bowed,
A softened light stole o'er her brow, she prayed to heaven aloud:
"Hear me, Thou Great and Glorious One, Protector of my race,
Whom in the far-off Spirit Land I'll soon see face to face!
"Pour down thy blessings on my tribe, may they triumphant rise
Above the guileful Iroquois--Thine and our enemies;
And give me strength to bear each pang with courage high and free,
That, dying thus, I may be fit to reign, O God, with Thee."
Her prayer was ended, and again, like crowned and sceptered Queen,
She wore anew her lofty smile, her high and royal mien,
E'en though the chief the signal gave, and quick two warriors dire
Sprang forth to lead the dauntless girl to the lit funeral pyre.
Back with an eye of flashing scorn recoiled she from their grasp,
"Nay, touch me not, I'd rather meet the coil of poisoned asp!
My aged sire and all my tribe will learn with honest pride
That, as befits a Huron's child, their chieftain's daughter died!"
She dashed aside her tresses dark with bright and fearless smile,
And like a fawn she bounded on the fearful funeral pile;
And even while those blood-stained men fulfilled their cruel part
They praised that maiden's courage rare, her high and dauntless
heart.
WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL
THE ARTIST'S PRAYER
I know thee not, O Spirit fair!
O Life and flying Unity
Of Loveliness! Must man despair
Forever in his chase of thee!
When snowy clouds flash silver-gilt,
Then feel I that thou art on high;
When fire o'er all the west is spilt,
Flames at its heart thy majesty.
Thy beauty basks on distant hills;
It smiles in eve's wine-coloured sea;
It shakes its light on leaves and rills,
In calm ideals it mocks at me.
Thy glances strike from many a lake
That lines through woodland scapes a-sheen;
Yet to thine eyes I never wake:--
They glance, but they remain unseen.
I know thee not, O Spirit fair!
Thou fillest heaven: the stars are thee:
Whatever fleets with beauty rare
Fleets radiant from thy mystery.
Forever thou art near my grasp;
Thy touches pass in twilight air;
Yet still--thy shapes elude my clasp--
I know thee not, thou Spirit fair!
O Ether, proud, and vast, and great,
Above the legions of the stars!
To this thou art not adequate;--
Nor rainbow's glorious scimitars.
I know thee not, thou Spirit sweet!
I chained pursue, while thou art free.
Sole by the smile I sometimes meet
I know thou, Vast One, knowest me.
In old religions hadst thou place:
Long, long, O Vision, our pursuit!
Yea, monad, fish and childlike brute
Through countless ages dreamt thy grace.
Gray nations felt thee o'er them tower;
Some clothed thee in fantastic dress;
Some thought thee as the unknown Power,
I, e'er the unknown Loveliness.
To all thou wert as harps of joy;
To bard and sage their fulgent sun:
To priests their mystic life's employ;
But unto me the Lovely One.
Veils clothed thy might; veils draped thy charm;
The might they tracked, but I the grace;
They learnt all forces were thine Arm,
I that all beauty was thy Face.
Night spares us little. Wanderers we.
Our rapt delights, our wisdoms rare
But shape our darknesses of thee,--
We know thee not, thou Spirit fair!
Would that thine awful Peerlessness
An hour could shine o'er heaven and earth,
And I the maddening power possess
To drink the cup,--O Godlike birth!
All life impels me to thy search:
Without thee, yea, to live were null;
Still shall I make the dawn thy Church,
And pray thee "God the Beautiful."
THE SWEET STAR
The sweet Star of the Bethlehem night
Beauteous guides and true,
And still, to me and you
With only local, legendary light.
For us who hither look with eyes afar
From constellations of philosophy,
All light is from the Cradle; the true star,
Serene o'er distance, in the Life we see.
MY NATIVE LAND
Rome, Florence, Venice--noble, fair and quaint,
They reign in robes of magic round me here;
But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint,
With spell more silent, only pleads a tear.
Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim!
