Part 13

Yes, you remember, dear, that night in June, So long, so long ago, When we were lovers, wandering with the moon, Beside the Gaspereau.

JOHN E. LOGAN

THE INDIAN MAID'S LAMENT

A blood-red ring hung round the moon, Hung round the moon. Ah me! Ah me! I heard the piping of the Loon, A wounded Loon. Ah me! And yet the eagle feathers rare I, trembling, wove in my brave's hair.

He left me in the early morn, The early morn. Ah me! Ah me! The feathers swayed like stately corn, So like the corn. Ah me! A fierce wind swept across the plain, The stately corn was snapt in twain.

They crushed in blood the hated race, The hated race. Ah me! Ah me! I only clasped a cold, blind face, His cold, dead face. Ah me! A blood-red ring hangs in my sight, I hear the Loon cry every night.

AGNES MAULE MACHAR

WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE

Sans peur et sans reproche!--our lion-heart To whom we turn when other hopes betray, When tyrant-might puts forth her power to slay Young, struggling Freedom, with her poisoned dart, And Britain hath forgot the nobler part She played, as Freedom's champion,--that proud day She led a world to break one despot's sway,-- And from her old traditions stands apart.

Milton hath gone, and Wordsworth,--but, through thee, Still rings their hate of tyranny defied; Still breathes the voice whose sound was "of the sea," And that one "of the mountains;"--far and wide Their echoes roll, where'er true Britons be, Or men for liberty have lived and died!

SCHILLER'S DYING VISION

("Many things are growing clearer.")

I

As the light beyond draws nearer, Streaming from the farther shore, Many things are growing clearer I but dimly guessed before,-- How those legends quaint and olden Veiled a truth beyond their ken, In their tales of ages golden, When immortals walked with men:

How, in symbol and in shadow, Light through darkness dimly broke, Poesy illumed the meadow, And the woodland's music woke; And the spirits, softly sighing Through the forest, in the stream, On the wind's swift pinions flying, Were not all an idle dream!

Now I see how Faith immortal Oft hath worn a fable's guise, While she lingered at the portal Of unfathomed mysteries;-- How the vague, half-conscious dreamings Of earth's artless, questioning youth Were but iridescent gleamings From the inmost heart of Truth.

How the clear Hellenic vision Read the soul in Nature's face, And the gods of her tradition Made the earth their dwelling place,-- Throned on peaks of hoary mountains, Walking earth in form divine, While, in spray of silvery fountains, Naiads' gleaming tresses shine!

Dryads, in the forest-shadow, Whispered light at eve and dawn, And the fairies, on the meadow, Danced a measure with the Faun: Radiant forms to earth descending In the moonlight, with the dew,-- Earthly grace with heavenly blending,-- Shone before the poet's view.

II

'Tis a truth profound that dwelleth In these bright and broken gleams Of the glory that excelleth Noblest poet's fairest dreams! For, with eyes no longer holden, We may trace a presence bright In the sunset's radiance golden, In the dawn's pale rosy light;

In the beauty round us glowing, And in Nature's wondrous course, We may trace, with surer knowing, Her eternal spring and source; And, still more, the deathless story Through the ages we may read, How infinite Love and Glory Bent themselves to human need,--

How the asphodel forever Fades before the amaranth bright-- Light hath touched the Stygian river, Dawn the Acherontian night!-- For we hear a voice supernal Tell us Pluto's reign is o'er, And the rays of Love eternal Light our path for evermore!

Love and Hope and Truth and Duty Guide the upward-striving soul, Still evolving higher beauty As the ages onward roll; Till the light of consecration Glorify earth's radiant clod, And Life's highest Incarnation-- God in man--draw man to God!

LOVE AND FAITH

Faith spread her wings to seek the realms of day; Unfathomable depths before her lay. Hope drooped beside her, as there stretched afar, Space beyond space, outreaching endlessly, The faintest gleam of the remotest star. Her heart grew faint, her wings flagged heavily; Vain seemed the quest, and endless seemed the way.

