Chapter IV: Part II (2)

Has he been cruel to nearest of kin?
The mother who loved him, and pleaded to win
Her prodigal back from the desert of sin?
Has he struck in base ire
The cheek of his sire?
Then plunge him in Acheron up to the chin.—
“_Poor waif!_”

VII.

That tender refrain which the angels repeat,
The angels who hover o’er alley and street,
Let me interpret its sound as is meet.
’Tis a pitiful cry!
’Tis the sob of the sky!—
Is he the victim of woman’s deceit?

VIII.

O, ye invisible shapes of the air—
Ye watchers that wait upon heaven—declare,
Sees he naught else but a face that is fair?
Murmur again
The tender refrain,
If that and that only, hath wrought his despair.—
“_Poor waif!_”

IX.

Then have I wronged him! and grieve at his fate;
But love’s load of sorrow no love can abate,
Naming, still naming her, early and late.
A dim dream of bliss,
The soft light of a kiss,
Only may enter through memory’s gate.

X.

Within, what a ruin! arch, column and cope,
The palace of wisdom, ambition, and hope,
All broken and blasted! what spectres now grope
Through the blue charnel gloom
Of each desolate room!
Blind, shrivelled and maimed, they but mumble and mope.—
“_Poor waif!_”

XI.

Now am I certain that beauty’s false art,
A maid’s broken promise hath broken his heart
No other evil such look could impart
To manhood’s fair brow;
Only speak of her now,
And mark how the eye-drowning sorrow will start

XII.

Wild-eyed, but erect as a soldier-king,
Through the _Rue St. Jacques_, with a tireless swing,
Onward he strides; let the fire-bells ring,
And their terror outpour,
While the red flames roar,
Nothing cares he for the summons they fling.

XIII.

And why should he care? why linger, or start?
The fierce-hissing tongues that the fire-fiends dart
From window and roof, from the square to the mart,
Are harmless and mild,
As the laugh of a child,
Compared to the tempest of flame in his heart.

XIV.

Why care? when the thousands who sweep through the city,
The judge with black cap, and the maid with her ditty,
Bestow on love’s ruin no question of pity.
The crowds that he meets
On the merciless streets
Only smite him anew with some word that is witty.

XV.

Kind ghosts, whose compassionate voices I hear
High up in the air, come hither, come near!
Close down his eyelids and fashion his bier;
O let him pass
Under flower and grass!
Men are too busy to grant him a tear.

XVI.

Good angels! stoop earthward and bear him away
Out of the city’s tumultuous fray;
Tenderly kiss his parched lips, and then lay
His body to rest
On the mountain’s lone breast,
Where shadows and sunbeams in happiness play!

THE SONG OF A GLORIFIED SPIRIT

A youth knelt down by a new made grave
Unseen by the world, and wept;—
A sister whose beauty no love could save
Beneath in the darkness slept.

’Twas a calm, sweet eve, and on hill and plain
The summer had lavished her dower;
But the full sad heart of the youth could gain
No solace from sun or flower.

The big warm tears he wiped from his cheek,
As he said with a struggling faith,
“O God, if I could but hear her speak!—
My sister! now thine, O death!”

In silence and sorrow he lingered long,
And just as he rose to depart,
In the heavens was warbled this saintly song,
Which fell like a balm on his heart:

“Beautiful are my walks in the sky,
Beautiful, beautiful!
Here the amaranths never die,
Here the sweet winds murmur and sigh,
Beautiful, beautiful!

“Joyfully glide my golden hours,
Joyfully, joyfully!
Here the leaves of the hyacinth flowers
Whisper around my love-lit bowers:
Joyfully, joyfully!

“Lovingly smile my comrades here,
Lovingly, lovingly!
All the bright shapes of this blissful sphere
Tell how that each unto each is dear,
Lovingly, lovingly!

“Merciful is my Father, my all,
Merciful, merciful!
Here the white-cheeked lilies, so tall,
Sing in their place by the jasper wall:
Merciful, merciful!”

NOTE.—The origin of this lyric may
possibly be of interest. A young friend had lost
an only sister and, in an outburst of passionate
sorrow, had exclaimed “O God if I could hear her
speak.” Brooding over his sorrow, I retired to
rest one evening and without attempting to embody
my sympathy in words, I fell into a quiet slumber
which lasted until day light. On waking, I had
a vivid recollection of having seen in dream
the youth kneeling by his sister’s grave and of
having heard the words of his sister’s spirit
chanted from the empyrean with inexpressible
sweetness as if responding to his yearning
exclamation. The words I heard in my dream I
wrote down immediately lest their exactness and
coherency might be lost. I was not at that time
aware that Kubla Khan originated in a somewhat
similar manner. As the occurrence, if standing
alone, might seem difficult to believe, I refer
to Coleridge’s poem merely to justify in some
degree the publication of such a freak of the
imagination.

BOUND TO THE WHEEL.

I.

Must I grind in this prison for ever?
No respite from morn till night;
Shall I never again, oh, never!
Commune with the spirits of light
That dwell by the crystalline river
Which flows by the Sibylline height?—
Which sings near the Sibylline height?

II.

I sigh for that region romantic,
Far away from the turmoil and strife
Of cities that render men frantic
In a desperate struggle for life;
For ’tis here that ambition gigantic
Cuts into the heart like a knife,—
Lies cold on the heart like a knife.

III.

There Beauty sits thronéd in glory,
The bards kiss her brow and adore,
Then tell to the world the sweet story
That millions repeat evermore;
The youth and the patriarch hoary
Bend over the musical lore,—
Never tire of the mystical lore.

IV.

It is there the perpetual graces,
Inhabiting bowers of bliss,
Give welcome to wearisome faces
That ’scape from a region like this,
A world in whose gaudiest places
The serpent is sure to hiss,—
The black-crested serpent will hiss.

V.

I know now the fate of Ixion
As I never could know it before;
And under the eyes of Orion,—
Storm-bound on a desolate shore,—
Or under the paws of the Lion,
I sigh for the sorrows he bore;—
I know, too, what Sisyphus bore.

VI.

Must I grind in this dungeon for ever!
Will the day of release never dawn?
Come, spirits of light, and deliver
My soul which I ventured to pawn;
Oh, bear her away to the river
That flows by the Sibylline lawn,—
The sylph-haunted Sibylline lawn.

