tide,
But her eye is dim, and the sea is wide;
The fisherman's sail and the cloud flies free,
And the bird is mute in the rowan tree.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)

The moon shone in on the turret stair,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
The dead are bound with a chain._)
And touched her cheek and brightened her hair,
And found naught else in the world so fair,
So ghostly fair as the mad ladye,
While the bird in the bower sang lonesomely.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)

The weary days and the months crept on,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
The words of the dead are vain._)
At last the summer was over and gone,
And still she sat in her turret alone,
Her white hands clasping about her knee,
And the bird was mute in the rowan tree.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)

Wild was the sound of the wind and the sleet,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
The dead--do they walk again?_)
Wilder the roar of the surf that beat;
Whose was the form that it bore to her feet,
Swayed with the swell of the unquiet sea,
While the raven croaked in the rowan tree?
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)

O Ladye, strange is the silent guest--
(_Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea,
Can the dead feel sorrow or pain?_)
With the sea-drenched locks and the pulseless breast,
And the close-shut lips which thine have pressed,
And the wild sad eyes that heed not thee,
While the raven croaks in the rowan-tree.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)

The tower is dark, and the doors are wide,
(_Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea,
The dead are at peace again._)
Into the harbor the fisher boats ride,
But two went out with the ebbing tide,
Without sail, without oar, full fast and free,
And the raven croaks in the rowan tree.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)

BIRD SONG

Art thou not sweet,
Oh, world, and glad to the inmost heart of thee!
All creatures rejoice
With one rapturous voice,
As I, with the passionate beat
Of my over-full heart, feel sweet,
And all things that live, and are part of thee!

Light, light as a cloud,
Swimming, and trailing its shadow under me,
I float in the deep
As a bird-dream in sleep,
And hear the wind murmuring loud,
Far down, where the tree-tops are bowed,--
And I see where the secret place of the thunders be.

Oh! the sky free and wide,
With all the cloud-banners flung out in it!
Its singing wind blows
As a grand river flows,
And I swim down its rhythmical tide,
And still the horizon spreads wide,
With the birds' and the poets' songs like a shout in it!

Oh, life, thou art sweet!
Sweet, sweet to the inmost heart of thee!
I drink with my eyes
Thy limitless skies,
And I feel with the rapturous beat
Of my wings thou art sweet,--
And I,--I am alive, and a part of thee!

ELIZABETH S. MACLEOD

ALEXANDER MACKENZIE

Draw nigh with reverence, Canada!
Beyond all strain of mortal toil
He lieth, with unstainëd crest,
Calm-sleeping on his chosen soil.
No higher boon may patriot crave
Than grateful country's honest tear;
Whilst Faith, outreaching 'yond the grave,
With stainless emblem decks the bier.

Rare mind! firm as the granite stone
From out thy much-loved Scottish hills;
Soul, clear as sunlight's upper zone
When smiling o'er Canadian rills!
Oh, well for thee, belovëd land,
That, ripening to thy golden prime,
Stout hearts, and faithful, held thine hand
And led thee on to ampler time.

Embalm his memory, Canada!
Nor taint with ill his honored name,
Who loved thee dearer than his life;
Who, serving thee, rejected fame.
Not now!--through many an after year,
In cool, calm retrospect of time,
Shall all his sterling worth appear,
In grandeur fitting and sublime.

Though stilled the aims of lofty end,
Though leaders in the field lie low,
Heaven's purposes shall onward tend,
As ocean wavelets shoreward flow.
Wail not! he walketh in the light;
His work, imbued with high intent,
Doth magnify a country's might,
And build his fairest monument.

A. D. MACNEILL

THE SEA-GULL

Fair bird, whose silvery pinions sweep
The hoary bosom of the deep,
Or braced against the raging gale
Across the vast of heaven sail,
I hold thee as a symbol dear
Of loving hearts who persevere
Amid the woes of life, and brave
Temptation's dark and forceful wave,
That sweeps across us unawares;
And swooping gusts of froward cares
That shrewdly vex us. But again,
When throned upon the tranquil tide
In snowy robe unflecked of stain,
You seem a soul beatified.

DONALD M'CAIG

THE TRAMP

On a stone by the wayside, half-naked and cold,
And soured in the struggle of life,
With his parchment envelope grown wrinkled and old,
Sat the Tramp, with his crust and his knife.
And the leaves of the forest fell round him in showers,--
And the sharp, stinging flurries of snow,
That had warned off the robins to summer bowers,
Admonished him, too, he should go.

But Autumn had gone, having gathered her sheaves,
And the glories of Summer were past;
And Spring, with the swallows that built in the eaves,
Had left him the weakest and last!
So he sat there alone, for the world could not heal
A disease without pain, without care,--
Without joy, without hope, too insensate to feel,--
Too utterly lost for despair!

But he thought, while the night, and the darkness, and gloom,
That gathered around him so fast,
Hid the moon and the stars in their cloud-shrouded tomb,
Of the fair, but the far-distant past!
Around him a vision of beauty arose,
Unpainted, unpencilled by art,--
His home, father, mother, sweet peace and repose,
From the sad _repertoire_ of the heart.

And brightly the visions came gliding along
Through the warm golden gates of the day,--
With voices of childhood, and music and song,
Like echoes from lands far away.
And the glad ringing laughter of girlhood was there,
And one 'mong the others so dear
That o'er his life's record, too black for despair,
Flowed the sad sacred joy of a tear!

