Part 12

But once when the sun was setting, And the minster's walls were dim, The workmen waited and listened-- What had befallen him? He stood not before the panel, Nor came down the lofty stair, Yet the light of the turret window Was shining upon him there!

For he lay in the quiet shadow That follows the setting sun; His tired hands were folded,-- The old man's work was done! And fresh from the shining panel, Finished with perfect grace, Looked down on the pale dead artist A pure, young, tender face,

Fresh in its dewy softness, As a rose in the light may glow, The face that had made the sunshine Of his life in the long ago; And the love, through whose perfect fulness Our nature becomes divine, Had transferred from his faithful keeping That face to this holy shrine.

There in its place of beauty, Eyes turned to the rising sun, He had made her face immortal,-- He died, for his work was done!

In that grand old English temple There are marvels of wondrous skill, Where the brain and hand of the craftsman Have worked with a perfect will; But naught has the grace and beauty Of the face in the niche above;-- Their work was for gain or glory, But his was done for Love!

SOPHIA V. GILBERT LEE

THE BROOK

Ripple, ripple, ripple, Goes the little brook, Ripple, ripple, ripple, Backward casts no look; On through vale and woodland, And flowery meadows green, Staying not its progress To see or to be seen.

Ripple, ripple, ripple, Bubbling on its way, Ripple, ripple, ripple-- Hark! I hear it say: O foolish man, why dwellest thou On themes of long ago? Pass by the old, take up the new, Time's fleeting--let me go!

LILY ALICE LEFEVRE

IMPRISONED

Within, a panic stricken throng That sudden fear appals, In blindest fury crashing close Wide doors to rigid walls-- A wild fierce struggle, life or death, Each holding ground with gasping breath Until the weaker falls,-- Each inch of room a battle-field Where one exults and one must yield.

Without, the boundless earth and air, The depths of starry space, Vast oceans that the strong white moon Uplifts to her embrace; Free winds of heaven blowing light, Far planets wheeling through the night To their appointed place,-- Marvels unseen to captives there, Imprisoned by their own despair.

Within the gloomy walls of Doubt Fierce factions wage their war; Fair Hope lies slain where they have set Negation's iron bar. Pent in their narrow bounds they cry, "No stars, no sky,--we struggle, die, And know not why we are." Oh, self-immured! ye cannot see? Stand back!--your brother shall be free.

Stand back!--from 'neath your trampling feet The young, the weak shall rise. Their white lips breathe in silent pain The prayer your pride denies; Their pale hands clasp the faded flowers Of faith that bloomed in happier hours Beneath their childhood's skies. Oh, still for these within your walls May justice, truth and self-control Set wide the gateways of the soul To where, beyond, God's glory calls Man's spirit to its goal.

INSPIRATION

A lark sprang up to greet the dawn Close to a rose one day, The tears upon her glowing cheek His light wing brushed away, Her fragrant beauty fresh and fair He kissed in passing by, And wove her name into his song Of rapture in the sky.

The lonely rose sighed, "Ah, my love, I cannot follow thee; Far, far above in golden light Thou hast forgotten me. Yet am I blest for evermore Though but an instant dear,-- Thou singest now a sweeter song For all the world to hear!"

R. E. MULLINS LEPROHON

THE HURON CHIEF'S DAUGHTER

The dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre; The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their vengeful ire. It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude, To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood....

O lovely was that winsome child of a dark and rugged line, And e'en 'mid Europe's daughters fair surpassing might she shine: For ne'er had coral lips been wreathed by brighter, sunnier smile, Or dark eyes beamed with lustrous light more full of winsome wile....

And, yet it was not wonderful, that haughty, highborn grace-- She stood amid her direst foes a Princess of her race; Knowing they'd met to wreak on her their hatred 'gainst her name, To doom her to a fearful death, to pangs of fire and flame....

One moment,--then her proud glance fled, her form she humbly bowed, A softened light stole o'er her brow, she prayed to heaven aloud: "Hear me, Thou Great and Glorious One, Protector of my race, Whom in the far-off Spirit Land I'll soon see face to face!

"Pour down thy blessings on my tribe, may they triumphant rise Above the guileful Iroquois--Thine and our enemies; And give me strength to bear each pang with courage high and free, That, dying thus, I may be fit to reign, O God, with Thee."

Her prayer was ended, and again, like crowned and sceptered Queen, She wore anew her lofty smile, her high and royal mien, E'en though the chief the signal gave, and quick two warriors dire Sprang forth to lead the dauntless girl to the lit funeral pyre.

