Part 19

Through all this land of Arcadie She leads old Cheveron and me, And how her good mount stands it so Is really more than I can see; The valleys now are white with snow, Yet still we ride through Arcadie.

Old Cheveron has cast his shoes! The Chase is up, my Lady Muse!

WILLIAM CARMAN ROBERTS

HISTORY

Her gold hair fallen about her face Made light within that shadowy place, But on her garments lay the dust Of many a vanished race.

Her deep eyes, gazing straight ahead, Saw years and days and hours long dead, While strange gems glimmered at her feet, Yellow, and green, and red.

And ever from the shadows came Voices to pierce her heart like flame. The great bats fanned her with their wings, The voices called her name.

But yet her look turned not aside From the black deep where dreams abide, Where worlds and pageantries lay dead Beneath that viewless tide.

Her elbow on her knee was set, Her strong hand propt her chin, and yet No man might name that look she wore, Nor any man forget.

AN EASTER MEMORY

The chime of bells across the waking year Peals out "The White Christ risen from the dead"-- The gospel that the April winds have spread, The mystery the golden-wing makes clear.

The tender sky smiles over it; the air Is kind with love to comfort all the earth. The brown parks have forgotten winter's dearth Since daffodils and sunlight made them fair.

But still the gray church from the crowded street Allures me with the spell of broken dreams. O heart, my heart, to you and me it seems That God has left His glory incomplete.

Can we not see her, as a year ago, Beyond that sunlight flaked in colored fire-- The upturned face, the eyes of still desire, The dusk-gold hair that now the angels know?

What means this tender April sky to her, With bells that chime against the winds of spring? Does memory move her when the blue birds sing, Or does she feel the old sweet pulses stir?

The organ lays its voice across our strife. What is it that the sobbing notes would say? For you and me, my heart, another day! For her--the Resurrection and the Life!

MY COMRADE CANOE

True comrade, we have tasted life together; With the wild joy at heart have slipped the tether To follow, follow, to strange wildernesses, The frank enticement of the wind and weather.

Joy of the quivering pole, the thrilling sinew, When mad black rapids shook the soul within you. As climbing toward the lakes of inland silence I laughed to see the fanged rocks strain to win you.

Joy of the moonlight on the quiet reaches, Where loitering we caught the word that teaches The poise of Godhead to the questing spirit, The urge of springtime to the budding beeches.

When through the dusk the serried clouds were massing, Where some lost lake among the hills was glassing The stormy fire above the western spruces, The looming moose would wonder at our passing.

Then, when the outland voices ceased to hold us, When winds would tell no more what once they told us, We dreamed how far away a little village Lay waiting with its welcome to infold us.

GEORGE JOHN ROMANES

I ASK NOT FOR THY LOVE, O LORD

I ask not for thy Love, O Lord; the days Can never come when anguish shall atone. Enough for me were but Thy pity shown To me, as to the stricken sheep that strays, With ceaseless cry for unforgotten ways-- Oh, lead me back to pastures I have known, Or find me in the wilderness alone, And slay me as the hand of mercy slays. I ask not for Thy love; nor e'en so much As for a hope on Thy dear breast to lie; But be Thou still my shepherd--still with such Compassion as may melt to such a cry; That so I hear Thy feet, and feel Thy touch, And dimly see Thy face ere yet I die.

CARROLL RYAN

_From_ "MALTA"

_O, bella fior del mondo!_ to-morrow I'll leave thee to follow the path of the sun, No more to return, yet departing in sorrow-- The stranger may go as the stranger hath done. I've met the hot breath of the scorching siroc As I guarded thy ramparts that frown on the sea, I've lain 'neath the shade of the vine-covered rock Weaving bright fancies of glory and thee....

Old Notabile[A] stands upon a hill With olive groves and vineyards at its base, Its lofty wall, half-ruined, beareth still Of siege and battle many a cruel trace; The centre of this lovely isle,-- The home of song and story,-- Whose tranquil beauty seems to smile Forgetful of its glory. Deserted streets of marble halls, And temples grand and olden, Where startled Echo rarely calls Strange sounds thro' sunlight golden: High convent walls in ivy wrapt, Shrines of our blessed Lady, In melancholy silence lapt, In lanes of cypress shady. And now and then Queer aged men Pass where the bastions moulder, And seem to me, So strange they be, Old as the place or older.

