Part 2

THEODORE HARDING RAND-- The Dragonfly 273 Beauty 276 Love 277 The Hepatica 277 "I Am" 278 The Veiled Presence 279 The Ghost Flower 280 Glory-Roses 280 The Carven Shores 281

WALTER A. RATCLIFFE-- Wanted 282

JOHN READE-- Rizpah 283 Pictures of Memory (i.-iv.) 285 In My Heart 286 To Louis Fréchette 288 Kings of Men 288 Dominion Day 289

ROBERT REID-- Poesie 290 A Song of Canada 290

CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS-- A Nocturne of Consecration 292 A Nocturne of Spiritual Love 295 An Ode for the Canadian Confederacy 296 Canadian Streams 297 The Silver Thaw 299 Epitaph for a Sailor Buried Ashore 300 The Train among the Hills 301 A Song of Growth 301 Sleepy Man 302 Night in a down-town Street 303 The Falling Leaves 304 An Epitaph for a Husbandman 304 Origins 305 The Wrestler 306 Recessional 307 Ascription 309

THEODORE ROBERTS-- The Spears of Kan-Mar 309 Cold 310 The Men of my Heart's Desire 311 The Chase 312

WILLIAM CARMAN ROBERTS-- History 313 An Easter Memory 313 My Comrade Canoe 314

GEORGE JOHN ROMANES-- I ask not for Thy love, O Lord 315

CARROLL RYAN-- _From_ "Malta" 316

S

CHARLES SANGSTER-- England and America 318 A Living Temple 320 The Illumined Goal 321 Love's Renewal 321 'Tis Summer Still 322

DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT-- The Fifteenth of April 322 Above St Irénée 323 Off Rivière Du Loup 325 The End of the Day 326 A Flock of Sheep 326 Memory 327 Home Song 328 Life and Death 329 Ottawa 329

FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT-- A Reverie 330 Easter Island 331 A Dream of the Prehistoric 332 Dawn 335 Van Elsen 335

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY-- The Walker of the Snow 336

FRANCIS SHERMAN-- The Builder 338 Between the Battles 339 _From_ "The Prelude" 340 A Little While before the Fall was done 341

GOLDWIN SMITH-- Flossy to her Mistress 341

LYMAN C. SMITH-- Canada to Columbia 342 _From_ "A Day with Homer" 343

WILLIAM WYE SMITH-- The Canadians on the Nile 344

ALBERT E. STAFFORD SMYTHE-- The Forgotten Poet 345 Death the Revealer 346

HIRAM LADD SPENCER-- The River 346 A Hundred Years to come 347

EZRA HURLBURT STAFFORD-- Chinook 348 The Strange Vessel 349 The last Orison 350

ALEXANDER CHARLES STEWART-- _From_ "The Wanderer" 351

PHILLIPS STEWART-- Hope 351 _From_ "Corydon and Amaryllis" 352 _From_ "De Profundis" 353

BARRY STRATON-- Love's Harvest 353 Charity 354 America 356

ARTHUR J. STRINGER-- A Song in Autumn 356 Beside the Martyr's Memorial 357 Canada to England 357 Beethoven 358

ALAN SULLIVAN-- Venice 359 The White Canoe 360

T

BERTRAM TENNYSON-- Gordon 361

EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON-- A Day-Dream 363 The Song-Sparrow 364 The Bad Year 364

JOHN STUART THOMSON-- The Vale of Estabelle 365 Even-Time 367 Late Autumn 368

W

FRANCIS L. DOMINICK WATERS-- _From_ "The Water Lily" 369

ARTHUR WEIR-- A Snowshoe Song 370 Voyageur Song 372 The Little Trooper 373 Little Miss Blue Eyes 374 A Christmas Lullaby 375

AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD-- The House of the Trees 376 At the Window 377 To February 377 The Hay Field 378

WILLIAM HENRY WITHROW-- October 379 Cloud Castles 379

R. WALTER WRIGHT-- Easter Morn 380 A Still Small Voice 381

G. F. W.-- Sense and Spirit 382

Y

EVA ROSE YORK-- I shall not pass this way again 382

PAMELIA VINING YULE-- The Beautiful Artist 384 Warble thy lays to me 386

NOTES OF AUTHORS 387

INDEX OF FIRST LINES 405

A TREASURY OF CANADIAN VERSE

THE WHITETHROAT

Shy bird of the silver arrows of song, That cleave our Northern air so clear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, I listen, I hear-- "I--love--dear--Canada, Canada, Canada."

