Part 4

And daintily they toss and sway To the breath of soundless airs,-- The memories of wooing winds That made the forest theirs.

O for the secret that the sun Shares with the burning tree! Elusive sweet as the witching flow Of water to the sea.

In thought I grasp the mystic word, And lo! it hath no form. I only know 'tis dark without, And here 'tis light and warm.

CHRISTMAS MORN

Come, happy morn, serene and fair, With outstretched hand, thy breath a prayer Come with thy faintly smiling eyes, And brow whereon majestic rise Suns of eternal morn.

Come, happy morn, for see and hark! A world lies waiting in the dark, With throbbing heart and straining gaze, To catch thy first up-springing rays, O, happy, happy morn!

The whispering stars will see it first, From star to star the tidings burst-- Their paling faces earthward bowed, While men and angels worship loud The Christ who is the Morn.

EDWARD BLACKADDER

ANNAPOLIS ROYAL

I loiter here within this ancient town-- Long time agone the rising hope of France, The seed of future empire--as in trance, 'Mid storied scenes, I wander up and down.

Here are the grass-grown walls which bore the frown Of death-disgorging cannon long ago, And wide the gleaming basin spreads below, Where thunder-bearing ships no more are known.

Yea, death hath reaped his harvest in this place; Along these shores have hundreds bled and died To save this jewel for the Gallic crown. Stern fate ordained it for another race: The sturdy Saxon tills yon meadows wide; Peace rules o'er all; war's trumpet sleeps unblown.

JEAN BLEWETT

THE TWO MARYS

They journey sadly, slowly on, The day has scarce begun, Above the hills the rose of dawn Is heralding the sun, While down in still Gethsemane The shadows have not moved, They go, by loss oppressed, to see The grave of One they loved.

The eyes of Mary Magdalene With heavy grief are filled; The tender eyes that oft have seen The strife of passion stilled. And never more that tender voice Will whisper "God forgives"; How can the earth at dawn rejoice Since He no longer lives?

O, hours that were so full and sweet! So free from doubts and fears! When kneeling lowly at His feet She washed them with her tears! With head low bowed upon her breast The other Mary goes, "He sleeps," she says, "and takes His rest Untroubled by our woes."

And spices rare their hands do hold For Him the loved and lost, And Magdalene, by love made bold, Doth maybe bring the most. It is not needed,--see! the stone No longer keeps its place, And on it sits a radiant one A light upon his face.

"He is not here, come near and look With thine own doubting eyes, Where once He lay--the earth is shook, And Jesus did arise." And now they turn to go away, Slow stepping, hand in hand, 'Twas something wondrous He did say, If they could understand.

The sun is flooding vale and hill, Blue shines the sky above, "All hail!"--O voice that wakes a thrill, Familiar, full of love! From darkest night to brightest day, From deep despair to bliss, They to the Master run straightway, And kneel His feet to kiss.

O Love! that made Him come to save, To hang on Calvary, O mighty Love! that from the grave Did lift and set Him free! Sing, Mary Magdalene, sing forth-- With voice so sweet and strong, Sing, till it thrills through all the earth-- The Resurrection Song!

SHE JUST KEEPS HOUSE FOR ME

She is so winsome and so wise She sways us at her will, And oft the question will arise What mission does she fill? And so I say, with pride untold And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold, She just keeps house for me.

A full content dwells in her face, She's quite in love with life, And for a title wears with grace The sweet old-fashioned "Wife."

What though I toil from morn till night, What though I weary grow, A spring of love and dear delight Doth ever softly flow.

Our children climb upon her knee And lie upon her breast, And ah! her mission seems to me The highest and the best.-- And so I say, with pride untold And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold, She just keeps house for me.

AT QUEBEC

Quebec, the grey old city on the hill, Lies with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, Of other days and all her mighty dead. The white doves perch upon the cannons grim, The flowers bloom where once did run a tide Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim Above the battlefield so grim and wide. Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow Of pride, of tenderness--her stirring past-- The strife, the valor, of the long ago Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast, She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, A wondrous softness on her grey old face.

JOHN BREAKENRIDGE

THE TROUBADOUR

TO THE CAPTIVE RICHARD CŒUR DE LION

O Richard, my King, lion-hearted, behold From thy prison, near which the dark waters are rolled; 'Tis Blondell the faithful, whose troubadour lay Would win the sad thoughts of his monarch away; As David of old, when he played before Saul, Could banish the demon of woe at his call.