And carved in stone above each door Is many a knightly crest, That flamed in hostile fields of yore-- But now the sparrow's nest. The wingëd hand still grasps the sword Before the ancient palace; In dungeons underneath is stored Verdala's burning chalice. And Bellfiorè's ruined wall Frowns on the peasant's labor, While from its brow strange echoes call Of song, and pipe, and tabor. Oh! what a host of shadows wait Before yon dark unopened gate; Heroes from the east and west, In their iron armor drest, The white cross gleaming on each breast; Stern warriors of the cross are they-- Those shadows of a former day!

But hark! In the dark The bells are tolling, While, up from the Levant, The night cloud is rolling. O, those bells! those Malta bells, Loudly, wildly ringing, High their deafening chorus swells, All my spirit winging.

Now higher, higher, The iron choir Like tongues of fire From earth ascend; The wide air beating, Their notes repeating, Like spirits meeting They rise and blend! Now coming softly From belfrys lofty Sweet silver voices float thro' the gloom, Then, loud as thunder, From Cassels under Rush sounds of wonder As if from the tomb!

They cease, and slowly from afar, Where Dhingli's vale reposes, I hear a voice and see a star That beams on paths of roses!

[A] Citta Vecchia

CHARLES SANGSTER

ENGLAND AND AMERICA

Greatest twain among the nations, Bound alike by kindred ties-- Ties that never should be sundered While your banners grace the skies-- But united, stand and labor, Side by side, and hand in hand, Battling with the sword of Freedom For the peace of every land. Yours the one beloved language, Yours the same religious creed, Yours the glory and the power, Great as ever was the meed Of old Rome, or Greece, or Sparta, When their arms victoriously Proved their terrible puissance Over every land and sea.

Let the son respect the sire, Let the father love the son, Both unitedly supporting All the glories they have won: Thus in concert nobly wrestling, They may work the world's release, And when having crushed its tyrants, Stand the Sentinels of Peace-- Stand the mighty twin Colossus' Giants of the latter days, Straightening for the coming kingdom All the steep and rugged ways, Down which many a lofty nation-- Lofty on the scroll of fame-- Has been swept to righteous judgment, Naught remaining but its name.

What! allied to Merrie England, Have ye not a noble birth? Yours, America, her honors, Yours her every deed of worth. Have ye not her Norman courage? Wear ye not her Saxon cast? Boast ye not her love of Freedom? Do ye not revere the past When her mighty men of genius-- Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope-- Glorified that self-same language, Since become your pride and hope?...

There will come a time, my Brothers, And a dread time it will be, When your swords will flash together, For your faith in jeopardy. Not for crowns, or lands, or sceptres, Will the fight be fought and won, Not for fame, or treaties broken, But for God and God alone: For the mind with which He blessed us, That a false creed would keep down, Shackle--bind it to its purpose-- To uphold a falling crown. See that then ye fail not, Brothers! Set the listening skies aglow With such deeds as live in heaven, If your Faith be worth a blow.

Proud, then, of each other's greatness, Ever struggle side by side; Noble Son! time-honored Parent! Let no paltry strife divide Hearts like yours, that should be mindful Only of each other's worth-- Mindful of your high position 'Mongst the powers of the earth. Mightiest twain among the nations! Bound alike by kindred ties-- Ties that never should be sundered, While your banners grace the skies: Hearts and destinies once united, Steadfast to each other prove, Bind them with enduring fetters-- Bind them with the Bonds of Love.

A LIVING TEMPLE

I sat within the temple of her heart, And watched the living soul as it passed through, Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure. The calm, immortal presence made me start. It searched through all the chambers of her mind With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view The fastnesses of feeling, strong--secure And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined And offers incense in her heart, as on An altar sacred unto God. The dawn Of an imperishable love passed through The lattice of my senses, and I, too, Did offer incense in that solemn place-- A woman's heart made pure and sanctified by grace.

THE ILLUMINED GOAL

Slowly rose the dædal Earth Through the purple-hued abysm, Glowing like a gorgeous prism, Heaven exulting o'er its birth.

Still the mighty wonder came Through the jasper-colored sphere, Ether-winged, and crystal-clear, Trembling to the loud acclaim.

In a haze of golden rain Up the heavens rolled the sun, Danäe-like the earth was won, Else his love and light were vain.

So the heart and soul of man Own the light and love of heaven; Nothing yet in vain was given, Nature's is a perfect plan.

