Part 14

"I have a little friend Up in the tall pine tree. In the sunny air he sings, Sits and sings with folded wings, Sings low and soft down by the lake, Lest he should Ogemah awake.

I have a pretty friend, The redbreast in the tree. All day for me he sings, Word from Ogemah he brings, And often warbles by the lake To see if he is yet awake."

BERNARD M'EVOY

A PHOTOGRAPH IN A SHOP WINDOW

Through a Gethsemane of city streets, Whose ministering angels seemed from hell, And ever stabbed me with their venomed darts, Till soul and body writhed in misery, I strayed--a hunted mortal--sport of Fate. Then, when 'twas worst, behold thy pictured face! Calm, peaceful, resolute; thy comrades true Around thee, "helmed and tall;" ah! then I knew How angels strengthen us in time of need, And from thy face drew solace for my smart.

REVISED PROOFS

I watch the printer's clever hand Pick up the type from here and there-- Make it in ordered row to stand, And gather it with practised care.

Maybe 'twill make the poet's page, The leaf of some romantic book, The sheet that chronicles the age, The tome on which the sage shall look.

But ah! not yet; full well he knows No printer lives from error free; And in those neat and serried rows Are letters that ought not to be.

He takes his proof-sheet with a sigh, Deleting here, and adding there, Till not the keenest reader's eye But must confess the whole is fair.

And shall the pages of our lives-- Letter by letter daily set-- Be subject, when the end arrives, To no revising process yet?

Sometimes our eyes are blurred with tears, Sometimes our hands with passion shake, Sometimes a tempting Devil leers At all the errors that we make.

Forbid, O God! that work so vain Shall stand in an eternal scroll-- With faults of sin, and joy, and pain-- As long as future ages roll!

THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE

OUR LADYE OF THE SNOW

I

If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead Where, emblem of our holy creed, Canadian crosses glow-- There you may hear what here you read, And seek in witness of the deed _Our Ladye of the Snow_![A]

In the old times when France held sway From the Balize to Hudson's Bay, O'er all the forest free, A noble Breton cavalier Had made his home for many a year Beside the Rivers three.

To tempest and to trouble proof Rose in the wild his glittering roof, To every traveller dear; The Breton song, the Breton dance, The very atmosphere of France, Diffused a generous cheer.

Strange sight that on those fields of snow The genial vine of Gaul should grow Despite the frigid sky! Strange power of Man's all-conquering will, That here the hearty Frank can still A Frenchman live and die!

[A] The church of _Notre Dame des Neiges_, (now) behind Mount Royal.

II

The Seigneur's hair was ashen grey, But his good heart held holiday, As when in youthful pride He bared his shining blade before De Tracey's regiment on the shore Which France has glorified.

Gay in the field, glad in the hall, The first at danger's frontier call,-- The humblest devotee Of God and of St Catharine dear Was the stout Breton cavalier Beside the Rivers three.

When bleak December's chilly blast Fettered the flowing waters fast, And swept the frozen plain-- When with a frightened cry, half heard, Far southward fled the arctic bird, Proclaiming winter's reign--

His custom was, come foul, come fair, For Christmas duties to repair, Unto the _Ville Marie_, The city of the mount, which north Of the great River looketh forth Across its sylvan sea.

Fast fell the snow, and soft as sleep, The hillocks looked like frozen sheep, Like giants grey the hills-- The sailing pine seemed canvas-spread, With its white burden over-head, And marble hard the rills.

A thick dull light, where ray was none Of moon or star, or cheerful sun, Obscurely showed the way-- While merrily upon the blast The jingling horse-bells, pattering fast, Timed the glad roundelay.

Swift eve came on, and faster fell The winnowed storm on ridge and dell, Effacing shape and sign-- Until the scene grew blank at last, As when some seaman from the mast Looks o'er the shoreless brine.

Nor marvel aught to find ere long In such a scene the death of song Upon the bravest lips-- The empty only could be loud When Nature fronts us in her shroud Beneath the sky's eclipse.

Nor marvel more to find the steed, Though famed for spirit and for speed, Drag on a painful pace-- With drooping crest and faltering foot, And painful whine, the weary brute Seems conscious of disgrace;

Until he paused with mortal fear, Then plaintive sank upon the mere Stiff as a steed of stone-- In vain the master winds his horn, None save the howling wolves forlorn Attend the dying roan.

III

Sad was the heart and sore the plight Of the benumbed, bewildered knight Now scrambling through the storm. At every step he sank apace-- The death dew freezing on his face-- In vain each loud alarm!

The torpid echoes of the Rock Answered with one unearthly mock Of danger round about! Then, muffled in their snowy robes, Retiring sought their bleak abodes, And gave no second shout.