And he held, while he listened, his crust half consumed,
In his cold, shrivelled hand, growing weak,
While a glory shone round him that warmed and illumed
The few frozen tears on his cheek.
In the dark, silent night, thus his spirit had flown,
Like the sigh of a low passing breath;--
Life's bubble had burst, and another gone down
In the deep, shoreless ocean of death.

In the bright waking morn, by the side of the way,
On the crisp, frozen leaves shed around,
The knife, and the crust, and the casket of clay,
Which the tramp left behind him, were found!
And bound round his neck, as he lay there alone,
Was the image, both youthful and fair,
Of a sweet, laughing girl, with a blue ribbon zone,
And a single white rose in her hair.

Was he loved? Was she wed? Was she daughter or wife,
Or sister? The world may not read
Her story or his. They are lost with the life--
Recorded, "A tramp was found dead!"
"Found dead by the way," in the gloom and the cold--
The boy whom a mother had kissed,
The son whom a father could proudly enfold,
The brother a sister had missed!

"Found dead by the way!" whom a maiden's first love
Had hallowed--e'en worshipped in part,
And clothed in a light from the glory above,
To enshrine in her pure virgin heart!
Found dead, and alone, by the way where he died,
To be thrown, like a dog, in his lair!
Yet he peacefully sleeps, as the stone by his side,
And rich as the proud millionaire?

JAMES M'CARROLL

A ROYAL RACE

Among the fine old kings that reign
Upon a simple wooden throne,
There's one with but a small domain,
Yet, mark you, it is all his own.

And though upon his rustic towers
No ancient standard waves its wing,
Thick leafy banners, flushed with flowers,
From all the fragrant casements swing.

And here, in royal homespun, bow
His nut-brown court, at night and morn,--
The bronzed Field-Marshal of the Plough,
The Chancellor of the Wheat and Corn,

The Keeper of the Golden Stacks,
The Mistress of the Milking-Pail,
The bold Knights of the Ringing-Axe,
The Heralds of the Sounding Flail,

The Ladies of the New-Mown Hay,
The Master of the Spade and Hoe,
The Minstrels of the Glorious Lay
That all the Sons of Freedom know.

And thus, while on the seasons roll,
He wins from the inspiring sod
The brawny arm and noble soul
That serve his country and his God.

DAWN

With folded wings of dusky light
Upon the purple hills she stands,
An angel between day and night,
With tinted shadows in her hands--

Till suddenly transfigured there,
With all her dazzling plumes unfurled,
She climbs the crimson-flooded air,
And flies in glory o'er the world.

THE GRAY LINNET

There's a little gray friar in yonder green bush,
Clothed in sackcloth--a little gray friar
Like a druid of old in his temple--but hush!
He's at vespers; you must not go nigher.

Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies,
And around us so wantonly float,
Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread flies
From the silvery reel of his throat?

When he roams, though he stains not his path through the air
With the splendor of tropical wings,
All the lustre denied to his russet plumes there
Flashes forth through his lay when he sings;

For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise,
Though in such a plain garb he appears,
That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes,
He steals in through the gates of your ears.

But the cheat!--'tis not heaven he's warbling about--
Other passions, less holy, betide--
For, behold, there's a little gray nun peeping out
From a bunch of green leaves at his side.

WILLIAM M'DONNELL

_From_ "MANITA"

As time past onwards, day by day
Manita by the grave would stay;
And often she would steal by night
To that lone spot to glad her sight ...
And many came to hear the song
She sung at times the whole day long.
She fancied, too, that flowers and birds
Were listening to its tender words,
And that at night the dreaming moon
Sent echoes to her simple tune--
It was a loving lay to cheer
While Ogemah lay sleeping near:

"I have a little friend
Up in the tall pine tree.
In the sunny air he sings,
Sits and sings with folded wings,
Sings low and soft down by the lake,
Lest he should Ogemah awake.

I have a pretty friend,
The redbreast in the tree.
All day for me he sings,
Word from Ogemah he brings,
And often warbles by the lake
To see if he is yet awake."

BERNARD M'EVOY

A PHOTOGRAPH IN A SHOP WINDOW

Through a Gethsemane of city streets,
Whose ministering angels seemed from hell,
And ever stabbed me with their venomed darts,
Till soul and body writhed in misery,
I strayed--a hunted mortal--sport of Fate.
Then, when 'twas worst, behold thy pictured face!
Calm, peaceful, resolute; thy comrades true
Around thee, "helmed and tall;" ah! then I knew
How angels strengthen us in time of need,
And from thy face drew solace for my smart.

REVISED PROOFS

I watch the printer's clever hand
Pick up the type from here and there--
Make it in ordered row to stand,
And gather it with practised care.

Maybe 'twill make the poet's page,
The leaf of some romantic book,
The sheet that chronicles the age,
The tome on which the sage shall look.

But ah! not yet; full well he knows
No printer lives from error free;
And in those neat and serried rows
Are letters that ought not to be.

He takes his proof-sheet with a sigh,
Deleting here, and adding there,
Till not the keenest reader's eye
But must confess the whole is fair.

And shall the pages of our lives--
Letter by letter daily set--
Be subject, when the end arrives,
To no revising process yet?

Sometimes our eyes are blurred with tears,
Sometimes our hands with passion shake,
Sometimes a tempting Devil leers
At all the errors that we make.