THE APPLE WOMAN.

(_From life._)

I.

She often comes, a not unwelcome guest,
With her old face set in a marble smile,
And bonnet ribbonless—it is her best,—
And little cloak—and blesses you the while,
And cracks her joke, ambitious to beguile
Your heart to something human,
Then sets her basket down—a little rest!
The Apple Woman.

II.

Her stock in trade that basket doth contain;
It is her wholesale and her retail store,
Her goods and chattels,—all that doth pertain
To her estate, a daughter of the Poor;
O ye who tread upon a velvet floor,
Whose walls rich lights illumine,
Wound not, with word or look of high disdain,
The Apple Woman.

III.

She is thy sister, jewelled Lady Clare,
“My sister! fling this insult in my face?”
How dare you then, when in the house of prayer,
Utter, Our Father? difference of place
Nulls not the consanguinity of race,
And every creature human
Is kin to that poor mother, shivering there,
The Apple Woman.

IV.

She sits upon the sidewalk in the cold,
And with her scraggy hand, hard, shrunk and blue,
And corded with the cordage of the old,
She reaches forth a _fameuse_, sir, to you,
And begs her ladyship will take one, too,
And if you are a true man
Your pence will out; she never thinks of _gold_,
The Apple Woman.

V.

She tells me—and I know she tells me true,
“My good man,—God be kind!—had long been sick,
And one cold morning when the snow-storm blew,
He said, dear Bess, it grieves me to the quick
To see you venture out,—give me my stick,
I’ll come to you at gloamin,’
And bide you home,”—she paused, the rest I knew.—
Poor Apple Woman!

VI.

Behold her then, a type of all that’s good,
Honest in poverty, in suffering kind;
And large must be that love which strains for food,
Through wind and rain, through frost and snows that blind,
For a sick burden that is left behind;
Call her but common;
God’s commonest things are little understood,
Poor Apple Woman!

VII.

Two April weeks I missed her, only two,
Missed her upon the sidewalk, everywhere,
And when again she chanced to cross my view,
The marble smile was changed, it still was there,
But darkly veined, an emblem of despair;
A God-knit union
Grim death had struck, whose dark shock shivered through
The Apple Woman.

VIII.

A widow now, she tells the bitter tale,
Tells how she sat within their little room
In yon dark alley, till she saw him fail,
Sat all alone through night’s oppressive gloom,
Sat by her Joe, as in a desert tomb,
No candle to illumine
His cold dead face! God only heard her wail.—
Poor Apple Woman.

IX.

Now, when you meet her of the basket-store,
Her of the little cloak and bonnet bare,
Reach forth a friendly hand, and something more,
When your portmonnaie has a coin to spare.
Dear are the hopes that mitigate thy care,
Dear the unbought communion
Whose tall vine reaches to the golden shore.—
Poor Apple Woman!

ON MOUNT ROYAL.

I.

They sat in the woods together,
On the mountain’s tranquil height,
And spoke of the Autumn weather,
Of the purplish-golden light
That played on the distant river,
And robed the mountains afar
In a robe more rich than ever
Was worn by Caliph or Czar.

II.

The wine of the beauty around them
They drank till the sun hung low,
Till the scene like a spell had bound them;
For the forest was all aglow
With the countless tints that follow
Spent Summer’s retiring tread,
When freely on height and hollow
All beautiful colours are shed.

III.

All hues that the rainbow showeth,
All opulent dyes that flush
The western sky when goeth
The Lord of Day, and the blush
Of river and lake and ocean
Betrays that his last caress
Their life-blood keeps in motion
Till he cometh again to bless.

IV.

No valley of famed Cashmere
Such exquisite tints puts on
As the woods that crown the year,
When hot-footed Summer is gone
When every tree is a flower,
Gigantic, superbly aflame
With ruby and scarlet,—a dower
Of beauty no tongue can name.

V.

They sat and communed together;
She spoke of this dream of life,
And quietly questioned whether
’Tis worth all the sorrow and strife
That burden the hearts of many,
That tangle the steps of all;
For truly there is not any
Who ’scapeth the serpent’s thrall.

VI.

He said: “Such a thought but troubles
The good that in life we find,
Distorts fair truth, and doubles
The anguish that clouds the mind.
Surely, this cirque of beauty,
And that blue heaven above,
Make love of life a duty,
And life a thing to love.”

VII.

She said: “The winter cometh;
These splendors will cease to be,
Like the joy in the heart that hummeth
An hour for you and me,
Then suddenly sinks to ashes,
So perish all beautiful things;
So love for an instant flashes,
Then folds his languid wings.”

VIII.

“Ah! now I suspect you dissemble,”
He presently made reply;
“You need not fear or tremble,
For surely you and I
Have faith in love’s endurance
And know that beauty abides
For souls that in blest assurance
Discern where it haply hides.”

IX.

In silent and solemn abstraction
She gazed on the pictured trees,
Through which a pale reflection
Of light and a friendly breeze
Shimmered and sighed so kindly,—
She dreamily said: “Maybe
Too coldly, perchance too blindly,
I’ve judged of this world—and thee!”

X.

A tear in her bright eye glistened,
The soft breeze wafted her hair
Adrift on his face, when she listened
As if to a voice in the air;
But neither by word nor token
Behooves it the world to know
How the chain of her doubt was broken,
Whilst the sun in the West hung low.

XI.

The low wind hastened to utter
A message of joyful sound;
Like flakes of fire a-flutter
Some red leaves fell to the ground;
A chorus of bells in the city
Rose mournfully mellow and clear,
Like voices of infinite pity
For lives that were saddened and sere.

XII.

They rose and descended the mountain,
So happy and hallowed in thought,
Charmed nature to them was a fountain
Of tender emotion that wrought
A longing for nobler endeavour
To make life to others a boon
As peaceful and blessed forever
As their dream of that afternoon.

MAIDEN LONGINGS.

Sitting, thinking, all alone,
Listening to the beetle’s drone,
And the night-hawk’s monotone;
Sitting, sighing, thus alone,
How my heart is longing!

