Part 10

Lo, yon green rampart! towering once in pride, And bristling, too, with bayonets, that long The prowess of the immortal Wolfe defied.-- Not to the peaceful Muse doth it belong To weave with sturdy martial words her song, Else might I speak of glacis and of fosse, Of massy culvert, and of battery strong, And blasted battlements o'ergrown with moss, Around whose ruined base the angry billows toss.--

Eastward there stood upon the frowning steep-- And of its wreck some fragments still remain-- Their beacon light, the Pharos of the deep!...

JAMES COBOURG HODGINS

ONCE MORE

Once more the robin flutes in glee, On heat returning. The living juices in the trees Are shooting in the early leaves,-- The blossoms break, And lusty nature wide awake Her pleasant task sits learning.

The fleecy clouds scud o'er the blue, In sudden glory. The woods are full of whistling birds, And nature, in strange mystic words, Relates once more, In the same strains as oft before, The one old golden story:

That he who lives close to her heart, Nor spurns her warning, Shall all life's cunning secrets learn: The trill of birds, the tress of fern, The roar of seas, The music of the wind-swept trees, The glory of the morning;

Shall learn the noiseless laws of life, The truths of beauty, And find that Nature's meanest guise Is full of wonder and surprise; That everything Doth to the surface ever bring The blessedness of duty.

A GREEK REVERIE

This is the purple sea of ancient song. These are the groves to which bacchantes lured. In these grim rocks bad spirits are immured, Pent in by Heaven in token of some wrong. Sure that was Pan who flashed by through the pine, Followed by boys with passionate eyes, and men Bedecked with roses! Fainter down the glen Tramps the mad rabble, caught with song divine.

Now once again the Lord of life and day Smites into splendor all the dull waste waves: Straight Ulysses, his face, sleep-swollen, laves, Rouses his heroes, and with scant delay Prows are turned homeward. Hark the measured beat! Another weary day and vacant sky and heat!

JOSEPH HOWE

THE FLAG OF OLD ENGLAND

A CENTENARY SONG OF THE LANDING OF CORNWALLIS AT HALIFAX

All hail to the day when the Britons came over, And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet! Around and above us their spirits will hover, Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet. Beneath it the emblems they cherished are waving, The Rose of Old England the roadside perfumes; The Shamrock and Thistle the north winds are braving, Securely the Mayflower[A] blushes and blooms.

_Hail to the day when the Britons came over, And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet, Around and above us their spirits will hover, Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet. We'll honor it yet, we'll honor it yet, The flag of Old England! we'll honor it yet._

In the temples they founded, their faith is maintained, Every foot of the soil they bequeathed is still ours, The graves where they moulder, no foe has profaned, But we wreathe them with verdure, and strew them with flowers! The blood of no brother, in civil strife poured, In this hour of rejoicing encumbers our souls! The frontier's the field for the patriot's sword, And cursed be the weapon that faction controls!

Then hail to the day! 'tis with memories crowded, Delightful to trace 'midst the mists of the past, Like the features of Beauty, bewitchingly shrouded, They shine through the shadows Time o'er them has cast. As travellers track to its source in the mountains The stream which, far swelling, expands o'er the plains, Our hearts on this day fondly turn to the fountains Whence flow the warm currents that bound in our veins.

And proudly we trace them! No warrior flying From city assaulted, and fanes overthrown, With the last of his race on the battlements dying, And weary with wandering, founded our own. From the Queen of the Islands, then famous in story, A century since, our brave forefathers came, And our kindred yet fill the wide world with her glory, Enlarging her empire, and spreading her name.

Every flash of her genius our pathway enlightens, Every field she explores we are beckoned to tread, Each laurel she gathers our future day brightens-- We joy with her living, and mourn for her dead. Then hail to the day when the Britons came over, And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet! Above and around us their spirits shall hover, Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet.

[A] The Trailing Arbutus, the emblem of Nova Scotia.

THE DESERTED NEST

Deserted nest, that on the leafless tree Waves to and fro with every dreary blast, With none to shelter, none to care for thee, Thy day of pride and cheerfulness is past.

Thy tiny walls are falling to decay, Thy cell is tenantless and tuneless now, The winter winds have rent the leaves away, And left thee hanging on the naked bough.

But yet, deserted nest, there is a spell, E'en in thy loneliness, to touch the heart, For holy things within thee once did dwell, The type of joys departed now thou art.