O King of the lion-heart, oft hath thy sword Gleamed bright in the fight, for the cause of the Lord: How the Saracens trembled, and Saladin fled! How thy pathway was cumbered with dying and dead! The plume on thy helmet flew on like a bird, Where, as by the simoon, the Moslems were stirred.

Or when, in the tourney, thy long lance in rest, Thy spurs, all of gold, to thy charger's flank pressed; With a bound, through the lists, to the tilt rushing on, Down hurling some Templar, or Knight of Saint John; When the heralds were crying--Brave Knights, have a care, Upon ye are beaming the eyes of the fair!

O then, with what grace from your steed vaulting off, Your helmet, all plumed, to the ladies you'd doff; How you smiled, bent the knee, to the Queen Berengère,[A] While thousands of handkerchiefs waved in the air! How the charger of Saladin proud you bestrode, And, fearless, to conquer the gallant Turk rode!

O, England, arise! for thine honour advance, And punish the traitor-king, Philip of France; Spread out thy broad standard--"Saint George!" be the cry; To rescue our Richard, brave cavaliers, fly! Alas, in the dungeons of savage Tyrol, No hope ever comes to the poor captive's soul!

Alas, in her bower the Queen ever weeps, And treason o'er all thy broad realm, England, sweeps! Thy brother hath risen, and seized on the crown, And still the usurper no hand hurleth down. Doth England forget Cœur de Lion? O, no! For him the bright tears of her people still flow.

On my soul there comes rushing a foresight of woe, And before me long years of the dark future flow. The Palace of Austria, proud Schoenbrunn, The Gaul hath invaded, the conqueror won. Long years have gone by, but the Heavens are just, And Austria's hopes trodden down in the dust.

But ere the avenger shall rise in his might, Long ages will pass, wherein wrong conquers right; Months and years, it may be, shall flow over thy head; Thy people will mourn thee, believing thee dead; But now, and forever, there beats in one heart Devotion, that living, shall thence never part.

Cœur de Lion, farewell! But again, when at eve The world sunk in slumber, thy gaolers believe, O then, 'neath these battlements sternly that frown, I'll weep for thy wrongs, and I'll sing thy renown. King of England, farewell! for the night falleth fast, And I hear the dull tramp of the sentry at last.

[A] Berengaria.

JOHN HENRY BROWN

THE PARLIAMENT OF MAN

What shall withstand her? who shall gainsay her? The mighty nation! Nation of freemen with hearts linked together-- None to betray her. When from the strong soul leaps forth indignation, How shall the wrong live? how should the false thrive? How prosper liars? Down with dissemblers, far hence be each dastard, Hence all deniers!

Chaunt the great nation with hands locked together. North, South, East, West, one bond binds the true-hearted. Each one for the nation and the nation for each one. Where the millions are one fears no one of the millions. See the monster, Behemoth, stride from ocean to ocean, From the pole to equator, from the pole to the pole. Did he slumber--you dreamed?--lo! a single man's wronged there, And the turbulent crowds raise a cry smites the welkin: As one pulse beat the millions swift help to the wronged one, And the wronger slinks back. Justice now hath a pleader.

Stem the steep waves of ocean when Boreas hath stirred them-- Quell the riotous billows when tempest doth lash them-- O the free waves of ocean, how resistless their forces! O each man of the millions a light-crested fighter! O the millions oceanic with souls linked together! O the surging, triumphant, troth-plighting, united-- The many in one, the sure tie forged by freedom.

How sing fit praise? how raise the pæan? Say ye who love her. How of true hearts breathe the single devotion-- A song empyrean? Mingle a voice from strong souls the land over, Voices of maidens, wives, husbands and lovers, A voice from the sea-- Chaunting deep faith in the nation of freemen! Forever to be!

A SUNSET

A perfect artist hath been here; the scene Is grandly imaged; with what breadth of hand, What noble grace of freedom, all is planned! The woods, the water and the lakelet's sheen; The magic hues--gold-pink, rose-pearl, sea-green, And now the western gateway, see, is spanned! A nameless glory gilds the favored land, And still the spirit-artist works unseen.

