Chapter C: W. COATES, Montreal. S. F. HUESTIS, Halifax (2)

“‘Twas well ye marked him not that other day
When he broke first into the citadel
Deserted by the tyrant, and there found,
Whiter, more stone-like than the marble shaft
’Gainst which she crouched from him in speechless fear,
His wife, his long-lost Arete, and went
And drew her white hands from her face and said,
‘My wife, my own, thy Dion comes again,
And his great love doth wash thy body clean
From sins forced on thee, which were not thine own.’
For as she rose and clung about his neck,
Panting and quivering like a hunted fawn,
She downward bent her face in guileless shame
And told him, with her cheek against his breast,
How through those years of captive misery
She, like a priestess, had in secret shrine
Of wedded heart kept ever bright and pure
The vestal flame of her great love for him.
’Twas well ye marked not, Syracusan men,
How unlike stone was Dion then, how fell
His woman’s tears upon her woman’s hair.
’Twas well ye heard not what his heart pulsed out,
Without one word, into her tight-pressed ear,
Else might ye and your wives have called him weak,
When ye had seen that inner self laid bare
Which he forsook to serve his native land.”

A strong tree which has braved a thousand storms
May totter in the wind which brings its fall,
So now methinks my pride is dying down
When thus I talk before my funeral
Of all the love, hate, duty, self-restraint,
Ingratitude and anguish, which have graved
And scarred old Dion as he is to-day,
With all his years gone by and all his deeds.

And now, eternal gods, I come to you
Through death, with calm, irrevocable tread.
Farewell, life’s toilsome warfare. Like a king,
Great gods, receive me into bliss or woe,
Whiche’er your land affordeth; set my throne
Among the company of those who strove
To mount by inner conquest, not by blood;
And who accept and quaff with equal mind
Pleasure or pain, defeat or victory.
I care not to be highest, only peer
Of all the great who are in-gathered there;
If needs my rank be blazoned on my throne,
Inscribe it, “Dion, Tyrant of Himself.”

Ha! ye have found a sword; ’tis well, for now
I shall lie down to sleep as soldier should,
Wounded in front and by a soldier’s blade.
O Syracuse, I thought to carve a rock
Rough and unhewn into a perfect shape;
But lo! ’twas only clay wherewith I wrought,
And every wind and rain did melt you down
Into the common mud which tyrants love
To smooth into an easy path to power.

Here, youths, I do not flinch, behold my breast,
Shaggy, like front of lion, streaked with grey.
It is your glory to anticipate
Time’s tardy slaughter. Come, which will be great
And first to make himself a name and steep
His weakling hands in Dion’s royal blood?
Pray you be quick, I do not fear the pain,
But would quit life. Here is my naked heart;
It knocks against the edges of this rib,
But yet not faster than its wont. Come, youths,
Put the sword here and drive it quickly home,
And fix your eyes upon me as I fall,
And mark ye well the grandeur of my death.
For nothing but the red flood bursting forth,
No cry, no groan, no movement of the face,
Shall tell you that ye have not slain a god.
Then draw the blade out blunted where it met
The tempered edge of my self-mastering will,
And bear the crimsoned trophy through the streets,
And show it to the wondering citizens;
That men may know and tell in aftertimes
How Dion lived and died for Syracuse.

_LOVE SLIGHTED._

Love built a chamber in my heart,
A daintier ne’er was seen,
’Twas filled with books and gems of art,
And all that makes a lover’s part
True homage to his Queen.

The ceiling was of silver bright
That showed the floor below;
The walls were hung with silk so white
That e’en the mirror was to sight
A slope of driven snow.

Then Love threw open wide the door,
And sang, as in a dream,
A song as sweet as bird can pour
Above the sunlight-marbled floor
Of some clear forest stream.

He sang of youth that ne’er grows old,
Of flowers that ne’er decay,
Of wine whose sweetness is not told,
Of honour bright, and courage bold,
And faith more fair than they.

And many a maiden passed me by,
Though some would hear and start,
But thought the singing was so high,
It came from somewhere in the sky,
And not from my poor heart.

So years have come and years have flown
Adown the sunset hill,
But Love still sits and sings alone,
And, though his voice has sweeter grown,
My heart is empty still.

_ANDANTE._

The days and weeks are going, love,
The years roll on apace,
And the hand of time is showing, love,
In the care lines on thy face;

But the tie that bound our hearts, love,
In the morning’s golden haze,
Is a tie that never parts, love,
With the passing of the days.