With what assiduous care thy framers wrought, With what delight they viewed the structure rise, And how, as each some tiny rafter brought, Pleasure and hope would sparkle in their eyes.

Ah! who shall tell, when all the work was done, The rapturous pleasure that their labors crowned, The blissful moments Nature for them won, And bade them celebrate with joyous sound.

A father's pride, a mother's anxious care, Her fluttered spirits, and his gentlest tone, All, all that wedded hearts so fondly share, To thee, deserted nest, were surely known.

Then though thy walls be rent, and cold thy cell, And thoughtless crowds may hourly pass thee by, Where love and truth and tenderness did dwell, There's still attraction for the poet's eye.

CHARLES EDWIN JAKEWAY

AN UNFINISHED PROPHECY

I

The twilight land toyed with the night When from the hills with footsteps light An Indian maiden passed adown A rugged path o'er boulders brown Unto the soft gray river sand. The sweet balsamic breezes fanned Her bronze-brown cheeks and blue-black hair With loving wings, and lilies fair Held up their golden cups to stay The progress of her paddle's play, As o'er the quivering ripplets she, With airy grace and gestures free, Pulled from the beach a bark canoe, And threaded reedy mazes through Toward the river's open breast, That reached away into the west Till it caressed the after-glow Of sunset in the distance low.

II

The river's rippling monotone-- The low-voiced chants of zephyrs lone, That swung like censers through the halls By leafage arched, with leafage walls-- The lazy hum of insect song-- All seemed to woo the shades along The golden rim of eventide, As back and forth her paddle plied Through solemn symphonies of gloom Into the night-enshrouded tomb Of recent day. The throbbing stars Rose one by one above the bars Of dark abysmal to the sea Of heaven, and the mystery Of Nature's silence robed her round With garments threaded by the sound Of marsh-bird's wail, or pine-wood's moan. At length she turned, and towards the zone Of blackness, girding round the stream As Lethe coils around a dream, She swerved the course of the canoe, And through the grasses, damp with dew, That held their arms down from the bank To fondle with the rushes rank, Propelled its prow against the sand, And silently sprang to the land.

III

She pulled aside a maple screen That curtained off a weird ravine, And stepped toward a smouldering flame, O'er which crouched low an ancient dame Whose wrinkled face, as leather dry, Seemed dead, except that either eye Shone with a fierce, malignant glare, Like that which lights the wild-cat's lair When danger pries into its keep. "Mother, I'm glad you're not asleep," The maiden said in awesome way. "I've dared the dark which follows day, And paddled up through shade and gloom, And grim, fantastic shapes that loom Like giant goblins round the road That leads to your retired abode." "You're welcome, child, but never dread That you'll disturb my sleeping bed," The dame's harsh voice made answer soon, "I do not sleep till night-tide's noon Has gone to meet the dawning day. All night my tireless fancies play Unceasing gambols with the gnomes That chase each other 'neath the domes That roof the wild deer's headlong path When flying from the hunter's wrath. Why came you here? Do troubles chase You from your pillowed resting-place? Has love bestowed a heart on you, And come you here to prove it true?" "No heart has love bestowed on me, But mine has gone, and I to thee Come in the anguish of my grief To seek for solace or relief. 'Tis said that you can lift the screen That veils the destinies unseen.... Until this summer I was free And happy as the warbling birds; My thoughts ran on in merry words, As runnels ripple o'er the rocks, Or careless as my own dark locks, Which flung their mane to capture gleams That glanced from sun-bedizened streams. I watched the braves return one day From a victorious foray, And noted, towering o'er the rest, A chieftain from the outbound west With eyes of fire and haughty frown. I met him ere the sun went down And saw his frown turn to a smile, And in his eyes the fire the while Was fanned to fascination sweet. The Eagle Eye a lover meet Would be--" "Hist, child, footsteps approach! Hide till we see who doth encroach Within the bounds of my domain. To yonder bush, and there remain Until I call you forth again."