Forbid, O God! that work so vain
Shall stand in an eternal scroll--
With faults of sin, and joy, and pain--
As long as future ages roll!

THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE

OUR LADYE OF THE SNOW

I

If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead
Where, emblem of our holy creed,
Canadian crosses glow--
There you may hear what here you read,
And seek in witness of the deed
_Our Ladye of the Snow_![A]

In the old times when France held sway
From the Balize to Hudson's Bay,
O'er all the forest free,
A noble Breton cavalier
Had made his home for many a year
Beside the Rivers three.

To tempest and to trouble proof
Rose in the wild his glittering roof,
To every traveller dear;
The Breton song, the Breton dance,
The very atmosphere of France,
Diffused a generous cheer.

Strange sight that on those fields of snow
The genial vine of Gaul should grow
Despite the frigid sky!
Strange power of Man's all-conquering will,
That here the hearty Frank can still
A Frenchman live and die!

[A] The church of _Notre Dame des Neiges_, (now) behind Mount Royal.

II

The Seigneur's hair was ashen grey,
But his good heart held holiday,
As when in youthful pride
He bared his shining blade before
De Tracey's regiment on the shore
Which France has glorified.

Gay in the field, glad in the hall,
The first at danger's frontier call,--
The humblest devotee
Of God and of St Catharine dear
Was the stout Breton cavalier
Beside the Rivers three.

When bleak December's chilly blast
Fettered the flowing waters fast,
And swept the frozen plain--
When with a frightened cry, half heard,
Far southward fled the arctic bird,
Proclaiming winter's reign--

His custom was, come foul, come fair,
For Christmas duties to repair,
Unto the _Ville Marie_,
The city of the mount, which north
Of the great River looketh forth
Across its sylvan sea.

Fast fell the snow, and soft as sleep,
The hillocks looked like frozen sheep,
Like giants grey the hills--
The sailing pine seemed canvas-spread,
With its white burden over-head,
And marble hard the rills.

A thick dull light, where ray was none
Of moon or star, or cheerful sun,
Obscurely showed the way--
While merrily upon the blast
The jingling horse-bells, pattering fast,
Timed the glad roundelay.

Swift eve came on, and faster fell
The winnowed storm on ridge and dell,
Effacing shape and sign--
Until the scene grew blank at last,
As when some seaman from the mast
Looks o'er the shoreless brine.

Nor marvel aught to find ere long
In such a scene the death of song
Upon the bravest lips--
The empty only could be loud
When Nature fronts us in her shroud
Beneath the sky's eclipse.

Nor marvel more to find the steed,
Though famed for spirit and for speed,
Drag on a painful pace--
With drooping crest and faltering foot,
And painful whine, the weary brute
Seems conscious of disgrace;

Until he paused with mortal fear,
Then plaintive sank upon the mere
Stiff as a steed of stone--
In vain the master winds his horn,
None save the howling wolves forlorn
Attend the dying roan.

III

Sad was the heart and sore the plight
Of the benumbed, bewildered knight
Now scrambling through the storm.
At every step he sank apace--
The death dew freezing on his face--
In vain each loud alarm!

The torpid echoes of the Rock
Answered with one unearthly mock
Of danger round about!
Then, muffled in their snowy robes,
Retiring sought their bleak abodes,
And gave no second shout.

Down on his knees himself he cast,
Deeming that hour to be his last,
Yet mindful of his faith--
He prayed St Catharine and St John,
And our dear Ladye called upon
For grace of happy death.

When lo! a light beneath the trees,
Which clank their brilliants in the breeze,
And lo! a phantom fair
As God's in heaven! by that blest light
Our Ladye's self rose to his sight,
In robes that spirits wear!

Oh! lovelier, lovelier far than pen,
Or tongue, or art, or fancy's ken
Can picture, was her face--
Gone was the sorrow of the sword,
And the last passion of our Lord
Had left no living trace!

As when the moon across the moor
Points the lost peasant to his door,
And glistens on his pane--
Or when along her trail of light
Belated boatmen steer at night,
A harbor to regain--

So the warm radiance from her hands
Unbind for him Death's icy bands,
And nerve the sinking heart--
Her presence makes a perfect path.
Ah! he who such a helper hath
May anywhere depart.

All trembling, as she onward smiled,
Followed that Knight our mother mild,
Vowing a grateful vow--
Until, far down the mountain gorge,
She led him to the antique forge
Where her own shrine stands now.

If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead
Where, emblem of our holy creed,
Canadian crosses glow--
There you may hear what here you read,
And seek, in witness of the deed,
_Our Ladye of the Snow_!

WILLIAM P. M'KENZIE

MOONLIGHT

So tremulous the flame of thinking burns
Beneath mine eyelids, that I may not keep
My restless couch; I watch the still moon sweep
Through starry space, like some white soul that spurns
Earth-life, and to the sunlight ever turns;
In her cool beams my burning eyes I steep--
Oh, that my spirit thus may rest in sleep
When my pale ashes mother Earth inurns!

And as the moonlight quieteth unrest,
Changing thought's scorching glow to truth's pure light,
So Thou, who art my heart's most holy guest,
Dost make its ruddy flame glow spirit white;
And like pure-hearted child 'mid happy dreams,
I rest my heart and soul in Thy love-beams.