LOVE'S RENEWAL

Love's sun, like that of day, may set, and set, It hath as bright a rising in the morn. True love has no grey hairs; his golden locks Can never whiten with the snows of time. Sorrow lies drear on many a youthful heart, Like snow upon the evergreens; but love Can gather sweetest honey by the way, E'en from the carcass of some prostrate grief.-- We have been spoiled with blessings. Though the world Holds nothing dearer than the hope that's fled, God ever opens up new founts of bliss-- Spiritual Bethsaidas where the soul Can wash the earth-stains from its fevered loins. We carve our sorrows on the face of joy, Reversing the true image; we are weak Where strength is needed most, and most is given.

'TIS SUMMER STILL

'Tis Summer still, yet now and then a leaf Falls from some stately tree. True type of life! How emblematic of the pangs that grief Wrings from our blighted hopes, that one by one Drop from us in our wrestle with the strife And natural passions of our stately youth. And thus we fall beneath life's summer sun. Each step conducts us through an opening door Into new halls of being, hand in hand With grave Experience, until we command The open, wide-spread autumn fields, and store The full ripe grain of Wisdom and of Truth. As on life's tottering precipice we stand, Our sins, like withered leaves, are blown about the land.

DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT

THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL

Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble, Brimmed with silver lie the ruts, Purple the ploughed hill; Down a sluice with break and bubble Hollow falls the rill; Falls and spreads and searches, Where, beyond the wood, Starts a group of silver birches, Bursting into blood.

Under Venus sings the vesper sparrow, Down a path of rosy gold Floats the slender moon; Ringing from the rounded barrow Rolls the robin's tune; Lighter than the robin--hark! Quivering silver-strong From the field a hidden shore-lark Shakes his sparkling song.

Now the dewy sounds begin to dwindle, Dimmer grow the burnished rills, Breezes creep and halt, Soon the guardian night shall kindle In the violet vault, All the twinkling tapers, Touched with steady gold, Burning through the lawny vapors Where they float and fold.

ABOVE ST IRÉNÉE

I rested on the breezy height, In cooler shade and clearer air, Beneath a maple tree; Below, the mighty river took Its sparkling shade and sheening light Down to the sombre sea, And clustered by the leaping brook The roofs of white St Irénée.

The sapphire hills on either hand Broke down upon the silver tide, The river ran in streams, In streams of mingled azure-grey, With here a broken purple band, And whorls of drab, and beams Of shattered silver light astray, Where far away the south shore gleams.

I walked a mile along the height Between the flowers upon the road, Asters and golden-rod; And in the gardens pinks and stocks, And gaudy poppies shaking light, And daisies blooming near the sod, And lowly pansies set in flocks, With purple monkshood overawed.

And there I saw a little child, Between the tossing golden-rod, Coming along to me; She was a tender little thing, So fragile-sweet, so Mary-mild, I thought her name Marie; No other name methought could cling To any one so fair as she.

And when we came at last to meet, I spoke a simple word to her, "Where are you going, Marie?" She answered, and she did not smile, But oh! her voice,--her voice so sweet, "Down to St Irénée," And so passed on to walk her mile, And left the lonely road to me.

And as the night came on apace, With stars above the darkened hills, I heard perpetually, Chiming along the falling hours, On the deep dusk that mellow phrase, "Down to St Irénée:" It seemed as if the stars and flowers Should all go there with me.

OFF RIVIÈRE DU LOUP

O ship incoming from the sea With all your cloudy tower of sail, Dashing the water to the lee, And leaning grandly to the gale;

The sunset pageant in the west Has filled your canvas curves with rose, And jewelled every toppling crest That crashes into silver snows!

You know the joy of coming home After long leagues to France or Spain; You feel the clear Canadian foam And the gulf water heave again.

Between these sombre purple hills That cool the sunset's molten bars, You will go on as the wind wills, Beneath the river's roof of stars.

You will toss onward toward the lights That spangle over the lone pier, By hamlets glimmering on the heights, By level islands black and clear:

You will go on beyond the tide, Through brimming plains of olive sedge, Through paler shallows light and wide, The rapids piled along the ledge.

At evening off some reedy bay You will swing slowly on your chain, And catch the scent of dewy hay, Soft blowing from the pleasant plain.

THE END OF THE DAY

I hear the bells at eventide Peal slowly one by one, Near and far off they break and glide; Across the stream float faintly beautiful The antiphonal bells of Hull; The day is done, done, done, The day is done.

The dew has gathered in the flowers, Like tears from some unconscious deep: The swallows whirl around the towers, The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars, And leaves the single stars; 'Tis time for sleep, sleep, sleep, 'Tis time for sleep.

The hermit thrush begins again,-- Timorous eremite-- That song of risen tears and pain, As if the one he loved was far away: 'Alas! another day--' 'And now Good Night, Good Night,' 'Good Night.'

