Part 15

It comes! This strange bird from a distant clime Has fled with arrowy speed on fluttering wing. From the sweet south, all sick of revelling, It wanders hitherward to rest a time, And taste the hardy flora of the west. And now, O joy! the urchins hear the mirth Of its light wings, and crouch unto the earth In watchful eagerness, contented, blest.

Bird of eternal summers! thou dost wake, Whene'er thou comest and where'er thou art, A new born gladness in my swelling heart. Go, gentle flutterer, my blessing take! Less like a bird thou hast appeared to me Than some sweet fancy in old poesy.

INNOCENCE

Oft I have met her In openings of the woods and pleasant ways, Where flowers beset her, And hanging branches crowned her head with bays.

Oft have I seen her walk Through flower-decked fields unto the oaken pass, Where lay the slumbery flock, Swoln with much eating of the tender grass.

Oft have I seen her stand By wandering brooks o'er which the willows met; Or where the meadow-land Balmed the soft air with dew-mist drapery wet.

Much patting of the wind Had bloomed her cheek with color of the rose; Rare beauty was entwined With locks and looks in movement or repose....

The floriage of the spring And summer coronals were hers in trust, Till came the winter-king To droop their sweetness into native dust....

The dingle and the glade, The brown-ribbed mountains, and tall, talking trees Seemed fairer while she stayed, And drank of their dim meanings and old ease....

And chiefly she did love To soothe the widow's ruth and orphan's tear; With counsel from above, Alleviating woe, allaying fear....

There was a quiet grace In all her actions, tokening gentleness, Yet firm intent to trace The paths of duty leading up to bliss....

She thought of One who bore The awful burden of the world's despair-- What could she give Him more Than blameless thoughts, a simple life and fair?

She was and is, for still She lives and moves upon the grass-green earth, And, as of old, doth fill Her heart with peace, still mingling tears with mirth.

O, could we find her out, And learn of her this wildering maze to tread! And, eased of every doubt, Let deadly passions linger with the dead!...

GEORGE MARTIN

SHELLEY

Lover of Man, if not of God, the Sea That took thy latest breath, and fondly bore Its music round the world from shore to shore, Will never cease to make lament for thee; For thou wert of its spirit, tameless, free, At war with ermined Custom, and the hoar Enslavements of a venerated lore,-- At deadly feud with all the Powers that be. Supreme Enchanter, lord of rhythmic sound, Child of Imagination, born for flight, Loved of all poets, and by all men crowned The foe of every form of savage might, Thou wert the true Prometheus unbound, Whose genius shaped an Era's golden height.

TO MY CANARY BIRD

Borne on the wavelets of thy fluent notes, Impassioned little minstrel of the cage, My spirit like a happy sea-gull floats, Unheedful of the clamor and the rage Of storms that menace ruin as they pass, Impatient for the freedom of the plain, Crusted and polished like a sea of glass, Whereon they shout their wild and weird refrain.

There is no touch of winter in thy song, No wail of winds, my yellow-coated friend; All beauties of the Spring to thee belong, All bloomy charms and all the scents that lend A drowsy gladness to the summer hours. Again I hear swift rivulets descend The mountain slopes, like children loosed from school; Again I see the lily on the pool, And hear the whispered loves of leaves and flowers.

Not only through the golden hours of day, From early dawn till dusk, melodious sprite, Do thy delicious trills and quavers stray Around the quiet chamber where I write, But often in the slumbrous hush of night, When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing, On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing, Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring, As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight.

Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap, Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips; Press hard against the pane your whitened lips, And at the outer portal louder rap; My songster hears you not: a higher note, A more reverbant, more delirious strain, Issues exultant from his quivering throat, And reaches to the people on the street, Who pause, look up, take step, and pause again, Retiring slowly with unwilling feet.

O that thou couldst to me this hour impart The secret of thy unremitting joy! The music that dilates thy little heart No frost can chill, no doubt, no fear destroy. Here, seated listless in my easy chair, I can but yield to phantasy and dream, And gird my spirit with a jewelled beam Of soft enchantment, hopeful that a share Of thy divine emotion, happy bird, By which my holiest thoughts are often stirred, May slip into my verse and warble there.

LALEET

How beautiful she was, the little maiden, Scarce twelve years old, Who faded like a fading star, love laden, Her love untold.

I knew not, I who far outran her days, How much I erred In making much of her endearing ways, How much I stirred The fount of her affection with my praise.

No sunrise fairer is than was her face, No moonlit skies More lovely than the tenderness and grace That filled her eyes.

Her presence harmonized all dissonance, And ever wore A charm akin to music and romance, And faery lore.

