She peeped in her rags through the broken pane;
And she clapped her hands with delight, forgetting
Hunger and misery, cold, and the rain,
As the strange white thing caught her wondering eye,
Dropped down from nowhere, out of the sky.
And she cried as it fell, with the faith of seven,
(Fanciful, credulous, innocent elf):
"Look, mother, look! Here's a letter from Heaven!
God didn't forget us--He's written Himself!"
Was it useless, that feather that so fluttered down
On the muddy street of a dirty town?
HINC ILLÆ LACHRYMÆ
(_Hence these tears_)
Last night, and there came a guest,
And we shuddered, my wife and I;
A guest, and I could not speak;
A guest, and she could but cry;
And he went, but with no good-bye.
A little before the dawn
He came, but he did not stay;
And he left us alone with our tears,
For he carried our babe away.
Was there ever a sadder day!
Had you ever a babe of a year,
With curls on a tiny head,
With limbs like the peach's bloom,
And learnt that your babe was dead?--
Could you have been comforted?
Had it bound itself to your heart,
As with fairy gossamer strand,
Slight as that of the worm,
Strong as the hempen band
Which holds tall ships to the land?
Did you look in its baby eyes
As your treasure lay on your knee,
And wonder what things they saw,
And see, what they could not see,
The life that was yet to be?
Did it lie at your breast day by day
While you gathered it near and more near?
Did it sleep on your bosom by night,
Ever growing so dear, oh, so dear,--
Your darling, your babe of a year;
While you dreamed of the wonder you held,
A thing of so perfect a plan,
Of the wonderful mystery of birth,
Of the wonderful mystery of man,
As only a mother can,--
Till your heart, like a human thing,
Seemed to yearn for the child at your side--
Yearn to gather it in to itself,
To the love that swept up, like a tide
Whose fulness is ever denied?
If to you came that terrible guest
We so dreaded, my wife and I,
You will know why I could not speak,
You will know why she could but cry--
You have seen your own baby die.
WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND
THE HABITANT'S JUBILEE ODE
I read on de paper mos' ev'ry day, all about Jubilee
An' grande procession movin' along, an' passin' across de sea,
Dat's chil'ren of Queen Victoriaw comin' from far away
For tole Madame w'at dey t'ink of her, an' wishin' her bonne
santé.
An' if any wan want to know pourquoi les Canayens should be dere
Wit' res' of de worl' for shout "Hooraw" an' t'row hees cap on de
air,
Purty quick I will tole heem de reason, w'y we feel lak de oder
do,
For if I'm only poor habitant, I'm not on de sapré fou.
Of course w'en we t'ink it de firs' go off, I know very strange it
seem
For fader of us dey was offen die for flag of L'Ancien Regime,
From day w'en de voyageurs out all de way from ole St Malo,
Flyin' dat flag from de mas' above, a' long affer dat also.
De English fight wit' de Frenchman den over de whole contree,
Down by de reever, off on de wood, an' out on de beeg, beeg sea,
Killin' an' shootin', an' raisin' row, half tam dey don't know
w'at for,
W'en it's jus' as easy get settle down, not makin' de crazy war.
Sometam' dey be quiet for leetle w'ile, you t'ink dey don't fight
no more,
An' den w'en dey're feelin' all right agen, Bang! jus' lak' she
was before.
Very offen we're beatin' dem on de fight, sometam' dey can beat
us, too,
But no feller's scare on de 'noder man, an' bote got enough to do.
An' all de long year she be go lak' dat, we never was know de
peace,
Not'ing but war from de wes' contree down to de St Maurice;
Till de las' fight's comin' on Canadaw, an' brave Generale
Montcalm
Die lak' a sojer of France is die, on Battle of Abraham.
Dat's finish it all, an' de English King is axin' us stayin' dere
W'ere we have sam' right as de 'noder peep comin' from Angleterre.
Long tam' for our moder so far away de poor Canayens is cry,
But de new step-moder she's good an' kin', an' it's all right
bimeby.