IV

The ancient crone revived the blaze Until its red, uncertain rays Crept down the hillside dun, and died Upon the river's misty tide. Then by the lurid flickering gleams, That seemed dissolving out of dreams Among the leafy arcades far, She caught the glitter of a star That silver-like shot from its nest Upon a young brave's stalwart breast, As up the forest path he came, Attracted by the pinewood flame. "Why comest thou?" her voice rang keen Through shrouded glade and dim ravine. "I come to pray you'll weave a spell Whereby the future to foretell. A chieftain I, in battle skilled, Full many a foeman I have killed; I've scalped the locks from many a brow, And never shirked a task till now. Through ghostly fogs, o'er leaping brooks, 'Mid slumbering snakes in dusky nooks, O'er sullen lairs and reedy shades, O'er quivering brakes and venomed glades, O'er gusty hills, sun-flushed and high, That shook their locks against the sky, O'er shady stretches long and lone, O'er rocky ledge, through caverned stone, Past morning's prime, past twilight gray, I've tracked my foemen on their way With heart relentless, and with hand Ready to hurl the deadly brand With naught of mercy nor of fear. And yet to-night I'm standing here, Afraid to face a maiden's eyes, Afraid to reach to grasp the prize My heart desires all else above, Her precious treasury of love. I've tried to break the bonds that roll Their magic coils around my soul, By daring danger on the lake When storm-clouds o'er its bosom break-- By roaming over flood and fell-- By trying every potent spell The old magician 'neath the hill Could summon to assist my will-- By chasing gravelights over graves, And rambling where the were-wolf raves Out threats of torture and of rack To hapless ones that cross its track. I've run death's gauntlet, day by day, Where hungry wild-cats screech for prey, But everywhere the haunting face Of Budding Rose in matchless grace Swims 'fore my eyes. Pray, mother, tell, Will she return my love? Dispel My doubts at once and seal my fate!" "Sit down behind that bush and wait," The dame replied, "until I call The wood-sprites up within my thrall."

V

She lit a smoking pine-knot red, And swayed it thrice around her head, Then hurled it hissing in the marsh, The while her voice on air-wings harsh Passed through the thronging shadows dense, Unto love's hearing strained and tense. "I hear the voices of the trees In answer to the asking breeze, And this is what the voices say: 'True love will always have its way!' Come forth, my children, to the light; The answer to the breeze is right." The maiden came with drooping head, The brave with grave and measured tread, And joined their hands above the blaze. "For you, fond lovers, length of days I prophesy, and happy times. Your lives shall run like merry rhymes Through many years of full content, And when at last your course is spent, Your children shall revere your name, Your children's children--" Flashed a flame, A lightning blast, athwart their eyes, And death assailed them in the guise Of Iroquois, the Hurons' dread-- And seeress, lovers, all were dead!

E. PAULINE JOHNSON

(TEKAHIOŃWAKE)

THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS

West wind, blow from your prairie nest! Blow from the mountains, blow from the west. The sail is idle, the sailor too; O! wind of the west, we wait for you. Blow, blow! I have wooed you so, But never a favor you bestow. You rock your cradle the hills between, But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail, unship the mast: I wooed you long, but my wooing's past; My paddle will lull you into rest. O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west, Sleep, sleep, By your mountain steep, Or down where the prairie grasses sweep! Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky, Laughing while paddle, canoe and I, Drift, drift, Where the hills uplift On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed; My paddle is plying its way ahead; Dip, dip, While the waters flip In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now; The eddies circle about my bow. Swirl, swirl! How the ripples curl In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar, Fretting their margin for evermore. Dash, dash, With a mighty crash, They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe! The reckless waves you must plunge into. Reel, reel, On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead! The river slips through its silent bed. Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby, Swings, swings, Its emerald wings, Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

AT HUSKING TIME

At husking time the tassel fades To brown above the yellow blades, Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn That bursts its chrysalis in scorn Longer to lie in prison shades.

Among the merry lads and maids The creaking ox-cart slowly wades 'Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked and torn At husking time.

The prying pilot crow persuades The flock to join in thieving raids; The sly raccoon with craft inborn His portion steals; from plenty's horn His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades At husking time.

SHADOW RIVER

A stream of tender gladness, Of filmy sun, and opal-tinted skies; Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies In mystic rings, Where softly swings The music of a thousand wings That almost tone to sadness.

Midway 'twixt earth and heaven, A bubble in the pearly air, I seem To float upon the sapphire floor, a dream Of clouds of snow, Above, below, Drift with my drifting, dim and slow, As twilight drifts to even.

The little fern-leaf, bending Upon the brink, its green reflection greets, And kisses soft the shadow that it meets With touch so fine, The border line The keenest vision can't define; So perfect is the blending.