GABRIELLE

'Tis the sound of a silver-toned bell:
_Gabrielle_,--
And a gladness the chime doth foretell,
_Gabrielle_;
As music that thrilled once floats back to the mind,
And tells of a joy yet to grasp, yet to find,
So thy name seems to come on the wind,
_Gabrielle_!
I find in its musical swell,
_Gabrielle_,
A charm evil passions to quell,
_Gabrielle_;
When I utter thy name all the might is destroyed
Of the glittering shapes in the dark that annoyed,
And they flit back again to the void,
_Gabrielle_!
Thy name holds my heart by a spell,
_Gabrielle_!
In my life thy sweet music shall dwell,
_Gabrielle_!
As one with a vision celestial in sight,
The vision of love hath redoubled my might,
And my eyes mirror heavenly light,
_Gabrielle_!

THE MOTHER'S SONG

_Come, O Sleep, from Chio's isle,
Take my little one awhile._--GREEK FOLK-SONG.

Come hither, Sleep, from Chio's isle!
My wakeful babe canst thou beguile?
Let rose of dawn be on the cheek,
On sweet lips parted as to speak,
But bring a twilight o'er these eyes
As bright and blue as summer skies.
Then swing the cradle to and fro
Till all the wingëd shadows go;
Like drowsy flower my baby sway
Until my daughter hails the day.

Come hither, Sleep, from Chio's isle!
Take thou my little one awhile,
And twine soft fabric of the night
O'er merry eyes that glance too bright;
Make silent thou the laughter sound,
But leave the smile, and dimple round,
And rock my baby on thy breast
Like wee bird swaying in the nest;
At morning bring her fresh as day,
Then on a sunbeam fly away.

LULLABY SONG

Where does my sweetheart Baby go
While the cradle is swinging her to and fro,--
While Mother is singing a lullaby
In a voice like none other, so sweet and low?

_Lullaby Baby, lullaby dear!
Yield thee to slumber, Mother is near;
Far on Sleep's ocean fear not to go,
God is around thee, loving thee so!_

Does she fly away to the home of Night,
When eyelids droop over blue eyes bright?
Does she seek the place where the dreams are born,
Clad in her dreaming-dress of white?

Her cradle sways like a fairy boat
On the gentle Slumber river afloat,
That bears on its bosom a baby fleet,
As the sunbeam many a shining mote.

So swiftly the babies are sweeping along
As if a breeze in the sail blew strong,
Yet no waves beat, for it is not the wind
But the crooning of many a mother-song.

Down Slumber river their course they keep,
Until they come to the sea of Sleep;
And the mermaids tell them of wonderful things,
For they are the dreams that arise from the deep.

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN

INDIAN SUMMER

Down from the blue the sun has driven,
And stands between the earth and heaven,
In robes of smouldering flame:
A smoking cloud before him hung,
A mystic veil, for which no tongue
Of earth can find a name;
And o'er him bends the vault of blue,
With shadowy faces looking through
The azure deep profound;
The stillness of eternity,--
A glory and a mystery,
Encompass him around.
The air is thick with golden haze,
The woods are in a dreamy maze,
The air enchanted seems;
Have we not left the realms of care,
And entered in the regions fair
We see in blissful dreams?

O, what a sacred stillness broods
Above the awful solitudes!
Peace hangs with dove-like mien;
She's on the earth, she's in the air,
O, she is brooding everywhere--
Sole spirit of the scene!
And yonder youths and maidens seem
As moving in a heavenly dream,
Through regions rich and rare;
Have not their very garments caught
A tone of spiritual thought,
A still, a Sabbath air?
Yon cabins by the forest side
Are all transformed and glorified!
O, surely grief nor care,
Nor poverty with strife and din,
Nor anything like vulgar sin,
Can ever enter there!

The ox, let loose to roam at will,
Is lying by the water still;
And on yon spot of green
The very herd forget to graze,
And look in wonder and amaze
Upon the mystic scene.
And yonder Lake Ontario lies,
As if that wonder and surprise
Had hushed her heaving breast--
And lies there with her awful eye
Fixed on the quiet of the sky
Like passion soothed to rest;
Yon very maple feels the hush--
That trance of wonder, that doth rush
Through nature everywhere--
And meek and saint-like there she stands
With upturned eye and folded hands,
As if in silent prayer.

O Indian Summer, there's in thee
A stillness, a serenity--
A spirit pure and holy,
Which makes October's gorgeous train
Seem but a pageant light and vain,
Untouched by melancholy!
But who can paint the deep serene--
The holy stillness of thy mien--
The calm that's in thy face,
Which make us feel, despite of strife,
And all the turmoil of our life--
Earth is a holy place?
Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee,
Here, in thy forest sanctuary
We'll learn thy simple lore;
And neither poverty nor pain,
The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain,
Shall ever vex us more.

BOBOLINK

Merry mad-cap on the tree,
Who so happy are as thee!
Is there aught so full of fun,
Half so happy 'neath the sun,
With thy merry whiskodink--
Bobolink! Bobolink!

With thy mates, such merry meetings,
Such queer jokes and funny greetings,
O, such running and such chasing,
O, such banter and grimacing,
Thou'rt the wag of wags the pink--
Bobolink! Bobolink!

How you tumble 'mong the hay,
Romping all the summer's day;
Now upon the wing all over
In and out among the clover--
Far too happy e'er to think--
Bobolink! Bobolink!