Yet I could not tell you why
Tears will gather in my eye
When the night-winds tread the sky;
No, I could not answer why,
Or for what, I’m longing.

Solemn as the rapid’s roar,
Sounding on my native shore,
Is my heart’s dream evermore;
Oh! for some old wizard’s lore
To ease this weary longing.

Vague the cause that moves me so;—
Is it love? Ah no! no! no!!
It can’t be love that shakes me so,
When the stars in regal show
Around their Queen are thronging.

ASPIRATION.

I.

“What Cyclopean force is this I feel,
Heaving the central fires within my heart?
While full-orbéd splendors round my spirit wheel,
And, gazing into vacant space, I start,
For seems a fair hand beckons me apart.
Oh! I will try,
Before I die,
To find a voice this mystery to reveal.

II.

“Why do I seem to sit upon a cloud,
Wearing the crimson mantle of the sun,
Delighted when the wind-god shrieks aloud,
And raptured when the midnight thunder-gun
Tells where the nimble-footed lightnings run?
Shall I not try
Ere age draw nigh
Some world-enticing poem to unshroud?

III.

“Why do the bygone years, with accents cold,
Call to me through the darkness from their grave,
Till thinking on their dowry, tears are rolled
Down my wan cheeks? I think of all they gave,
And all they stole from me, their fool and slave.
Earnestly I,
Henceforth will try
To sublimate my life to purest gold.

IV.

“And often while I dally with the Night,
Running my fingers through her raven hair,
There floats up to my shocked and tearful sight
An angel’s face, transformed with pain and care
O, maiden! long beloved, I see you there,
But you and I
May never try
To braid our love into a zone of light.

V.

“The organ of the Universe is played
By bards who strike the keys with master sweep,
Upon its music-waves I float, afraid,
Yet joyous, doubtful if to smile or weep,
And haunted by its sea of sound in sleep,
I wake to try
A purpose high—
To earn the poet’s crown before I fade.

VI.

“O, Heaven! while my spirit gladly sings,
Shape her vague tremblings to some useful end,
And purify my strange imaginings,
That when the better years which hither tend,
Pass on, I may be called Man’s poet-friend,
Thus will I try,
Before I die
To shake the earth-dregs from my soaring wings.”

VII.

So sang a poet by the harping sea,
And thick as white shells strewn upon the beach,
Fancies came thronging to him, wild and free,
And bade him limn their airy forms in speech:
But still he only sang with aimless reach,
“All things do cry
Pilgrim, try!
Thrill the tame world with sun-lit poesy.”

VIII.

Years rolled away, and by the sea-licked shore
The moonbeams quivered on a lonely mound;
The pilgrim-poet’s turbulence was o’er,
And that secluded spot was holy ground;
For he with songs of wondrous love had crowned
Insulted Right;
And pure and bright
His verse illumed the sorrows of the poor.

IX.

He left behind him, though he knew it not,
A trail of glory on the world’s highway,
And loving fingers now denote the spot
Where he was wont to build the witching lay,
And champions of mind, admiring, say,
“Grandly he tried,
Before he died,
To teach dull earth the majesty of thought.”

THE HAWK AND THE SPARROW.

I.

To-day, upon the public square,
I saw a hawk in fury tear
A sparrow: hapless little thing,
The tyrant rent it wing from wing
And limb from limb, and on the snow
Its life-drops made a crimson glow.

II.

I drove the feathered fiend away,
And gathered up the mangled prey;
And pondering o’er the fragments red,
I thought of what is writ and said:
“_The Omnipresent Lord of all_
_Has knowledge of a sparrow’s fall._”

III.

I thought,—if the omnific Lord
Commiserates a dying bird,
If all things act by his design,
And swerve not from his plumb and line,
Why did he arm with murderous beak
That hawk to slay a thing so weak
And harmless as our little friend?

IV.

No more the maple twig will bend
Beneath his feet; his life’s swift end
One faithful mourner, one at least,—
His sexton now and reverent priest,—
Deplores; does He who gave him life,
And walled him round with tragic strife,
Feel equal pity? Why, O why
This outrage under all His sky?

V.

Is He too weak the weak to save?
To His own laws is He a slave?
If not, then wherefore were the laws
Permitted with such fatal flaws?
Surely the heavy curse that fell
On Adam, sloping down to hell,
Cannot in justice overtake
Aught less than human, save the snake?

VI.

A soft voice answered, soft and still:
“This mystery of earthly ill
’Tis well to probe, ’tis well to seek
All knowledge, and to freely speak,
Since love of truth thy soul impels,
And love of goodness in thee dwells.
Well, too, the sympathetic tear
Bestowed upon the sparrow here;
But scarcely was it well to balk,
Or rudely blame the famished hawk.

VII.

“High knowledge is not ready-made,
And darker grows the mental shade,
If you pursue your curious quest;
Why with the hawk and sparrow rest?
How many of thy boastful race
Would spare the hawk in any case—
Would spare or pity, though his need
Your lordly sportsman could not plead.
Moreover this poor bird whose doom
Has touched thy feeling heart with gloom,
No tender scruple ever made
With creatures of an humbler grade,
So, puzzling o’er these knots of fate,
Life’s riddle grows more intricate.

VIII.

“Who seeks will rarely fail to find
The thing to which he’s most inclined.
If thorns instead of roses suit,—
If leaves instead of luscious fruit,—
If turbid waters more than clear,—
If doleful sounds in place of cheer,—
_Those_ will respect the cynic’s right,
While _these_ elude his senses quite.

IX.

“Doubt if thou wilt, but reverently,
And heed not what the owls may say,
Who from their gloomy perch give out
That sin is foster-child of Doubt.
Doubt is the silent needful night,
The womb of intellectual might;
But who can wisely choose to dwell
Forever in that darksome shell?

X.

“The fearless soul emerging thence
Feels something of omnipotence;—
Upon the mountain tops his feet
Will tread in joy, and gladly beat
The golden shores of summer seas;
And he will hear in every breeze
Divinest music; even the storm
That bends the proud oak’s stubborn form,
And howls athwart the naked land,
Will bring to him an utterance grand,
Engendering noble thoughts, and power
To serve him in some trying hour.

XI.