Back with an eye of flashing scorn recoiled she from their grasp, "Nay, touch me not, I'd rather meet the coil of poisoned asp! My aged sire and all my tribe will learn with honest pride That, as befits a Huron's child, their chieftain's daughter died!"

She dashed aside her tresses dark with bright and fearless smile, And like a fawn she bounded on the fearful funeral pile; And even while those blood-stained men fulfilled their cruel part They praised that maiden's courage rare, her high and dauntless heart.

WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL

THE ARTIST'S PRAYER

I know thee not, O Spirit fair! O Life and flying Unity Of Loveliness! Must man despair Forever in his chase of thee!

When snowy clouds flash silver-gilt, Then feel I that thou art on high; When fire o'er all the west is spilt, Flames at its heart thy majesty.

Thy beauty basks on distant hills; It smiles in eve's wine-coloured sea; It shakes its light on leaves and rills, In calm ideals it mocks at me.

Thy glances strike from many a lake That lines through woodland scapes a-sheen; Yet to thine eyes I never wake:-- They glance, but they remain unseen.

I know thee not, O Spirit fair! Thou fillest heaven: the stars are thee: Whatever fleets with beauty rare Fleets radiant from thy mystery.

Forever thou art near my grasp; Thy touches pass in twilight air; Yet still--thy shapes elude my clasp-- I know thee not, thou Spirit fair!

O Ether, proud, and vast, and great, Above the legions of the stars! To this thou art not adequate;-- Nor rainbow's glorious scimitars.

I know thee not, thou Spirit sweet! I chained pursue, while thou art free. Sole by the smile I sometimes meet I know thou, Vast One, knowest me.

In old religions hadst thou place: Long, long, O Vision, our pursuit! Yea, monad, fish and childlike brute Through countless ages dreamt thy grace.

Gray nations felt thee o'er them tower; Some clothed thee in fantastic dress; Some thought thee as the unknown Power, I, e'er the unknown Loveliness.

To all thou wert as harps of joy; To bard and sage their fulgent sun: To priests their mystic life's employ; But unto me the Lovely One.

Veils clothed thy might; veils draped thy charm; The might they tracked, but I the grace; They learnt all forces were thine Arm, I that all beauty was thy Face.

Night spares us little. Wanderers we. Our rapt delights, our wisdoms rare But shape our darknesses of thee,-- We know thee not, thou Spirit fair!

Would that thine awful Peerlessness An hour could shine o'er heaven and earth, And I the maddening power possess To drink the cup,--O Godlike birth!

All life impels me to thy search: Without thee, yea, to live were null; Still shall I make the dawn thy Church, And pray thee "God the Beautiful."

THE SWEET STAR

The sweet Star of the Bethlehem night Beauteous guides and true, And still, to me and you With only local, legendary light.

For us who hither look with eyes afar From constellations of philosophy, All light is from the Cradle; the true star, Serene o'er distance, in the Life we see.

MY NATIVE LAND

Rome, Florence, Venice--noble, fair and quaint, They reign in robes of magic round me here; But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint, With spell more silent, only pleads a tear. Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim! I see the fields, I see the autumn hand Of God upon the maples! Answer Him With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst! I see the sun break over you; the mist On hills that lift from iron bases grand Their heads superb!--the dream, it is my native land.

STUART LIVINGSTON

THE VOLUNTEERS OF '85

Wide are the plains to the north and the westward; Drear are the skies to the west and the north-- Little they cared, as they snatched up their rifles, And shoulder to shoulder marched gallantly forth. Cold are the plains to the north and the westward, Stretching out far to the gray of the sky-- Little they cared as they marched from the barrack-room, Willing and ready, if need be, to die.

Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets; Firm and erect was each man in his place; Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans; Smiling and fearless was every face; Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them; Never a fear of war's terrible scenes; "Brave as the bravest" was stamped on each face of them; Half of them boys not yet out of their teens.

Many a woman gazed down at them longingly, Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed; Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of him, Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last. Many a maiden's cheek paled as she looked at them, Seeing the lover from whom she must part; Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him, Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart.

Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them, Beat as it never had beaten before; Every voice of us, choked though it may have been, Broke from huzza to a deafening roar. Proud! were we proud of them? God! they were part of us, Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight; Swift at their country's call, ready each man and all, Eager to battle for her and the right.

Wide are the plains to the north and the westward, Stretching out far to the gray of the sky-- Little they cared as they filed from the barrack-room, Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die. Was there one flinched? Not a boy, not a boy of them; Straight on they marched to the dread battle's brunt-- Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them, Canada's call found them all at the front.

TO E. N. L.

Thou sweet-souled comrade of a time gone by Who in the infinite dost walk to-day, And lift thy spirit lips in song, while I Lift up but lips of clay--

Oft do I think on thee, thou steadfast heart, Who, when the summons dread was in thine ear, Didst raise thy calm brow up and challenge death, As one that knows no fear.

And I have wondered if thy passionate lips Now voice the songs that surged within thy heart; By the great alchemy of mighty death Freed to diviner art.

And didst thou find a welcome on the shore That rims the vastness of that shadow land? Did those sweet singing prophet bards of yore Stretch thee a greeting hand?

And did they gather round about thee there, With faces gray against the coming day; And, with wan fingers on thy trembling lips, Teach thee their mighty lay?--

Till thy enraptured soul, by thine own lips, Was filled with such great harmony of song As gave thee place among their matchless selves, A brother of the throng.

THE KING'S FOOL

In sooth he was a mighty King, And ruled in splendid state, Surrounded by a haughty band Of nobles small and great; And he was good to one and all, Yet they were plotting for his fall.

For though a king be good and great And generous, I trow His nobles yet will envy him, And seek his overthrow; For so hath been the ancient strife Since man first took his sovereign's life.

And thus, to gain their foul design, They planned to lie in wait, And drop a deadly poison in The golden flagon great, That never more the King should rule; And no one heard them but the fool.

So when the King came down that night Into his hall to dine, He found his flagon in its place, And at its side the wine-- The blood-red wine--at which he said, "Such wine should put life in the dead!"

Then poured he full the poisoned cup, And, raising it on high, O'er all his courtiers in the hall He ran his noble eye: "Oh, I would drink," he said, with zest, "Unto the man that loves me best!"

Then mute they sat around the board, And each looked to the other, Till rose, with mocking reverence, The fool, and said, "Good brother, All round this board, of every guest, I am the man that loves thee best."

Then wrothful was the King, and said, "Thou art no man, I wis, That makest such a silly jest At such a time as this. Give us a better jest," he said, "Or pay the forfeit with thy head."

Then quoth the fool, "My good liege lord, I'll give another jest, But after it, I tell thee now, That I will take my rest, No more to be thy jester," and He snatched the flagon from his hand.

Then dark became the King's great brow, Amazed was every guest, While with the flagon at his lips The fool quoth, "This sweet jest That man, I trow, will best divine Who poured such strength into this wine"--

Then drained the goblet at a draught, And set it down anon, While round the board each face grew pale, And strange to look upon; Then sank the fool into his place, And on the table laid his face.

Amid the silence stood the King, As if perplexed with doubt; He looked upon his poor dead fool, And then looked round about; And then in thunder called the guard That near him kept their watch and ward.

He bid them take the traitors forth And put them all to death. "Would God," he cried, "their lives could give My poor fool back his breath-- My poor dead fool, whose silent breast Doth show, too late, he loved me best!"

This is the legend of a fool Who died his king to save, And to its truth a monument Was built above his grave; And on it in gold this wording ran, "He lived a fool, but died a man."

KEATS

A young-eyed seer, amid the leafy ways Of Latmos' groves, sacred to mighty Pan, Afar from all the busy marts of man, Content to seek the beautiful, he strays; With mild eyes lifted in their starry gaze Of ravishment divine, a priest, he stands Before the altar builded by his hands, And on his pipe, with pallid lip, he plays.

This night, O god-like singer, have I knelt Before that altar listening to thy strain, Till off my soul mortality did melt, Dissolvëd from all weariness of pain; And at thy magic melody I felt All life were mine, could I such rapture drain.

ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART

ACADIE

Like mists that round a mountain gray Hang for an hour, then melt away, So I, and nearly all my race, Have vanished from my native place.

Each haunt of boyhood's loves and dreams More beautiful in fancy seems; Yet if I to those scenes repair I find I am a stranger there.

O thou belovëd Acadie, Sweet is thy charmëd world to me! Dull are these skies 'neath which I range, And all the summer hills are strange.

Yet sometimes I discern thy gleam In sparkles of the chiming stream; And sometimes speaks thy haunting lore The foam-wreathed sibyl of the shore.

And sometimes will mine eyes incline To hill or wood that seems like thine; Or, if the robin pipeth clear, It is thy vernal note I hear.

And oft my heart will leap aflame To deem I hear thee call my name,-- To see thy face with gladness shine, And find the joy that once was mine.

THE WATERS OF CARR

O do you hear the merry waters falling, In the mossy woods of Carr? O do you hear the child's voice, calling, calling, Through its cloistral deeps afar? 'Tis the Indian's babe, they say, Fairy stolen; changed a fay; And still I hear her, calling, calling, calling, In the mossy woods of Carr!

