Part 20

Dear girl, behold, thy boy is now A man, and grown to middle-age; The lines are deep upon his brow, His heart hath been griefs hermitage; But hidden where no eye can see, His boyhood's love still lives for thee,--

Still blooms above thy grave to-day, Where death hath harvested the land, Though such long years have passed away Since down the meadows hand in hand We went, with hearts too full to know How deep their love was long ago.

EASTER ISLAND

There lies a lone isle in the tropic seas,-- A mountain isle, with beaches shining white, Where soft stars smile upon its sleep by night, And every noonday fans it with a breeze. Here on a cliff, carved upward from the knees, Three uncouth statues of gigantic height, Upon whose brows the circling sea-birds light, Stare out to ocean over the tall trees.

Forever gaze they at the sea and sky, Forever hear the thunder of the main, Forever watch the ages die away; And ever round them rings the phantom cry Of some lost race that died in human pain, Looking towards heaven, yet seeing no more than they.

A DREAM OF THE PREHISTORIC

Naked and shaggy, they herded at eve by the sound of the seas, When the sky and the ocean were red as with blood from the battles of God, And the wind like a monster sped forth with its feet on the rocks and the trees, And the sands of the desert blew over the wastes of the drought-smitten sod.

Here, mad with the torments of hunger, despairing they sank to their rest, Some crouching alone in their anguish, some gathered in groups on the beach; And with tears almost human the mother looked down at the babe on her breast, And her pain was the germ of our love, and her cry was the root of our speech.

Then a cloud from the sunset arose, like a cormorant gorged with its prey, And extended its wings on the sky till it smothered the stars in its gloom, And ever the famine-worn faces were wet with the wind-carried spray, And dimly the voice of the deep to their ears was a portent of doom.

And the dawn that rose up on the morrow, apparelled in gold like a priest, Through the smoke of the incense of morning, looked down on a vision of death; For the vultures were gathered together and circled with joy to their feast On hearts that had ceased from their sorrow, and lips that had yielded their breath.

Then the ages went by like a dream, and the shoreline emerged from the deep, And the stars as they watched through the years saw a change on the face of the earth; For over the blanket of sand that had covered the dead in their sleep Great forests grew up with their green, and the sources of rivers had birth.

And here in the aftertimes, man, the white faced and smooth-handed, came by, And he built him a city to dwell in and temples of prayer to his God; He filled it with music and beauty, his spirit aspired to the sky, While the dead by whose pain it was fashioned lay under the ground that he trod.

He wrenched from great Nature her secrets, the stars in their courses he named, He weighed them and measured their orbits; he harnessed the horses of steam; He captured the lightnings of heaven, the waves of the ocean he tamed,-- And ever the wonder amazed him as one that awakes from a dream.

But under the streets and the markets, the banks and the temples of prayer, Where humanity laboured and plotted, or loved with an instinct divine, Deep down in the silence and gloom of the earth that had shrouded them there Were the fossil remains of a skull and the bones of what once was a spine.

Enfolded in darkness forever, untouched by the changes above, And mingled as clay with the clay which the hands of the ages had brought, Were the hearts in whose furnace of anguish was smelted the gold of our love, And the brains from whose twilight of instinct has risen the dawn of our thought.

But the law, that was victor of old with its heel on the neck of the brute, Still tramples our hearts in the darkness, still grinds down our face in the dust; We are sown in corruption and anguish--whose fingers will gather the fruit? Our life is but lent for a season--for whom do we hold it in trust?

In the vault of the sky overhead, in the gulfs that lie under our feet, The wheels of the universe turn, and the laws of the universe blend; The pulse of our life is in tune with the rhythm of forces that beat In the surf of the furthest star's sea, and are spent and regathered to spend.

Yet we trust in the will of the Being whose fingers have spangled the night With the dust of a myriad worlds, and who speaks in the thunders of space; Though we see not the start or the finish, though vainly we cry for the light, Let us mount in the glory of manhood and meet the God-Man face to face.

DAWN

The immortal spirit hath no bars To circumscribe its dwelling-place; My soul hath pastured with the stars Upon the meadow-lands of space.

My mind and ear at times have caught, From realms beyond our mortal reach, The utterance of Eternal Thought, Of which all nature is the speech.

And high above the seas and lands, On peaks just tipped with morning light, My dauntless spirit mutely stands With eagle wings outspread for flight.