“Revere fair Nature’s balanced laws,
Nor rashly deem them framed with flaws;
The discord which thou seem’st to find
In them is part of thine own mind.
Put that in tune, and, for the sake
Of darkened faces, strive to make
The world more happy; do this thing,
And thy despondent muse shall wring
Sweet nectar out of weed and cloud.”

XII.

Silent, though unconvinced, I bowed
My head abashed; with firmer trust,
And higher faith, I shook the dust
Of utter doubt from reason’s plume;
And through small openings in the gloom
I half discerned a meaning new
In that which seemed before untrue:
_The ever-present Lord of all_
_Compassionates a sparrow’s fall._

CELESTINE.

I.

I must not look on you nor think of you,—
Must seek close kinship with forgetfulness;
Such looks as thine but make a strong man rue
That ever in his heart’s devout excess
The shadow of thy soul he did pursue
Through many a golden hour for one caress;
’Twas but a noontide dream,
A phantom fire, a gleam
Of heaven wasted in a wilderness.

II.

I wake and wonder at the vision gone,
Sweet music borne upon a winter blast,
A beauty filched from sunset and the dawn,
A marvel too ethereal to last;
And now a heavy sadness falls upon
My spirit and the world, both overcast
With thunderstorm and gloom,
In which there is no room
For any ray of the enchanted past.

III.

I chide the fond delirium of my brow,
And only pray that you forgive, forget
The homage of a man who doth avow
His folly with a penitent’s regret;
Such adoration even the gods allow,
For thou art as a star divinely set
In heaven’s perfect blue,
I can but sigh for you
In lonely ways with night dews chilled and wet.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

When Morn, in spring glory,
Salutes the dull earth,
How sweet is her story
Of music and mirth.

The happy leaves glisten
And tremble around,
The young blossoms listen
With joy to the sound.

They tell by their blushes,
Their soft breathing proves,
That night’s dewy hushes
Promoted their loves.

The murmur of grasses,
The singing of birds,
In sweetness surpasses
The compass of words.

Far away on the mountain
The mist is on fire,
And the joy of the fountain
Can soar up no higher.

A tremor of gladness
Pervadeth the air,
And no touch of sadness
Can rest anywhere.

We cease to be mortal
In moments like this,
And enter the portal
Of absolute bliss.

At noon, and at even,
We think of the morn,
In the midst of whose heaven
Such beauty is born.

’Tis thus I shall cherish
Till life’s gloaming end,
And never let perish
The face of a friend.

Then come, gentle maiden,
And dwell with the few
That in my soul’s Aidenn
I know to be true;—

Some distant, some sleeping
The sleep of the just,
Are here in the keeping
Of memory’s trust.

With these let thy spirit
Abide in its place,
So shall I inherit
New goodness and grace.

BETRAYED.

These verses embody the last thoughts
recorded in the Journal of a young lady
of a village on the banks of the St.
Lawrence, who was found dead in her
chamber on a bright June morning of
186—, and was supposed to have committed
suicide during the night.

Henceforth a wanderer,
Hie thee, my soul,
Over life’s frozen waste,
Haste to thy goal.

O never again
Shall the down of sweet rest
Pillow thy weariness,
Spirit unblest!

No fair land of promise
Thy vision can reach;
No sunshine, no music,
No glory of speech.

Regrets and reproaches
Are idle and weak,
And the insult of pity
Brings shame to the cheek.

Farewell, ruined world!—
In the depth of star spaces
There may be sweet slumber,
And love-beaming faces.

There must be some spot
In this Universe wide,
Where a poor wounded dovelet
May haste to and hide.

The raven has flown
To his perch through the gloom,
And the death-watch is calling
His mate in my room.

The wail of the winds,
And the rapid’s loud roar,
Have a weirdness and terror
Felt never before.

A gray mist has settled
On land and on sea,
And night dews are falling,
My spirit, on thee!

When daylight is gone,
And the glimmer of stars,
Like a ghost at the casement,
Looks in through the bars,

It is time to disrobe,
And to kneel down and weep,
To forgive and forget,—
It is time now to sleep!

EPITHALAMIUM.

Written in honour of the nuptials of two young friends.
(1882.)

_Moonlight Chant of Fairies, crowned with maple leaves._

Scene:—Mount Royal, Canada.

I.

Speed, thou fiery monster, speed,
Let thy chariot wheels take heed
That they out-strip flight of beagle,
Till our Benedict they’ve borne
To his little maiden, lorn,
In the Land where screams the Eagle.

Linger, star of evening, linger,
Like the gem upon her finger,
While she sits, her love-notes humming,
At her casement, watching, waiting—
With her busy heart debating—
For the magic of his coming.

II.

_The Goblin of Celibacy chagrined._

Scene:—On the border.

Oh—ho! they have escaped my grip;
How stupid I, to let them slip!
The fools! to lose their free estate!
These rash and idiotic pranks,
These sly desertions from my ranks
Have multiplied so fast of late
That few remain, save priests and nuns,
And some fastidious elder sons
To honour still the heavenly call,
And piously their loves resign,
Obedient to the word divine,
The gospel preached by good St. Paul.

III.

_Hymenæus, exultant._

Scene:—Newark, N. J.

Welcome hither, happy pair;
All my bounties freely share,
Welcome to my honoured guild,
Founded in the days of old,
Ere the human heart grew cold,
Ere its native warmth was chilled
By mistaken sense of duty;—
By sacrifice of youth and beauty
To Plutus, with his lure of gold.
Fear not any churlish cry;
To the Goblin bid good-bye;
Enter, children, bravely enter
To my circle’s shining centre,
Clasping hands;
Stronger far than iron bands
Be your love, and hope and trust;
Equal freedom, fairest speech,
Give I lavishly to each.
See that neither moth nor rust,
Nor cobweb, nor insidious dust
Of cold neglect, e’er dim the light
That lights you from my torch to-night.

