That death should hasten after,
The dimples played within your cheek,
Your lips were made for laughter.
To you the great world was a place
That care might never stay in,
A playground built by God's good grace
For glad young folks to play in.
You made your footpath by life's flowers,
O happy, care-free maiden!
The sky was full of shine and showers,
The wind was perfume laden.
Your dimpled hands are folded now
Upon your snowy bosom,
The dark hair nestles on your brow--
O tender, broken blossom!
The white lids hide your eyes so clear,
So mirthful, so beguiling,
But as my tears fall on you, dear,
Your lips seem softly smiling.
And do you feel that it is home,
The city far above us?
And were they glad to have you come?
And will you cease to love us?
Methinks when you stand all in white
To learn each sweet new duty,
Some eye will note, with keen delight,
Your radiance and beauty.
And when your laughter softly rings
Out where God's streets do glisten,
The angels fair will fold their wings
And still their song to listen.
THE WAY TO DREAMLAND
With an angel flower-laden, every day a dimpled maiden
Sails away from off my bosom on a radiant sea of bliss;
I can see her drifting, drifting, hear the snowy wings uplifting
As he woos her into Dreamland with a kiss.
Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper, guarded by an angel keeper,
List'ning to the words he brings thee from a fairer world than this;
Sweet! thy heart he is beguiling, I can tell it by thy smiling,
As he woos thee into Dreamland with a kiss.
Could there come to weary mortals such a glimpse through golden
portals,
Would we not drift on forever toward the longed-for land of peace,
jean Would we not leave joys and sorrows,
Glad to-days and sad to-morrows,
For the sound of white wings lifting, and the kiss?
HER MISSION.
She is so winsome and so wise
She sways me at her will,
And oft the question will arise,
What mission does she fill?
O then I say with pride untold,
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me--
For me,
She just keeps house for me!
A full content dwells on her face,
She's quite in love with life,
And for a title wears with grace
The sweet old-fashioned "wife."
Our children climb upon her knee,
And nestle on her breast,
And ah! her mission seems to me
The grandest and the best.
O then I say with pride untold,
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me--
For me,
She just keeps house for me!
FRIEND OR FOE?
There's a man I know--
A likeable man--
Whom you meanly wound
Whenever you can,
Remark with malice
His task is done ill,
He's poor of judgment
And weak of will.
I implore you, now,
As that poor man's friend,
Let persecution
Have speediest end.
Cease taunting the man
With blunders he makes,
Cease harping alway
On wrongs and mistakes.
Come, be his good friend--
Hail fellow, well met--
His failures forgive,
And his faults forget.
Who is the man you've
Discouraged and blamed?
The man is _yourself_--
Are you not ashamed?
For faults of the past
Make ample amends,
And you and yourself
Be the best of friends.
THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD.
O the hills of purple heather,
And the skies so warm and gray!
O the shimmer of the sea-mist
In the sea-wind far away!
O the calling of the torrent,
Sweeping down Ben Vorlich's side,
And my white flocks faring foldward
In the hush of eventide!
CHRISTMAS CONVERSION.
I can see her in the kitchen,
Apron on and sleeves rolled up,
Measurin' spices in a teaspoon,
Figs and raisins in a cup.
Now she's throwin' apple quarters
In that wooden bowl of hers,
'Long with lemon peel and orange,
An' she stirs, an' stirs, an' stirs.
Then she takes her knife an' chops it,
Chops so fast her hand jest flies.
Now I know what ma is up to--
Makin' mincemeat for the pies.
I smell Christmas in our kitchen,
An' my heart gets big an' glad,
An' I, somehow, fall to wishin',
That I wasn't quite so bad.
An' I tell myself I'll never
Cheat at marbles any more,
Nor make faces at my teacher,
Nor hang round the corner store
'Stead of goin' on my errands;
Never touch the cookie pail,
Nor play hooky an' go skatin',
Nor tie cans on Rover's tail;
Never let ma think it's spellings
When it's only Robin Hood.
With the gladness comes the wishin'
To be, oh, just awful good!
'Bout this time of year it takes me--
Pa, he doesn't understand,
Always says: "You sly young codger,
You know Christmas is at hand."
But it isn't that, it's something--
Can't explain it very well--
Takes me when ma fills the kitchen
With this juicy Christmas smell.
When she chops the spice an' raisins,
With the peels an' Northern Spies,
Sleeves rolled up above her elbows,
Makin' mincemeat for the pies.
A BIT O' SHAMROCK.
We met her on the hillside green
Below old Castle Blarney;
Her name, she whispered, was Eileen,
Her home it was Killarney.