If de moder come dead w'en you're small garçon, leavin' you dere
alone,
Wit' nobody watchin' for fear you fall, and hurt youse'f on de
stone,
An' 'noder good woman she tak' your han' de sam' your own moder
do,
Is it right you don't call her moder, is it right you don't love
her too?
Bâ non, an' dat was de way we feel, w'en de ole Regime's no more,
An' de new wan come, but don't change moche, w'y it's jus' lak' it
be before,
Spikin' Français lak' we alway do, an' de English dey mak no fuss,
An' our law de sam', wall, I don't know me, 'twas better mebbe for
us.
So de sam' as two broder we settle down, leevin' dere han' in
han',
Knowin' each oder, we lak' each oder, de French an' de Englishman,
For it's curi's t'ing on dis worl', I'm sure you see it agen an'
agen,
Dat offen de mos' worse ennemi, he's comin' de bes', bes' fren'.
So we're kipin' so quiet long affer dat, w'en las' of de fightin's
done,
Dat plaintee is say, de new Canayens forget how to shoot de gun;
But Yankee man's smart, all de worl' know dat, so he's firs' fin'
mistak' wan day--
W'en he's try cross de line, fusil on hae's han', near place dey
call Chateaugay.
Of course it's bad t'ing for poor Yankee man, De Salaberry be dere
Wit' habitant farmer from down below, an' two honder Voltiguers,
Dem feller come off de State, I s'pose, was fightin' so hard dey
can
But de blue coat sojer he don't get kill, is de locky Yankee man!
Since den w'en dey'se comin on Canadaw, we alway be treat dem
well,
For dey're spennin' de monee lak' gentilhommes, an' stay on de
bes'
hotel,
Den "Bienvenu," we will spik dem, an' "Come back agen nex' week,
So long you was kip on de quiet an' don't talk de politique?"
Yaas, dat is de way Victoriaw fin' us dis jubilee,
Sometam' we mak' fuss about not'ing, but it's all on de familee,
An' w'enever dere's danger roun' Her, no matter on sea or lan',
She'll find that les Canayens can fight de sam as bes' Englishman.
An' onder de flag of Angleterre, so long as dat flag was fly--
Wit' deir English broder, les Canayens is satisfy leev an' die.
Dat's de message our fader geev us w'en dey're fallin' on
Chateaugay,
An' de flag was kipin' dem safe den, dat's de wan we will kip
alway!
JOHN HUNTER DUVAR
JOHN A'VAR'S LAST LAY
(_He becomes a Carmelite_)
Take not from me my lute!
There is a spirit caught among its wires
That sentient thrills as if with living fires,--
Frères! let me keep my lute.
It may not be? ah, well,--
Once more ere yet thou diest, O breathing string!
That plainest like the heart of sad sea-shell,
And talk'st to me with voice of living thing.
Sad now art thou and I--
Loved lute, ring out, ring out ere yet we die.
Ring out the clash of swords!
The meeting shock! ring out the victor's strain!
Or dirge, when peasants tramp o'er knights and lords,--
Jarring when the war trumpet blows amain,
And scattered all afield
The shivered lance-shaft and the shattered shield.
Ring out to ladies' eyes!
To love's wild ecstasy of joy and woe,
To morning's mantling blush, to passionate sighs
That heave the rose-tipped mamelons of snow,
To gage d'amor, I ween,
That wakes the rapturous thought of--once hath been.
Ring out the words of fire!
'Gainst pride and hate and tyranny the strong,
'Gainst proud man's arrogance, and weak man's ire,
And all the lusts that work the world wrong,
'Gainst envy, lie and ill
Ring out protest once more, and then be still!
Wake gently softer themes!
Of white-frocked children dead on cottage floors,
Of dances 'neath the jasmine-clustered beams,
Of greybeards drinking at the trellised doors,
Of immortelles on graves,
Of red-cheeked lasses where the ripe corn waves.
This world hath been so fair,
So full of joyousness! Then what am I
That I should thankless spurn God's blessëd air
And shut my lids against the sunshine sky?