By my crown, unfading, bright—
Sweet marjoram and dewy roses—
Emblem of the sovereign might
Which wedded love to hate opposes;—
By this purple vest, symbolic
Of the royal rank of marriage,
Which the fiends alone disparage,
Mocking in their witless frolic;—
By this mystic torch, whose glow
On your souls I now bestow;—
By all these tokens joined, I swear
To have you in my constant care,
But I warn you, neophytes,
Warn you ever to beware
How you guard the altar reared
In my honour, ages gone:
Subtle is the snake that bites;
Wintry days will come anon;
Evil must be fought, not feared;
No fiend can harm, no god subdue
The soul that to itself is true.
To virtue be your homage paid,
And firmly hold the golden clue
Of knowledge, whose imperial aid
Is truly sought and found by few.
These farewell words in memory keep,
Or when you laugh or when you weep.

IV.

_Salutation from the King of the Beavers._

Scene:—Canadian side of the border.

Happy couple, Bride and Groom,
In the flush of life’s fresh bloom,
Welcome to the kindly home
Where we shape the wattled dome,
Cemented o’er with plastic clay,
Impervious to the water’s play;
Where, in moonlight’s silver calm,
My faithful subjects build the dam;
The land whose maple leaf conveys
A prophecy of sweetened days.
Our store of knowledge is but scant,
Our culture in the shell, I grant.
No prophet of our kith and kin
Have we to point the paths of sin;
No learned Professor, beaver born,
Have we to rend in godly scorn
The sophistries our Darwins weave,
O’er which our pious pundits grieve.
I pray you, therefore, not impeach
The rudeness of our rustic speech,
But hear the fancies, none the less,
An honest beaver may express.

Your wisest men, the lords of thought,
Remote and near, have ever sought,
Instruction from the humblest things
That beat the air on filmy wings,
Or creep, or climb, or swim the sea:
Behold the little “busy bee;”
Go to, thou sluggard, cursed with want,
And learn from the industrious ant.
“The early bird;” the cooing dove,
Exemplar of the art of love.
A spider once, at climbing brave,
Fresh courage to a chieftain gave,
When, after many a sore defeat,
His hopes were all in full retreat;
But noting how the insect fell
Time after time, and naught could quell
Its resolution, firm and fast,
And how it reached its mark at last,
No longer chilled with black despair,
His men he rallied, sword in air,
And ere another set of sun
His last great battle fought and won.
And then his tribe—a proper thing—
Made him, like me, their lawful king.
The nautilus, your sages own,
To all mankind have plainly shown
The art of how to sail the seas;
Such creatures low in life as these
Have served to educate and guide;
Meet glossary on human pride!
The several nations show their bent
By what their ruling minds invent
To signify the special merit
That each assumes, or doth inherit.
Their boastful banners proudly bear
The savage forms of earth and air,
And monstrous shapes in neither seen,
Things that were hatched in human spleen,
Creatures patched up from beast and bird,
Which to a beaver seems absurd.
Dragons and griffins, flying fierce,
With fiery tongues designed to pierce
All alien flesh, wherever found,
And claws to clinch the deadly wound.
The warlike Briton, while he cheers,
The lion’s roar in fancy hears;
The Yankee in his happiest dream
_Is sure_ he hears the eagle scream.

These truths the higher truth explain
That dawned on Darwin’s pregnant brain.
Such deference paid to creatures low
Man’s wiser instincts clearly show.
Unconsciously compelled to grant,—
By choosing for his common want,
As teachers, elephant and ant,
And other poor relations, in
Obedience to the law of kin,—
He owns his humble origin.

I know not if in any place,
Or any age, your lifted race
Its sense of equity hath shown
To one poor beast—we needs must own
Compact of kinship, bone of bone,
By making him an emblem fit
Of human wisdom, sense, and wit;
A patient brother, void of blame,
I hesitate to name his name,
But—no offence—I dare not pass
Our worthy, long-eared friend, the ass.

Forgetful that your hunters slay
My people, and their bodies flay.
That human skins, puffed up with pride,
Strut forth in ours—no tongue to chide—
We’re grateful for the honour given
To beaverhood, since nearer heaven
This great Dominion raised our name,
Emblazoned on the scroll of fame;
A choice that to the world attests
The base on which its greatness rests,
Our one transcendent, special gift:—
_Persistency of honest thrift._
My sermon may appear to you
But wind and chaff, however true;
Reject it if you will.—Adieu!

V.

_Serenade of Fairies, crowned with ivy._

Scene:—A street in Montreal, West End.

Time:—November.

Welcome home, our Benedict!
To duty never less than strict;
Welcome thrice thy comely Bride!
Spirit of the frozen north!
Come not from thy palace forth,
Yet a little while abide:

Tarry till the waning moon
Mournful, goes, as if too soon
Summoned from these lucent skies.
Twinkle, joyful, all ye stars!
Peeping through your silver bars,
Rivalled by their laughing eyes.

Hallowed be their sweet repose
When those eyes in slumber close,
When they listen, pleasure-haunted,
To the melody we pour
Down the chimney, through the door,
Listen in their dreams, enchanted.

IN THE WOODS OF ST. LEON.

Let who will sing of cities grand,
Give me the woods, the endless shade
Of trees on which no man e’er laid
A ruthless hand.

What peace, what blissful quietude
The rustle of these polished leaves
Around my dreamy spirit weaves
In this green wood!

Why have I fretted so and striven
In populous towns among my kind,
Where men, who think they see, are blind
And prate of heaven?

Here in this forest breathing spice,
And love-lorn odors, born of flowers
That woo me to their secret bowers,
Is paradise.

The droning of the humble-bee,
The soughing of the wind that stirs
These pine-tops and aspiring firs,
Bring joy to me.

Stretched on this knoll of soft brown spines,
Let me life’s true elixir drink,
Nor even tax myself to think,
Till day declines.

THE LOVER’S DREAM.

Last night,
When all the world was still,—
All but the whip-poor-will,—
A vision bright
Beamed on my lonely sleep,
On eyes late used to weep,
And robed the world in light.

My dear!
I saw thee once again
All beautiful, as when
In moonlight clear
We vowed beside the lake,
No fiend should ever shake,
Our plighted love sincere.

She came
From forth an azure cloud,
And, like an angel, bowed
Fond o’er my frame,
And with her heavenly look,
While I, with transport, shook,
Breathed lovingly my name.

A moan!
I woke, the vision fled,
And feverish on my bed
Till daylight shone,
I turned, and wept, and turned,
While on my lips still burned
The pressure of her own.