Now thou'rt on the apple tree,
Crying, "Listen unto me!"
Now upon the mossy banks,
Where thou cuttest up such pranks--
One would swear thou wert in drink--
Bobolink! Bobolink!

Nothing canst thou know of sorrow,
As to-day shall be to-morrow;
Never dost thou dream of sadness--
All thy life a merry madness,
Never may thy spirits sink--
Bobolink! Bobolink!

THE MAN WHO ROSE FROM NOTHING

Around the world the fame is blown
Of fighting heroes, dead and gone;
But we've a hero of our own--
The man who rose from nothing.

He's a magician great and grand;
The forests fled at his command;
And here he said, "Let cities stand!"--
The man who rose from nothing.

And in our legislative hall
He towering stands alone, like Saul,
"A head and shoulders over all,"--
The man who rose from nothing.

His efforts he will ne'er relax,
His faith in figures and in facts,
And always calls an axe an axe,--
The man who rose from nothing.

The gentleman in word and deed;
And short and simple in his creed;
"Fear God and help the soul in need!"
The man who rose from nothing.

In other lands he's hardly known,
For he's a product of our own;
Could grace a shanty or a throne,--
The man who rose from nothing.

Here's to the land of lakes and pines,
On which the sun of freedom shines,
Because we meet on all our lines
The man who rose from nothing.

JOHN M'PHERSON

THE MAYFLOWER

Sweet child of an April shower,
First gift of spring to Flora's bower,
Acadia's own peculiar flower,
I hail thee here!
Thou com'st, like hope in sorrow's hour,
To whisper cheer.

I love to stray with careless feet,
Thy balm on morning breeze to meet--
Thy earliest opening bloom to greet--
To take thy stem,
And bear thee to my lady sweet,
Thou lovely gem.

What though green mosses o'er thee steal,
And half thy lovely form conceal--
Though but thy fragrant breath reveal
Thy place of birth--
Gladly I own thy mute appeal,
Of modest worth!

Thy charms so pure a spell impart,
Thy softening smiles so touch my heart,
That silent tears of rapture start,
Sweet flower of May!
E'en while I sing, devoid of art,
This simple lay.

IN THE WOODS

I come, ye lovely wild-wood groves,
Where placid contemplation roves,
And breathes untroubled air;
I come to woo your genial sweets,
To wander in your green retreats,
And lose the sense of care.

Unformed to brook the vulgar strife
And heartlessness of worldly life,
I court your silent gloom--
Where Thought may nurse, without annoy,
The soothing sense of native joy--
The soul's inherent bloom.

Receive me to your fostering arms--
Surround me with your varied charms
Of birds and streams and flowers;
And bless me with the sweet repose
That crowns the simple thoughts of those
Who love your leafy bowers.

Here in the ancient forest maze,
Remote from Mammon's specious ways,
And wandering at my will,
Herbs, flowers, and trees shall be my friends,
And birds and streamlets make amends
For much of earthly ill.

Yet give me here a kindred tie--
Affection's sympathetic eye,
And kind consoling tone;
For though the multitude are cold,
And anxious most for sordid gold,
I would not live alone.

The heart--the heart is human still,
And yearns for trusting love to fill
Its frequent, aching void;
Unless partaken with our kind,
The sweetest joys of sense and mind
Are not enough enjoyed.

Then will I seek repose from strife,
The tender ministries of life,
And peace, the timid dove,
In one still calm, one dear retreat,
The circle of my cottage sweet--
The home of wedded love.

CHARLES MAIR

UNTAMED

There was a time on this fair continent
When all things throve in spacious peacefulness.
The prosperous forests unmolested stood,
For where the stalwart oak grew, there it lived
Long ages, and then died among its kind.
The hoary pines--those ancients of the earth,
Brimful of legends of the early world--
Stood thick on their own mountains unsubdued.
And all things else illumined by the sun,
Inland, or by the lifted wave, had rest.
The passionate or calm pageants of the skies
No artist drew; but in the auburn west
Innumerable faces of fair cloud
Vanished in silent darkness with the day.
The prairie realm--vast ocean's paraphrase--
Rich in wild grasses numberless, and flowers
Unnamed save in mute Nature's inventory,
No civilized barbarian trenched for gain.
And all that flowed was sweet and uncorrupt:
The rivers and their tributary streams,
Undammed, wound on forever, and gave up
Their lonely torrents of weird gulfs of sea,
And ocean wastes unshadowed by a sail.
And all the wild life of this western world
Knew not the fear of man; yet in those woods ...
There lived a soul more wild than barbarous;
A tameless soul--the sunburnt savage free--
Free, and untainted by the greed of gain:
Great Nature's man content with Nature's food.

THE VOICE OF THE PINES

We fear not the thunder, we fear not the rain,
For our stems are stout and long;
Or the growling winds, though they blow amain,
For our roots are great and strong;
Our voice is eternal, our song sublime,
And its theme is the days of yore--
Back thousands of years of misty time,
When we first grew old and hoar!

Deep down in the crevice our roots were hid,
And our limbs were thick and green
Ere Cheops had builded his pyramid,
Or the Sphinx's form was seen.
Whole forests have risen within our ken,
Which withered upon the plain;
And cities, and race after race of men,
Have risen and sunk again.