Belike upon the chamber of a king My erring steps have stumbled; yet, meseems, These, like myself, are common men, who spring From rock to rock where the mid-splendor gleams. Perchance the king's sons we, and I, who sing, Co-heir to wealth beyond yon realm of dreams.

EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

When early shades of evening's close The air with solemn darkness fill, Before the moonlight softly throws Its fairy mantle o'er the hill, A sad sound goes In plaintive thrill; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will.

The Nightingale unto the rose Its tale of love may fondly trill; No love-tale this--'tis grief that flows With pain that never can be still. The sad sound goes In plaintive thrill; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will.

Repeated oft, it never grows Familiar, but is sadder still, As though a spirit sought repose From some pursuing, endless ill. The sad sound goes In plaintive thrill; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will.

THE SONNET

The sonnet is a diamond flashing round From every facet true rose-colored lights; A gem of thought carved in poetic nights To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned; A miniature of soul wherein are found Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights; A drop of blood with which a lover writes His heart's sad epitaph in its own bound; A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep Rocked in its frenzied passion; the last note Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark's throat; A cascade small flung in a canyon steep, With crystal music. At this shrine of song High priests of poesy have worshipped long.

GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON

THE GOLDEN TEXT

You ask for fame or power? Then up and take for text: This is my hour, And not the next, nor next!

Oh, wander not in ways Of ease or indolence! Swift come the days, And swift the days go hence.

Strike! while the hand is strong: Strike! while you can and may Strength goes ere long,-- Even yours will pass away.

Sweet seem the fields, and green, In which you fain would lie: Sweet seems the scene That glads the idle eye:

Soft seems the path you tread, And balmy soft the air,-- Heaven overhead And all the earth seem fair:

But, would your heart aspire To noble things,--to claim Bard's, statesman's fire-- Some measure of their fame;

Or, would you seek and find Their secret of success With mortal kind? Then, up from idleness!

Up--up! all fame, all power Lies in this golden text:-- _This is my hour-- And not the next, nor next!_

IS THERE A GOD?

Is there a God, then, above us? I ask it again and again: Is there a good God to love us-- A God who is mindful of men?

Is there a God who remembers That we have our nights as our noons? Our dark and our dismal Decembers As well as our garden-gay Junes?

ON TIPTOE

Standing on tiptoe ever since my youth, Striving to grasp the future just above, I hold at length the only future--Truth, And Truth is Love.

I feel as one who, being awhile confined, Sees drop to dust about him all his bars:-- The clay grows less, and, leaving it, the mind Dwells with the stars.

WHAT MATTERS IT?

What reck we of the creeds of men?-- We see them--we shall see again. What reck we of the tempest's shock? What reck we where our anchor lock? On golden marl or mould-- In salt-sea flower or riven rock-- What matter--so it hold?

What matters it the spot we fill On Earth's green sod when all is said?-- When feet and hands and heart are still And all our pulses quieted? When hate or love can kill nor thrill,-- When we are done with life, and dead?

So we be haunted night nor day By any sin that we have sinned, What matter where we dream away The ages?--In the isles of Ind, In Tybee, Cuba, or Cathay, Or in some world of winter wind?

It may be I would wish to sleep Beneath the wan, white stars of June, And hear the southern breezes creep Between me and the mellow moon; But so I do not wake to weep At any night or any noon,

And so the generous gods allow Repose and peace from evil dreams, It matters little where or how My couch be spread:--by moving streams, Or on some ancient mountain's brow Kist by the morn's or sunset's beams.

For we shall rest; the brain that planned, That thought or wrought or well or ill, At gaze like Joshua's moon shall stand, Not working any work or will, While eye and lip and heart and hand Shall all be still--shall all be still!

BLISS CARMAN

LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ

The sun goes down, and over all These barren reaches by the tide Such unelusive glories fall, I almost dream they yet will bide Until the coming of the tide.

And yet I know that not for us, By any ecstasy of dream, He lingers to keep luminous A little while the grievous stream, Which frets, uncomforted of dream--

A grievous stream, that to and fro Athrough the fields of Acadie Goes wandering, as if to know Why one beloved face should be So long from home and Acadie.

Was it a year, or lives ago, We took the grasses in our hands, And caught the summer flying low Over the waving meadow lands, And held it there between our hands?

The while the river at our feet-- A drowsy inland meadow stream-- At set of sun the after-heat Made running gold, and in the gleam We freed our birch upon the stream.