O Death!
Whose harshness did not spare
A face and form so fair,
Whoever saith
Thou art to all the wise
A blessing in disguise,
Wastes only idle breath.

No more:—
Ah! how that sound, _no more_,
Travels from shore to shore
The wide world o’er;—
No more shall she entwine
Her young heart’s joy with mine,
Save such as dreams restore.

Ye dreams!
That do unveil the past,
And o’er our spirits cast
Supernal gleams,
Do you deceive us quite,
Gray Wizards of the night?
Is all not what it seems?

The sage,
With philosophic look
The simple may rebuke
From age to age,
And speculations deep
Of mind and matter, heap
On his immortal page:—

His skill,
Majestic though it be,
And dearly loved by me,
Is weakness still;
I would not cast away
The thought that spirits may
In true communion thrill.

O bright,
And beautiful; again,
Again, come to me when
Sleep seals my sight;
Come with those love-lit eyes,
Come with thy fragrant sighs,
Come, love, O come to-night.

THE HEROES OF VILLE-MARIE.

May, 1660.

I.

Tis a tale of those times that afflicted the West,
When the exiles of France found no moment of rest.
When the yell of the savage, the gleam of his knife,
Ever kept the lone settler on watch for his life.

II.

The doom is proclaimed! ’twas the Sachems that spoke,
And rising, the calumet fiercely they broke;
The war-dance is danced, and the war-song is sung
And the warriors full-painted, their weapons have slung.

III.

Each armed with his arquebuse, hatchet and knife,
How they hunger and thirst for the barbarous strife!
They have said it: _The Frenchmen shall sleep with the slain_,
_Maid, matron and babe—not a soul shall remain!_—

IV.

They have spoken—those braves of the Iroquois league,
Renowned for fierce courage and shrewdest intrigue,
Through the Ottawa forest like panthers they tread,
As if stepping already o’er pale-visaged dead.

V.

Young Daulac, defender of fair Ville-Marie,
Has pondered and prayed o’er the savage decree,
And a desperate purpose is stamped on his brow,
And no one can slacken his ultimate vow.

VI.

Will heaven not baffle the merciless threat?
Can the gracious Madonna her children forget?
If God only grant him his people to save,
Then welcome red tomahawks, welcome the grave!

VII.

But who will give heed to the patriot’s word?
Who will venture to follow the flash of his sword?
They must stand to the last bleeding man by his side,
And quench with their life-drops the Iroquois’ pride.

VIII.

There are some—oh, how few!—in the bloom of their years,
Who have listened and pledged him, and trampled their fears;
With hot hearts as brave as their sabres are keen,
They are mustered around him—his gallant _Sixteen_.

IX.

Kind Priest and sad Nuns their last blessing bestow,
And kindred are weeping, for well do they know
That never again, till they meet in the skies,
Will the faces so dear to them gladden their eyes.

X.

They are gone! they have wafted their final adieu,
And the cross on Mount Royal soon fades from their view;
Now westward, now northward they paddle and plod—
Their trust in the piloting hand of their God!

XI.

In a ready redoubt, as by Providence meant,
They hastily fashion their evergreen tent.
And here in the forest, where Ottawa flows,
They prepare for the speedy descent of their foes.

XII.

Oh! rest—weary soldiers, oh! sleep—while the stars
Are shining above you through leaf-fretted bars;
But fail not to rouse with the glimmer of day,
For already the Mohawks have scented their prey.

XIII.

One last happy dream of the loved ones at home,—
One matinal prayer ere the cannibals come,—
One sigh for their sweethearts in young Ville-Marie,—
And a cheer for old France and her proud fleur-de-lis.

XIV.

The song of the bobolink welcomes the morn,
And scents that are sweetest, of wild flowers born,
And pine-lavished odors, are borne by the breeze
That kisses, at random, the newly-robed trees.

XV.

Full-crowned with proud antlers, the stag at the brink
Of the far-sounding rapid has halted to drink;
He starts, blows a signal of danger and dread,
And his mate with her fawn seeking safety has fled.

XVI.

Hark! near and still nearer, yell answers to yell,
All the forest seems peopled with spectres of hell!
Not a tree but now looks as if changed to a fiend,
Not a rock but behind it a demon is screened.

XVII.

“Thank God,” Daulac said, “for this moment supreme,
The reply to my prayer,—vivid truth of my dream;—
Now steady, all ready, my men,—let them dance
To the glory of Canada, glory of France.”

XVIII.

From the loop-holed redoubt their first volley they pour,
And Mohawks and Senecas sink in their gore;
From musket, and huge musketoon, they have seen—
And heard—that our heroes count just _Seventeen_.

XIX.

And dire is the rage of the shame-smitten crew
When they find that the pale-faces number so few;
Again and again comes the stormy attack,
And still the fierce pagans are forced to fall back.

XX.

Day and night, night and day, till the tenth set of sun[2]
No trophy the maddened assailants have won,
Though their fleet-footed runners have hurried from far
Half a thousand tried allies—hot whirlwinds of war.

XXI.

The leaves of past summers that cumber the ground
In pools of bright ruby and purple are drowned,
And, reckless of wounds, through the tempest of lead,
The discomfited Iroquois bear off their dead.

XXII.

Onondagas, Cayugas, Oneidas are there,
Some howling for vengeance, some wild with despair
Once again, with a hurricane rush and a shout,
Like a deluge of lightning they storm the redoubt.

XXIII.

They are hidden from death by their bison-hide shields,[3]
And long wooden bucklers,—the Palisade yields!
But brief is the daring—abrupt is the speech—
Of the foremost who boastingly enters the breach.

XXIV.

In a moment ’tis over! flash blending with flash,
As sword-blades and tomahawks bloodily clash;
“_Vive le Canada!_” Daulac exultantly cried,
Then with cross to his lips, like a martyr he died.

XXV.

The victors their victory purchased so dear,
To their cantons they fled, overmastered with fear,
And the grateful young Colony, saved from the knife
And merciless tomahawk, bloomed with fresh life.

XXVI.

Oh, never shall Canada coldly forget
Her heroes, whose heart-drops her virgin soil wet;
Their fame shall not suffer eclipse, nor decay,
But broaden and brighten as years roll away.[4]

[2] “During about ten days they resisted the most strenuous exertions of assailants,” &c.—Miles’ _History of Canada_, page 117.