The far fir trees that cover The brownish hills with needles green and gold, The arching elms o'erhead, vinegrown and old, Repictured are Beneath me far, Where not a ripple moves to mar Shades underneath, or over.

Mine is the undertone; The beauty, strength, and power of the land Will never stir or bend at my command; But all the shade Is marred or made, If I but dip my paddle blade; And it is mine alone.

O! pathless world of seeming! O! pathless life of mine whose deep ideal Is more my own than ever was the real. For others Fame And Love's red flame, And yellow gold: I only claim The shadows and the dreaming.

BRIER

Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm Bends back the brier that edges life's long way, That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm, I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.

Because I never knew your care to tire, Your hand to weary guiding me aright, Because you walk before and crush the brier, It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.

Because so often you have hearkened to My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now, That these harsh hands of mine add not unto The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.

PRAIRIE GREYHOUNDS

C. P. R. WESTBOUND--No. 1

I swing to the sunset land, The world of prairie, the world of plain, The world of promise, and hope, and gain, The world of gold, and the world of grain, And the world of the willing hand.

I carry the brave and bold, The one who works for the nation's bread, The one whose past is a thing that's dead, The one who battles and beats ahead, And the one who goes for gold.

I swing to the land to be: I am the power that laid its floors, I am the guide to its western stores, I am the key to its golden doors, That open alone to me.

C. P. R. EASTBOUND--No. 2

I swing to the land of morn, The grey old East, with its grey old seas, The land of leisure, the land of ease, The land of flowers and fruits and trees, And the place where we were born.

Freighted with wealth I come: Food, and fortune, and fellow that went Far out west on adventure bent, With well-worn pick and a folded tent, Is bringing his bullion home.

I never will be renowned As my twin that swings to the western marts, For I am she of the humbler parts; But I am the joy of the waiting hearts, For I am the homeward bound!

ROBERT KIRKLAND KERNIGHAN

THE SONG OF THE THAW

My sandalled feet are firm and fleet, My chariot wheels are splendid; I rush and run before the sun With balmy breezes blended; O'er forest dry, past mountains high, O'er snowy valleys hollow, I sweep along with muffled song And robin red-breasts follow.

Before my blade the snow wreaths fade, The frosty blast I cripple; The frozen stream wakes from its dream, And straight begins to ripple; I hush the wail along my trail Past hamlet, home and hollow, While on I go with noiseless flow And robin red-breasts follow.

And like a psalm, benign and calm, I blight the brow of winter; I snap the chains that hold the reins-- The fields of ice I splinter; And like the tide I run and ride, The bated winds I swallow; Triumphant still past rock and rill, And robin red-breasts follow.

A wing of light from night to night My perfumed chariot passes, And I can hear in meadows clear The whispering of the grasses; With joyous face I onward race Past hopeless height and hollow, While swift and strong with simple song My robin red-breasts follow.

The north wind bleeds--the rustling reeds The happy news is telling, And I can hear in forests near The juicy leaf-buds swelling; I onward rush without the thrush, The red bird or the swallow, You needn't mind, for close behind My robin red-breasts follow.

PEEPY IS NOT DEAD

"If Peepy had lived," the mother sighed, "He'd be of age to-day." She bowed her head as she softly cried-- The head that was turning gray. Now, one would think that Peepy was dead, Underneath the snow: One would think that Peepy was dead Since seventeen years ago.

'Tis true they hid poor Peepy away, Down in the churchyard green, And ever since that pitiful day Peepy's never been seen. No one has seen his curly head Or heard his laughter flow; But it doesn't follow that Peepy's been dead Since seventeen years ago!

They laid his toddling feet to rest; They folded his fingers small, Around the lily upon his breast; Then laid him away--that's all. They curtained his vacant trundle bed In his little room of woe; They really thought that Peepy was dead Seventeen years ago.

But it wasn't Peepy they put to stay Under the churchyard sod-- He's young and gay and strong to-day Up in the realms of God. He walks in the light by the Saviour's side, The Saviour that loved him so. So it's folly to think that Peepy died Seventeen years ago.

His form returned to its mother mould, But his soul began to grow-- This is the story an angel told, And I'm sure these things are so. Creeds and churches bother my head, But this one thing I know-- It isn't true that Peepy's been dead Since seventeen years ago!

WILLIAM KIRBY

THE MARQUIS OF LORNE'S VISIT TO THE NORTH-WEST