We commune with the stars thro' the paly night,
For we love to talk with them;
The wind is our harp, and the marvellous light
Of the moon our diadem.
Like the murmur of ocean our branches stir
When the night air whispers low;
Like the voices of ocean our voices are,
When the hurtling tempests blow.

We nod to the sun ere the glimmering morn
Prints her sandals on the mere;
We part with the sun when the stars are borne
By the silvery waters clear.
And when lovers are breathing a thousand vows,
With their hearts and cheeks aglow,
We chant a love strain 'mid our breezy boughs,
Of a thousand years ago!

We stand all aloof, for the giant's strength
Craveth naught from lesser powers;
'Tis the shrub that loveth the fertile ground,
But the sturdy rock is ours!
We tower aloft where the hunters lag
By the weary mountain side,
By the jaggy cliff, by the grimy crag,
And the chasms yawning wide.

When the great clouds march in a mountain heap,
By the light of the dwindled sun,
We steady our heads 'gainst their misty sweep,
And accost them one by one.
Then our limbs they jostle in thunder-mirth,
And the storm-fires flash again;
But baffled and weary they sink to earth,
And the monarch-stems remain.

The passage of years doth not move us much,
And Time himself grows old
Ere we bow to his flight, or feel his touch
In our "limbs of giant mould."
And the dwarfs of the wood, by decay oppressed,
With our laughter grim we mock;
For the burden of age doth lightly rest
On the ancient forest folk.

Cold Winter, who filches the flying leaf,
And steals the floweret's sheen,
Can injure us not, or work us grief,
Or make our tops less green.
And Spring, who awakens her sleeping train
By meadow, and hill, and lea,
Brings no new life to our old domain,
Unfading, stern, and free.

Sublime in our solitude, changeless, vast,
While men build, work, and save,
We mock--for their years glide away to the past,
And we grimly look on their grave.
Our voice is eternal, our song sublime,
For its theme is the days of yore--
Back thousands of years of misty time,
When we first grew old and hoar.

THE HUMMING BIRD

It comes! This strange bird from a distant clime
Has fled with arrowy speed on fluttering wing.
From the sweet south, all sick of revelling,
It wanders hitherward to rest a time,
And taste the hardy flora of the west.
And now, O joy! the urchins hear the mirth
Of its light wings, and crouch unto the earth
In watchful eagerness, contented, blest.

Bird of eternal summers! thou dost wake,
Whene'er thou comest and where'er thou art,
A new born gladness in my swelling heart.
Go, gentle flutterer, my blessing take!
Less like a bird thou hast appeared to me
Than some sweet fancy in old poesy.

INNOCENCE

Oft I have met her
In openings of the woods and pleasant ways,
Where flowers beset her,
And hanging branches crowned her head with bays.

Oft have I seen her walk
Through flower-decked fields unto the oaken pass,
Where lay the slumbery flock,
Swoln with much eating of the tender grass.

Oft have I seen her stand
By wandering brooks o'er which the willows met;
Or where the meadow-land
Balmed the soft air with dew-mist drapery wet.

Much patting of the wind
Had bloomed her cheek with color of the rose;
Rare beauty was entwined
With locks and looks in movement or repose....

The floriage of the spring
And summer coronals were hers in trust,
Till came the winter-king
To droop their sweetness into native dust....

The dingle and the glade,
The brown-ribbed mountains, and tall, talking trees
Seemed fairer while she stayed,
And drank of their dim meanings and old ease....

And chiefly she did love
To soothe the widow's ruth and orphan's tear;
With counsel from above,
Alleviating woe, allaying fear....

There was a quiet grace
In all her actions, tokening gentleness,
Yet firm intent to trace
The paths of duty leading up to bliss....

She thought of One who bore
The awful burden of the world's despair--
What could she give Him more
Than blameless thoughts, a simple life and fair?

She was and is, for still
She lives and moves upon the grass-green earth,
And, as of old, doth fill
Her heart with peace, still mingling tears with mirth.

O, could we find her out,
And learn of her this wildering maze to tread!
And, eased of every doubt,
Let deadly passions linger with the dead!...

GEORGE MARTIN

SHELLEY

Lover of Man, if not of God, the Sea
That took thy latest breath, and fondly bore
Its music round the world from shore to shore,
Will never cease to make lament for thee;
For thou wert of its spirit, tameless, free,
At war with ermined Custom, and the hoar
Enslavements of a venerated lore,--
At deadly feud with all the Powers that be.
Supreme Enchanter, lord of rhythmic sound,
Child of Imagination, born for flight,
Loved of all poets, and by all men crowned
The foe of every form of savage might,
Thou wert the true Prometheus unbound,
Whose genius shaped an Era's golden height.

TO MY CANARY BIRD

Borne on the wavelets of thy fluent notes,
Impassioned little minstrel of the cage,
My spirit like a happy sea-gull floats,
Unheedful of the clamor and the rage
Of storms that menace ruin as they pass,
Impatient for the freedom of the plain,
Crusted and polished like a sea of glass,
Whereon they shout their wild and weird refrain.

There is no touch of winter in thy song,
No wail of winds, my yellow-coated friend;
All beauties of the Spring to thee belong,
All bloomy charms and all the scents that lend
A drowsy gladness to the summer hours.
Again I hear swift rivulets descend
The mountain slopes, like children loosed from school;
Again I see the lily on the pool,
And hear the whispered loves of leaves and flowers.