Then Love cried out, with voice that pierced the night: "Lo, I am here!" and straight all space was light; Darkness had vanished, and the weary way Was all forgotten in the vision bright-- For Faith had reached the glorious gates of day!

A MADONNA OF THE ENTRY

I

In a city of churches and chapels, From belfry and spire and tower, In the solemn and starlit silence, The bells chimed the midnight hour.

Then in silvery tones of gladness They rang in the Christmas morn-- The wonderful, mystical season When Jesus Christ was born. All thought of the Babe in the manger, --The Child that knew no sin, That hung on the breast of the mother Who found no room in the inn! All thought of the choir of angels That swept through the darkness then, To chant forth the glad evangel Of peace and love to men!

II

In that city of churches and chapels A mother crouched, hungry and cold, In a bleak and cheerless entry, With a babe in her nerveless hold. Hungry and cold and weary, She had paced the streets all night-- No room for _her_ in the city, No food, no warmth, no light! And just as the bells' glad chiming Pealed in the Christmas day, The angels came through the darkness, And carried the babe away!

No room for one tiny infant In that city of churches fair,-- But the Father hath "many mansions" And room for the baby _there_!

EVAN MACCOLL

THE CHILD OF PROMISE

She died--as die the roses On the ruddy clouds of dawn, When the envious sun discloses His flame, and morning's gone.

She died--like snow glad-gracing Some sea-marge fair, when, lo! Rude waves, each other chasing, Quick hide it 'neath their flow.

She died--like snow fair showering Some sea-marge, when, anon, In comes the wave devouring-- The beautiful is gone.

She died--as dies the glory Of music's sweetest swell: She died--as dies the story When the best is still to tell!

She died--as dies moon-beaming When scowls the rayless wave; She died--like sweetest dreaming That hastens to its grave.

She died--and died she early; Heaven wearied for its own. As the dipping sun, my Mary, Thy morning ray went down!

GLENORCHY

Talk not to me of Tempe's flowery vale, With fair Glenorchy stretched before my view! If of _its_ charms he sung, I would right well Believe the Grecian poet's picture true. What were his boasted groves in scent and hue To lady-birches and the stately pine, The crimsoned heather and the hare-bell blue? Be his the laurel--the red heath be mine! No faun nor dryad here I care to see, More pleased by far to mark the bounding roe Sport with his mate behind the forest tree; Nor less the joy when in the glen below Some milking Hebe sings her _luinneag_ free, All hearts enchanting by its graceful glow.

ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD

A SONG OF SEASONS

Sing a song of Spring-time! Catkins by the brook, Adders-tongues uncounted, Ferns in every nook; The cataract on the hillside Leaping like a fawn; Sing a song of Spring-time,-- Ah, but Spring-time's gone!

Sing a song of Summer! Flowers among the grass, Clouds like fairy frigates, Pools like looking-glass, Moonlight through the branches, Voices on the lawn; Sing a song of summer,-- Ah, but Summer's gone!

Sing a song of Autumn! Grain in golden sheaves, Woodbine's crimson clusters Round the cottage eaves, Days of crystal clearness, Frosted fields at dawn; Sing a song of Autumn,-- Ah, but Autumn's gone!

Sing a song of Winter! North-wind's bitter chill, Home and ruddy firelight, Kindness and good-will, Hemlock in the churches, Daytime soon withdrawn; Sing a song of Winter,-- Ah, but Winter's gone!

Sing a song of loving! Let the seasons go; Hearts can make their gardens Under sun or snow; Fear no fading blossom, Nor the dying day; Sing a song of loving,-- That will last for aye!

JOHN MACFARLANE

THE TWO ANGELS

I stood and saw the angel of the dawn, Whose rest had been in heaven the dark night through, Pressing, with jewelled feet, the silent lawn In radiant robes of dew.

And slowly to the west, in ebon gloom, 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: