Upbearing in his lifted hands on high
The scroll of destiny--of life and doom--
The night-watch passëd by.
But ere he turned his step from earth away
I gazed upon his countenance again,
And, lo! I thought upon his brow there lay
A shadow as of pain.
But he, the brother-angel of the day,
Bore on his breast the beaming star of hope,
And in his golden chalice balm, alway,
On bruisëd hearts to drop.
And so to men there cometh evermore
One angel fraught with promise, making glad;
And one who taketh from the stricken sore
Much anguish, wild and sad.
A GRAVE IN SAMOA
The wild birds strangely call,
And silent dawns and purple eves are here,
Where Southern stars upon his grave look down,
Calm-eyed and wondrous clear!
No strife his resting mars!
And yet we deem far off from tropic steeps
His spirit cleaves the pathway of the storm,
Where dark Tantallon keeps.
For still in plaintive woe,
By haunting mem'ry of his yearning led,
The wave-worn Mother of the misty strand
Mourns for her absent dead:
"_Ah! bear him gently home,
To where Dunedin's streets are quaint and gray,
And ruddy lights across the steaming rains
Shine soft at close of day!_"
A MIDSUMMER MADRIGAL
At the postern gate of Day
Stands Apollo, clad in light,
Trilling forth a summons gay
To the wrinkled warder Night:
"Ho! old laggard, what has kept?
Dost not hear this challenge mine?
Well I wot thy beard has dipt
In the wassail's ruddy wine.
Song and story, gibe and jest,
With thy boon companions all;
To the donjon of the West
Now betake thee, Seneschal.
Ward and watch, and vigil keen,
Still thy beacon fires confest,
Blazing in the blue serene;
Hie thee, warrior, to thy rest!"
And in armor silver-dight,
As becomes a knight to win,
At the postern held by Night
Crowned Apollo enters in.
KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN
BALLAD OF THE MAD LADYE
The rowan tree grows by the tower foot,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
Can the dead feel joy or pain?_)
And the owls in the ivy blink and hoot,
And the sea-waves bubble around its root,
Where kelp and tangle and sea-shells be,
When the bat in the dark flies silently.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)
The ladye sits in the turret alone,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
The dead--can they complain?_)
And her long hair down to her knee has grown,
And her hand is cold as a hand of stone,
And wan as a hand of flesh may be,
While the bird in the bower sings merrily.
(_Hark to the wind and rain!_)
Sadly she leans by her casement side,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
Can the dead arise again?_)
And watcheth the ebbing and flowing tide,
But her eye is dim, and the sea is wide;
The fisherman's sail and the cloud flies free,
And the bird is mute in the rowan tree.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)
The moon shone in on the turret stair,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
The dead are bound with a chain._)
And touched her cheek and brightened her hair,
And found naught else in the world so fair,
So ghostly fair as the mad ladye,
While the bird in the bower sang lonesomely.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)
The weary days and the months crept on,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
The words of the dead are vain._)
At last the summer was over and gone,
And still she sat in her turret alone,
Her white hands clasping about her knee,
And the bird was mute in the rowan tree.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)
Wild was the sound of the wind and the sleet,
(_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
The dead--do they walk again?_)
Wilder the roar of the surf that beat;
Whose was the form that it bore to her feet,
Swayed with the swell of the unquiet sea,
While the raven croaked in the rowan tree?
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)
O Ladye, strange is the silent guest--
(_Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea,
Can the dead feel sorrow or pain?_)
With the sea-drenched locks and the pulseless breast,
And the close-shut lips which thine have pressed,
And the wild sad eyes that heed not thee,
While the raven croaks in the rowan-tree.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)
The tower is dark, and the doors are wide,
(_Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea,
The dead are at peace again._)
Into the harbor the fisher boats ride,
But two went out with the ebbing tide,
Without sail, without oar, full fast and free,
And the raven croaks in the rowan tree.
(_Hark to the wind and the rain!_)
BIRD SONG
Art thou not sweet,
Oh, world, and glad to the inmost heart of thee!