There down along the elms at dusk We lifted dripping blade to drift, Through twilight scented fine like musk, Where night and gloom awhile uplift, Nor sunder soul and soul adrift.

And that we took into our hands Spirit of life or subtler thing-- Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands Of death, and taught us, whispering, The secret of some wonder-thing.

Then all your face grew light, and seemed To hold the shadow of the sun; The evening faltered, and I deemed That time was ripe, and years had done Their wheeling underneath the sun.

So all desire and all regret, And fear and memory, were naught; One to remember or forget The keen delight our hands had caught; Morrow and yesterday were naught.

The night has fallen, and the tide ... Now and again comes drifting home, Across these aching barrens wide, A sigh like driven wind or foam: In grief the flood is bursting home.

THE GRAVEDIGGER

Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old, And well his work is done. With an equal grave for lord and knave, He buries them every one.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore,-- Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore.

Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre Went out, and where are they? In the port they made, they are delayed With the ships of yesterday.

He followed the ships of England far, As the ships of long ago; And the ships of France they led him a dance, But he laid them all arow.

Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him Is the sexton of the town; For sure and swift, with a guiding lift, He shovels the dead men down.

But though he delves so fierce and grim, His honest graves are wide, As well they know who sleep below The dredge of the deepest tide.

Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip, And loud is the chorus skirled; With the burly note of his rumbling throat He batters it down the world.

He learned it once in his father's house, Where the ballads of eld were sung; And merry enough is the burden rough, But no man knows the tongue.

Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see, And wilful she must have been, That she could bide at his gruesome side When the first red dawn came in.

And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those She greets to his border home; And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep That beckons, and they come.

Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough To handle the tallest mast; From the royal barque to the slaver dark, He buries them all at last.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore,-- Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore.

THE CRIMSON HOUSE

Love built a crimson house-- I know it well-- That he might have a home Wherein to dwell.

Poor Love that roved so far And fared so ill, Between the morning star And the Hollow Hill,

Before he found the vale Where he could bide, With memory and oblivion Side by side.

He took the silver dew And the dun red clay, And behold when he was through How fair were they!

The braces of the sky Were in its girth That it should feel no jar Of the swinging earth;

That sun and wind might bleach But not destroy The house that he had builded For his joy.

"Here will I stay," he said, "And roam no more, And dust when I am dead Shall keep the door."

There trooping dreams by night Go by, go by. The walls are rosy white In the sun's eye.

The windows are more clear Than sky or sea; He made them after God's Transparency.

It is a dearer place Than Kirk or inn; Such joy on joy as there Has never been.

HACK AND HEW

Hack and Hew were the sons of God In the earlier earth than now; One at his right hand, one at his left, To obey as he taught them how.

And Hack was blind and Hew was dumb, But both had the wild, wild heart; And God's calm will was their burning will, And the gist of their toil was art.

They made the moon and the belted stars, They set the sun to ride; They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea, The wind and the purple tide.

Both flower and beast beneath their hands To beauty and speed outgrew,-- The furious fumbling hand of Hack, And the glorying hand of Hew.

Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man, And painted him rosy brown; And God Himself blew hard in his eyes: "Let them burn till they smoulder down!"

And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought Hew, "We'll rest, for our toil is done." But "Nay," the Master Workman said, "For your toil is just begun.

"And ye who served me of old as God Shall serve me anew as man, Till I compass the dream that is in my heart, And perfect the vaster plan."

And still the craftsman over his craft, In the vague white light of dawn, With God's calm will for his burning will, While the mountain day comes on,

Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild, Toils with those shadowy two,-- The faltering restless hand of Hack, And the tireless hand of Hew.

PHILLIPS BROOKS

This is the white winter day of his burial. Time has set here of his toiling the span Earthward, naught else. Cheer him out through the portal, Heart-beat of Boston, our utmost in man!

Out in the broad open sun be his funeral, Under the blue for the city to see. Over the grieving crowd mourn for him, bugle! Churches are narrow to hold such as he.

Here on the steps of the temple he builded, Rest him a space, while the great city square Throngs with his people, his thousands, his mourners; Tears for his peace and a multitude's prayer.

How comes it, think you, the town's traffic pauses Thus at high noon? Can we wealthmongers grieve? Here in the sad surprise greatest America Shows for a moment her heart on her sleeve.