I see her yet, her Irish eyes
Blue gray as seas in summer,
And hear her welcome, on this wise,
Vouchsafed to each new-comer:
"I'll guide ye up the stairway steep,
And naught will ye be missing
O' battlement or donjon keep,
Or blarney stone for kissing.
"The tower that was McCarthy's pride,
The scene o' battles thrilling,
And where the Desmond kept his bride--
Me fee is but a shilling.
"Here's for ye, now, a keepsake charm"--
Her low tones grow caressing--
"A bit o' shamrock green and warm,
To bring ye luck and blessing."
The "keepsake charm"--I have it yet--
A thing of guile and blarney;
Each green leaf dares me to forget
Fair Eileen o' Killarney.
SLANDER.
He does the devil's basest work, no less,
Who deals in calumnies--who throws the mire
On snowy robes whose hem he dare not press
His foul lips to. The pity of it! Liar,
Yet half believed by such as deem the good
Or evil but the outcome of a mood.
That one who, with the breath lent him by Heaven,
Speaks words that on some white soul do reflect,
Is lost to decency, and should be driven
Outside the pale of honest men's respect.
O slanderer, hell's imps must say of you:
"He does the work we are ashamed to do!"
ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.
"_Poet by the grace of God._"
You sing of winter gray and chill,
Of silent stream and frozen lake,
Of naked woods, and winds that wake
To shriek and sob o'er vale and hill.
And straight we breathe the bracing air,
And see stretched out before our eyes
A white world spanned by brooding skies,
And snowflakes drifting everywhere.
You sing of tender things and sweet,
Of field, of brook, of flower, of bush,
The lilt of bird, the sunset flush,
The scarlet poppies in the wheat.
Until we feel the gleam and glow
Of summer pulsing through our veins,
And hear the patter of the rains,
And watch the green things sprout and grow.
You sing of joy, and we do mark
How glad a thing is life, and dear;
Of sorrow, and we seem to hear
The sound of sobbing in the dark.
The subtle power to sway and move,
The stamp of genius strong and true,
This, friend, was heaven's gift to you,
This made you great and won you love.
Your song goes ringing clear and sweet--
Though on earth's bosom, bare and brown,
All willingly you laid you down,
The music is not incomplete.
Sleep on, it is not by the years
We measure life when all is done;
Your rest is earned, your laurels won;
Sleep, softly sleep, we say with tears.
A HINT.
Among the vivid green I see
A yellow leaf,
And yonder in the basswood tree
An empty nest swings lonesomely--
The wheat's in sheaf.
CHRYSANTHEMUM'S COURT.
They lift their faces to the light,
And aye they are a gallant band;
The queen of all is snowy white--
A stately thing, and tall and grand.
See, close beside, in yellow drest,
Is the prince consort of the hour;
A bit of God's own sunshine prest
Into a glorious golden flower!
And mark the courtiers' noble grace--
Gay courtiers these, in raiment fine--
Their satin doublets slashed with lace,
Their velvet cloaks as red as wine.
Each maid-in-waiting is most fair--
Note well the graces she unfurls--
The winds have tossed her fluffy hair,
And left it in a thousand curls.
And yonder quaint, old-fashioned one,
Arrayed in palest lavender,
Ah! few there are, when all is done,
In beauty can compare with her.
The pink--I've seen at eventide
A something very like to this,
A cloud adrift upon the sky,
All rosy from the sun's last kiss.
Without the court, the chill and gloom
Of autumn twilight o'er the land;
Within, the grandeur and the bloom
Of queen, of prince, and courtiers grand.
HER LITTLE WAY.
'Tis woman rules the whole world still,
Though faults the critics say she has;
She smiles her smile and works her will--
'Tis just a little way she has.
THE CRITICISM.
The great man came to the country place,
To preach to farmers sturdy;
He said: "I'm in my happiest vein,
I'll be eloquent and wordy."
"Not often a great man like myself
Comes here to do the teaching--
A big event in these quiet lives--
They'll not forget my preaching."
The great man found him a text at length
In Ezekiel's ponderous pages;
From point to point of his sermon long
He travelled at easy stages.
He soared up high in the realms of thought,
Was rich in allegory.
"I have," said he, as he sat him down,
"Covered myself with glory.
"These simple rustics are overcome
With my rhetoric and power,
They're used to a sprinkling of thought
And I've given them a shower."
The great man got a terrible shock
As, the long service over,
He walked with a farmer grave and staid
Home through the fields of clover.
"Your people--ah--were they much impressed
With my sermon?" he queried.
"Preaching with earnestness, power and force
Has left me sadly wearied."