All creatures rejoice
With one rapturous voice,
As I, with the passionate beat
Of my over-full heart, feel sweet,
And all things that live, and are part of thee!
Light, light as a cloud,
Swimming, and trailing its shadow under me,
I float in the deep
As a bird-dream in sleep,
And hear the wind murmuring loud,
Far down, where the tree-tops are bowed,--
And I see where the secret place of the thunders be.
Oh! the sky free and wide,
With all the cloud-banners flung out in it!
Its singing wind blows
As a grand river flows,
And I swim down its rhythmical tide,
And still the horizon spreads wide,
With the birds' and the poets' songs like a shout in it!
Oh, life, thou art sweet!
Sweet, sweet to the inmost heart of thee!
I drink with my eyes
Thy limitless skies,
And I feel with the rapturous beat
Of my wings thou art sweet,--
And I,--I am alive, and a part of thee!
ELIZABETH S. MACLEOD
ALEXANDER MACKENZIE
Draw nigh with reverence, Canada!
Beyond all strain of mortal toil
He lieth, with unstainëd crest,
Calm-sleeping on his chosen soil.
No higher boon may patriot crave
Than grateful country's honest tear;
Whilst Faith, outreaching 'yond the grave,
With stainless emblem decks the bier.
Rare mind! firm as the granite stone
From out thy much-loved Scottish hills;
Soul, clear as sunlight's upper zone
When smiling o'er Canadian rills!
Oh, well for thee, belovëd land,
That, ripening to thy golden prime,
Stout hearts, and faithful, held thine hand
And led thee on to ampler time.
Embalm his memory, Canada!
Nor taint with ill his honored name,
Who loved thee dearer than his life;
Who, serving thee, rejected fame.
Not now!--through many an after year,
In cool, calm retrospect of time,
Shall all his sterling worth appear,
In grandeur fitting and sublime.
Though stilled the aims of lofty end,
Though leaders in the field lie low,
Heaven's purposes shall onward tend,
As ocean wavelets shoreward flow.
Wail not! he walketh in the light;
His work, imbued with high intent,
Doth magnify a country's might,
And build his fairest monument.
A. D. MACNEILL
THE SEA-GULL
Fair bird, whose silvery pinions sweep
The hoary bosom of the deep,
Or braced against the raging gale
Across the vast of heaven sail,
I hold thee as a symbol dear
Of loving hearts who persevere
Amid the woes of life, and brave
Temptation's dark and forceful wave,
That sweeps across us unawares;
And swooping gusts of froward cares
That shrewdly vex us. But again,
When throned upon the tranquil tide
In snowy robe unflecked of stain,
You seem a soul beatified.
DONALD M'CAIG
THE TRAMP
On a stone by the wayside, half-naked and cold,
And soured in the struggle of life,
With his parchment envelope grown wrinkled and old,
Sat the Tramp, with his crust and his knife.
And the leaves of the forest fell round him in showers,--
And the sharp, stinging flurries of snow,
That had warned off the robins to summer bowers,
Admonished him, too, he should go.
But Autumn had gone, having gathered her sheaves,
And the glories of Summer were past;
And Spring, with the swallows that built in the eaves,
Had left him the weakest and last!
So he sat there alone, for the world could not heal
A disease without pain, without care,--
Without joy, without hope, too insensate to feel,--
Too utterly lost for despair!
But he thought, while the night, and the darkness, and gloom,
That gathered around him so fast,
Hid the moon and the stars in their cloud-shrouded tomb,
Of the fair, but the far-distant past!
Around him a vision of beauty arose,
Unpainted, unpencilled by art,--
His home, father, mother, sweet peace and repose,
From the sad _repertoire_ of the heart.
And brightly the visions came gliding along
Through the warm golden gates of the day,--
With voices of childhood, and music and song,
Like echoes from lands far away.
