Me interpret, were dreamed not in vain.
For this hour, O Love, was not meant,
With its rapture of peace, to endure,
Intense, calm, passionate, pure,--
My spirit with thy spirit blent
As the odor of flower and flower,
Of hyacinth blossom and rose.
Heart, spirit, and body, and brain,
Thou art utterly mine, as I thine;
But the love of the flesh, tho' at first
When I saw you and loved you it burst
With the love of the spirit one flame,
Neither greater nor less, but the same,
Is yet finite, attains not the height
Of the spirit enfranchised, and must
With the body slip back into dust.
Our soul-passion is deathless, divine.
So, we strike now the perfectest note
That man's heart is attuned to, attain
The white light of the zenith supreme,
Pierce the seventh and innermost sphere;
We are gods! Let us cast us adrift
From the world of the flesh and its power!
It is only a plunge, a quick roll
Of our skiff--I will gather and fold
You close, for the waters are cold,--
A few sobs, and we rise one soul,
Undissevered for ever and ever.
RECKONING.
What matter that the sad gray city sleeps,
Sodden with dull dreams, ill at ease, and snow
Still falling chokes the swollen drains! I know
That even with sun and summer not less creeps
My spirit thro' gloom, nor ever gains the steeps
Where Peace sits, inaccessible, yearned for so.
Well have I learned that from my breast my woe
Starts,--that as my own hand hath sown, it reaps.
I have had my measure of achievement, won
Most I have striven for; and at last remains
This one thing certain only, that who gains
Success hath gained it at too sore a cost,
If in his triumph hour his heart have lost
Youth, and have found its sorrow of age begun.
IN NOTRE DAME.
When first did I perceive you, when take heed
Of what is now so deep in heart and brain
That tears shall not efface it, nor the greed
Of time or fate destroy, nor scorn, nor pain?
Long summers back I trembled to the vision
Of your keen beauty,--a delirious sense
That he you loved might hold in like derision
Or Hell or Heaven, or sin or innocence.
This in my heart of hearts, while outwardly
Nor speech nor guarded glance my dream betrayed;
Till one day, so past thought you maddened me,
My dream escaped my lips, glad and afraid.
Afraid, where no fear was. For lo, the gift
(Worlds could not purchase it) was mine, was mine!
And oh, my Sweet, how swift we went adrift
On wild sweet waters, warmer-hued than wine!
My very eyes are dizzy with delight
At your recalled caresses. Peace, my heart!
She whom you beat so wild for lies to-night
From you too many bitter leagues apart.
Be calm, and I will talk to you of her;
And you shall listen, passionately still;
And as the pauses in my verse recur,
Think, heart, all this does fealty to your will!
All this,--a lithe and perfect-moulded form,
Instinct with subtle gesture, soft, intense.
Head small and queenlike, dainty feet that warm
Even the dull world's ways into rapturous sense.
Clear, broad, white forehead, crowned low down with hair
Darker than night, more soft than sleep or tears.
Nose neither small nor great, but straight, and fair.
Like naught but smooth sea-shells her delicate ears.
But how to tell about her mouth and eyes!
Her strange, sweet, maddening eyes, her subtle mouth!
Mouth in whose closure all love's sweetness lives,--
Eyes with the warm gleam of the lustrous south!
Fathomless dusk by night, the day lets in
Glimmer of emerald,--thus those eyes of hers!
Above the firm sweep of the moulded chin
The lips, than whose least kiss Heaven's gifts were worse.
Her bosom,--ah that now my head were laid!
Warm in that resting-place! But, heart, be still!
I will refrain, and break my dreams, afraid
To stir the yearning I can not fulfil.
Love, in the northern night of Brittany
Hear you no voice divide the night like flame?
In these gray walls the inmost soul of me
Is swooning with the music of your name.
NOCTURNE.
Soothe, soothe
The day-fall, soothe,
Till wrinkling winds and seas are smooth,--
Till yon low band
Of charméd strand
Puff seaward dreams from the inner land,--
Till, lapped in mild half-lights, our dream-blown boat
Is felt to float, to fall, to float.
A sundown rose
Delays and glows
O'er yon spired peak's remoter snows.