I see the fields, I see the autumn hand
Of God upon the maples! Answer Him
With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand
Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst!
I see the sun break over you; the mist
On hills that lift from iron bases grand
Their heads superb!--the dream, it is my native land.
STUART LIVINGSTON
THE VOLUNTEERS OF '85
Wide are the plains to the north and the westward;
Drear are the skies to the west and the north--
Little they cared, as they snatched up their rifles,
And shoulder to shoulder marched gallantly forth.
Cold are the plains to the north and the westward,
Stretching out far to the gray of the sky--
Little they cared as they marched from the barrack-room,
Willing and ready, if need be, to die.
Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets;
Firm and erect was each man in his place;
Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans;
Smiling and fearless was every face;
Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them;
Never a fear of war's terrible scenes;
"Brave as the bravest" was stamped on each face of them;
Half of them boys not yet out of their teens.
Many a woman gazed down at them longingly,
Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed;
Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of him,
Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last.
Many a maiden's cheek paled as she looked at them,
Seeing the lover from whom she must part;
Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him,
Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart.
Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them,
Beat as it never had beaten before;
Every voice of us, choked though it may have been,
Broke from huzza to a deafening roar.
Proud! were we proud of them? God! they were part of us,
Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight;
Swift at their country's call, ready each man and all,
Eager to battle for her and the right.
Wide are the plains to the north and the westward,
Stretching out far to the gray of the sky--
Little they cared as they filed from the barrack-room,
Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die.
Was there one flinched? Not a boy, not a boy of them;
Straight on they marched to the dread battle's brunt--
Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them,
Canada's call found them all at the front.
TO E. N. L.
Thou sweet-souled comrade of a time gone by
Who in the infinite dost walk to-day,
And lift thy spirit lips in song, while I
Lift up but lips of clay--
Oft do I think on thee, thou steadfast heart,
Who, when the summons dread was in thine ear,
Didst raise thy calm brow up and challenge death,
As one that knows no fear.
And I have wondered if thy passionate lips
Now voice the songs that surged within thy heart;
By the great alchemy of mighty death
Freed to diviner art.
And didst thou find a welcome on the shore
That rims the vastness of that shadow land?
Did those sweet singing prophet bards of yore
Stretch thee a greeting hand?
And did they gather round about thee there,
With faces gray against the coming day;
And, with wan fingers on thy trembling lips,
Teach thee their mighty lay?--
Till thy enraptured soul, by thine own lips,
Was filled with such great harmony of song
As gave thee place among their matchless selves,
A brother of the throng.
THE KING'S FOOL
In sooth he was a mighty King,
And ruled in splendid state,
Surrounded by a haughty band
Of nobles small and great;
And he was good to one and all,
Yet they were plotting for his fall.
For though a king be good and great
And generous, I trow
His nobles yet will envy him,
And seek his overthrow;
For so hath been the ancient strife
Since man first took his sovereign's life.
And thus, to gain their foul design,
They planned to lie in wait,
And drop a deadly poison in
The golden flagon great,
That never more the King should rule;
And no one heard them but the fool.
So when the King came down that night
Into his hall to dine,
He found his flagon in its place,
And at its side the wine--
The blood-red wine--at which he said,
"Such wine should put life in the dead!"
Then poured he full the poisoned cup,
And, raising it on high,
O'er all his courtiers in the hall
He ran his noble eye:
"Oh, I would drink," he said, with zest,
"Unto the man that loves me best!"
Then mute they sat around the board,
And each looked to the other,
Till rose, with mocking reverence,
The fool, and said, "Good brother,
All round this board, of every guest,
I am the man that loves thee best."
Then wrothful was the King, and said,
"Thou art no man, I wis,
That makest such a silly jest
At such a time as this.
Give us a better jest," he said,
"Or pay the forfeit with thy head."
Then quoth the fool, "My good liege lord,
I'll give another jest,
But after it, I tell thee now,
That I will take my rest,
No more to be thy jester," and
He snatched the flagon from his hand.