VAN ELSEN

God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul; He spake by sickness first, and made him whole; Van Elsen heard Him not, Or soon forgot.

God spake to him by wealth; the world outpoured Its treasures at his feet, and called him lord; Van Elsen's heart grew fat And proud thereat.

God spake the third time when the great world smiled, And in the sunshine slew his little child; Van Elsen like a tree Fell hopelessly.

Then in the darkness came a voice which said, "As thy heart bleedeth, so My heart hath bled; As I have need of thee, Thou needest Me."

That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet, And kneeling by the narrow winding sheet, Praised Him with fervent breath Who conquered death.

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY

THE WALKER OF THE SNOW

Speed on, speed on, good Master! The camp lies far away; We must cross the haunted valley Before the close of day.

How the snow-blight came upon me I will tell you as I go,-- The blight of the Shadow hunter, Who walks the midnight snow.

To the cold December heaven Came the pale moon and the stars, As the yellow sun was sinking Behind the purple bars.

The snow was deeply drifted Upon the ridges drear, That lay for miles around me And the camps for which we steer.

'Twas silent on the hill-side, And by the solemn wood, No sound of life or motion To break the solitude,

Save the wailing of the moose-bird With a plaintive note and low, And the skating of the red leaf Upon the frozen snow.

And said I, "Though dark is falling, And far the camp must be, Yet my heart it would be lightsome If I had but company."

And then I sang and shouted, Keeping measure, as I sped, To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe As it sprang beneath my tread.

Nor far into the valley Had I dipped upon my way, When a dusky figure joined me, In a capuchon of grey,

Bending upon the snow-shoes, With a long and limber stride; And I hailed the dusky stranger As we travelled side by side.

But no token of communion Gave he by word or look, And the fear-chill fell upon me At the crossing of the brook.

For I saw by the sickly moonlight As I followed, bending low, That the walking of the stranger Left no footmarks on the snow.

Then the fear-chill gathered o'er me, Like a shroud around me cast, As I sank upon the snow-drift Where the Shadow-hunter passed.

And the other-trappers found me, Before the break of day, With my dark hair blanched and whitened As the snow in which I lay.

But they spoke not as they raised me; For they knew that in the night I had seen the Shadow-hunter, And had withered in his blight.

Sancta Maria speed us! The sun is falling low,-- Before us lies the valley Of the Walker of the Snow!

FRANCIS SHERMAN

THE BUILDER

Come and let me make thee glad In this house that I have made! Nowhere (I am unafraid!) Canst thou find its like on Earth: Come, and learn the perfect worth Of the labor I have had.

I have fashioned it for thee, Every room and pictured wall; Every marble pillar tall, Every door and window-place; All were done that thy fair face Might look kindlier on me.

Here, moreover, thou shalt find Strange, delightful, far-brought things: Dulcimers, whose tightened strings Once dead women loved to touch; (Deeming they could mimic much Of the music of the wind!)

Heavy candlesticks of brass; Chess-men carved of ivory; Mass-books written perfectly By some patient monk of old; Flagons wrought of thick, red gold, Set with gems and colored glass;

Burnished armor, once some knight (Dead, I deem, long years ago!) Its great strength was glad to know When his lady needed him: (Now that both his eyes are dim Both his sword and shield are bright!)

Come, and share these things with me, Men have died to leave to us! We shall find life glorious In this splendid house of love; Come, and claim thy part thereof,-- I have fashioned it for thee!

BETWEEN THE BATTLES

Let us bury him here, Where the maples are red! He is dead, And he died thanking God that he fell with the fall of the leaf and the year.

Where the hillside is sheer, Let it echo our tread Whom he led; Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who never knew fear.

Ere he died they had fled; Yet they heard his last cheer Ringing clear,-- When we lifted him up, he would fain have pursued, but grew dizzy instead.

Break his sword and his spear! Let this last prayer be said By the bed We have made underneath the wet wind in the maple trees moaning so drear:

"O Lord God, by the red Sullen end of the year That is here, We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our swords till his slayers be dead!"

_From_ "A PRELUDE"

O covering grasses! O unchanging trees! Is it not good to feel the odorous wind Come down upon you with such harmonies

Only the giant hills can ever find? O little leaves, are ye not glad to be? Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,

That falls at noontide over you and me? O gleam of birches lost among the firs, Let your high treble chime in silverly

Across the half-imagined wind that stirs A muffled organ-music from the pines! Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers

Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines Till the young maples are no longer gray, And stronger grows their faint, uncertain lines;

Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day, And purpler swell the cones hung overhead, Until the sound of their far feet who stray

About the wood, fades from me; and, instead, I hear a robin singing--not as one That calls unto his mate, uncomforted-- But as one sings a welcome to the sun.