A FLOCK OF SHEEP

Over the field the bright air clings and tingles In the gold sunset, while the red wind swoops; Upon the nibbled knolls, and from the dingles, The sheep are gathering in frightened groups.

From the wide field the laggards bleat and follow, A drover hurls his cry and hooting laugh; And one young swain, too glad to whoop or hollo, Is singing wildly as he whirls his staff.

Now crowding into little groups and eddies They swirl about and charge and try to pass; The sheep-dog yelps and heads them off and steadies And rounds and moulds them in a seething mass.

They stand a moment with their heads uplifted Till the wise dog barks loudly on the flank, They all at once roll over and are drifted Down the small hill toward the river bank.

Covered with rusty marks and purple blotches Around the fallen bars they flow and leap; The wary dog stands by and keenly watches As if he knew the name of every sheep.

Now down the road the nimble sound decreases, The drovers cry, the dog delays and whines, And now with twinkling feet and glimmering fleeces They round and vanish past the dusky pines.

The drove is gone, the ruddy wind grows colder, The singing youth puts up the heavy bars, Beyond the pines he sees the crimson smoulder, And catches in his eyes the early stars.

MEMORY

I see a schooner in the bay Cutting the current into foam; One day she flies and then one day Comes like a swallow veering home.

I hear a water miles away Go sobbing down the wooded glen; One day it falls and then one day Comes sobbing on the wind again.

Remembrance goes but will not stay; That cry of unpermitted pain One day departs and then one day Comes sobbing to my heart again.

HOME SONG

There is rain upon the window, There is wind upon the tree; The rain is slowly sobbing, The wind is blowing free: It bears my weary heart To my own country.

I hear the whitethroat calling, Hid in the hazel ring; Deep in the misty hollows I hear the sparrows sing; I see the bloodroot starting, All silvered with the spring.

I skirt the buried reed-beds, In the starry solitude: My snowshoes creak and whisper, I have my ready blood. I hear the lynx-cub yelling In the gaunt and shaggy wood.

I hear the wolf-tongued rapid Howl in the rocky break; Beyond the pines at the portage I hear the trapper wake His _En roulant ma boulé_, From the clear gloom of the lake.

O! take me back to the homestead, To the great rooms warm and low, Where the frost creeps on the casement, When the year comes in with snow. Give me, give me the old folk Of the dear long ago.

Oh, land of the dusky balsam, And the darling maple tree, Where the cedar buds and berries, And the pine grows strong and free! My heart is weary and weary For my own country.

LIFE AND DEATH

I thought of death beside the lonely sea, That went beyond the limit of my sight, Seeming the image of his mastery, The semblance of his huge and gloomy might.

But firm beneath the sea went the great earth, With sober bulk and adamantine hold, The water but a mantle for her girth, That played about her splendor fold on fold.

And life seemed like this dear familiar shore, That stretched from the wet sands' last wavy crease, Beneath the sea's remote and sombre roar, To inland stillness and the wilds of peace.

Death seems triumphant only here and there; Life is the sovereign presence everywhere.

OTTAWA

City about whose brow the north winds blow, Girdled with woods and shod with river foam, Called by a name as old as Troy or Rome, Be great as they, but pure as thine own snow;

Rather flash up amid the auroral glow, The Lamia city of the northern star, Than be so hard with craft or wild with war, Peopled with deeds remembered for their woe.

Thou art too bright for guile, too young for tears, And thou wilt live to be too strong for Time; For he may mock thee with his furrowed frowns, But thou wilt grow in calm throughout the years, Cinctured with peace and crowned with power sublime, The maiden queen of all the towered towns.

GEORGE FREDERICK SCOTT

A REVERIE

O tender love of long ago, O buried love, so near me still On tides of thought that ebb and flow, Beyond the empire of the will; To-night with mingled joy and pain I fold thee to my heart again.

And down the meadows, dear, we stray, And under woods still clothed in green, Though many springs have passed away And many harvests there have been, Since through the youth-enchanted land We wandered idly hand in hand.

Then every brook was loud with song, And every tree was stirred with love, And every breeze that passed along Was like the breath of God above;-- And now to-night we go the ways We went in those sweet summer days.

Dear love, thy dark and earnest eyes Look up as tender as of yore, And, purer than the evening skies, Thy cheeks have still the rose they wore; I--I have changed, but thou art fair And fresh as in life's morning air.

What little hands these were to chain So many years a wayward heart; How slight a girlish form to reign As queen upon a throne apart In a man's thought, through hopes and fears, And all the changes of the years.