Then dark became the King's great brow,
Amazed was every guest,
While with the flagon at his lips
The fool quoth, "This sweet jest
That man, I trow, will best divine
Who poured such strength into this wine"--
Then drained the goblet at a draught,
And set it down anon,
While round the board each face grew pale,
And strange to look upon;
Then sank the fool into his place,
And on the table laid his face.
Amid the silence stood the King,
As if perplexed with doubt;
He looked upon his poor dead fool,
And then looked round about;
And then in thunder called the guard
That near him kept their watch and ward.
He bid them take the traitors forth
And put them all to death.
"Would God," he cried, "their lives could give
My poor fool back his breath--
My poor dead fool, whose silent breast
Doth show, too late, he loved me best!"
This is the legend of a fool
Who died his king to save,
And to its truth a monument
Was built above his grave;
And on it in gold this wording ran,
"He lived a fool, but died a man."
KEATS
A young-eyed seer, amid the leafy ways
Of Latmos' groves, sacred to mighty Pan,
Afar from all the busy marts of man,
Content to seek the beautiful, he strays;
With mild eyes lifted in their starry gaze
Of ravishment divine, a priest, he stands
Before the altar builded by his hands,
And on his pipe, with pallid lip, he plays.
This night, O god-like singer, have I knelt
Before that altar listening to thy strain,
Till off my soul mortality did melt,
Dissolvëd from all weariness of pain;
And at thy magic melody I felt
All life were mine, could I such rapture drain.
ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART
ACADIE
Like mists that round a mountain gray
Hang for an hour, then melt away,
So I, and nearly all my race,
Have vanished from my native place.
Each haunt of boyhood's loves and dreams
More beautiful in fancy seems;
Yet if I to those scenes repair
I find I am a stranger there.
O thou belovëd Acadie,
Sweet is thy charmëd world to me!
Dull are these skies 'neath which I range,
And all the summer hills are strange.
Yet sometimes I discern thy gleam
In sparkles of the chiming stream;
And sometimes speaks thy haunting lore
The foam-wreathed sibyl of the shore.
And sometimes will mine eyes incline
To hill or wood that seems like thine;
Or, if the robin pipeth clear,
It is thy vernal note I hear.
And oft my heart will leap aflame
To deem I hear thee call my name,--
To see thy face with gladness shine,
And find the joy that once was mine.
THE WATERS OF CARR
O do you hear the merry waters falling,
In the mossy woods of Carr?
O do you hear the child's voice, calling, calling,
Through its cloistral deeps afar?
'Tis the Indian's babe, they say,
Fairy stolen; changed a fay;
And still I hear her, calling, calling, calling,
In the mossy woods of Carr!
O hear you, when the weary world is sleeping
(Dim and drowsy every star),
This little one her happy revels keeping
In her halls of shining spar?
Clearer swells her voice of glee,
While the liquid echoes flee,
And the full moon through deep green leaves comes peeping,
In the dim-lit woods of Carr.
Know ye from her wigwam how they drew her,
Wanton-willing, far away,--
Made the wild-wood halls seem home unto her,
Changed her to a laughing fay?
Never doth her bosom burn,
Never asks she to return;--
Ah, vainly care and sorrow may pursue her
Laughing, singing, all the day!
And often, when the golden west is burning,
Ere the twilight's earliest star,
Comes her mother, led by mortal yearning
Where the haunted forests are;--
Listens to the rapture wild
Of her vanished fairy child:
Ah, see her then, with smiles and tears, returning
From the sunset woods of Carr!
They feed her with the amber dew and honey,
They bathe her in the crystal spring,
They set her down in open spaces sunny,
And weave her an enchanted ring;
They will not let her beauty die,
Her innocence and purity;
They sweeten her fair brow with kisses many,
And ever round her dance and sing.
O do you hear the merry waters falling,
In the mossy woods of Carr?
O do you hear the child's voice, calling, calling,
Through its cloistral deeps afar?
Never thrill of plaintive pain
Mingles with that ceaseless strain;--
But still I hear her joyous calling, calling,
In the morning woods of Carr!