And the glad ringing laughter of girlhood was there,
And one 'mong the others so dear
That o'er his life's record, too black for despair,
Flowed the sad sacred joy of a tear!
And he held, while he listened, his crust half consumed,
In his cold, shrivelled hand, growing weak,
While a glory shone round him that warmed and illumed
The few frozen tears on his cheek.
In the dark, silent night, thus his spirit had flown,
Like the sigh of a low passing breath;--
Life's bubble had burst, and another gone down
In the deep, shoreless ocean of death.
In the bright waking morn, by the side of the way,
On the crisp, frozen leaves shed around,
The knife, and the crust, and the casket of clay,
Which the tramp left behind him, were found!
And bound round his neck, as he lay there alone,
Was the image, both youthful and fair,
Of a sweet, laughing girl, with a blue ribbon zone,
And a single white rose in her hair.
Was he loved? Was she wed? Was she daughter or wife,
Or sister? The world may not read
Her story or his. They are lost with the life--
Recorded, "A tramp was found dead!"
"Found dead by the way," in the gloom and the cold--
The boy whom a mother had kissed,
The son whom a father could proudly enfold,
The brother a sister had missed!
"Found dead by the way!" whom a maiden's first love
Had hallowed--e'en worshipped in part,
And clothed in a light from the glory above,
To enshrine in her pure virgin heart!
Found dead, and alone, by the way where he died,
To be thrown, like a dog, in his lair!
Yet he peacefully sleeps, as the stone by his side,
And rich as the proud millionaire?
JAMES M'CARROLL
A ROYAL RACE
Among the fine old kings that reign
Upon a simple wooden throne,
There's one with but a small domain,
Yet, mark you, it is all his own.
And though upon his rustic towers
No ancient standard waves its wing,
Thick leafy banners, flushed with flowers,
From all the fragrant casements swing.
And here, in royal homespun, bow
His nut-brown court, at night and morn,--
The bronzed Field-Marshal of the Plough,
The Chancellor of the Wheat and Corn,
The Keeper of the Golden Stacks,
The Mistress of the Milking-Pail,
The bold Knights of the Ringing-Axe,
The Heralds of the Sounding Flail,
The Ladies of the New-Mown Hay,
The Master of the Spade and Hoe,
The Minstrels of the Glorious Lay
That all the Sons of Freedom know.
And thus, while on the seasons roll,
He wins from the inspiring sod
The brawny arm and noble soul
That serve his country and his God.
DAWN
With folded wings of dusky light
Upon the purple hills she stands,
An angel between day and night,
With tinted shadows in her hands--
Till suddenly transfigured there,
With all her dazzling plumes unfurled,
She climbs the crimson-flooded air,
And flies in glory o'er the world.
THE GRAY LINNET
There's a little gray friar in yonder green bush,
Clothed in sackcloth--a little gray friar
Like a druid of old in his temple--but hush!
He's at vespers; you must not go nigher.
Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies,
And around us so wantonly float,
Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread flies
From the silvery reel of his throat?
When he roams, though he stains not his path through the air
With the splendor of tropical wings,
All the lustre denied to his russet plumes there
Flashes forth through his lay when he sings;
For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise,
Though in such a plain garb he appears,
That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes,
He steals in through the gates of your ears.
But the cheat!--'tis not heaven he's warbling about--
Other passions, less holy, betide--
For, behold, there's a little gray nun peeping out
From a bunch of green leaves at his side.
WILLIAM M'DONNELL
_From_ "MANITA"
As time past onwards, day by day
Manita by the grave would stay;
And often she would steal by night
To that lone spot to glad her sight ...
And many came to hear the song
She sung at times the whole day long.
She fancied, too, that flowers and birds
Were listening to its tender words,
And that at night the dreaming moon
Sent echoes to her simple tune--
It was a loving lay to cheer
While Ogemah lay sleeping near:
"I have a little friend
Up in the tall pine tree.
In the sunny air he sings,
Sits and sings with folded wings,
Sings low and soft down by the lake,
Lest he should Ogemah awake.