Uprolling soon
A red-ripe moon
Lolls in the pines in drowsed half-swoon;
And thin moon-shades pace out to us, and shift
Our visions as we drift, and drift.
From night-wide blooms
In coppice glooms
Set outward voyaging spice perfumes.
The slow-pulsed seas,
The shadowed trees,--
The night-spell holds us one with these,
Till, Love, we scarce know life from sleep,--we seem
To smile a little, dream, and dream.
TIDES.
Through the still dusk how sighs the ebb-tide out,
Reluctant for the reed-beds! Down the sands
It washes. Hark! Beyond the wan gray strand's
Low limits how the winding channels grieve,
Aware the evasive waters soon will leave
Them void amid the waste of desolate lands,
Where shadowless to the sky the marsh expands,
And the noon-heats must scar them, and the drought.
Yet soon for them the solacing tide returns
To quench their thirst of longing. Ah, not so
Works the stern law oar tides of life obey!
Ebbing in the night-watches swift away,
Scarce known ere fled forever is the flow;
And in parched channel still the shrunk stream mourns.
CONSOLATION.
Dear Heart, between us can be no farewell.
We have so long to live, so much to endure,
What ills despair might work us who can tell,
Had we not help in that one trust secure!
Time cannot sever, nor space keep long apart,
Those whom Love's sleepless yearning would draw near.
Fate bends unto the indomitable heart
And firm-fixt will.--What room have we for fear!
DARK.
Now, for the night is hushed and blind with rain,
My soul desires communion, Dear, with thee.
But hour by hour my spirit gets not free,--
Hour by still hour my longing strives in vain.
The thick dark hems me, ev'n to the restless brain.
The wind's confusion vague encumbers me.
Ev'n passionate memory, grown too faint to see
Thy features, stirs not in her straitening chain.
And thou, dost thou too feel this strange divorce
Of will from power? The spell of night and wind,
Baffling desire and dream, dost thou too find?
Not distance parts us, Dear; but this dim force,
Intangible, holds us helpless, hushed with pain,
Dumb with the dark, blind with the gusts of rain!
THE FOOTPATH.
Path by Which her feet have gone,
Still you climb the windy hill,
Still the hillside fronts the dawn,
Fronts the clustering village still.
On the bare hill-summit waves
Still the lonely poplar-tree.
Where the blue lake-water raves,
Still the plover pipe and flee.
Still you climb from windy pier,
Where the white gull drops and screams,
Through the village grown so dear,
Till you reach my heaven of dreams.
Ah, the place we used to meet,
I and she,--where sharp you turn,
Shun the curious village street,
Lurk thro' hollows, hide in fern!
Then; the old house, ample-eaved,
Night-long quiet beneath the stars,--
How the maples, many-leaved,
Screened us at the orchard bars!
Path by which her feet have gone,
Still you climb the windy hill;
Still the hillside fronts the dawn,
Fronts the clustering village still;
But no longer she, my own,
Treads you, save as dreams allow.
And these eyes in dreams alone
Dare to look upon you now.
TOUT OU RIEN.
Love, if you love me, love with heart and soul!
I am not liberal as some lovers are,
Accepting small return, and scanty dole,
Gratefully glad to worship from afar.
Ah, love me passionately, or not at all!
For love that counts the cost I have small need.
My fingers would with laughing scorn let fall
That poor half-love so many lovers heed.
Then be mine wholly,--body, soul, and brain!
Your memory shall outlive kings. For Time
Forgets his cunning and assails in vain
Her whose name rings along the poet's rhyme.
SALT.
O breath of wind and sea,
Bitter and clear,
Now my faint soul springs free,
Blown clean from fear!
O hard sweet strife, O sting
Of buffeting salt!
Doubt and despair take wing,
Failure, and fault.
I dread not wrath or wrong,--
Smile, and am free;
Strong while the winds are strong,
The rocks, the sea.
Heart of my heart, tho' life
Front us with storm,
Love will outlast the strife,
More pure, more warm.
KHARTOUM.