O plumes of the pointed dusky fir, Screen of a swelling patriot heart, The copse is all astir And echoes thy part!...

Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes As the noise of the day dies down; And silence strings her lutes, The Whitethroat to crown....

O bird of the silver arrows of song, Shy poet of Canada dear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, We listen, we hear-- "I--love--dear--Canada, Canada, Canada."

MARGARET H. ALDEN

MOTHER'S WORLD

Eyes of blue and hair of gold, Cheeks all brown with summer tan, Lips that much of laughter hold, That is mother's little Man.

Shining curls like chestnut brown, Long-lashed eyes, demure and staid, Sweetest face in all the town, That is mother's little Maid.

Dainty room with snow-white beds, Where, like flowers with petals curled, Rest in peace two dreaming heads, That--is mother's little World!

JOSEPH ANTISELL ALLEN

_From_ "DAY-DREAMS"

Ah, what if the mind, By sense-law confined, In time, 'neath this stratum of stars, Secretes by her spell This fair, wondrous shell Self-substanced, till bursting the bars Of chrysalis time, Free, joyous, sublime, She mounts the blue space, winged with light, Where, deep in the soul, Is mirrored the whole, As in a calm lake the pure night!

And what, if the whole Are things of the soul, This frame, Earth, bright Moon, garnished Skies, If from the great Sun Of spirit are spun All systems which gravity ties To their focal source, By a hidden force Mysterious, dynamic, unknown-- A power that controls Each orb as it rolls, And links to the great central throne!...

When the dew-drops shine, On each sunlit line, Of gossamer network, on sod Of emerald green, In the morning's sheen, 'Tis a miniature sky-work of God....

Arachne how oft, In the twilight soft, Seems poised in mid-air; yet some tie Holds spider, moon, mote, All known, near, remote, From mind to yon azure-domed sky!

GRANT ALLEN

ONLY AN INSECT

I

On the crimson cloth Of my study desk A lustrous moth Poised statuesque. Of a waxen mould Were its light limbs shaped, And in scales of gold Its body was draped: While its luminous wings Were netted and veined With silvery strings, Or golden grained, Through whose filmy maze In tremulous flight Danced quivering rays Of the gladsome light.

II

On the desk hard by A taper burned, Towards which the eye Of the insect turned. In its vague little mind A faint desire Rose, undefined, For the beautiful fire. Lightly it spread Each silken van; Then away it sped For a moment's span. And a strange delight Lured on its course With resistless might Towards the central source: And it followed the spell Through an eddying maze, Till it fluttered and fell In the deadly blaze.

III

Dazzled and stunned By the scalding pain, One moment it swooned, Then rose again; And again the fire Drew it on with its charms To a living pyre In its awful arms; And now it lies On the table here Before my eyes Shrivelled and sere.

IV

As I sit and muse On its fiery fate, What themes abstruse Might I meditate! For the pangs that thrilled Through that martyred frame As its veins were filled With the scorching flame, A riddle enclose That, living or dead, In rhyme or in prose, No seer has read. "But a moth," you cry, "Is a thing so small!" Ah, yes; but why Should it suffer at all? Why should a sob For the vaguest smart One moment throb Through the tiniest heart? Why in the whole Wide universe Should a single soul Feel that primal curse? Not all the throes Of mightiest mind, Nor the heaviest woes Of human kind, Are of deeper weight In the riddle of things Than that insect's fate With the mangled wings.

V

But if only I In my simple song Could tell you the Why Of that one little wrong, I could tell you more Than the deepest page Of saintliest lore Or of wisest sage. For never as yet In its wordy strife Could Philosophy get At the import of life; And Theology's saws Have still to explain The inscrutable cause For the being of pain. So I somehow fear That in spite of both, We are baffled here By this one singed moth.