Down on his knees himself he cast, Deeming that hour to be his last, Yet mindful of his faith-- He prayed St Catharine and St John, And our dear Ladye called upon For grace of happy death.

When lo! a light beneath the trees, Which clank their brilliants in the breeze, And lo! a phantom fair As God's in heaven! by that blest light Our Ladye's self rose to his sight, In robes that spirits wear!

Oh! lovelier, lovelier far than pen, Or tongue, or art, or fancy's ken Can picture, was her face-- Gone was the sorrow of the sword, And the last passion of our Lord Had left no living trace!

As when the moon across the moor Points the lost peasant to his door, And glistens on his pane-- Or when along her trail of light Belated boatmen steer at night, A harbor to regain--

So the warm radiance from her hands Unbind for him Death's icy bands, And nerve the sinking heart-- Her presence makes a perfect path. Ah! he who such a helper hath May anywhere depart.

All trembling, as she onward smiled, Followed that Knight our mother mild, Vowing a grateful vow-- Until, far down the mountain gorge, She led him to the antique forge Where her own shrine stands now.

If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead Where, emblem of our holy creed, Canadian crosses glow-- There you may hear what here you read, And seek, in witness of the deed, _Our Ladye of the Snow_!

WILLIAM P. M'KENZIE

MOONLIGHT

So tremulous the flame of thinking burns Beneath mine eyelids, that I may not keep My restless couch; I watch the still moon sweep Through starry space, like some white soul that spurns Earth-life, and to the sunlight ever turns; In her cool beams my burning eyes I steep-- Oh, that my spirit thus may rest in sleep When my pale ashes mother Earth inurns!

And as the moonlight quieteth unrest, Changing thought's scorching glow to truth's pure light, So Thou, who art my heart's most holy guest, Dost make its ruddy flame glow spirit white; And like pure-hearted child 'mid happy dreams, I rest my heart and soul in Thy love-beams.

GABRIELLE

'Tis the sound of a silver-toned bell: _Gabrielle_,-- And a gladness the chime doth foretell, _Gabrielle_; As music that thrilled once floats back to the mind, And tells of a joy yet to grasp, yet to find, So thy name seems to come on the wind, _Gabrielle_! I find in its musical swell, _Gabrielle_, A charm evil passions to quell, _Gabrielle_; When I utter thy name all the might is destroyed Of the glittering shapes in the dark that annoyed, And they flit back again to the void, _Gabrielle_! Thy name holds my heart by a spell, _Gabrielle_! In my life thy sweet music shall dwell, _Gabrielle_! As one with a vision celestial in sight, The vision of love hath redoubled my might, And my eyes mirror heavenly light, _Gabrielle_!

THE MOTHER'S SONG

_Come, O Sleep, from Chio's isle, Take my little one awhile._--GREEK FOLK-SONG.

Come hither, Sleep, from Chio's isle! My wakeful babe canst thou beguile? Let rose of dawn be on the cheek, On sweet lips parted as to speak, But bring a twilight o'er these eyes As bright and blue as summer skies. Then swing the cradle to and fro Till all the wingëd shadows go; Like drowsy flower my baby sway Until my daughter hails the day.

Come hither, Sleep, from Chio's isle! Take thou my little one awhile, And twine soft fabric of the night O'er merry eyes that glance too bright; Make silent thou the laughter sound, But leave the smile, and dimple round, And rock my baby on thy breast Like wee bird swaying in the nest; At morning bring her fresh as day, Then on a sunbeam fly away.

LULLABY SONG

Where does my sweetheart Baby go While the cradle is swinging her to and fro,-- While Mother is singing a lullaby In a voice like none other, so sweet and low?

_Lullaby Baby, lullaby dear! Yield thee to slumber, Mother is near; Far on Sleep's ocean fear not to go, God is around thee, loving thee so!_

Does she fly away to the home of Night, When eyelids droop over blue eyes bright? Does she seek the place where the dreams are born, Clad in her dreaming-dress of white?

Her cradle sways like a fairy boat On the gentle Slumber river afloat, That bears on its bosom a baby fleet, As the sunbeam many a shining mote.

So swiftly the babies are sweeping along As if a breeze in the sail blew strong, Yet no waves beat, for it is not the wind But the crooning of many a mother-song.

Down Slumber river their course they keep, Until they come to the sea of Sleep; And the mermaids tell them of wonderful things, For they are the dreams that arise from the deep.