Poor child! among her hidden notes one said She dreamed of me, And fancied that she saw me lying dead, Drowned in the sea, But that no dream it was the tears she shed.

When life's white rose its latest leaf was shedding, And o'er her broke The sobs of mourners in her chamber treading, Vaguely she spoke: He knew not of my weeping at his wedding!

Those simple words, in whispered cadence spoken, All winds repeat; I shudder at the tale which they betoken, My lost Laleet!

I hear them in the surging of the billow, Through storm and gloom; They pierce me from the rustle of the willow That shades her tomb And drops a denser shadow on my pillow.

Ye softest harmonies of air and ocean, Of mount and vale, Rehearse, to love-led maids, her heart's devotion Till suns shall fail And orphaned planets lose the joy of motion.

HELEN M. MERRILL

THE BLUE FLOWER

Still, though the sun is setting, She lingers unheeding the hour, Her face held to its splendor, Her heart in thrall of its power.

Her hair is golden burnished; In her eye the heaven's hue; Her charm of immortal beauty Holds me from dawn till dew.

She has a soul of fire, Pure as a star's white flame; I gaze in silence, and wonder The glory whence it came.

She is the spirit elusive Sorrowing poets seek; I stand rapt in her presence, And listen to hear her speak.

All time in the forest olden, She tells her wondrous chain; My hope of suns eternal, Priest of a mighty fane.

Through the pale light glowing golden, She watches the day decline; She sings from her ancient volume, I interpret line on line.

Flower or star bright shining, A bird, or a silver sheaf; In her great book I discover An enigma on every leaf.

Her song is of paradises Where wheeling fires shine, To mystic dreams beguiling Like whispering wind in a pine.

She would that the spirits of mortals Wander in amaranth meads; Never a shadow trembles On the soul-path where she leads,

Under the flashing stars And the splendor of suns in prime, In a land of new horizons, In the unknown aftertime.

AT EDGEWATER

One by one they pass away, Days, like white ships which sail peacefully From the shore, yet come not back again. And their freight is Life, and Love, and lesser things, Yet as beautiful and good. And ever they set sail Under golden suns for sea, Till the summer is gone and shadows fall so gloomily, At Edgewater!

When the winds of autumn blow Through the brown vines swinging mournfully, Calling for the sun disconsolate, And the rain falls, and the spirit of the deep, Grieving for the summer, chants its death-song of the sun, It is lonely by the sea, And the heart is haunted by unhappy memory, At Edgewater.

Yet again a golden day Gilds the blue wave flowing tranquilly, And a sudden splendor lights the shore, And the heart of autumn, trembling, turneth warm, As though summer loitered in it dreaming of the sun. By-gone dreams, and dreams to be, Their white shadows on the soul reflect ceaselessly, At Edgewater.

THE PROMISE OF SPRING

Blue-black like the breast of the gusty sea, Cumulus clouds where the sun goes down, Stormful shadows against the gold, Under the arches of even blown.

Nowhere a white bird beating the storm, Nowhere a sunray gilding the sea; Bud nor leaf on the orchard bough, Butterfly, nor blossom, nor bee.

Yet to-night, where the blue waves beat, Under the shadows, the storm-winds bring Omen mysterious out of the dusk, Out of the darkness the promise of Spring.

SUN-GOLD

All day the sun drops gold, the grassy mead Like miser olden hoarding underground, Till soft-shod June will track it, like a hound Scents the lone covert where the wild deer feed.

Then from an ample mint, with lavish hand, In every field, by every fountain-side, She'll scatter gold-bits round her far and wide, In flower cups o'er all the fragrant land.

Wherever butter-flowers and wild daisies blow, You'll mark her presence in the green lush grasses; You'll hear her blithely singing as she passes On sunny uplands where gold violets grow.

SUSANNA MOODIE

THE MAPLE-TREE

Hail to the pride of the forest--hail To the maple, tall and green! It yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail While leaves on its boughs are seen. When the moon shines bright On the wintry night, And silvers the frozen snow, And echo dwells On the jingling bells As the sleighs dart to and fro, Then it brightens the mirth Of the social hearth With its red and cheery glow.

Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades, It lifts its tall head on high, When the crimson-tinted evening fades From the glowing saffron sky; When the sun's last beams Light up woods and streams, And brighten the gloom below; And the deer springs by With his flashing eye, And the shy, swift-footed doe; And the sad winds chide In the branches wide, With a tender plaint of woe.

The Indian leans on its rugged trunk, With the bow in his red right-hand, And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk From the glorious forest land. But, blithe and free, The maple-tree, Still tosses to sun and air Its thousand arms, While in countless swarms The wild bee revels there; But soon not a trace Of the red-man's race Shall be found in the landscape fair.