THE LONELY PINE
I
Remote, upon the sunset shrine
Of a green hill, a lonely pine
Beckons this hungry heart of mine.
"Draw near," it always seems to say,
Look thither whensoe'er I may
From the dull routine of my way:
"I hold for thee the heavens in trust;
My priestly branches toward thee thrust.
Absolve thy fret, assoil thy dust."
II
Yet if I come it heeds not me;
The stars amid the branches see
But lonely man and lonely tree,--
And lonely earth that holds in thrall
Her creatures, while Eve gathers all
To fold within her shadowy wall.
Now, with this spell around me thrown,
Dreaming of social pleasures flown,
I grieve, yet joy, to be alone;
While whispering through its solitude,
Far from its green-robed brotherhood,
The pine tree shares my wonted mood.
It museth that felicity
Which, being not, we deem may be,
And mingles hope and certainty.
III
In starry senate doth arise
The lumined spirit of the skies,
Walking with radiant ministries.
Yet in my lonely pine tree dwells,
When 'mid its breast the warm wind swells,
A prophet of sweet oracles.
Like a faint sea on far-off shore,
With its low elfin roll and roar,
It speaks one language evermore;--
One language, unconstrained and free,
The converse of the answering sea,
The old rune of Eternity.
Then, from this lonely sunset shrine,
I turn to toils and cares of mine,
And, grateful, bless my healing pine.
BURTON W. LOCKHART
_From_ "THE RETROSPECT"
O brothers! thro' how many lands
We've sought the Holy Grail!
Lo, here is truth! Lo, there she stands!--
Bow down, and cry, "All hail!"
Still she looks on us far withdrawn,
With stars and clouds bedight;
The vision of our spirit's dawn,
The watch-fire of our night.
Trust thy soul's highest vision--trust!
Think not to touch or taste:
Time's ancient mystery--poor dust!--
For thee will not make haste.
The noble still must seek the light;
The doctrinaire still raves;
But Faith holds fast, while the long night
Shines o'er our fathers' graves.
LOVE AND SONG
Love sayeth: Sing of me!
What else is worth a song?
I had refrained
Lest I should do Love wrong.
"Clean hands, and a pure heart,"
I prayed, "and I will sing:"
But all I gained
Brought to my word no wing.
Stars, sunshine, seas and skies,
Earth's graves, the holy hills,
Were all in vain;
No breath the dumb pipe fills.
I dreamed of splendid praise,
And Beauty watching by
Gray shores of Pain:
My song turned to a sigh.
I saw in virgin eyes
The mother warmth that makes
The dead earth quick
In ways no Spring awakes.
No song. In vain to sight
Life's clear arch heavenward sprang.
Heart still, or sick!
--_I loved! Ah, then I sang!_
BY THE GASPEREAU
Do you remember, dear, a night in June,
So long, so long ago,
When we were lovers, wandering with the moon,
Beside the Gaspereau?
The river plashed and gurgled thro' its glooms,
Slow stealing to the sea,
A silver serpent; in the apple blooms
The soft air rustled free.
And o'er the river from afar the sound
Of mellow tinkling bells
From browsing cattle stirred the echo round
In gentle falls and swells.
No sound of human sorrow, nor of mirth,
Streamed on that peace abroad,
And all the night leaned low upon the earth
Like the calm face of God.
And in our hearts there breathed, like life, a breath
Of most delicious pain:
It seemed a whisper ran from birth to death,
And back to birth again,
And bound in airy chains our shining hours,
Past, present, and to come,
In one sweet whole, strong to defy the powers
Of change, till Time be dumb.
Yes, you remember, dear, that night in June,
So long, so long ago,
When we were lovers, wandering with the moon,
Beside the Gaspereau.
JOHN E. LOGAN
THE INDIAN MAID'S LAMENT
A blood-red ring hung round the moon,
Hung round the moon. Ah me! Ah me!