I have a pretty friend,
The redbreast in the tree.
All day for me he sings,
Word from Ogemah he brings,
And often warbles by the lake
To see if he is yet awake."
BERNARD M'EVOY
A PHOTOGRAPH IN A SHOP WINDOW
Through a Gethsemane of city streets,
Whose ministering angels seemed from hell,
And ever stabbed me with their venomed darts,
Till soul and body writhed in misery,
I strayed--a hunted mortal--sport of Fate.
Then, when 'twas worst, behold thy pictured face!
Calm, peaceful, resolute; thy comrades true
Around thee, "helmed and tall;" ah! then I knew
How angels strengthen us in time of need,
And from thy face drew solace for my smart.
REVISED PROOFS
I watch the printer's clever hand
Pick up the type from here and there--
Make it in ordered row to stand,
And gather it with practised care.
Maybe 'twill make the poet's page,
The leaf of some romantic book,
The sheet that chronicles the age,
The tome on which the sage shall look.
But ah! not yet; full well he knows
No printer lives from error free;
And in those neat and serried rows
Are letters that ought not to be.
He takes his proof-sheet with a sigh,
Deleting here, and adding there,
Till not the keenest reader's eye
But must confess the whole is fair.
And shall the pages of our lives--
Letter by letter daily set--
Be subject, when the end arrives,
To no revising process yet?
Sometimes our eyes are blurred with tears,
Sometimes our hands with passion shake,
Sometimes a tempting Devil leers
At all the errors that we make.
Forbid, O God! that work so vain
Shall stand in an eternal scroll--
With faults of sin, and joy, and pain--
As long as future ages roll!
THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE
OUR LADYE OF THE SNOW
I
If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead
Where, emblem of our holy creed,
Canadian crosses glow--
There you may hear what here you read,
And seek in witness of the deed
_Our Ladye of the Snow_![A]
In the old times when France held sway
From the Balize to Hudson's Bay,
O'er all the forest free,
A noble Breton cavalier
Had made his home for many a year
Beside the Rivers three.
To tempest and to trouble proof
Rose in the wild his glittering roof,
To every traveller dear;
The Breton song, the Breton dance,
The very atmosphere of France,
Diffused a generous cheer.
Strange sight that on those fields of snow
The genial vine of Gaul should grow
Despite the frigid sky!
Strange power of Man's all-conquering will,
That here the hearty Frank can still
A Frenchman live and die!
[A] The church of _Notre Dame des Neiges_, (now) behind Mount
Royal.
II
The Seigneur's hair was ashen grey,
But his good heart held holiday,
As when in youthful pride
He bared his shining blade before
De Tracey's regiment on the shore
Which France has glorified.
Gay in the field, glad in the hall,
The first at danger's frontier call,--
The humblest devotee
Of God and of St Catharine dear
Was the stout Breton cavalier
Beside the Rivers three.
When bleak December's chilly blast
Fettered the flowing waters fast,
And swept the frozen plain--
When with a frightened cry, half heard,
Far southward fled the arctic bird,
Proclaiming winter's reign--
His custom was, come foul, come fair,
For Christmas duties to repair,
Unto the _Ville Marie_,
The city of the mount, which north
Of the great River looketh forth
Across its sylvan sea.
Fast fell the snow, and soft as sleep,
The hillocks looked like frozen sheep,
Like giants grey the hills--
The sailing pine seemed canvas-spread,
With its white burden over-head,
And marble hard the rills.
A thick dull light, where ray was none
Of moon or star, or cheerful sun,
Obscurely showed the way--
While merrily upon the blast
The jingling horse-bells, pattering fast,
Timed the glad roundelay.
Swift eve came on, and faster fell
The winnowed storm on ridge and dell,
Effacing shape and sign--
Until the scene grew blank at last,
As when some seaman from the mast
Looks o'er the shoreless brine.