But that is idle breath,
Life may be quiet, even if life in death.
Dying as echo dies,
Faint, and more faint, loved lute, expires my lay,
And though my Lays have not been overwise
Yet now methinks with thee I best could pray.
Our mission now is o'er,
O Soul of Song! fly free! No more. No more.
Loved lute, farewell. Farewell with other things.
But though, for me, I henceforth am the Lord's,
No meaner hand shall ever touch thy chords--
Thus--thus--I rive thy strings!
THE MINNÉSINGERS LIED
In the Rheingan standeth Aix,
And in Aix is La Chapelle;
On a royal marble daïs,
Underneath a vaulted dome,
With his feet upon a tomb,
Sits a dread and fearsome Thing
As ever minstrel-poet sang!
Dead two hundred years! a King
On his throne sits Charlemagne
In his capital of Aix!
In awful state that mighty Shade
Sitteth in its chair of stone;
In the hand, long ages dead,
The sword with unsheathed blade
And sceptre bright with gems;
On the breast a cross of lead,
On the form a golden gown,
And circling on his head
The French and German diadems
And the Lombard crown!
And throughout the centuries old,
Underneath the vaulted dome,
With his feet upon a tomb,
Alone and ghastly, stern and cold,
In silence save when midnight tolls
And its heavy murmur rolls
All among the columns round
With a solemn measured clang,--
In the silentness profound,
Sits the shade of Charlemagne
Armed and crowned!
HOW BALTHAZAR THE KING WENT DOWN INTO EGYPT
Nilus! Nilus! and before them rolled
The mystic river, while a barge of gold
Lay moored with its carved prow against a pier,
From which the King embarked with all his train.
The reis on the fore-deck drew the spear
From out the ringbolt and cast off the chain,
And they were floating upon Nile the old.
Full bravely led the galley of the King,
And all at once, like flap of ibis' wing,
Flashed out the gilt and crimson-bladed oars
And lightly o'er the molten surface skimmed;
While slow unrolled the low and level shores,
Like to a landscape on a curtain limned,
And blended with the shadows, lessening.
Music was on the Nile boats: conch and horn,
Flute answering flute, while zittern and lycorn
Took up the keynote from the leading barge,
And part and counterpart in measured strain,
In gathering volume, rolled on to the marge,
The while the swelling chorus grew amain
And inland o'er the standing rice was borne.
Along the shore, as down the mystic river
Floated the King, the boughs without a shiver
Drooped in the breathless air, and ibises
And birds of scarlet plumage waded grave;
While small deer, timorous as their nature is,
And panthers, to the brink came down to lave,
But drew back as they saw the oar-blades quiver.
Along the burnished water meadow flowers
Floated, and buds with berries, which the scours
Of melted torrents, moons ago, had shred
From Afric's inland mountain range of snows,
And torn up with the rich mould from its bed
And brought to Egypt when the waters rose
To pour into her lap full harvest dowers.
The cortege passed the swamp of crocodiles,
And labyrinth of submerged bulrush isles,
With matted lilies growing on the ooze,
While round the shallow bars the eddies swum,
All changeless, as in old time when the Jews
Mustered at beat of the Egyptian drum
And laid their tale of brick upon the piles.
Upon the left bank of the river loomed
A massive wall where Pharaohs lay entombed
With their deeds vaguely limned in hieroglyph,
In tincts of vivid azure, green and red,
Ochre and vermeil,--standing stark and stiff
Their rigid forms; while 'mong the mummied dead
The frogs croaked and the woeful bittern boomed.
As they swept on they saw a form of stone
Cleaving the yellow sky-line, stern and lone
And awful, so no man might bear to dwell
'Neath its eyes glaring with unwinking lids,
As if of beings it alone could tell
The giant mystery of the pyramids
Ere centuries of sand had round them blown.
Now on the left bank of the river's flow,
Where sentinelled with watch-towers and aglow
With half-mooned vanes all flickering like jets
Uprose a city walled, in proud estate,
Full of domed roofs and tall white minarets
The King's fleet veered towards a water-gate
And anchored 'neath the walls of Cairo.
ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON
THE EGYPTIAN LOTUS
(NYMPHÆA LOTUS)
Proud, languid lily of the sacred Nile,
'Tis strange to see thee on our western wave,
Far from those sandy shores that, many a mile,
Papyrus-plumed, lie silent as the grave.
O'er dark, mysterious pool and sheltered bay,
And midst soft-sleeping isles thy leaves expand,
Where Alexandrian barges plow their way,
Full freighted, to the ancient Theban land.
On Karnak's lofty columns thou wert seen,
And Luxor's spacious temple palace walls,
Each royal Pharaoh's emeralded queen
Chose thee to deck her glittering banquet halls;
Yet thou art blossoming in this fairy lake
As regally, amidst these common things,
As on the shores where Nile's soft ripples break,
As in the halls of old Egyptian kings.
Thy beauty daily lures men's curious eyes,
But he who finds in thought his richest feasts,
Looking at thee, sees stately temples rise
About him, and long lines of white-robed priests,
That chant strange music as they slowly pace
Dim, columned aisles; hears trembling over head
Echoes that lose themselves in that vast space,
Of Egypt's solemn ritual for the dead.
Aye deeper thoughts than these, though undefined,
Wake in reflective souls at sight of thee,
For this majestic orient faith enshrined
Man's yearning hope of immortality.
And thou wert Egypt's symbol of the power
That under all decaying forms lies hid;
The old world worshipped thee, O Lotus flower!
Then carved its Sphinx and reared its pyramid.
PURPLE ASTERS
I had a garden when I was a boy
Wherein I planted fondly many a flower,
And watched it grow until I felt the joy
That every gardener feels, as Nature's power
To make rare perfumes burst from stalks of green
And dash rich colours o'er dull earth is seen.
In that old garden, bright with varied bloom
From early tulip time till winter fell,
It seemed as if no sombre growth or gloom
Had any place, or could desire to dwell;
Yet o'er one corner wildness still held sway,
And there, I always felt, a shadow lay.
In that strange spot pale purple asters came,
When earth wore gorgeous colours on her breast,
And fields were ripe, and autumn's flood of flame
From scarlet maples swept from east to west;
They bore no wealth of royal purple bloom,
But seemed meet products of great Nature's gloom.
The lives of men are gardens, from whose soil
Spring rich red-petalled roses, violets blue
As heaven; where, too, the passion-flower's strong coil
Closes round frail anemones, hearts-ease, and rue;
But in some sheltered spots, bright blooms beside,
Pale purple fringëd asters love to hide.
They tell us there are gardens always clad
With summer's richest robes, awaiting men
Beyond the stars, where hearts at once grow glad,
And never to low levels sink again;
Perhaps even such light lands may need to see
The purple asters of despondency.
DEEPENING THE CHANNEL
A rocky channel from the harbor led
The ships to sea, a blue but shallow sound
With surging tides, upon whose treacherous bed
The keels of heavy vessels ground and ground.
The channel must be deepened, men agree,
And so great thunderous blasts of rock they blew,
And all the sleepy sands were dredged; till, free
From fear, the heaviest ships went swiftly through.
We fret and foam as if our surface tide
Was fathoms deep, and never know the truth
Till love or sorrow through the water ride
And grate its keel upon the sands of youth;
God cleaves the rock beneath the channel blue,
And then his noblest ships sail safely through.
THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS
'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway
Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay;
'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide
In ripples that reach to the forest side;
'Tis the fisherman's boat, in a track of sheen,
Plying through tangled seaweed green
O'er the Baie des Chaleurs.
Who has not heard of the phantom light
That over the moaning waves, at night,
Dances and drifts in endless play,
Close to the shore, then far away,
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
Cold as the winter light that lies
On the Baie des Chaleurs?
They tell us that many a year ago,
From lands where the palm and the olive grow,
Where vines with their purple clusters creep
Over the hillsides gray and steep,
A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold,
Famed, in that chivalrous time of old,
For valorous deeds and courage rare,
Sailed with a princess wondrous fair
To the Baie des Chaleurs.