Set in the fierce red desert for a sword,
Drawn and deep-driven implacably! The tide
Of scorching sand that chafes thy landward side
Storming thy palms; and past thy front outpoured
The Nile's vast dread and wonder! Late there roared
(While far off paused the long war, long defied)
Mad tumult thro' thy streets; and Gordon died,
Slaughtered amid the yelling rebel horde!
Yet, spite of shame and wrathful tears, Khartoum,
We owe thee certain thanks, for thou hast shown
How still the one a thousand crowds outweighs,--
Still one man's mood sways millions,--one man's doom
Smites nations;--and our burning spirits own
Not sordid these nor unheroic days!
LIBERTY.
[From the French of Louis Honore Fréchette]
A child, I set the thirsting of my mouth
To the gold chalices of loves that craze.
Surely, alas, I have found therein but drouth,
Surely has sorrow darkened o'er my days.
While worldlings chase each other madly round
Their giddy track of frivolous gayety,
Dreamer, my dream earth's utmost longings bound:
One love alone is mine, my love is Liberty.
I have sung them all;--youth's lightsomeness that fleets,
Pure friendship, my most fondly cherished dreams,
Wild blossoms and the winds that steal their sweets,
Wood odors, and the star that whitely gleams.
But our hearts change; the spirit dulls its edge
In the chill contact with reality;
These vanished like the foam-bells on the sedge:
I sing one burden now, my song is Liberty.
I drench my spirit in ecstasy, consoled,
And my gaze trembles toward the azure arc,
When in the wide world-records I behold
Flame like a meteor God's finger thro' the dark
But if, at times, bowed over the abyss
Wherein man crawls toward immortality,--
Beholding here how sore his suffering is,
I make my prayer with tears, it is for Liberty.
TO THE MEMORY OF SIDNEY LANIER.
Sullenly falls the rain,
Still hangs the dripping leaf,
And ah, the pain!--
The slow, dull ache of my grief,
That throbs--"In vain, in vain,--
You have garnered your sheaf!"
You have garnered your sheaf, with the tares
Therein, and unripe wheat,--
All that Death spares,
Who has come with too swift feet,
Not turning for any prayers
Nor all who entreat.
They entreated with tears. But I--
Ah me, all I can say
Is only a cry!
I had loved you many a day,
Yet never had fate drawn nigh
My way to your way.
My spirit made swift with love
Went forth to you in your place
Far off and above
Tho' we met not face to face,
My Elder Brother, yet love
Had pierced through space!
ON READING THE POEMS OF SIDNEY LANIER.
Poet and Flute-player, that flute of thine
To me must ever seem thy perfect sign!
Tho' strenuously with breath divine inspired,
To thy strait law is due thy deathless line.
TO BLISS CARMAN,
WITH A COPY OF LANG'S "HELEN OF TROY."
This antique song, new sung in fashion new,
From me, half silent fallen, with love to you,
O singer of unvexed scenes and virgin themes
In strait, quaint, ancient metres, thronged with dreams!
A BALLADE OF PHILOMELA.
From gab of jay and chatter of crake
The dusk wood covered me utterly.
And here the tongue of the thrush was awake.
Flame-floods out of the low bright sky
Lighted the gloom with gold-brown dye,
Before dark; and a manifold chorussing
Arose of thrushes remote and nigh,--
For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.
Midmost a close green covert of brake
A brown bird listening silently
Sat; and I thought--"She grieves for the sake
Of Itylus,--for the stains that lie
In her heritage of sad memory."
But the thrushes were hushed at evening.
Then I waited to hear the brown bird try,--
For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.
And I said--"The thought of the thrushes Will shake
With rapture remembered her heart; and her shy
Tongue of the dear times dead will take
To make her a living song, when sigh
The soft night winds disburthened by.
Hark now!"--for the upraised quivering wing,
The throat exultant, I could descry,--
And the tongue of the singer needs must sing!
L'ENVOI.
But the bird dropped dead with only a cry.
I found its tongue was withered, poor thing!
Then I no whit wondered, for well knew I
That the heart of the singer will break or sing.
A HERALD.
Ere the Spring comes near
O'er the smoking hills,
Stirring a million rills
To laughter low and clear
Till winds are hushed to hear,--
Ere the eaves at noon
Thaw and drip, there flies
A herald thro' the skies
With promise of a boon--
Of birds and blossoms soon.