Nor marvel aught to find ere long
In such a scene the death of song
Upon the bravest lips--
The empty only could be loud
When Nature fronts us in her shroud
Beneath the sky's eclipse.
Nor marvel more to find the steed,
Though famed for spirit and for speed,
Drag on a painful pace--
With drooping crest and faltering foot,
And painful whine, the weary brute
Seems conscious of disgrace;
Until he paused with mortal fear,
Then plaintive sank upon the mere
Stiff as a steed of stone--
In vain the master winds his horn,
None save the howling wolves forlorn
Attend the dying roan.
III
Sad was the heart and sore the plight
Of the benumbed, bewildered knight
Now scrambling through the storm.
At every step he sank apace--
The death dew freezing on his face--
In vain each loud alarm!
The torpid echoes of the Rock
Answered with one unearthly mock
Of danger round about!
Then, muffled in their snowy robes,
Retiring sought their bleak abodes,
And gave no second shout.
Down on his knees himself he cast,
Deeming that hour to be his last,
Yet mindful of his faith--
He prayed St Catharine and St John,
And our dear Ladye called upon
For grace of happy death.
When lo! a light beneath the trees,
Which clank their brilliants in the breeze,
And lo! a phantom fair
As God's in heaven! by that blest light
Our Ladye's self rose to his sight,
In robes that spirits wear!
Oh! lovelier, lovelier far than pen,
Or tongue, or art, or fancy's ken
Can picture, was her face--
Gone was the sorrow of the sword,
And the last passion of our Lord
Had left no living trace!
As when the moon across the moor
Points the lost peasant to his door,
And glistens on his pane--
Or when along her trail of light
Belated boatmen steer at night,
A harbor to regain--
So the warm radiance from her hands
Unbind for him Death's icy bands,
And nerve the sinking heart--
Her presence makes a perfect path.
Ah! he who such a helper hath
May anywhere depart.
All trembling, as she onward smiled,
Followed that Knight our mother mild,
Vowing a grateful vow--
Until, far down the mountain gorge,
She led him to the antique forge
Where her own shrine stands now.
If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead
Where, emblem of our holy creed,
Canadian crosses glow--
There you may hear what here you read,
And seek, in witness of the deed,
_Our Ladye of the Snow_!
WILLIAM P. M'KENZIE
MOONLIGHT
So tremulous the flame of thinking burns
Beneath mine eyelids, that I may not keep
My restless couch; I watch the still moon sweep
Through starry space, like some white soul that spurns
Earth-life, and to the sunlight ever turns;
In her cool beams my burning eyes I steep--
Oh, that my spirit thus may rest in sleep
When my pale ashes mother Earth inurns!
And as the moonlight quieteth unrest,
Changing thought's scorching glow to truth's pure light,
So Thou, who art my heart's most holy guest,
Dost make its ruddy flame glow spirit white;
And like pure-hearted child 'mid happy dreams,
I rest my heart and soul in Thy love-beams.
GABRIELLE
'Tis the sound of a silver-toned bell:
_Gabrielle_,--
And a gladness the chime doth foretell,
_Gabrielle_;
As music that thrilled once floats back to the mind,
And tells of a joy yet to grasp, yet to find,
So thy name seems to come on the wind,
_Gabrielle_!
I find in its musical swell,
_Gabrielle_,
A charm evil passions to quell,
_Gabrielle_;
When I utter thy name all the might is destroyed
Of the glittering shapes in the dark that annoyed,
And they flit back again to the void,
_Gabrielle_!
Thy name holds my heart by a spell,
_Gabrielle_!
In my life thy sweet music shall dwell,
_Gabrielle_!
As one with a vision celestial in sight,
The vision of love hath redoubled my might,
And my eyes mirror heavenly light,
_Gabrielle_!
THE MOTHER'S SONG
_Come, O Sleep, from Chio's isle,
Take my little one awhile._--GREEK FOLK-SONG.
Come hither, Sleep, from Chio's isle!
My wakeful babe canst thou beguile?