Not only through the golden hours of day,
From early dawn till dusk, melodious sprite,
Do thy delicious trills and quavers stray
Around the quiet chamber where I write,
But often in the slumbrous hush of night,
When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing,
On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing,
Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring,
As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight.

Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap,
Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips;
Press hard against the pane your whitened lips,
And at the outer portal louder rap;
My songster hears you not: a higher note,
A more reverbant, more delirious strain,
Issues exultant from his quivering throat,
And reaches to the people on the street,
Who pause, look up, take step, and pause again,
Retiring slowly with unwilling feet.

O that thou couldst to me this hour impart
The secret of thy unremitting joy!
The music that dilates thy little heart
No frost can chill, no doubt, no fear destroy.
Here, seated listless in my easy chair,
I can but yield to phantasy and dream,
And gird my spirit with a jewelled beam
Of soft enchantment, hopeful that a share
Of thy divine emotion, happy bird,
By which my holiest thoughts are often stirred,
May slip into my verse and warble there.

LALEET

How beautiful she was, the little maiden,
Scarce twelve years old,
Who faded like a fading star, love laden,
Her love untold.

I knew not, I who far outran her days,
How much I erred
In making much of her endearing ways,
How much I stirred
The fount of her affection with my praise.

No sunrise fairer is than was her face,
No moonlit skies
More lovely than the tenderness and grace
That filled her eyes.

Her presence harmonized all dissonance,
And ever wore
A charm akin to music and romance,
And faery lore.

Poor child! among her hidden notes one said
She dreamed of me,
And fancied that she saw me lying dead,
Drowned in the sea,
But that no dream it was the tears she shed.

When life's white rose its latest leaf was shedding,
And o'er her broke
The sobs of mourners in her chamber treading,
Vaguely she spoke:
He knew not of my weeping at his wedding!

Those simple words, in whispered cadence spoken,
All winds repeat;
I shudder at the tale which they betoken,
My lost Laleet!

I hear them in the surging of the billow,
Through storm and gloom;
They pierce me from the rustle of the willow
That shades her tomb
And drops a denser shadow on my pillow.

Ye softest harmonies of air and ocean,
Of mount and vale,
Rehearse, to love-led maids, her heart's devotion
Till suns shall fail
And orphaned planets lose the joy of motion.

HELEN M. MERRILL

THE BLUE FLOWER

Still, though the sun is setting,
She lingers unheeding the hour,
Her face held to its splendor,
Her heart in thrall of its power.

Her hair is golden burnished;
In her eye the heaven's hue;
Her charm of immortal beauty
Holds me from dawn till dew.

She has a soul of fire,
Pure as a star's white flame;
I gaze in silence, and wonder
The glory whence it came.

She is the spirit elusive
Sorrowing poets seek;
I stand rapt in her presence,
And listen to hear her speak.

All time in the forest olden,
She tells her wondrous chain;
My hope of suns eternal,
Priest of a mighty fane.

Through the pale light glowing golden,
She watches the day decline;
She sings from her ancient volume,
I interpret line on line.

Flower or star bright shining,
A bird, or a silver sheaf;
In her great book I discover
An enigma on every leaf.

Her song is of paradises
Where wheeling fires shine,
To mystic dreams beguiling
Like whispering wind in a pine.

She would that the spirits of mortals
Wander in amaranth meads;
Never a shadow trembles
On the soul-path where she leads,

Under the flashing stars
And the splendor of suns in prime,
In a land of new horizons,
In the unknown aftertime.

AT EDGEWATER

One by one they pass away,
Days, like white ships which sail peacefully
From the shore, yet come not back again.
And their freight is Life, and Love, and lesser things,
Yet as beautiful and good. And ever they set sail
Under golden suns for sea,
Till the summer is gone and shadows fall so gloomily,
At Edgewater!

When the winds of autumn blow
Through the brown vines swinging mournfully,
Calling for the sun disconsolate,
And the rain falls, and the spirit of the deep,
Grieving for the summer, chants its death-song of the sun,
It is lonely by the sea,
And the heart is haunted by unhappy memory,
At Edgewater.

Yet again a golden day
Gilds the blue wave flowing tranquilly,
And a sudden splendor lights the shore,
And the heart of autumn, trembling, turneth warm,
As though summer loitered in it dreaming of the sun.
By-gone dreams, and dreams to be,
Their white shadows on the soul reflect ceaselessly,
At Edgewater.

THE PROMISE OF SPRING

Blue-black like the breast of the gusty sea,
Cumulus clouds where the sun goes down,
Stormful shadows against the gold,
Under the arches of even blown.

Nowhere a white bird beating the storm,
Nowhere a sunray gilding the sea;
Bud nor leaf on the orchard bough,
Butterfly, nor blossom, nor bee.

Yet to-night, where the blue waves beat,
Under the shadows, the storm-winds bring
Omen mysterious out of the dusk,
Out of the darkness the promise of Spring.

SUN-GOLD

All day the sun drops gold, the grassy mead
Like miser olden hoarding underground,
Till soft-shod June will track it, like a hound
Scents the lone covert where the wild deer feed.

Then from an ample mint, with lavish hand,
In every field, by every fountain-side,
She'll scatter gold-bits round her far and wide,
In flower cups o'er all the fragrant land.

Wherever butter-flowers and wild daisies blow,
You'll mark her presence in the green lush grasses;
You'll hear her blithely singing as she passes
On sunny uplands where gold violets grow.