When the snows of winter are melting fast, And the sap begins to rise, And the biting breath of the frozen blast Yields to the spring's soft sighs, Then away to the wood, For the maple good Shall unseal its honeyed store; And boys and girls, With their sunny curls, Bring their vessels brimming o'er With the luscious flood Of the brave tree's blood, Into caldrons deep to pour.

The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red; Far down in the forest dark A ruddy glow on the trees is shed, That lights up their rugged bark; And with merry shout The busy rout Watch the sap as it bubbles high; And they talk of the cheer Of the coming year, And the jest and the song pass by; And brave tales of old Round the fire are told, That kindle youth's beaming eye.

Hurrah! for the sturdy maple-tree! Long may its green branch wave In native strength, sublime and free, Meet emblem for the brave. May the nation's peace With its growth increase, And its worth be widely spread; For it lifts not in vain To the sun and rain Its tall, majestic head. May it grace our soil, And reward our toil, While the nation's day is sped!

THE FISHERMAN'S LIGHT

The air is still, the night is dark, No ripple breaks the dusky tide; From isle to isle the fisher's bark, Like fairy meteor, seems to glide,-- Now lost in shade, now flashing bright; On sleeping wave and forest tree, We hail with joy the ruddy light, Which far into the darksome night Shines red and cheerily.

With spear high poised and steady hand, The centre of that fiery ray, Behold the skilful fisher stand, Prepared to strike the finny prey. "Now, now!" the shaft has sped below,-- Transfixed the shining prize we see; On swiftly glides the birch canoe, The woods send back the long halloo In echoes loud, and cheerily!

Around yon bluff, whose pine crest hides The noisy rapids from our sight, Another bark! another glides! Red spirits of the murky night! The bosom of the silent stream With mimic stars is dotted free; The tall woods lighten in the beam, Through darkness shining cheerily.

MARY MORGAN

"IN APPREHENSION, SO LIKE A GOD."

Take the mouldering dust, Wake it into life,-- Matter is but servant of the mind.

Touch the silent keys: Genius can evoke Music wherein gods commune with men.

Read the soul of man, And the farthest star; Truth is one, and is forever true.

Think the wildest thought, Hope the utmost hope-- Time shall be when all shall be fulfilled.

Wonder not at deed, Wonder more at thought, Wonder at the hope that feeds itself.

Genius is divine, Genius is the true: Man becomes that which he worships,--God!

CHARITY

Thou askest not to know the creed, The rank or name is naught to thee; Where'er the human heart cries "Help!" Thy kingdom is, O Charity!

LIFE

Mysterious Life! we speak as if we knew What meant this vortex: Ah, what doth it mean? A spirit of unrest is Life--hath been Alluring made with many-tinted hue. From darkest chasm it lifts man to a peak Where he may see ideal flowers blow; But as he learns to love them, it will show Him other heights that he is forced to seek. Enchantress, Disenchantress,--both in one! Surrounding us to-day with dazzling light, To-morrow hiding every ray of sun Till we are sunk in the abyss of night. The oracles are dumb: whate'er Life be, Man walks by faith alone; he cannot see.

IRENE ELDER MORTON

BROWNING

He sits at last among his peers, While we stand chilled with eyes grown dim In looking over life's grey fields, And feel the heart-light folded in.

O great soul! entered in to know The fulness of the Central Life! O giant leader of the race, Who never with the world made strife,

But led it surely, grandly on, Scaling clear heights with leap and bound,-- Then, beckoning with a strong man's hand, He kept his way to higher ground!

No maudlin cry he gave the world,-- "Behold my grief, pity my pain;" Strong as the breath of Alpine hills, Sweet as the sound of summer rain,

The songs he gave us. Evermore The deathless might of English speech Shall sound their notes from shore to shore, And to the coming nations teach

That it is nobler to endure, And smother back the cry of pain-- Shall call us onward to the heights, To press ahead and bear the strain.

He wore no caste-bound fetters here; A man of men he proved his soul; The mighty pulse within his words Beat full and free above control.

The illumined fringes of his thoughts Have set the world's face after him, As one would follow clear flute notes Heard in cool aisles of forests dim.

With loving face of child and friend To look on as the last of earth, God wrapt him in a robe of light, And gave him strong immortal birth.

He looks again in the clear eyes Of her, the love-dream of his youth, The moonlit side of his great heart, To whom he gave his manhood's truth.

Perfect conditions of new life Are vibrant to his being there,-- Gone in to feel the wider thrill, Gone in to breathe the purer air.