"A worse would a done us country folks"--
The farmer's tone a terse one--
"That is," reflectively, "if you
Happened to have a worse one."
JESSIE.
You miss the touch of her dear hand,
Her laughter gay and sweet,
The dimpled cheek, the sunny smile,
The patter of her feet.
The loving glances she bestowed,
The tender tales she told--
The world, since she has gone away,
Seems empty, drear and cold.
Dear, oft you prayed that God would give
Your darling joy and grace,
That pain or loss might never dim
The brightness of her face.
That her young heart might keep its trust,
Its purity so white,
Its wealth of sweet unselfishness,
Her eyes their radiant light,
Her fair, soft face its innocence
Of every guile and wrong,
And nothing touch to mar the joy
And gladness of her song.
God heard the prayer; His answer came--
Now, cease thy murmuring, cease--
"Come, little one, come home," He said,
"Unto the Land of Peace!"
You sheltered her upon your breast,
The child so quaint and wise,
To-day, where sorrow is unknown,
She walks in paradise.
Her eyes have learned the mystery,
Her feet the vale have crost,
But, friend of mine, you'll find again
The treasure you have lost.
Your arms will surely clasp once more
The little fair-haired girl
Who waits for you within the gates
Of jasper and of pearl.
POYNINGS.
Do you remember that June day among
The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills?
Above, the straggling flocks of fleecy clouds
That skipped and chased each other merrily
In God's warm pasturage, the azure sky;
Below, the hills that stretched their mighty heads
As though they fain would neighbor with that sky.
Deep, vivid green, save where the flocks showed white;
The wise ewes hiding from the glow of noon
In shady spots, the short-wooled lambs at play,
And over all the stillness of the hills,
The sweet and solemn stillness of the hills.
The shepherds gave us just such looks of mild
Surprise as did the sheep they shepherded.
"Ye are not of the hills," so said the looks,
"Not of our kind, but strangers come from out
The busy, bustling world to taste the sweets
Of silence and of peace. We wish you well."
In eager quest of what the hills might hide,
Some valley of content, some spring of youth,
Some deep, enchanted dell filled to the brim
With subtle mysteries, allurement rare,
We followed down a path, a little crooked,
Wand'ring path that lost itself and found itself
So oft we knew it for the playmate of the stream
That went with us and sang a clamorous song--
A never-ending song of flock and fold
Of sea-mist and of sun--until at length
We came into a valley warm and wide,
A cradle 'mong the hills. In it there lay
No infant hamlet, but one gray and old
That dozed and dreamed the soft June hours away.
Gardens there were with fragrant wall-flowers filled,
And daffodils, and rhododendrons pale,
And sweet, old-fashioned pinks, phlox, rosemary;
An avenue of elms, with cottages,
And barefoot children sporting on the green.
"'Tis Poynings," said the rustic, "see, the church
Lies yonder, and the graveyard just beyond;
This path will lead you straight to it."
Do you remember--rather, will you e'er forget?--
That gray church built, how many centuries
Ago? The worn stone steps, the oaken door,
The crumbling walls, the altar carved,
The stories told by stained-glass windows set
Deep in the walls; the ivy, thick and green,
Which crept and hid the grayness quite from sight.
Within, the smell of roses from the sheaf
Of scarlet bloom before the altar laid,
Close mingled with the mould and must of age;
On wall and floor memorials to the dead,
Who, unafraid, had slumbered there so long.
And then the graveyard out among the trees--
No graveyard, but a garden, flower filled--
Moss roses white as moth wings in the night,
And lilies sorrowful but very sweet,
Low-growing violets in grasses hid,
And rue which spoke of some heart's bitterness.
Old Time had decked the stones with lichens rare,
Rubbed out with careless hand the lettering:
In memory of someone's life and love
Each stood, but whose we might not know.
And while we lingered in the perfumed gloom,
And watched the golden sunshine smite the hills,
An English blackbird straight began a song
So sweet, so high, so shrill, so wondrous clear,
That! listening, our eyes grew dim the while
Our hearts did thrill. Whoe'er has heard the song
An English blackbird carols forth in June
Knows well the power it has, the wondrous charm!
Strangers were we within the gates, and so
He gave us welcome, clearer, warmer still,
A welcome to the beauty and the bloom,
The silence of the churchyard old and gray,
A welcome to the grasses and the brook,
The shade of feathery elm trees, and the glow
Of sunlight quivering, golden on the sward,
A welcome to the valley dim, and to
The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills.
SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA.
Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,
Sing to the breezes passing by,
Sing your jubilant song and sweet,
Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!