A LITTLE WHILE BEFORE THE FALL WAS DONE

A little while before the fall was done A day came when the frail year paused and said: "Behold! a little while and I am dead; Wilt thou not choose, of all the old dreams, one?" Then dwelt I in a garden, where the sun Shone always, and the roses all were red; Far off the great sea slept, and overhead Among the robins matins had begun. And I knew not at all it was a dream Only, and that the year was near its close; Garden and sunshine, robin-song and rose, The half-heard murmur and the distant gleam Of all the unvext sea, a little space Were as a mist above the Autumn's face.

GOLDWIN SMITH

FLOSSY (WITH HER OWN PORTRAIT) TO HER MISTRESS

ON HER WEDDING DAY

Of all the tiny race of Skye, The prettiest, so friends say, am I; My name is Flossy, well-bestowed, A silkier coat Skye never shewed! With sable back, and silver head, Blue bow, and feathery paws outspread, As on my crimson rug I lie, What fairer sight for painter's eye? Short are my legs, yet mark my pace Whene'er I cats or postmen chase! In human language if I fail, What so expressive as my tail? See how it wags, as if to say, "Dear mistress, a glad wedding day!" Though bounded is my being's range, And knows no world beyond The Grange-- A universe by half-a-span Less than the universe of man-- Yet am I Queen of all I see, The household are but slaves to me. Let others toil the livelong day, I play and sleep, and sleep and play; Or in my carriage proudly ride With two fair ladies at my side. Gaily I live, by all caressed, And in a doting mistress blessed! Affection's happiness I prove, And see no fault in those I love; Nor when my little bones are laid Beneath the turf on which I played, Nor when the rug which now I press Each winter's eve is Flossieless, Shall Flossy die; but pictured here To her loved mistress still be dear.

LYMAN C. SMITH

CANADA TO COLUMBIA

O elder sister, though thou didst of yore Forsake thy mother's ancient hall and flee To be the chosen bride of Liberty, She cherishes her grief and wrath no more, Nor seeks her broken circle to restore, Yet fain would clasp thee to her breast again, But thou aloof uncertain dost remain.

O canst thou not the one mistake forget Of her that bore thee, taught thy lips to frame Thy early words, thy God in prayer to name; That in the paths of right and justice set Thy feet, where not infrequent walk they yet; That stood devoted at thy youthful side, Nor e'en her blood in thy defence denied?

But if thy younger sister yet abide Content and happy in her mother's hall, Nor feel the bond of blood a menial thrall, But, leaning heart to heart, of choice confide In mother yet as dearest guard and guide-- If thou wilt not thy mother's love regain, Why must thy cradle sister plead in vain?

Yet all the best that bubbles in our veins We sisters drew from that one Saxon breast. Where oftentimes thy maiden cheek has pressed, Mine resting still in loving trust remains. Our bonds of blood should be unbroken chains! Obey thy heart and grasp the proffered hand, Then all the world our wills may not withstand.

_From_ "A DAY WITH HOMER"

Methought the stream of Time had backward rolled, And I was standing on the fruitful plain That lay between the sea and ancient Troy. I saw one standing on the curving beach Whose hoary locks were playthings for the wind That freshening came across the swelling waves. I listened to the mystic music of a voice That chanted to their measured beat, in tones Now whispering soft and low as rustling leaves, Now rolling with the boom of tumbling waves, Now clanging as the clash of brazen arms.

* * * * *

There sat the virgin queen whose buskined feet Are swift to chase at early dawn, across The breezy hills, the flying stag that falls By wingëd shaft shot from her sounding bow; And Venus, favored child of mighty Jove, With perfect moulded arm and breast of snow, Mirth-lighted eye and soft-caressing hand;-- Love, fairest form that ever found a home On earth, or in the golden halls of heaven.

WILLIAM WYE SMITH

THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE

O, the East is but the West, with the sun a little hotter; And the pine becomes a palm by the dark Egyptian water; And the Nile's like many a stream we know that fills its brimming cup; We'll think it is the Ottawa as we track the batteaux up! Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top.