I heard the piping of the Loon,
A wounded Loon. Ah me!
And yet the eagle feathers rare
I, trembling, wove in my brave's hair.
He left me in the early morn,
The early morn. Ah me! Ah me!
The feathers swayed like stately corn,
So like the corn. Ah me!
A fierce wind swept across the plain,
The stately corn was snapt in twain.
They crushed in blood the hated race,
The hated race. Ah me! Ah me!
I only clasped a cold, blind face,
His cold, dead face. Ah me!
A blood-red ring hangs in my sight,
I hear the Loon cry every night.
AGNES MAULE MACHAR
WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE
Sans peur et sans reproche!--our lion-heart
To whom we turn when other hopes betray,
When tyrant-might puts forth her power to slay
Young, struggling Freedom, with her poisoned dart,
And Britain hath forgot the nobler part
She played, as Freedom's champion,--that proud day
She led a world to break one despot's sway,--
And from her old traditions stands apart.
Milton hath gone, and Wordsworth,--but, through thee,
Still rings their hate of tyranny defied;
Still breathes the voice whose sound was "of the sea,"
And that one "of the mountains;"--far and wide
Their echoes roll, where'er true Britons be,
Or men for liberty have lived and died!
SCHILLER'S DYING VISION
("Many things are growing clearer.")
I
As the light beyond draws nearer,
Streaming from the farther shore,
Many things are growing clearer
I but dimly guessed before,--
How those legends quaint and olden
Veiled a truth beyond their ken,
In their tales of ages golden,
When immortals walked with men:
How, in symbol and in shadow,
Light through darkness dimly broke,
Poesy illumed the meadow,
And the woodland's music woke;
And the spirits, softly sighing
Through the forest, in the stream,
On the wind's swift pinions flying,
Were not all an idle dream!
Now I see how Faith immortal
Oft hath worn a fable's guise,
While she lingered at the portal
Of unfathomed mysteries;--
How the vague, half-conscious dreamings
Of earth's artless, questioning youth
Were but iridescent gleamings
From the inmost heart of Truth.
How the clear Hellenic vision
Read the soul in Nature's face,
And the gods of her tradition
Made the earth their dwelling place,--
Throned on peaks of hoary mountains,
Walking earth in form divine,
While, in spray of silvery fountains,
Naiads' gleaming tresses shine!
Dryads, in the forest-shadow,
Whispered light at eve and dawn,
And the fairies, on the meadow,
Danced a measure with the Faun:
Radiant forms to earth descending
In the moonlight, with the dew,--
Earthly grace with heavenly blending,--
Shone before the poet's view.
II
'Tis a truth profound that dwelleth
In these bright and broken gleams
Of the glory that excelleth
Noblest poet's fairest dreams!
For, with eyes no longer holden,
We may trace a presence bright
In the sunset's radiance golden,
In the dawn's pale rosy light;
In the beauty round us glowing,
And in Nature's wondrous course,
We may trace, with surer knowing,
Her eternal spring and source;
And, still more, the deathless story
Through the ages we may read,
How infinite Love and Glory
Bent themselves to human need,--
How the asphodel forever
Fades before the amaranth bright--
Light hath touched the Stygian river,
Dawn the Acherontian night!--
For we hear a voice supernal
Tell us Pluto's reign is o'er,
And the rays of Love eternal
Light our path for evermore!
Love and Hope and Truth and Duty
Guide the upward-striving soul,
Still evolving higher beauty
As the ages onward roll;
Till the light of consecration
Glorify earth's radiant clod,
And Life's highest Incarnation--
God in man--draw man to God!
LOVE AND FAITH
Faith spread her wings to seek the realms of day;
Unfathomable depths before her lay.
Hope drooped beside her, as there stretched afar,
Space beyond space, outreaching endlessly,
The faintest gleam of the remotest star.
Her heart grew faint, her wings flagged heavily;
Vain seemed the quest, and endless seemed the way.