[3] Parkman, in his _Pioneers of France in the New World_, says, in a footnote (p. 321): “According to Lafitau, both bucklers and breast-plates were in frequent use among the Iroquois. The former were very large, and made of cedar wood covered with interwoven thongs of hide.”

[4] In this ballad, the writer has purposely omitted to recognize the part taken in the affair by the few Algonquin and Huron Indians who joined the Frenchmen. First, because nearly the whole number deserted to the enemy during the conflict, thus more than counterbalancing any service which they may have rendered at the outset, and, second, because the contrast of race and character is lost by mixing civilized and savage men together as allies in opposition to combatants of the latter type. For these reasons, he ventures to think that the spirit of poesy will justify this deviation from the strict line of historical narration.

CHANGE ON THE OTTAWA.

(_A Fragment._)

I.

Onward the Saxon treads. Few years ago,
A chief of the Algonquins passed at dawn,
With knife, and tomahawk, and painted bow,
Down the wild Ottawa, and climbed upon
A rocky pinnacle, where in the glow
Of boyhood he had loved to chase the fawn;
Proudly he stood there, listening to the roar
Of rapids sounding, sounding evermore.

II.

All else was silence, save the muffled sound
Of partridge drumming on the fallen tree,
Or dry brush crackling from the sudden bound
Of startled deer, that snorts, and halts to see
Then onward o’er the leaf-encumbered ground,
Through his green world of beauty, ever free.
Such was the scene—no white man’s chimney nigh,
And joy sat, plumed, in the young warrior’s eye.

III.

No white man’s axe his hunting grounds had marred,
The primal grandeur of the solemn woods,
When Summer all her golden gates unbarred,
And hung voluptuous o’er the shouting floods,—
Or when stern Winter gave the rich reward,
All suited with his uncorrupted moods,
For all was built, voiced, roofed with sun and cloud,
By the Great Spirit unto whom he bowed.

IV.

The grey of morn was edging into white,
When down the rugged rock the Indian passed,
Like a thin shadow. Soon the rosy light
Lay on the maple leaf, the dew-drops cast
A lustrous charm on many a mossy height,
And squirrels broke out in chatter, as the blast
Swayed the tall pine-tops where they leaped, and made
Grand organ-music in the green-wood shade.

V.

Again the Indian comes—some years have rolled,—
Down the wild Ottawa, and stands upon
His boyhood haunt, and with an eye still bold
Looks round, and sighs for glories that are gone;
For all is changed, except the fall that told,
And tells its Maker still, and Bird-rock lone;
Sadly he leans against an evening sky,
Transfigured in its ebb of rosy dye.

VI.

He sees a city there:—the blazing forge,
The mason’s hammer on the shaping stone,
Great wheels along the stream revolving large,
And swift machinery’s whirr and clank, and groan,
And the fair bridge that spans the yawning gorge,
Which drinks the spray of Chaudière, leaping prone,—
And spires of silvery hue, and belfry’s toll,
All strike, like whetted knives, the red man’s soul.

VII.

Wide the area of the naked space
Where broods the city like a mighty bird,
And the grave Sachem from his rock can trace
Her flock of villages, where lately stirred
The bear and wolf, tenacious of their place,
And where the wild cat with her kittens purred;—
Now while the shades of eve invest the land,
What myriad lights flash out on every hand!

VIII.

The dead day’s crimson, interwove with brown,
Has wrapped the watcher upon Oiseau Rock,
And o’er him hangs bright Hesper, like a crown,
As if the hand of Destiny would mock
His soul’s eclipse and sorrow-sculptured frown;—
Thick as wild pigeons, dusky memories flock
O’er the wide wind-fall of his fated race,
And thus he murmurs to his native place:

IX.

“Here dwelt within the compass of my gaze,
All whom I ever loved, and none remain
To cheer the languor of my wintry days,
Or tread with me across the misty plain;
A solitary tree, the bleak wind strays
Among my boughs, which moaningly complain;
Familiar voices whisper round and say,
_Seek not to find our graves! Away! Away!_

X.

The sire who taught my hands to hold the bow,
The mother who was proud of my renown,
On them no more the surly tempests blow,
How little do they heed or smile or frown,
The summer’s blossoms or the winter’s snow!
With them, at last, I thought to lay me down,
Where birds should sing, and wild deer safely play,
And endless woods fence out the glare of day.

XI.

Friend of my youth, my “Wa-Wa[5] Height,” adieu!
No more shall I revisit thee, no more
Gaze from thy summit on the upper blue,
And listen to the rapid’s pleasing roar;—
I go,—my elder brother!—to pursue
The Elk’s great shadow on a distant shore,
Where Nature, still unwounded, wears her charms,
And calls me, like a mother, to her arms.”

XII.

He ceased and strode away; no tear he shed,
A weakness which the Indian holds in scorn,
But sorrow’s moonless midnight bowed his head,
And once he looked around—Oh! so forlorn!
I hated for his sake the reckless tread
Of human progress,—on _his_ race no morn,
No noon of happiness shall ever beam;
They fade as from our waking fades a dream.

[5] Wa-Wa, _or i.e. lit._—_the Wild Goose_.

THE BLIND MINSTREL OF THE MARKET PLACE.