For though Death’s arm be strong, love,
Our love its light will shed,
And like a glorious song, love,
Will live when Death is dead.

_SORROW’S WAKING._

Once a maiden,
Heavy-laden,
Sought to borrow
Sleep from sorrow.

Sweet the taking,
But the waking
In the numbness
And the dumbness
Of the day-dawn,
With the grey lawn
Softly plaining
In the raining,
And the meadows
Hid in shadows,
Was more dreary
Than the weary
Mounds which sever
Hearts forever,
Where Death’s reaping
Leaves man sleeping
In God’s keeping.

_ON AN OLD VENETIAN PORTRAIT._

The features loom out of the darkness
As brown as an ancient scroll,
But the eyes gleam on with the fire that shone
In the dead man’s living soul.

He is clad in a cardinal’s mantle,
And he wears the cap of state,
But his lip is curled in a sneer at the world,
And his glance is full of hate.

Old age has just touched with its winter
The hair on his lip and chin,
He stooped, no doubt, as he walked about,
And the blood in his veins was thin.

His date and his title I know not,
But I know that the man is there,
As cruel and cold as in days of old,
When he schemed for the Pontiff’s chair.

_He_ never could get into Heaven,
Though his lands were all given to pay
For prayers to be said on behalf of the dead
From now till the judgment day.

His palace, his statues, and pictures
Were Heaven, at least for a time,
And now he is “Where?”--why an ornament there
On my wall, and I think him sublime.

For the gold of another sunset
Falls over him even now,
And it deepens the red of the cap on his head,
And it brings out the lines on his brow.

The ages have died into silence,
And men have forgotten his tomb,
But he still sits there in his cardinal’s chair,
And he watches me now in the gloom.

_OLD LETTERS._

The house was silent, and the light
Was fading from the western glow;
I read, till tears had dimmed my sight,
Some letters written long ago.

The voices that have passed away,
The faces that have turned to mould,
Were round me in the room to-day,
And laughed and chatted as of old.

The thoughts that youth was wont to think,
The hopes now dead for evermore,
Came from the lines of faded ink,
As sweet and earnest as of yore.

I laid the letters by and dreamed
The dear dead past to life again;
The present and its purpose seemed
A fading vision full of pain.

Then, with a sudden shout of glee,
The children burst into the room,
Their little faces were to me
As sunrise in the cloud of gloom.

The world was full of meaning still,
For love will live though loved ones die;
I turned upon life’s darkened hill
And gloried in the morning sky.

_VAN ELSEN._

God spake three times and saved Van Elsen’s soul;
He spake by sickness first and made him whole;
Van Elsen heard Him not,
Or soon forgot.

God spake to him by wealth, the world outpoured
Its treasures at his feet, and called him Lord;
Van Elsen’s heart grew fat
And proud thereat.

God spake the third time when the great world smiled,
And in the sunshine slew his little child;
Van Elsen like a tree
Fell hopelessly.

Then in the darkness came a voice which said,
“As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled,
As I have need of thee,
Thou needest me.”

That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet,
And kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,
Praised Him with fervent breath
Who conquered death.

_IN MEMORIAM._

JAMES WILLIAM WILLIAMS, LORD BISHOP OF QUEBEC, DIED APRIL 20TH, 1892, AGED 66 YEARS.

To those found faithful, oft the call to rest
Comes in the glory of the later noon,
Ere evening falls and with declining day
The mind has darkened and work lost its zest.
So now, though first our sad hearts cried “Too soon,”
We see God’s angel did in heavenly way
His finished work and Master’s love attest.
And now he wins, withdrawn from human eye,
A good man’s two-fold immortality,
To live forever near the Master’s throne,
And here, in lives made better by his own.

_THE EVERLASTING FATHER._

Thou whose face is as the lightning and whose chariot as the sun,
Unto whom a thousand ages in their passing are as one,
All our worlds and mighty systems are but tiny grains of sand,
Held above the gulfs of chaos in the hollow of Thy hand.

Yea, we see Thy power about us, and we feel its volumes roll
Through the torrent of our passions and the stillness of the soul,
Where its visions light the darkness till the dawn that is to be,
Like the long auroral splendours on a silent polar sea.