COMPLETENESS

Life gives us better than it takes away,-- In brighter hope, and broader, fuller day.

There is no past, but all things move and blend In sure fulfilment of a promised end.

We leave the misty capes and vales we trod, For the glad sunshine on the Hills of God.

To slow grand measure up the aisle of years Move truths enfranchised from long bonds and tears.

Hands that groped darkly for the truth of things Hold the clear signet of the King of Kings.

Broad waves that tossed in fierce white passion-heat Fall into psalm and kiss the resting feet.

MY GARDEN WALL

I

It comforts me through all my days To know that on this strange old earth, On which we two found human birth, I have a friend who cares for me.

Not a high God, serene and just, Who from His calm sure place of bliss Looks down from His world into this, And burns me that I grow more white.

But just a man, so strong and dear-- How dear the stars know in the sky, And the sweet birds as home they fly, When evening comes, to the warm nest!

He can do things that I can not: He builds a wall around my heart; Some day we will not dwell apart-- A man is stronger than a girl.

II

Within the wall that he has made I plant the seeds of life's queen flowers; I watch them grow through pleasant hours,-- Be sure they neither droop nor fade.

Perhaps some passers-by may think: "It only is a common wall, Solid and square, not very tall"-- But could they look over the brink,

And see the rose and mignonette, Spicy carnations red and white, That pulse their perfume in the light, With tall pale lilies firmly set!

III

Now while the sweet wild autumn rain Is falling on the world outside, How safely does my heart abide In the dear shelter of my wall!

IN JUNE

Some glad thing comes to me Always in June, Some new joy gladly set To a sweet tune.

Is it that earth so thrills With bud and bloom, That the sad heart of life Lets go its gloom?

Some dear long absent face Answers some prayers, Or may be just a token That some one cares.

Some glad thing hidden long In some old room, Says, "Let us go to her, For it is June.

"Why cheat her any more, For we are hers, Unlock the dusty door, My being stirs

"With longing to behold A human face, And with a touch of joy Add some new grace."

Far back in earth's grey dawn, Before God's words Had crystalized in suns, Or stars had heard

That clear creative call, "Let there be light On all My works below, For day and night"--

When first earth's wrinkled face Saw the white moon Gleam on unfinished work, There was no June,--

But as the thoughts of God Shewed perfect spheres, We think He called up June To gem the years!

When we are inward drawn To God's dear heart, And the white silence falls As we depart,

And the new air seems filled With some rare tune, How sweet our last earth-look If it were June!

SONG OF THE PAGAN PRINCESS

The rivers that sweep to the sea Bear to it the heart of the land-- The eyes of the gods in the stars The thoughts of my heart understand.

And the joy in the heart of the rose, The song in the heart of the rain, The glory of gladness that flows O'er the billows of tall ripened grain,

The strength in the heart of the hills, The unmeasured lament of the sea, The low happy laugh of the rills,-- All answer to something in me, To something in me!

SONG

Where the soft shadows fall, Where the wind's voices call, Softly and low,--

Mother earth, cover me! Daisies, grow over me! Bury me low.

Far from the sound of strife, From the rude voice of life, Bury me deep!

Where the soft summer rain Soothes all my weary pain, There let me sleep.

Wild are earth's hopes and vain, Even love touches pain-- Bury me low!

Mother earth, cover me! Daisies, grow over me! Bury me low!

CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY

POPPŒA

(_At the Theatre_)

Dark tresses made rich with all treasures, Earth's gold-dust, and pearls of the sea-- She is splendid as Rome that was Cæsar's, And cruel as Rome that was free!

Could I paint her but once as I found her! From her porphyry couch let her lean, With the reek of the circus around her-- Who is centre and soul of the scene:

Grey eyes that glance keen as the eagle When he swoops to his prey from on high; Bold arms by the red gold made regal-- White breast never vexed with a sigh:

And haughty her mien as of any Her sires whom the foemen knew well, As they rode through the grey mist at Cannæ, Ere consul with consular fell.

Unabashed in her beauty of figure-- Heavy limbs, and thick tresses uncurled To our gaze, give the grace and the rigor Of the race that has conquered the world.

And fierce with the blood of the heroes-- In their sins and their virtues sublime-- Sits the Queen of the world that is Nero's, And as keen for a kiss as a crime!

But the game that amuses her leisure Loses zest as the weaker gives way; And the victor looks up for her pleasure-- Shall he spare with sword-point or slay?

Half-grieving she gathers her tresses, Now the hour for the games has gone by, And those soft arms, so sweet for caresses, Point prone, as she signs, "Let him die!"

GEORGE MURRAY

THE THISTLE

A LEGENDARY BALLAD