O hear you, when the weary world is sleeping (Dim and drowsy every star), This little one her happy revels keeping In her halls of shining spar? Clearer swells her voice of glee, While the liquid echoes flee, And the full moon through deep green leaves comes peeping, In the dim-lit woods of Carr.

Know ye from her wigwam how they drew her, Wanton-willing, far away,-- Made the wild-wood halls seem home unto her, Changed her to a laughing fay? Never doth her bosom burn, Never asks she to return;-- Ah, vainly care and sorrow may pursue her Laughing, singing, all the day!

And often, when the golden west is burning, Ere the twilight's earliest star, Comes her mother, led by mortal yearning Where the haunted forests are;-- Listens to the rapture wild Of her vanished fairy child: Ah, see her then, with smiles and tears, returning From the sunset woods of Carr!

They feed her with the amber dew and honey, They bathe her in the crystal spring, They set her down in open spaces sunny, And weave her an enchanted ring; They will not let her beauty die, Her innocence and purity; They sweeten her fair brow with kisses many, And ever round her dance and sing.

O do you hear the merry waters falling, In the mossy woods of Carr? O do you hear the child's voice, calling, calling, Through its cloistral deeps afar? Never thrill of plaintive pain Mingles with that ceaseless strain;-- But still I hear her joyous calling, calling, In the morning woods of Carr!

THE LONELY PINE

I

Remote, upon the sunset shrine Of a green hill, a lonely pine Beckons this hungry heart of mine.

"Draw near," it always seems to say, Look thither whensoe'er I may From the dull routine of my way:

"I hold for thee the heavens in trust; My priestly branches toward thee thrust. Absolve thy fret, assoil thy dust."

II

Yet if I come it heeds not me; The stars amid the branches see But lonely man and lonely tree,--

And lonely earth that holds in thrall Her creatures, while Eve gathers all To fold within her shadowy wall.

Now, with this spell around me thrown, Dreaming of social pleasures flown, I grieve, yet joy, to be alone;

While whispering through its solitude, Far from its green-robed brotherhood, The pine tree shares my wonted mood.

It museth that felicity Which, being not, we deem may be, And mingles hope and certainty.

III

In starry senate doth arise The lumined spirit of the skies, Walking with radiant ministries.

Yet in my lonely pine tree dwells, When 'mid its breast the warm wind swells, A prophet of sweet oracles.

Like a faint sea on far-off shore, With its low elfin roll and roar, It speaks one language evermore;--

One language, unconstrained and free, The converse of the answering sea, The old rune of Eternity.

Then, from this lonely sunset shrine, I turn to toils and cares of mine, And, grateful, bless my healing pine.

BURTON W. LOCKHART

_From_ "THE RETROSPECT"

O brothers! thro' how many lands We've sought the Holy Grail! Lo, here is truth! Lo, there she stands!-- Bow down, and cry, "All hail!"

Still she looks on us far withdrawn, With stars and clouds bedight; The vision of our spirit's dawn, The watch-fire of our night.

Trust thy soul's highest vision--trust! Think not to touch or taste: Time's ancient mystery--poor dust!-- For thee will not make haste.

The noble still must seek the light; The doctrinaire still raves; But Faith holds fast, while the long night Shines o'er our fathers' graves.

LOVE AND SONG

Love sayeth: Sing of me! What else is worth a song? I had refrained Lest I should do Love wrong.

"Clean hands, and a pure heart," I prayed, "and I will sing:" But all I gained Brought to my word no wing.

Stars, sunshine, seas and skies, Earth's graves, the holy hills, Were all in vain; No breath the dumb pipe fills.

I dreamed of splendid praise, And Beauty watching by Gray shores of Pain: My song turned to a sigh.

I saw in virgin eyes The mother warmth that makes The dead earth quick In ways no Spring awakes.

No song. In vain to sight Life's clear arch heavenward sprang. Heart still, or sick! --_I loved! Ah, then I sang!_

BY THE GASPEREAU

Do you remember, dear, a night in June, So long, so long ago, When we were lovers, wandering with the moon, Beside the Gaspereau?

The river plashed and gurgled thro' its glooms, Slow stealing to the sea, A silver serpent; in the apple blooms The soft air rustled free.

And o'er the river from afar the sound Of mellow tinkling bells From browsing cattle stirred the echo round In gentle falls and swells.

No sound of human sorrow, nor of mirth, Streamed on that peace abroad, And all the night leaned low upon the earth Like the calm face of God.

And in our hearts there breathed, like life, a breath Of most delicious pain: It seemed a whisper ran from birth to death, And back to birth again,

And bound in airy chains our shining hours, Past, present, and to come, In one sweet whole, strong to defy the powers Of change, till Time be dumb.