Then uplift us, great Creator, to communion with Thy will,
Crush our puny heart-rebellions, make our baser cravings still.
Thou whose fingers through the ages wrought with fire the soul of man,
Blend it more and more forever with the purpose of Thy plan.

Speak, O Lord, in voice of thunder, show Thy footsteps on the deep,
Pour Thy sunshine from the heavens on the blinded eyes that weep,
Till the harmonies of nature and exalted human love
Make the universe a mirror of the glorious God above.

_THE STING OF DEATH._

“Is Sin, then, fair?”
Nay, love, come now
Put back the hair
From his sunny brow;
See, here, blood-red
Across his head
A brand is set,
The word--“Regret.”

“Is Sin so fleet
That while he stays
Our hands and feet
May go his ways?”
Nay, love, his breath
Clings round like death,
He slakes desire
With liquid fire.

“Is Sin Death’s sting?”
Ay, sure he is,
His golden wing
Darkens man’s bliss;
And when Death comes,
Sin sits and hums
A chaunt of fears
Into man’s ears.

“How slayeth Sin?”
First, God is hid,
And the heart within
By its own self chid;
Then the maddened brain
Is scourged by pain
To sin as before
And more and more,
For evermore.

_TE JUDICE._

Dost thou deem that thyself
Art as white from sin
As a platter of delf,--
Outside and in?
When thine eyes behold
Christ’s kind face lean
From His throne of gold
To test what is told
Of the life that hath been,
Like a leper of old,
Thou wilt cry, “Unclean!
Unclean! Unclean!”

And thinkest thou this--
That thou judgest aright
Thy heart as it is
In God’s and man’s sight?
Fool, take up thy light,
And descend the stair steep
To thy heart’s dungeons deep,
And search them and sweep
Till their ghosts are unmasked;
Else when judgment is come
Thou wilt stand stark and dumb
At the first question asked.

_THE TWO MISTRESSES._

Ah, woe is me, my heart’s in sorry plight,
Enamoured equally of Wrong and Right;
Right hath the sweeter grace,
But Wrong the prettier face:
Ah, woe is me, my heart’s in sorry plight.

And Right is jealous that I let Wrong stay;
Yet Wrong seems sweeter when I turn away.
Right sober is, like Truth,
But Wrong is in her youth;
So Right is jealous that I let Wrong stay.

When I am happy, left alone with Right,
Then Wrong flits by and puts her out of sight;
I follow and I fret,
And once again forget
That I am happy, left alone with Right.

Ah, God! do Thou have pity on my heart!
A puppet blind am I, take Thou my part!
Chasten my wandering love,
Set it on things above:
Ah, God! do Thou take pity on my heart!

_IN THE WOODS._

This is God’s house--the blue sky is the ceiling,
This wood the soft green carpet for His feet,
Those hills His stairs, down which the brooks come stealing,
With baby laughter making earth more sweet.

And here His friends come, clouds and soft winds sighing,
And little birds whose throats pour forth their love,
And spring and summer, and the white snow lying
Pencilled with shadows of bare boughs above.

And here come sunbeams through the green leaves straying,
And shadows from the storm-clouds overdrawn,
And warm, hushed nights, when mother earth is praying
So late that her moon-candle burns till dawn.

Sweet house of God, sweet earth so full of pleasure,
I enter at thy gates in storm or calm;
And every sunbeam is a joy and treasure,
And every cloud a solace and a balm.

_CALVARY._

O sorrowful heart of humanity, foiled in thy fight for dominion,
Bowed with the burden of emptiness, blackened with passion and woe;
Here is a faith that will bear thee on waft of omnipotent pinion,
Up to the heaven of victory, there to be known and to know.

Here is the vision of Calvary, crowned with the world’s revelation,
Throned in the grandeur of gloom and the thunders that quicken the dead;
A meteor of hope in the darkness shines forth like a new constellation,
Dividing the night of our sorrow, revealing a path as we tread.

Now are the portals of death by the feet of the Conqueror entered;
Flames of the sun in his setting roll over the city of doom,
And robe in imperial purple the Body triumphantly centred,
Naked and white between thieves and ’mid ghosts that have
crept from the tomb.

O Soul, that art lost in immensity, craving for light and despairing,
Here is the hand of the Crucified, pulses of love in its veins,
Human as ours in its touch, with the sinews of Deity bearing
The zones of the pendulous planets, the weight of the winds
and the rains.