WILLIAM TALBOT ALLISON

"THERE SAT THE WOMEN WEEPING FOR THAMMUZ"

The days begin to wane, and evening lifts Her eyes the sooner towards the vales of sleep; The yellow leaf upon the night-breeze drifts And winter-voices thunder from the deep; Thammuz grows pale in death, the Queen of Shades Mocks sad-eyed Ishtar and her mourning maids.

Prostrate along the Babylonish halls, On alabaster floors the women moan, All unadmired the lilac-tinted walls Bespangled wantonly, and sculptured stone; For Thammuz dies; bereft, the Queen of Love; Melt into tears, O Earth, O Heaven above!

Let all the Land between the Rivers sigh, And such as ever danced with throbbing veins To Ishtar's music, fill the sodden sky, With lamentation and most doleful strains. Thammuz is dead; no more the shepherd leads His golden flock adown Im's jewelled meads.

Proud Larsam of Chaldean cities blest, Famed for the glories of her sun-god's home, Erech, where countless Kings are laid to rest, And Eridhu, wet with the salt sea-foam;-- Princes and priests and lustrous maidens there Sing plaintive hymns to Thammuz, young and fair.

And out upon Shumir-Accadian plains, Beneath the orient night, the shepherd boy Blows from his oaten pipe the sweet refrains That tell of Ishtar's one-time joy; Ana, lord of the starry realms of space, Roams near to earth seeking the warm god's face.

Yet full-zoned Ishtar will not weep for aye, Nor will the land forever saddened be; For Thammuz is not dead, some spring-time day He will appear in greater majesty: Chaldean lovers will take heart again, The Queen of Love will kiss the sons of men.

THE MEN OF THE NORTH

From out the cold house of the north Thor's stalwart children hurtled forth, Forsook their sullen seas; Southward the Gothic waggons rolled, While bards foretold a realm of gold, And fame, and boundless ease.

Loud rang the shields with sounding blows, The furious din of war arose Adown the dreary land; But Woden held them in his ken, And safely passed the Teuton men By every hostile band.

At length, one day, the host was thrilled At that glad cry the foremost shrilled,-- "The sea! A southern sea!" As breathless stood the northmen there, The wind swept through their yellow hair, And sang of empery.

Rome's doom was written in their eyes, Fell tumult under sunny skies, Death on the Golden Horn: Now, by the rood, what southron slaves, Or land that any south sea laves, Can face the northern born?

VANISHINGS

The dark has passed, and the chill Autumn morn Unrolls her faded glories in the fields; Dead are the gilded air-hosts newly-born, The hardiest flowers droop their sodden shields, For lovely Summer hath cut short her stay-- The fickle goddess, loaded with delight, Grown wantonly unconstant, fled away Under a hoar-frost mantle yesternight. In one brief hour, the warm and flashing skies Pale in the marble dawn; we cannot choose, But marvel that hearts turn to stone, and eyes Brimful of passion all their lustre lose. Drear is the morning; love is gone for aye, Love done to death in one bright peerless day.

SOPHIE M. ALMON-HENSLEY

CONTENT

I have been wandering where the daisies grow, Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow From timothy and yellow buttercup, So by their fearless beauty lifted up.

Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will, Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep Or, as ofttimes, in mood caressing, creep Over the meadows and adown the hill. So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow, Blows over proud young hearts and bids them bow.

So beautiful is it to live, so sweet To hear the ripple of the bobolink, To smell the clover blossom white and pink, To feel oneself far from the dusty street, From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret Of living, and the fever of regret.

I have grown younger; I can scarce believe It is the same sad woman full of dreams Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems I am a child again, and can deceive My soul with daisies, plucking, one by one, The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.

Almost with old-time eagerness I try My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup," Then, lower, "passionément, pas du tout"; Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."

I can remember how, in childish days, I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall Must love me "passionately" or "not at all." Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays It knows not what, and heedlessly demands The best that life can give with outstretched hands!

Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize Peace above passion, and the summer life Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.

SONG

Joy came in Youth as a humming bird, (Sing hey! for the honey and bloom of life!) And it made a home in my summer bower With the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower. (Sing hey! for the blossoms and sweets of life!)