Along the echoing harbour crowds appear,
For ’tis the busy season of the year;
Soft airs of June are whispering to the leaves,
And happy swallows sport along the eaves.
Far, hovering on the east’s remotest rim,
A white-winged ship is seen, sublimely dim;
Half on the watery plain and half in heaven,
No fairer vision to the world is given.
At nearer view, her topmast gives the breeze
St. George’s Cross, renowned o’er all the seas;
Slowly she paces up the shimmering tide,
Britannia’s peerless child, old ocean’s bride;
With majesty of mien she takes her place,
While welcome beams on many a wishful face;
Sweet thoughts of distant scenes, forever dear,
Her presence brings to many a wanderer here
Scenes which, however fair his lot be cast,
The exile loves and longs for to the last.
The jovial sailor, safe from ocean’s roar,
Sings on the deck, or gaily leaps on shore;
Careless of dangers past or to be met,
His wish upon the present chance is set;
If Prudence speaks, her voice is hushed to rest,
His only business now is to be blest.
Such was the aspect of the genial hour
When first I felt the sightless minstrel’s power,
And gazed upon that melancholy brow
Which moved the pitying tear, and haunts me now.
Stricken, but aye serene, he gropes his way
Where busy hucksters all their wealth display,
And prudent housewives roam from stall to stall,
Till each has higgled round the range of all.
Youthful, yet worn, his pallid cheek betrays
That he has borne the pinch of evil days;
His inner world, a lonely isle of thought,
Afflicted with an unpropitious lot;
His outer world, a blank,—contracted, strange,—
The breadth his hand can reach, its utmost range.
The landscape, stretching to the purple hills,
With groves and cottages and gleaming rills,
All nice gradations that belong to space,
And which the humblest rustic loves to trace,
If mentioned or described, perplex his mind,
And force the silent comment, _I am blind!_—
In vain for him the splendour of the skies
Expanded floats above his lifted eyes.
The blush of dawn, the noontide beams, the hues
That clothe the west when fall the early dews,—
These, and the softer glories of the night,
Send no sweet message through his torpid sight.

But never having known the joy that springs
From observation of external things,
To him their absence is but partial loss,
And half unconsciously he bears his cross.
Taught, by a lofty faith, to nurse content,
And prize the scanty good that God hath lent,
He trusts the sacred source of perfect love,
And hopes to see the light in worlds above.
Thus safely anchored, bravely doth he try
To earn the little that his wants supply,
Nursing the manly virtue in his heart,
That scorns the mendicant’s ignoble part.
His violin, the only wealth he owns,
Speaks to his soul in such endearing tones,
That now, the sole companion of his life,
He names, in quiet jest, _My little wife_.

To-day, while sounds of commerce everywhere,
And hasty human footsteps jar the air,
Upon the market place the minstrel stands,
Tuning his instrument with pallid hands.
Close by, the mighty river rolls along,
And, solaced by its sympathetic song,
He hastens, while his audience gather round,
To emulate the sweetness of its sound.
With practised ear, in listening attitude,
He first interrogates the vocal wood;
Its answers he receives with changing look,
Anger, approval, pleasure, or rebuke.
Till coaxing, fondling, with persuasive art,
Pressing the yearner closer to his heart,
The perfect soul of harmony he wakes,
And o’er his face the light of gladness breaks.
So must he regulate his rude desires,
Who fain would tread the earth as heaven requires;
Each captive vice must cower beneath his skill.
Till made the pliant vassal of his will,
Then angels, though unseen, will linger near,
And whisper secrets of their native sphere.

Now speeds the bow, and from the panting strings
Sweet meanings float afar on airy wings.
No complicated task doth he assume,
Such as may suit the genius of a Prume,
But simple airs that charm the simple heart,
Partaking more of nature than of art;
Soft sounds and plaintive murmurs that express
All earnest feelings, rapture, and distress,
Love’s fever and the patriotic glow
That prompts the eager hand to smite the foe;
But chief the nimble notes that youthful feet,
So dear to Terpsichora, love to greet,
Inspire his elbow;—how it swirls and sways,
As if to trace the dance’s witching maze!
The young, the aged, homely face and fair,
With shining looks and willing ears are there;
The market-woman, dowered with double chin,
And proud rotundity of abdomen;
The scented dandy, with his twirling cane,
Embroidered vest, and gorgeous golden chain;
The bare-foot urchin, with his mottled face,
Elbowing Master Ruffle for a place;—
There, girt with scarlet sash, with whip in hand,
The modest _habitant_ secures his stand;—
A gentle being, blessed with quiet days,
Politeness blossoms out in all his ways:—
O, ye who walk, and sit, and speak by rule!
Forgetting Nature’s free and ample school,
In him behold, and copy if you can,
The royal pattern of a _gentleman_.

Vain the attempt to sketch the motley ring,
Enough that generous fingers freely fling
Such tokens as confess the minstrel’s skill,
And testify how sweet is music’s thrill.
Then long may he survive to wield the bow,
And muse beside the river’s rushing flow,
Apollo’s heir—his territorial space,
The full circumference of the Market Place.

W. H. MAGEE.

(_A friend of early days._)

You saw, my friend, when last we met,
Time’s sober reckoning on my face;
But neither time nor change of place
Can cause my spirit to forget
One honest throb, one living trace
Of friendship, till life’s sun shall set,—

Such friendship as I’ve found in you,—
A glory that unites and binds
The poetry of kindred minds,
Forever stedfast, ever true.

The years are drifting fast and far;
We half-way hear the haunted river
Whose monody is, _Never, never!_
We half-discern the misty bar
Past which no soul returneth ever;
Our lamp is not the morning star.

Nor can we of our lot complain;
We’ve had of bliss an ample share;
We banquet on ambrosial fare
And nectar wines of heart and brain.

No heritage of goods or lands
We owe to an ancestral line;
Obedient to the voice divine,
We earn our bread with willing hands.

No drones nor parasites are we;
And hence brave comrade, you and I
Can lift our foreheads to the sky
And plead our lawful right, _to be_,—
To be, enjoy, and sternly try
To leave the world more fair and free

Than when upon its round we fell,—
Two feeble rays that wandered far
From nebula, or hidden star—
Whence? wherefore? whither? who can tell?

We only know that we are here,
That life is brief and death is sure;
That it is noble to endure,
And keep the eye of conscience clear.
Will love and knowledge ever cure
The evils of this troubled sphere?

We look in Nature’s face, and doubt
Whether she means us good or ill;
We know that she can stab and kill,
And blow our taper-joys all out.

An angel and a fiend by turns,
A grace, a fury,—all we find
As shapings of the human mind
In her strange aspect shines and burns;
One moment infinitely kind;
The next, a breaking heart she spurns.

Her lightnings smite; her arctic breath
Congeals the traveller’s blood, and lo,
He sinks into a tomb of snow!
No prayer can bribe the clutch of death.

She lets her savage cyclones loose,
She bids her flaming lavas flow,
And sudden as a ruffian’s blow
Great cities perish! What excuse?
Does God, indeed, ordain it so?
Is not the problem more abstruse?