Earth that held thee and skies that kissed
Morning and noon and night for long,
Sun and rain and dew and mist,
All that has made you glad and strong
The harvest fields of the far, far west
Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!
Every ripple upon its breast
Sings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold!
Far as the eye can reach it goes,
Farther yet, 'till there seems no end,
Under a sky where blue and rose
With the gold and turquoise softly blend.
Here, where sweep the prairies lone,
Broad and beautiful in God's eyes,
Here in this young land, all our own,
The garner-house of the old world lies.
DAWN.
I cannot echo the old wish to die at morn, as darkness strays!
We have been glad together greeting some new-born radiant days,
The earth would hold me, every day familiar things
Would weigh me fast,
The stir, the touch of morn, the bird that on swift wings
Goes flitting past.
Some flower would lift to me its tender tear-wet face, and send
its breath
To whisper of the earth, its beauty and its grace,
And combat death.
It would be light, and I would see in thy dear eyes
The sorrow grow.
Love, could I lift my own, undimmed, to paradise
And leave thee so!
A thousand cords would hold me down to this low sphere,
When thou didst grieve;
Ah! should death come upon morn's rosy breast, I fear
I'd crave reprieve.
But when, her gold all spent, the sad day takes her flight,
When shadows creep,
Then just to put my hand in thine and say, "Good-night,"
And fall asleep.
THE CRICKET.
O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth,
With its piping and its chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!
There is magic in the music that he flings us with such zest:
"Love's the only wealth that's lasting--who cares aught for all
the rest?
Never mind though ill-luck dog you, never mind though times are hard,
Have you not the wife and bairns?" chirps the sweet, insistent bard--
Chirps and chirps, until you heed him, till your heart is all aglow--
"Love's the only wealth that's lasting, home's a bit of heaven below."
O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth,
With his piping and his chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!
EARTH TO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.
You cannot take from out my heart the growing,
The green, sweet growing, and the vivid thrill.
"O Earth," you cry, "you should be old, not glowing
With youth and all youth's strength and beauty still!"
Old, and the new hopes stirring in my bosom!
Old, and my children drawing life from me!
Old, in my womb the tender bud and blossom!
Old, steeped in richness and fertility!
Old, while the growing things call to each other,
In language I alone can understand:
"How she doth nourish us, this wondrous mother
Who is so beautiful and strong and grand!"
Old, while the wild things of the forest hide them
In my gray coverts, which no eye can trace!
Hunted or hurt, 'tis my task to provide them
Healing and soothing and a hiding place.
And then, my human children, could you listen
To secrets whispered in the stillness deep
Of noonday, or when night-dews fall and glisten--
'Tis on my bosom that men laugh and weep.
Some tell me moving tales of love and passion,
Of gladness all too great to be pent in--
The sweet, old theme which does not change its fashion--
Another cries out brokenly of sin.
While others filled with sorrow, fain to share it,
Hide tear-wet faces on my soft brown breast,
Sobbing: "Dear Mother Earth, we cannot bear it,
Grim death has stolen all that we loved best!"
The old familiar cry of loss and sorrow
I hear to-day--I heard it yesterday--
Ay, and will hear in every glad to-morrow
That ye may bring to me, O Century.
I answer mourner, penitent, and lover,
With quick'ning stir, with bud and leaf and sap:
"Peace, peace," I say, "when life's brief day is over
Ye shall sleep soundly in your mother's lap."
The loss, the longing of mankind I'm sharing,
The hopes, the joys, the laughter and the tears,
And yet you think I should be old, uncaring,
The barren, worn-out plaything of the years!
Past centuries have not trodden out my greenness
With all their marches, as you well can see,
Nor will you bring me withered age or leanness.
March on--what are your hundred years to me
While life and growth within me glow and flourish,
While in the sunshine and the falling rain
I, the great Mother, do bring forth and nourish
The springtime blossom and the harvest grain?
March on, O Century, I am safe holden
In God's right hand, the garner-house of truth--
The hand that holds the treasure rare and golden
Of life, and sweetness, and eternal youth!
THAIL BURN.
The river is a ribbon wide,
The falls a snowy feather,
And stretching far on ilka side
Are hills abloom wi' heather.
The wind comes loitering frae the west
By weight o' sweets retarded;
The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest,
A Golden Fleece unguarded.
We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair,
That hand in hand do tarry;
The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr,
The lass is Highland Mary.
He tells her they will never pairt--
'Tis life and luve taegither--
The world has got the song by hairt
He sang among the heather.
'Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago,
Yet all remember dearly
The eyes, the hair, the brow o' snow
O' her he luved sae dearly.