Subtle though it be,
Yet sweetly sure that word;
E'en such my heart hath heard
(Over life's frosty lea)
Of Immortality.
WINTER GERANIUMS.
O What avails the storm,
When o'er my sense this Magian flower enweaves
His charm of slumbrous summer, green and warm,
And laps me in his luxury of leaves!
O where the frost that chills,
Whilst these rich blooms burn red about my face,
Luring me out across the irised hills
Where Autumn broods o'er purple deeps of space!
A BREATHING TIME.
Here is a breathing time, and rest for a little season.
Here have I drained deep draughts out of the springs of life.
Here, as of old, while still unacquainted with toil and faintness,
Stretched are my veins with strength, fearless my heart and at peace.
I have come back from the crowd, the blinding strife and the tumult,
Pain, and the shadow of pain, sorrow in silence endured;
Fighting, at last I have fallen, and sought the breast of the Mother,--
Quite cast down I have crept close to the broad sweet earth.
Lo, out of failure triumph! Renewed the wavering courage,
Tense the unstrung nerves, steadfast the faltering knees
Weary no more, nor faint, nor grieved at heart, nor despairing,
Hushed in the earth's green lap, lulled to slumber and dreams!
BIRCH AND PADDLE.
TO BLISS CARMAN.
Friend, those delights of ours
Under the sun and showers,--
Athrough the noonday blue
Sliding our light canoe,
Or floating, hushed, at eve,
When the dim pine-tops grieve!
What tonic days were they
Where shy streams dart and play,--
Where rivers brown and strong
As caribou bound along,
Break into angry parle
Where wildcat rapids snarl,
Subside, and like a snake
Wind to the quiet lake!
We've paddled furtively,
Where giant boughs hide the sky,--
Have stolen, and held our breath,
Thro' coverts still as death,--
Have left with wing unstirred
The brooding phoebe-bird,
And hardly caused a care
In the water-spider's lair.
For love of his clear pipe
We've flushed the zigzag snipe,--
Have chased in wilful mood
The wood-duck's flapping brood,--
Have spied the antlered moose
Cropping the young green spruce,
And watched him till betrayed
By the kingfisher's sharp tirade.
Quitting the bodeful shades
We've run thro' sunnier glades,
And dropping craft and heed
Have bid our paddles speed.
Where the mad rapids chafe
We've shouted, steering safe,--
With sinew tense, nerve keen,
Shot thro' the roar, and seen,
With spirit wild as theirs,
The white waves leap-like hares.
And then, with souls grown clear
In that sweet atmosphere,
With influences serene
Our blood and brain washed clean,
We've idled down the breast
Of broadening tides at rest,
And marked the winds, the birds,
The bees, the far-off herds,
Into a drowsy tune
Transmute the afternoon.
So, Friend, with ears and eyes
Which shy divinities
Have opened with their kiss,
We need no balm but this,--
A little space for dreams
On care-unsullied streams,--
'Mid task and toil, a space
To dream on Nature's face!
AN ODE FOR THE CANADIAN CONFEDERACY.
Awake, my country, the hour is great with change!
Under this gloom which yet obscures the land,
From ice-blue strait and stern Laurentian range
To where giant peaks our western bounds command,
A deep voice stirs, vibrating in men's ears
As if their own hearts throbbed that thunder forth,
A sound wherein who hearkens wisely hears
The voice of the desire of this strong North,--
This North whose heart of fire
Yet knows not its desire
Clearly, but dreams, and murmurs in the dream.
The hour of dreams is done. Lo, on the hills the gleam!
Awake, my country, the hour of dreams is done!
Doubt not, nor dread the greatness of thy fate.
Tho' faint souls fear the keen confronting sun,
And fain would bid the morn of splendor wait;
Tho' dreamers, rapt in starry visions, cry
"Lo, yon thy future, yon thy faith, thy fame!"
And stretch vain hands to stars, thy fame is nigh,
Here in Canadian hearth, and home, and name;--
This name which yet shall grow
Till all the nations know
Us for a patriot people, heart and hand
Loyal to our native earth, our own Canadian land!