SUSANNA MOODIE

THE MAPLE-TREE

Hail to the pride of the forest--hail
To the maple, tall and green!
It yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail
While leaves on its boughs are seen.
When the moon shines bright
On the wintry night,
And silvers the frozen snow,
And echo dwells
On the jingling bells
As the sleighs dart to and fro,
Then it brightens the mirth
Of the social hearth
With its red and cheery glow.

Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades,
It lifts its tall head on high,
When the crimson-tinted evening fades
From the glowing saffron sky;
When the sun's last beams
Light up woods and streams,
And brighten the gloom below;
And the deer springs by
With his flashing eye,
And the shy, swift-footed doe;
And the sad winds chide
In the branches wide,
With a tender plaint of woe.

The Indian leans on its rugged trunk,
With the bow in his red right-hand,
And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk
From the glorious forest land.
But, blithe and free,
The maple-tree,
Still tosses to sun and air
Its thousand arms,
While in countless swarms
The wild bee revels there;
But soon not a trace
Of the red-man's race
Shall be found in the landscape fair.

When the snows of winter are melting fast,
And the sap begins to rise,
And the biting breath of the frozen blast
Yields to the spring's soft sighs,
Then away to the wood,
For the maple good
Shall unseal its honeyed store;
And boys and girls,
With their sunny curls,
Bring their vessels brimming o'er
With the luscious flood
Of the brave tree's blood,
Into caldrons deep to pour.

The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red;
Far down in the forest dark
A ruddy glow on the trees is shed,
That lights up their rugged bark;
And with merry shout
The busy rout
Watch the sap as it bubbles high;
And they talk of the cheer
Of the coming year,
And the jest and the song pass by;
And brave tales of old
Round the fire are told,
That kindle youth's beaming eye.

Hurrah! for the sturdy maple-tree!
Long may its green branch wave
In native strength, sublime and free,
Meet emblem for the brave.
May the nation's peace
With its growth increase,
And its worth be widely spread;
For it lifts not in vain
To the sun and rain
Its tall, majestic head.
May it grace our soil,
And reward our toil,
While the nation's day is sped!

THE FISHERMAN'S LIGHT

The air is still, the night is dark,
No ripple breaks the dusky tide;
From isle to isle the fisher's bark,
Like fairy meteor, seems to glide,--
Now lost in shade, now flashing bright;
On sleeping wave and forest tree,
We hail with joy the ruddy light,
Which far into the darksome night
Shines red and cheerily.

With spear high poised and steady hand,
The centre of that fiery ray,
Behold the skilful fisher stand,
Prepared to strike the finny prey.
"Now, now!" the shaft has sped below,--
Transfixed the shining prize we see;
On swiftly glides the birch canoe,
The woods send back the long halloo
In echoes loud, and cheerily!

Around yon bluff, whose pine crest hides
The noisy rapids from our sight,
Another bark! another glides!
Red spirits of the murky night!
The bosom of the silent stream
With mimic stars is dotted free;
The tall woods lighten in the beam,
Through darkness shining cheerily.

MARY MORGAN

"IN APPREHENSION, SO LIKE A GOD."

Take the mouldering dust,
Wake it into life,--
Matter is but servant of the mind.

Touch the silent keys:
Genius can evoke
Music wherein gods commune with men.

Read the soul of man,
And the farthest star;
Truth is one, and is forever true.

Think the wildest thought,
Hope the utmost hope--
Time shall be when all shall be fulfilled.

Wonder not at deed,
Wonder more at thought,
Wonder at the hope that feeds itself.

Genius is divine,
Genius is the true:
Man becomes that which he worships,--God!

CHARITY

Thou askest not to know the creed,
The rank or name is naught to thee;
Where'er the human heart cries "Help!"
Thy kingdom is, O Charity!

LIFE

Mysterious Life! we speak as if we knew
What meant this vortex: Ah, what doth it mean?
A spirit of unrest is Life--hath been
Alluring made with many-tinted hue.
From darkest chasm it lifts man to a peak
Where he may see ideal flowers blow;
But as he learns to love them, it will show
Him other heights that he is forced to seek.
Enchantress, Disenchantress,--both in one!
Surrounding us to-day with dazzling light,
To-morrow hiding every ray of sun
Till we are sunk in the abyss of night.
The oracles are dumb: whate'er Life be,
Man walks by faith alone; he cannot see.

IRENE ELDER MORTON

BROWNING

He sits at last among his peers,
While we stand chilled with eyes grown dim
In looking over life's grey fields,
And feel the heart-light folded in.

O great soul! entered in to know
The fulness of the Central Life!
O giant leader of the race,
Who never with the world made strife,

But led it surely, grandly on,
Scaling clear heights with leap and bound,--
Then, beckoning with a strong man's hand,
He kept his way to higher ground!

No maudlin cry he gave the world,--
"Behold my grief, pity my pain;"
Strong as the breath of Alpine hills,
Sweet as the sound of summer rain,

The songs he gave us. Evermore
The deathless might of English speech
Shall sound their notes from shore to shore,
And to the coming nations teach

That it is nobler to endure,
And smother back the cry of pain--
Shall call us onward to the heights,
To press ahead and bear the strain.

He wore no caste-bound fetters here;
A man of men he proved his soul;
The mighty pulse within his words
Beat full and free above control.