And lads still woo their lassies dear,
I' cot and hall and dairy,
By words he whispered i' the ear
O' his ain Highland Mary.
THE LAKE SHORE ROAD.
'Tis noon, the meadow stretches in the sun,
And every little spear of grass uplifts its slimness to the glow
To let the heavy-laden bees pass out.
A stream comes at a snail's pace through the gloom
Of shrub and fern and brake,
Leaps o'er a wall, goes singing on to find
The coolness of the lake.
A wild rose spreads her greenness on a hedge,
And flings her tinted blossoms in the air;
The sweetbriar neighbors with that porcupine
Of shrubs, the gooseberry; with parasol
Of white the elderberry shades her head
And dreams of purple fruit and wine-press chill.
From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,
A bird flies with a call of love and joy
That wins an answer straight
From that brown thing of gladness on a bough,
Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,
The proud and watchful mate.
The wind comes heavy freighted from the wood,
With jasmine, honeysuckle, iris, phlox,
And lilies red and white;
The blue lake murmurs, and the world seems all
A garden of delight.
MAGDALENE.
A woman in her youth, but lost to all
The joys of innocence. Love she had known,
Such love as leaves the soul filled full of shame.
Passion was hers, hate and impurity,
The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain
To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush
Of fallen womanhood, the envy of
The spotless, the desire that they might sink
Low in the mire as she.
Oh, what a soul
She carried on that day! The women drew
Their robes back from her touch, men leered,
And children seemed afraid to meet
The devilish beauty of her form and face.
Shunned and alone,
Till One came to her side,
And spake her name, and took her hand in His.
And what He said
Is past the telling. There are things the heart
Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world;
And when He went His way,
Upon her brow, where shame had lain,
Was set the one sweet word:
_Forgiveness_.
MY LADY NIGHTINGALE.
I heard you singing in the grove,
My Lady Nightingale;
The thirsty leaves were drinking dew,
And all the sky was pale.
A silence--clear as bells of peace
Your song thrilled on the air,
Each liquid note a thing of joy,
And sweet beyond compare.
Not all of joy--a haunting strain
Of sorrow and of tears,
A note of grief which seemed to voice
The sadness of the years.
'Twas pure, 'twas clear, 'twas wondrous sweet,
My Lady Nightingale,
Yet subtly sad, the song you sang
When all the sky was pale.
THE ORCHARD.
There's no garden like an orchard,
Nature shows no fairer thing
Than the apple trees in blossom
In these late days o' the spring.
Here the robin redbreast's nesting,
Here, from golden dawn till night,
Honey bees are gaily swimming
In a sea of pink and white.
Just a sea of fragrant blossoms,
Steeped in sunshine, drenched in dew,
Just a fragrant breath which tells you
Earth is fair again and new.
Just a breath of subtle sweetness,
Breath which holds the spice o' youth,
Holds the promise o' the summer--
Holds the best o' things, forsooth.
There's no garden like an orchard,
Nature shows no fairer thing
Than the apple trees in blossom
In these late days o' the spring.
OCTOBER.
Who is it says May is the crown of the year?
Who is it says June is the gladdest?
Who is it says Autumn is withered and sere,
The gloomiest season and saddest?
You shut to your doors as I come with my train,
And heed not the challenge I'm flinging,
The ruddy leaf washed by the fresh falling rain,
The scarlet vine creeping and clinging!
Come out where I'm holding my court like a queen,
With canopy rare stretching over;
Come out where I revel in amber and green,
And soon I may call you my lover!
Come out to the hillside, come out to the vale,
Come out ere your mood turns to blaming,
Come out where my gold is, my red gold and pale,
Come out where my banners are flaming!
Come out where the bare furrows stretch in the glow,
Come out where the stubble fields glisten,
Where the wind it blows high, and the wind it blows low,
And the lean grasses dance as they listen!
ST. ANDREW'S DAY--A TOAST.
Wha cares if skies be dull and gray?
Wha heeds November weather?
Let ilka Scot be glad to-day
The whole wide warl' thegither.
We're a' a prood and stubborn lot,
And clannish--sae fowk name us--
Ay, but with sic guid cause none ought
Tae judge us, or tae blame us,
For joys that are we'll pledge to-day
A land baith fair and glowing--
Here's tae the hames o' Canada,
Wi' luve and peace o'erflowing!
For joys that were, for auld lang syne,
For tender chords that bind us,
A toast--your hand, auld friend, in mine--
"The land we left behind us!"
Ho, lowlanders! Ho, hielandmen!
We'll toast her a' thegither,
Here's tae each bonnie loch and glen!
Here's tae her hills and heather!