Here in the Heart of the Crucified, find thee a refuge and hiding,
Love at the core of the universe, guidance and peace in the night;
Centuries pass like a flood, but the Rock of our Strength is abiding,
Grounded in depths of eternity, girt with a mantle of light.

Lo, as we wonder and worship, the night of the doubts that conceal Him,
Rolls from the face of the dawn till His rays through the
cloud-fissures slope;
Vapours that hid are condensed to the dews of His grace that reveal Him,
And shine with His light on the hills as we mount in the
splendour of hope.

_AT LAUDS._

’Tis sweet to wake before the dawn,
When all the cocks are crowing,
And from my window on the lawn,
To watch the veil of night withdrawn,
And feel the fresh wind blowing.

The murmur of the falls I hear,
Its night-long vigil keeping;
And softly now, as if in fear
To rouse their neighbours slumbering near,
The trees wake from their sleeping.

Dear Lord, such wondrous thoughts of Thee
My raptured soul are filling,
That, like a bird upon the tree,
With sweet yet wordless minstrelsy
My inmost heart is thrilling.

_IN THE CHURCHYARD._

As now my feet are straying
Where all the dead are lying,
O trees, what are ye saying
That sets my soul a-sighing?

Your sound is as the weeping
Of one that dreads the morrow,
Or sob of sad heart sleeping
For fulness of its sorrow.

Methinks your rootlets, groping
Beneath the dark earth’s layers,
Have found the doubt and hoping,
The blasphemies and prayers,

Of hearts that here are feeding
The worm; and now, in pity,
Ye storm with interceding
The floor of God’s great city.

_THE CRIPPLE._

I met once, in a country lane,
A little cripple, pale and thin,
Who from my presence sought again
The shadows she had hidden in.

Her wasted cheeks the sunset skies
Had hallowed with their fading glow;
And in her large and lustrous eyes
There dwelt a child’s unuttered woe.

She crept into the autumn wood,
The parted bushes closed behind;
Poor little heart, I understood
The shameless shame that filled her mind.

I understood, and loved her well
For one sad face I loved of yore,--
And down the lane the dead leaves fell,
Like dreams that pass for evermore.

_A NOCTURNE._

In the little French church at the bend of the river,
When rainy and loud was the wind in the night,
An altar-lamp burnt to the mighty Grace-giver,
The Holy Child Jesus--the Light of the Light.

It was hung on a chain from the roof, and was swinging,
As if the unseemly commotion to chide,
Like the choir-master’s baton when hushing the singing,
Or the tongue of the bell when its tollings subside.

It lit up the poor paper flowers on the altar,
And odd were the shadows it scattered around
On pulpit and lectern, on choir-seat and psalter,
While the chains threw the ghost of a cross on the ground.

The people at home in their cabins were sleeping,
The curé was tucked in his four-posted bed;
While under the willows the river was creeping
As if silent with fear of the wind overhead.

But the little dark church had its own congregation--
The shadows that swayed on the pews and the floor--
While the rafters that creaked were a choir whose laudation
Had an organ for base in the hurricane’s roar.

The rusty gilt cock on the flèche was the preacher,
And scolding and grumpy his voice was to hear,
As he turned to the storm like some faithful old teacher
Who prophesies hard things regardless of fear.

But the service reflected the state of the weather,
For though each, I must say, did his part with a will,
The preacher and choir spoke and sang all together,
And the shapes on the benches would never sit still.

Yet there was the Host, in the midst of the altar,
Where that little red curtain of damask was hung,--
The God whom King David has praised in the psalter,
And to whom the whole choir of the ages has sung.

But so big is the heart of our God, the Life-giver,
That in it life’s humour and pathos both meet;
So I doubt not that night in the church by the river,
The poor old storm’s service to Him sounded sweet.

SONNETS.

_TO MY WIFE._

Sweet Lady, queen-star of my life and thought,
Whose honour, heart and name are one with mine,
Who dost above life’s troubled currents shine
With such clear beam as oftentimes hath brought
The storm-tossed spirit into harbours wrought
By love and peace on life’s rough margin-line;
I wish no wish which is not wholly thine,
I hope no hope but what thyself hast sought.
Thou losest not, my Lady, in the wife,
The golden love-light of our earlier days;
Time dims it not, it mounteth like the sun,
Till earth and sky are radiant. Sweet, my life
Lies at thy feet, and all life’s gifts and praise,
Yet are they nought to what thy knight hath won.

_A CYPRESS WREATH._