O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river; But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sunbeams quiver; And the mocking mirage spreads its view afar on either hand; But strong we bend the sturdy oar towards the Southern land! Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top!

O, we've tracked the Rapids up, and o'er many a portage crossing; And it's often such we've seen, though so loud the waves are tossing! Then it's homeward when the run is o'er! o'er stream and ocean deep-- To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows sleep! Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top!

And it yet may come to pass that the hearts and hands so ready May be sought again to help when some poise is off the steady! And the Maple and the Pine be matched with British Oak the while, As once beneath Egyptian suns the Canadians on the Nile! Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top!

ALBERT E. S. SMYTHE

THE FORGOTTEN POET

With fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud, The little song I sing with so much care, Sweet for a day, will swoon upon the flood Of days that will forget my song was fair. The master-song is mighty rushing wind Mixed with all fragrance, strong with a great breath From cloudland, and the climes that win the mind, And full of pulses to awaken death. Full well I know the storm will smite my flower, My tiny short-stemmed blossom of the sod; But when my flower and I have lived an hour I'll bear it on the wind away to God: And wind and flower and spirit may adorn Some Eden-garden where new worlds are born.

DEATH THE REVEALER

I know that death is God's interpreter: His quiet voice makes gracious meanings clear In grievous things that vex us deeply here Between the cradle and the sepulchre. We, gazing into darkness, greatly err, And fear the shrouded shadow of a fear Till dawn reveals the vestments of a Seer With gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh. There is a mystery I cannot read Around the mastery I no more dread; For love is but a heart to brood and bleed, And life is but a dream among the dead Whose wisdom waits for us. God give me heed Till the day break and shadows all be fled!

HIRAM LADD SPENCER

THE RIVER

By cliffs grown gray, as men grow gray With weariness and sorrow, Awhile I pause, and then away, And in the wild and restless Bay I lose myself to-morrow.

I turn the wheels of many mills, By many islands dally; I gossip with the daffodils, And to my bosom take the rills That from the woodlands sally.

I love the songs that childhood sings-- Its smiles and roguish glances,-- A picture paint of many things That o'er the mind a halo flings As onward time advances.

I listen to the tender chime Of city bells a-swaying: O dower of youth! O wealth of time! O pleasant dreams! O hopes sublime, When all the world's a-swaying!

By cliffs grown gray, as men grow gray With weariness and sorrow, Awhile I pause, and then away, Like you who loiter here to-day, And lose myself to-morrow.

A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME

Where, where will be the birds that sing, A hundred years to come? The flowers that now in beauty spring, A hundred years to come? The rosy cheek, The lofty brow, The heart that beats So gaily now: Where, where will be our hopes and fears, Joy's pleasant smiles and Sorrow's tears, A hundred years to come?

Who'll press for gold this crowded street, A hundred years to come? Who'll tread yon aisles with willing feet, A hundred years to come? Pale, trembling Age, And fiery Youth, And Childhood with Its brow of truth; The rich, the poor, on land and sea, Where will the mighty millions be, A hundred years to come?

We all within our graves will sleep, A hundred years to come; No living soul for us will weep, A hundred years to come; But other men Our homes will fill, And others then Our lands will till, And other birds will sing as gay, And bright the sunshine as to-day, A hundred years to come.

EZRA HURLBURT STAFFORD

CHINOOK

(_At Stampede Pass_)

Mildly through the mists of night Floats a breath of flowers sweet, Warmly through the waning light Wafts a wind with perfumed feet, Down the gorge and mountain brook, With the sound of wings--Chinook!

By no trail his spirits go, Through the mountain passes high, Where the moon is on the snow And the screaming eagles fly, Where the yawning canyon roars With memories of misty shores.

On still prairies, mountain-locked, Frost lies white upon the grass, But where the witch of winter walked, Now the summer's masquers pass; And at May's refreshing breath Tender flowers rose from death.

And the breeze, that on the Coast Wakened softly at the morn, Is on snowy prairies lost When the twilight pales forlorn; Sweet Chinook! who breathes betimes Summer's kiss in winter climes.

THE STRANGE VESSEL

(_Quebec, 1759_)

And no one saw, while it was dark, The outline of a sweeping barque, Without a flag or light; And no one counted, one by one, Along her decks each silent gun, That glimmered through the night.

And far above the water's swell, Upon a guarded citadel, Arose the laugh of men; But some upon the ramparts there Felt Evil hurrying through the air, And never laughed again.