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN

INDIAN SUMMER

Down from the blue the sun has driven, And stands between the earth and heaven, In robes of smouldering flame: A smoking cloud before him hung, A mystic veil, for which no tongue Of earth can find a name; And o'er him bends the vault of blue, With shadowy faces looking through The azure deep profound; The stillness of eternity,-- A glory and a mystery, Encompass him around. The air is thick with golden haze, The woods are in a dreamy maze, The air enchanted seems; Have we not left the realms of care, And entered in the regions fair We see in blissful dreams?

O, what a sacred stillness broods Above the awful solitudes! Peace hangs with dove-like mien; She's on the earth, she's in the air, O, she is brooding everywhere-- Sole spirit of the scene! And yonder youths and maidens seem As moving in a heavenly dream, Through regions rich and rare; Have not their very garments caught A tone of spiritual thought, A still, a Sabbath air? Yon cabins by the forest side Are all transformed and glorified! O, surely grief nor care, Nor poverty with strife and din, Nor anything like vulgar sin, Can ever enter there!

The ox, let loose to roam at will, Is lying by the water still; And on yon spot of green The very herd forget to graze, And look in wonder and amaze Upon the mystic scene. And yonder Lake Ontario lies, As if that wonder and surprise Had hushed her heaving breast-- And lies there with her awful eye Fixed on the quiet of the sky Like passion soothed to rest; Yon very maple feels the hush-- That trance of wonder, that doth rush Through nature everywhere-- And meek and saint-like there she stands With upturned eye and folded hands, As if in silent prayer.

O Indian Summer, there's in thee A stillness, a serenity-- A spirit pure and holy, Which makes October's gorgeous train Seem but a pageant light and vain, Untouched by melancholy! But who can paint the deep serene-- The holy stillness of thy mien-- The calm that's in thy face, Which make us feel, despite of strife, And all the turmoil of our life-- Earth is a holy place? Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee, Here, in thy forest sanctuary We'll learn thy simple lore; And neither poverty nor pain, The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain, Shall ever vex us more.

BOBOLINK

Merry mad-cap on the tree, Who so happy are as thee! Is there aught so full of fun, Half so happy 'neath the sun, With thy merry whiskodink-- Bobolink! Bobolink!

With thy mates, such merry meetings, Such queer jokes and funny greetings, O, such running and such chasing, O, such banter and grimacing, Thou'rt the wag of wags the pink-- Bobolink! Bobolink!

How you tumble 'mong the hay, Romping all the summer's day; Now upon the wing all over In and out among the clover-- Far too happy e'er to think-- Bobolink! Bobolink!

Now thou'rt on the apple tree, Crying, "Listen unto me!" Now upon the mossy banks, Where thou cuttest up such pranks-- One would swear thou wert in drink-- Bobolink! Bobolink!

Nothing canst thou know of sorrow, As to-day shall be to-morrow; Never dost thou dream of sadness-- All thy life a merry madness, Never may thy spirits sink-- Bobolink! Bobolink!

THE MAN WHO ROSE FROM NOTHING

Around the world the fame is blown Of fighting heroes, dead and gone; But we've a hero of our own-- The man who rose from nothing.

He's a magician great and grand; The forests fled at his command; And here he said, "Let cities stand!"-- The man who rose from nothing.

And in our legislative hall He towering stands alone, like Saul, "A head and shoulders over all,"-- The man who rose from nothing.

His efforts he will ne'er relax, His faith in figures and in facts, And always calls an axe an axe,-- The man who rose from nothing.

The gentleman in word and deed; And short and simple in his creed; "Fear God and help the soul in need!" The man who rose from nothing.

In other lands he's hardly known, For he's a product of our own; Could grace a shanty or a throne,-- The man who rose from nothing.

Here's to the land of lakes and pines, On which the sun of freedom shines, Because we meet on all our lines The man who rose from nothing.

JOHN M'PHERSON

THE MAYFLOWER

Sweet child of an April shower, First gift of spring to Flora's bower, Acadia's own peculiar flower, I hail thee here! Thou com'st, like hope in sorrow's hour, To whisper cheer.

I love to stray with careless feet, Thy balm on morning breeze to meet-- Thy earliest opening bloom to greet-- To take thy stem, And bear thee to my lady sweet, Thou lovely gem.

What though green mosses o'er thee steal, And half thy lovely form conceal-- Though but thy fragrant breath reveal Thy place of birth-- Gladly I own thy mute appeal, Of modest worth!

Thy charms so pure a spell impart, Thy softening smiles so touch my heart, That silent tears of rapture start, Sweet flower of May! E'en while I sing, devoid of art, This simple lay.

IN THE WOODS

I come, ye lovely wild-wood groves, Where placid contemplation roves, And breathes untroubled air; I come to woo your genial sweets, To wander in your green retreats, And lose the sense of care.