Joy came as a lark when the years had gone, (Ah! hush, hush still, for the dream is short!) And I gazed far up to the melting blue Where the rare song dropped like a golden dew. (Ah! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short!)

THERE IS NO GOD

There is no God! If one should stand at noon Where the glow rests, and the warm sunlight plays, Where earth is gladdened by the cordial rays And blossoms answering, where the calm lagoon Gives back the brightness of the heart of June, And he should say: "There is no sun"--the day's Fair show still round him,--should we lose the blaze And warmth, and weep that day has gone so soon?

Nay, there would be one word, one only thought, "The man is blind!" and throbs of pitying scorn Would rouse the heart, and stir the wondering mind. We _feel_, and _see_, and therefore _know_,--the morn With blush of youth ne'er left us till it brought Promise of full-grown day. "The man is blind!"

DUNCAN ANDERSON

THE DEATH OF WOLFE.

I

Behind Jacques Cartier's hills the sun sinks low Low burn the beacon fires along the shore; The drowsy watch dreams of his Norman home, And dusky warriors sleep, and deem their toils are o'er.

Beneath the raven wing of sable night, A little band, with martial fire aglow, Sweeps down, while he who nobly leads them on Chides every tardy hour that parts him from the foe.

Not glory's star allures that dauntless breast, Nor lust of conquest fires that eagle eye; For hearth and home, for King and Crown, his brand Unsheathes at duty's call, and Wolfe will win or die.

And while no ghostly form unveils the fate That, ere to-morrow's eve, awaits the brave,-- Love's gifts all laid aside,--he grasps his sword, And sighs, "The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

Adown the stream, past watch and ward they glide; And as the keel grates on the rocky shore, Silent and stern, and lithe as roe, each Gael Upsprings o'er crag and fell, to meet the battle's roar.

II

And had New France no arm to rule the fight, Or guard her oriflamme with dauntless breast? Had the great Marquis wearied of the strife, His war-worn blade to sheathe, and claim a soldier's rest?

Deserted by a ribald court and King,-- Ruled by a shameless minion's reckless hand,-- A thousand vampires battening on her blood,-- And knaves, or boastful fools deemed noblest of the land;--

Cape Breton's capital laid with the ground,-- Acadia lost,--of Western Empire shorn,-- No friendly fleet to shield her smouldering homes, And Stadacona's walls crumbling in sun and storm.

Such was New France;--but in her bosom glowed That patriot fire that burned while life was there; Not Vandreuil's iron rule could cool her love, Nor Bigot's vile Friponne hound her to mad despair.

To arms! Grandsire and striplings seek the field; The Censitaires obey their Seigneurs' call; Both high and low together ply the spade, And dainty hands weave gabions for the battered wall.

And on that morn, when like their mountain mist The Highland plumes waved o'er the beetling height, One sentinel stood faithful at his post,-- One watchful eye gazed wondering at the sight.

But ere the warning shot could tell the tale, The Scottish steel found sheath within his breast; Long may his mother wait to greet her boy;-- He sleeps with kindred brave on Abraham's lofty crest.

One cheer above! one answering shout below! Swift ply the boats across the ebbing tide; Victors of Louisbourg press proudly on, And cheerily the gun toils up the mountain side.

The pass is won, and as grey morning breaks, The living wave rolls o'er the grassy plain,-- Grass that ere noon shall reek with human blood From heaps of dead, like weeds upheaved by storm-tost main.

III

Hark! the loud 'larum through the welkin rings;-- Down drop the sere leaves with the cannon's roar;-- The red line forms;--revenge in every eye, For comrades slain on Montmorenci's blood-stained shore.

Firm as yon stalwart pines, that phalanx stands, Waiting the chiefs command to deal the blow,-- And silent all, save but the mountain pipe Yelling forth fierce defiance to the gathering foe.

And on yon ridge Guienne's fair banners claim The spot where empire's sway will prove the prize, And where, from hostile ashes kindly blent, A nobler form, like wakening Phœnix will arise.

In fiery haste, from Beauport's battered shore; From feint and bloodless field, now hurry by La Sarrè, Roussilon, Languedoc, Béarn, and all Burning from baffled foe to wrest fresh victory.