Then Love cried out, with voice that pierced the night:
"Lo, I am here!" and straight all space was light;
Darkness had vanished, and the weary way
Was all forgotten in the vision bright--
For Faith had reached the glorious gates of day!
A MADONNA OF THE ENTRY
I
In a city of churches and chapels,
From belfry and spire and tower,
In the solemn and starlit silence,
The bells chimed the midnight hour.
Then in silvery tones of gladness
They rang in the Christmas morn--
The wonderful, mystical season
When Jesus Christ was born.
All thought of the Babe in the manger,
--The Child that knew no sin,
That hung on the breast of the mother
Who found no room in the inn!
All thought of the choir of angels
That swept through the darkness then,
To chant forth the glad evangel
Of peace and love to men!
II
In that city of churches and chapels
A mother crouched, hungry and cold,
In a bleak and cheerless entry,
With a babe in her nerveless hold.
Hungry and cold and weary,
She had paced the streets all night--
No room for _her_ in the city,
No food, no warmth, no light!
And just as the bells' glad chiming
Pealed in the Christmas day,
The angels came through the darkness,
And carried the babe away!
No room for one tiny infant
In that city of churches fair,--
But the Father hath "many mansions"
And room for the baby _there_!
EVAN MACCOLL
THE CHILD OF PROMISE
She died--as die the roses
On the ruddy clouds of dawn,
When the envious sun discloses
His flame, and morning's gone.
She died--like snow glad-gracing
Some sea-marge fair, when, lo!
Rude waves, each other chasing,
Quick hide it 'neath their flow.
She died--like snow fair showering
Some sea-marge, when, anon,
In comes the wave devouring--
The beautiful is gone.
She died--as dies the glory
Of music's sweetest swell:
She died--as dies the story
When the best is still to tell!
She died--as dies moon-beaming
When scowls the rayless wave;
She died--like sweetest dreaming
That hastens to its grave.
She died--and died she early;
Heaven wearied for its own.
As the dipping sun, my Mary,
Thy morning ray went down!
GLENORCHY
Talk not to me of Tempe's flowery vale,
With fair Glenorchy stretched before my view!
If of _its_ charms he sung, I would right well
Believe the Grecian poet's picture true.
What were his boasted groves in scent and hue
To lady-birches and the stately pine,
The crimsoned heather and the hare-bell blue?
Be his the laurel--the red heath be mine!
No faun nor dryad here I care to see,
More pleased by far to mark the bounding roe
Sport with his mate behind the forest tree;
Nor less the joy when in the glen below
Some milking Hebe sings her _luinneag_ free,
All hearts enchanting by its graceful glow.
ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD
A SONG OF SEASONS
Sing a song of Spring-time!
Catkins by the brook,
Adders-tongues uncounted,
Ferns in every nook;
The cataract on the hillside
Leaping like a fawn;
Sing a song of Spring-time,--
Ah, but Spring-time's gone!
Sing a song of Summer!
Flowers among the grass,
Clouds like fairy frigates,
Pools like looking-glass,
Moonlight through the branches,
Voices on the lawn;
Sing a song of summer,--
Ah, but Summer's gone!
Sing a song of Autumn!
Grain in golden sheaves,
Woodbine's crimson clusters
Round the cottage eaves,
Days of crystal clearness,
Frosted fields at dawn;
Sing a song of Autumn,--
Ah, but Autumn's gone!
Sing a song of Winter!
North-wind's bitter chill,
Home and ruddy firelight,
Kindness and good-will,
Hemlock in the churches,
Daytime soon withdrawn;
Sing a song of Winter,--
Ah, but Winter's gone!
Sing a song of loving!
Let the seasons go;
Hearts can make their gardens
Under sun or snow;
Fear no fading blossom,
Nor the dying day;
Sing a song of loving,--
That will last for aye!
JOHN MACFARLANE
THE TWO ANGELS
I stood and saw the angel of the dawn,
Whose rest had been in heaven the dark night through,
Pressing, with jewelled feet, the silent lawn
In radiant robes of dew.