That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea,
A murderous band as e'er could be,
With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night,
That flaunted and flew in heaven's sight,
Sailed in the wake of the lovers there,
And sank the ship and its freight so fair
In the Baie des Chaleurs.
Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell:
They say that a ball of fire fell
Straight from the sky, with crash and roar,
Lighting the bay from shore to shore;
Then the ship, with shudder and with groan,
Sank through the waves to the caverns lone
Of the Baie des Chaleurs.
That was the last of the pirate crew;
But many a night a black flag flew
From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed
By a spectre band that wept and wailed
For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land,
For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand
Of the Baie des Chaleurs.
This is the tale of the phantom light
That fills the mariner's heart, at night,
With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay,
Now by the shore, then far away,
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
Cold as the winter moon that lies
On the Baie des Chaleurs.
THE MEADOW LANDS
The tide flows in and out and leaves
Its richness on the meadow lands,
The furrowed surface-soil upheaves,
And sprinkles life among the sands.
Across the meadow lands of life
The tide of time flows and recedes,
Its muddy wave brings woe and strife,
But forms the soil for noble deeds.
The tide flows in and out and brings
New beauty to the meadow lands,
With lavish tenderness it flings
Fair flowers across the silver sands.
MY PUREST LONGINGS SPRING
My purest longings spring
From the divine,
The sweetest songs I sing
They are not mine.
I chisel the rude stone
With trembling hand,
The statue comes alone
At God's command.
Beyond earth's tainted air
I sometimes fly
On wings of faith and prayer;
Yet 'tis not I.
Not I but He who lights
My flickering creeds;
The Power that writes
My broken deeds.
Not I but God; for He,
My larger life,
Fulfils Himself in me
With ceaseless strife.
I WATCH THE SHIPS
I watch the ships by town and lea
With sails full set glide out to sea,
Till by the distant light-house rock
The breakers beat with roar and shock
And foam fierce flying o'er their decks,
While deep below lie ocean's wrecks;
What careth she?
I stand beside the beaten quay
And look while laden ships from sea
Come proudly home upon the tide
lake conquering kings at eventide,
Or from fierce fights with wintry gales
Steal shoreward now with tattered sails;
O cruel sea!
I pass once more the old gray pier
Where men have waited many a year
For ships that ne'er again shall glide
By town and lea on favoring tide,--
Strong ships that struggled till the gales
Of winter hid their shrouds and sails
In ocean drear.
Soft sailing spirits, how they glide
Forth on life's fitful sea untried
To breast the waves and bear the shocks
Beyond the guarded light-house rocks,
To strive and struggle many a year;
Strong souls, indeed, if they can bear
Life's wind and tide.
I watch beside life's beaten quay
The tides bring back all joyously
To anchor by the sheltered shore
Some freighted full with golden store
From rich spice-fields and perfumed sands
Of soft, luxuriant tropic lands;
O kindly sea!
But some have met with wintry gales,
And come at last with shattered sails
To anchor by the old gray pier;
While loving ones in hope and fear
Wait on for some that never more
Shall anchor by a peaceful shore;
O sad, sad sea!
JAMES DAVID EDGAR
THIS CANADA OF OURS
Let other tongues in older lands
Loud vaunt their claims to glory,
And chaunt in triumph of the past,
Content to live in story.
Tho' boasting no baronial halls,
Nor ivy-crested towers,
What past can match thy glorious youth,
Fair Canada of ours?
Fair Canada,
Dear Canada,
This Canada of ours!
We love those far-off ocean Isles
Where Britain's monarch reigns;
We'll ne'er forget the good old blood
That courses through our veins;
Proud Scotia's fame, old Erin's name,
And haughty Albion's powers,
Reflect their matchless lustre on
This Canada of ours.
Fair Canada,
Dear Canada,
This Canada of ours!