Unformed to brook the vulgar strife And heartlessness of worldly life, I court your silent gloom-- Where Thought may nurse, without annoy, The soothing sense of native joy-- The soul's inherent bloom.

Receive me to your fostering arms-- Surround me with your varied charms Of birds and streams and flowers; And bless me with the sweet repose That crowns the simple thoughts of those Who love your leafy bowers.

Here in the ancient forest maze, Remote from Mammon's specious ways, And wandering at my will, Herbs, flowers, and trees shall be my friends, And birds and streamlets make amends For much of earthly ill.

Yet give me here a kindred tie-- Affection's sympathetic eye, And kind consoling tone; For though the multitude are cold, And anxious most for sordid gold, I would not live alone.

The heart--the heart is human still, And yearns for trusting love to fill Its frequent, aching void; Unless partaken with our kind, The sweetest joys of sense and mind Are not enough enjoyed.

Then will I seek repose from strife, The tender ministries of life, And peace, the timid dove, In one still calm, one dear retreat, The circle of my cottage sweet-- The home of wedded love.

CHARLES MAIR

UNTAMED

There was a time on this fair continent When all things throve in spacious peacefulness. The prosperous forests unmolested stood, For where the stalwart oak grew, there it lived Long ages, and then died among its kind. The hoary pines--those ancients of the earth, Brimful of legends of the early world-- Stood thick on their own mountains unsubdued. And all things else illumined by the sun, Inland, or by the lifted wave, had rest. The passionate or calm pageants of the skies No artist drew; but in the auburn west Innumerable faces of fair cloud Vanished in silent darkness with the day. The prairie realm--vast ocean's paraphrase-- Rich in wild grasses numberless, and flowers Unnamed save in mute Nature's inventory, No civilized barbarian trenched for gain. And all that flowed was sweet and uncorrupt: The rivers and their tributary streams, Undammed, wound on forever, and gave up Their lonely torrents of weird gulfs of sea, And ocean wastes unshadowed by a sail. And all the wild life of this western world Knew not the fear of man; yet in those woods ... There lived a soul more wild than barbarous; A tameless soul--the sunburnt savage free-- Free, and untainted by the greed of gain: Great Nature's man content with Nature's food.

THE VOICE OF THE PINES

We fear not the thunder, we fear not the rain, For our stems are stout and long; Or the growling winds, though they blow amain, For our roots are great and strong; Our voice is eternal, our song sublime, And its theme is the days of yore-- Back thousands of years of misty time, When we first grew old and hoar!

Deep down in the crevice our roots were hid, And our limbs were thick and green Ere Cheops had builded his pyramid, Or the Sphinx's form was seen. Whole forests have risen within our ken, Which withered upon the plain; And cities, and race after race of men, Have risen and sunk again.

We commune with the stars thro' the paly night, For we love to talk with them; The wind is our harp, and the marvellous light Of the moon our diadem. Like the murmur of ocean our branches stir When the night air whispers low; Like the voices of ocean our voices are, When the hurtling tempests blow.

We nod to the sun ere the glimmering morn Prints her sandals on the mere; We part with the sun when the stars are borne By the silvery waters clear. And when lovers are breathing a thousand vows, With their hearts and cheeks aglow, We chant a love strain 'mid our breezy boughs, Of a thousand years ago!

We stand all aloof, for the giant's strength Craveth naught from lesser powers; 'Tis the shrub that loveth the fertile ground, But the sturdy rock is ours! We tower aloft where the hunters lag By the weary mountain side, By the jaggy cliff, by the grimy crag, And the chasms yawning wide.

When the great clouds march in a mountain heap, By the light of the dwindled sun, We steady our heads 'gainst their misty sweep, And accost them one by one. Then our limbs they jostle in thunder-mirth, And the storm-fires flash again; But baffled and weary they sink to earth, And the monarch-stems remain.

The passage of years doth not move us much, And Time himself grows old Ere we bow to his flight, or feel his touch In our "limbs of giant mould." And the dwarfs of the wood, by decay oppressed, With our laughter grim we mock; For the burden of age doth lightly rest On the ancient forest folk.

Cold Winter, who filches the flying leaf, And steals the floweret's sheen, Can injure us not, or work us grief, Or make our tops less green. And Spring, who awakens her sleeping train By meadow, and hill, and lea, Brings no new life to our old domain, Unfading, stern, and free.

Sublime in our solitude, changeless, vast, While men build, work, and save, We mock--for their years glide away to the past, And we grimly look on their grave. Our voice is eternal, our song sublime, For its theme is the days of yore-- Back thousands of years of misty time, When we first grew old and hoar.

THE HUMMING BIRD