O strong hearts, guarding the birthright of our glory,
Worth your best blood this heritage that ye guard!
These mighty streams resplendent with our story,
These iron coasts by rage of seas unjarred,--
What fields of peace these bulwarks well secure!
What vales of plenty those calm floods supply!
Shall not our love this rough, sweet land make sure,
Her bounds preserve inviolate, though we die?
O strong hearts of the North,
Let flame your loyalty forth,
And put the craven and base to an open shame,
Till earth shall know the Child of Nations by her name!
THE QUELLING OF THE MOOSE.
A MELICETE LEGEND.
When tent was pitched, and supper done,
And forgotten were paddle, and rod, and gun,
And the low, bright planets, one by one,
Lit in the pine-tops their lamps of gold
To us by the fire, in our blankets rolled,
This was the story Sacòbi told--
"In those days came the moose from the east,
A monster out of the white north-east,
And as leaves before him were man and beast.
"The dark rock-hills of Saguenay
Are strong,--they were but straw in his way.
He leapt the St. Lawrence as in play.
"His breath was a storm and a flame; his feet
In the mountains thundered, fierce and fleet,
Till men's hearts were as milk, and ceased to beat.
"But in those days dwelt Clote Scarp with men.
It is long to wait till he comes again,--
But a Friend was near and could hear us, then!
"In his wigwam, built by the Oolastook,
Where the ash-trees over the water look,
A voice of trouble the stillness shook.
"He rose, and took his bow from the wall,
And listened; he heard his people's call
Pierce up from the villages one and all.
"From village to village he passed with cheer;
And the people followed; but when drew near
The stride of the moose, they fled in fear.
"Like smoke in a wind they fled at the last
But he in a pass of the hills stood fast,
And down at his feet his bow he cast.
"That terrible forehead, maned with flame,
He smote with his open hand,--and tame
As a dog the raging beast became.
"He smote with his open hand; and lo!
As shrinks in the rains of spring the snow,
So shrank the monster beneath that blow,
"Till scarce the bulk of a bull he stood.
And Clote Scarp led him down to the wood,
And gave him the tender shoots for food."
He ceased; and a voice said, "Understand
How huge a peril will shrink like sand,
When stayed by a prompt and steady hand!"
A SONG OF REGRET.
In the southward sky
The late swallows fly,
The low red willows
In the river quiver;
From the beeches nigh
Russet leaves sail by,
The tawny billows
In the chill wind shiver;
The beech-burrs burst,
And the nuts down-patter;
The red squirrels chatter
O'er the wealth disperst.
Yon carmine glare
Would the west outdare;--
'Tis the Fall attire
Of the maples flaming.
In the keen late air
Is an impulse rare,
A sting like fire,
A desire past naming.
But the crisp mists rise
And my heart falls a-sighing,--
Sighing, sighing
That the sweet time dies!
THE DEPARTING OF CLOTE SCARP.
It is so long ago; and men well nigh
Forget what gladness was, and how the earth
Gave corn in plenty, and the rivers fish,
And the woods meat, before he went away.
His going was on this wise.
All the works
And words and ways of men and beasts became
Evil, and all their thoughts continually
Were but of evil. Then he made a feast.
Upon the shore that is beside the sea
That takes the setting sun, he ordered it,
And called the beasts thereto. Only the men
He called not, seeing them evil utterly.
He fed the panther's crafty brood, and filled
The lean wolf's hunger; from the hollow tree
His honey stayed the bear's terrific jaws;
And the brown rabbit couched at peace, within
The circling shadow of the eagle's wings.
And when the feast was done he told them all
That now, because their ways were evil grown,
On that same day he must depart from them,
And they should look upon his face no more.
Then all the beasts were very sorrowful.
It was near sunset, and the wind was still,
And down the yellow shore a thin wave washed
Slowly; and Clote Scarp launched his birch canoe,
And spread his yellow sail, and moved from shore,
Though no wind followed, streaming in the sail,
Or roughening the clear waters after him.
And all the beasts stood by the shore, and watched.
Then to the west appeared a long red trail
Over the wave; and Clote Scarp sailed and sang
Till the canoe grew little like a bird,
And black, and vanished in the shining trail.
And when the beasts could see his form no more,
They still could hear him, singing as he sailed,
And still they listened, hanging down their heads
In long row, where the thin wave washed and fled.
But when the sound of singing died, and when
They lifted up their voices in their grief,
Lo! on the mouth of every beast a strange
New tongue! Then rose they all and fled apart,
Nor met again in council from that day.
A BREAK.
Oh, the scent of the hyacinth blossom!
The joy of that night,
But the grievous awaking!
The speed of my flight
Thro' the dawn redly breaking!
Gray lay the still sea;
Naked hillside and lea;
And gray with night frost
The wide garden I crossed!
But the hyacinth beds were a-bloom.
I stooped and plucked one--
In an instant 'twas done,--
And I heard, not far off, a gun boom!
In my bosom
I thrust the crushed blossom;
And turned, and looked back
Where She stood at her pane
Waving sadly farewell once again;
Then down the dim track
Fled amain,
With the flower in my bosom.
Oh, the scent of the hyacinth blossom!
TO A LADY,
AFTER HEARING HER READ KEATS' "NIGHTINGALE."
This supreme song of him who dreamed
All beauty, and whose heart foreknew
The anguish of vain longing, seemed
To breathe new mystery, breathed by you.
As if the rapture of the night,
Moon-tranced, and passion-still, were stirred
To some undreamed divine delight
By sudden singing of a bird!
RONDEAU.
TO LOUIS HONORE FRÉCHETTE.
Laurels for song! And nobler bays,
In old Olympian golden days
Of clamor thro' the clear-eyed morn,
No bowed triumphant head hath borne,
Victorious in all Hellas' gaze!
They watched his glowing axles graze
The goal, and rent the heavens with praise;--
Yet the supremer heads have worn
Laurels for song.
So thee, from no palaestra-plays
A conqueror, to the gods we raise,
Whose brows of all our singers born
The sacred fillets chief adorn,--
Who first of all our choir displays
Laurels for song.
A BIRTHDAY BALLADE.
All deserted to wind and to sun
You have left the dear, dusky canoe.
The amber cool currents still run,
But our paddle forgets to pursue.
Our river wears still the rare blue,
But its sparkle seems somehow less gay;
It confides me this greeting for you--
Many Happy Returns of the Day!
Where's the mirth that with morn was begun,
Nor dreaded the dark and the dew?
Some sweet thieves have made off with our fun!
Would our paddles were free to pursue!
Ah, could we but catch them anew,
Clip their wings, forbid them to stray,
Then more blithely we'd sing than we do--
Many Happy Returns of the Day!
Dear remembrances die, one by one,
So cunning Time's craft to undo!
But ours must be never undone.
Oft again must the paddle pursue,
Oft the treasured impression renew!
Then, return our Acadian way,
For our days of delight were too few--
Many Happy Returns of the Day!
L'ENVOI.
Now an easy enigma or two
This ballade is devised to convey.
Unto you, and us lonely ones too,
Many Happy Returns of the Day!
TO S---- M----.
The disciple of Master Herrick returneth thanks for the gift of a band
of pansies for his hat.
I.
Never poet
From Musaeus down,
Crowned with rose, or myrtle-wreath, or laurel,
Had of daintier hand
Dearer trophy!
Therefore (know it,
Castaly! and, Daphne's lover, quarrel!)
I for crown
Flout the bay and wear thy pansy-band,
Mistress Sophie.
II.
As these petals
Die not,
So the thought that settles
Softly in the purple petals
Fly not!
Half a memory, which a world of men
Can buy not,--
Half a prayer, that till we meet again
Thou sigh not!
LA BELLE TROMBONISTE.
How grave she sits and toots
In the glare!
From her dainty bits of boots
To her hair
Not the sign remotest shows
If she either cares or knows
How the beer-imbibing beaux
Sit and stare.
They're most prodigal with sighs,
Or they laugh;
Or they cast adoring eyes
As they quaff.
They exert their every wile
Her attention to beguile.
Do they ever win a smile?
Not by half!