May our Dominion flourish then,
A goodly land and free,
Where Celt and Saxon, hand in hand,
Hold sway from sea to sea;
Strong arms shall guard our cherished homes
When darkest danger lowers,
And with our life-blood we'll defend
This Canada of ours.
Fair Canada,
Dear Canada,
This Canada of ours!
CONSTANCE FAIRBANKS
THE JUNCTION
Here, at the change of ways, the steel steed halts,
The train stands still, and weary travellers gaze
On what appears to be a wilderness
Of barren rocks, grim, desolate, and stern.
"What place is this," they ask, "so bleak and bald?
Here surely are the bones of Earth laid bare;
The gaunt frame of this time-worn world!" Such words,
Contempt infused, are heard from jeering lips,
But the drear wayside maketh no reply.
Yet look! the train moves on; the funnel snorts,
And rocks fling echoes on the trembling air;
From the new point of sight the scoffer sees
Deep pools of water bosomed in the waste--
Calm ponds reflecting Heaven's own lovely blue,
With gray rocks, verdure-touched, around their brinks.
HALIFAX
Facing the ocean, guardian of our land,
Thy frowning forts and ramparts front the foam
Whose waves still ceaseless chafe the rocky strand,
While salt winds waft sea-odors o'er our home.
All the round year the tramp of armed men,
Crisp bugle call, the guns at noon and night,
And martial music, tell us o'er again
That Britain guards us with a jealous might.
THOSE FAR-OFF FIELDS
Those far-off fields, how fair they seem,
As soft through mists of years they gleam!
We never now around us see
Such meads as those of olden be;
We never find a lake or stream
One half so lovely as we deem
Those which we only view in dream,
Watering the fields of memory--
Those far-off fields!
And we were happy then! The theme
Of our existence, love supreme:
And looking back on Fate's decree--
On all that happened you and me--
We sigh--for dear our souls esteem
Those far-off fields!
JOSEPH KEARNEY FORAN
THE AURORA BOREALIS
As the twilight's gray was swallowed
In the depths of night that followed,
And the hand of darkness hollowed
Furrows deep along the land,
Distant bells in sheepfold tinkled,
Million stars in azure twinkled,
Over mountain-peaks that stand
Like giants swarth and grand.
In the north behold a flushing;
Then a deep and crimson blushing;
Followed by an airy rushing
Of the purple waves that rise!
As when armëd host advances,
See, a silver banner dances,
And a thousand golden lances
Shimmer in the Boreal skies!
The vision slowly dies!
Now, in bright prismatic splendor,
Comes a picture still more tender,
As a curtain white and slender
Falls across the space afar;
Where its lacy folds are ending,
With the black of distance blending,
Are its miles of fringe descending,
Hanging from a golden bar--
Pinned to heaven by a star!
Like a monster roused from sleeping,
First to westward slowly creeping,
Then, in headlong fury, sweeping,
Rushed a mammoth cloud of black;
Rolling upward, plunging, lashing,
Through the fairy curtain dashing,
With a thousand beauties flashing
O'er its phosphorescent back--
Endless streamers in its track!
Visions of Arabian story;
Crimson fields of battle gory;
In kaleidoscopic glory,
Shifting, fading, restless tents;
Fairy armies wild in motion;
Jewelled shrines of strange devotion;
And a greenish, tideless ocean,
Bound by ice-clad mounts and dents,
Saw we through the curtain's rents!
Transformations still beholding,
Up the veil is swiftly folding--
And fantastic shapes are moulding
On the background of the sky;
Dimmer armies are parading,--
Fainter wreaths the light is braiding,
While the splendors all are fading
Into one deep purple dye,
Disappearing from the eye!
WILLIAM HENRY FULLER
A SONG OF THE SEA
I'll sing you a Song of the Sea!
With the waves sparkling bright,
And the breeze blowing light,
And our dear native land on the lee,
How glad is the Song of the Sea!
With friends looking out from the quay,
Their kerchiefs and hands waving free,
And bright smiles and welcome for thee,
How glad! how glad!
How glad is the Song of the Sea!