Let rose of dawn be on the cheek,
On sweet lips parted as to speak,
But bring a twilight o'er these eyes
As bright and blue as summer skies.
Then swing the cradle to and fro
Till all the wingëd shadows go;
Like drowsy flower my baby sway
Until my daughter hails the day.
Come hither, Sleep, from Chio's isle!
Take thou my little one awhile,
And twine soft fabric of the night
O'er merry eyes that glance too bright;
Make silent thou the laughter sound,
But leave the smile, and dimple round,
And rock my baby on thy breast
Like wee bird swaying in the nest;
At morning bring her fresh as day,
Then on a sunbeam fly away.
LULLABY SONG
Where does my sweetheart Baby go
While the cradle is swinging her to and fro,--
While Mother is singing a lullaby
In a voice like none other, so sweet and low?
_Lullaby Baby, lullaby dear!
Yield thee to slumber, Mother is near;
Far on Sleep's ocean fear not to go,
God is around thee, loving thee so!_
Does she fly away to the home of Night,
When eyelids droop over blue eyes bright?
Does she seek the place where the dreams are born,
Clad in her dreaming-dress of white?
Her cradle sways like a fairy boat
On the gentle Slumber river afloat,
That bears on its bosom a baby fleet,
As the sunbeam many a shining mote.
So swiftly the babies are sweeping along
As if a breeze in the sail blew strong,
Yet no waves beat, for it is not the wind
But the crooning of many a mother-song.
Down Slumber river their course they keep,
Until they come to the sea of Sleep;
And the mermaids tell them of wonderful things,
For they are the dreams that arise from the deep.
ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN
INDIAN SUMMER
Down from the blue the sun has driven,
And stands between the earth and heaven,
In robes of smouldering flame:
A smoking cloud before him hung,
A mystic veil, for which no tongue
Of earth can find a name;
And o'er him bends the vault of blue,
With shadowy faces looking through
The azure deep profound;
The stillness of eternity,--
A glory and a mystery,
Encompass him around.
The air is thick with golden haze,
The woods are in a dreamy maze,
The air enchanted seems;
Have we not left the realms of care,
And entered in the regions fair
We see in blissful dreams?
O, what a sacred stillness broods
Above the awful solitudes!
Peace hangs with dove-like mien;
She's on the earth, she's in the air,
O, she is brooding everywhere--
Sole spirit of the scene!
And yonder youths and maidens seem
As moving in a heavenly dream,
Through regions rich and rare;
Have not their very garments caught
A tone of spiritual thought,
A still, a Sabbath air?
Yon cabins by the forest side
Are all transformed and glorified!
O, surely grief nor care,
Nor poverty with strife and din,
Nor anything like vulgar sin,
Can ever enter there!
The ox, let loose to roam at will,
Is lying by the water still;
And on yon spot of green
The very herd forget to graze,
And look in wonder and amaze
Upon the mystic scene.
And yonder Lake Ontario lies,
As if that wonder and surprise
Had hushed her heaving breast--
And lies there with her awful eye
Fixed on the quiet of the sky
Like passion soothed to rest;
Yon very maple feels the hush--
That trance of wonder, that doth rush
Through nature everywhere--
And meek and saint-like there she stands
With upturned eye and folded hands,
As if in silent prayer.
O Indian Summer, there's in thee
A stillness, a serenity--
A spirit pure and holy,
Which makes October's gorgeous train
Seem but a pageant light and vain,
Untouched by melancholy!
But who can paint the deep serene--
The holy stillness of thy mien--
The calm that's in thy face,
Which make us feel, despite of strife,
And all the turmoil of our life--
Earth is a holy place?
Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee,
Here, in thy forest sanctuary
We'll learn thy simple lore;
And neither poverty nor pain,
The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain,
Shall ever vex us more.
BOBOLINK
Merry mad-cap on the tree,
Who so happy are as thee!
Is there aught so full of fun,
Half so happy 'neath the sun,
With thy merry whiskodink--
Bobolink! Bobolink!