Part 6

Avenged? Behold what hecatombs around the dead man lay (The royal paw is heaviest when the lion's brought to bay); And as the shades of even fall upon this day of strife That heap of slain exceedeth far the foes he slew in life. And when a sneering alien tongue shall speak of him with scorn, Or hint at our decaying might, the child as yet unborn Shall beard the dastard to his teeth, and tell exultingly How like the Israelite in death was "Samson" Burnaby.

Intriguing Russia's prestige waned in far-off Persia's State When England's lonely horseman stood at Khiva's guarded gate, Ay! Bruin of the northern steppes, roll forth thy fœtid breath: Exult since now that lion heart is stilled for aye in death; And scream thine hate, proud bird of France, beyond thy northern shore, Perfidious Albion drapes her halls for one who is no more. Farewell, the last and brightest star of England's chivalry, 'Neath orient skies thou sleepest well, O gallant Burnaby!

SARA JEANETTE DUNCAN COTES

THE POET

O very, very far from our dull earth, The land where poets spring to glorious birth. Thrice blessed land, where brood thrice happy skies, Where he increaseth joy who groweth wise; Where truth is not too beautiful to see, Action is music, life a harmony. There dwells the poet, till some luckless day Prisons his spirit in our coarser clay, And in our dull and dusty commonplace He loses memory of his name and race,-- Till some bird twitters from a wayside thorn, The language of the land where he was born; Or west winds, whispering to the tall pine trees, Waken his soul to wonder; or he sees In some first fairness when the day is new, In some dear dimness i' the time o' the dew, A loveliness that steals about his heart, And lays soft fingers on dumb chords that start.

Then he uprises joyously and binds His poet's robes upon him, yea, he finds This drear existence a most glorious thing And sings because he cannot choose but sing.

ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD

THE MASTER-BUILDER

O Love builds on the azure sea, And Love builds on the golden sand; And Love builds on the rose-winged cloud, And sometimes Love builds on the land.

O, if Love build on sparkling sea, And if Love build on golden strand, And if Love build on rosy cloud, To Love these are the solid land.

O, Love will build his lily walls, And Love his pearly roof will rear, On cloud, or land, or mist, or sea,-- Love's solid land is everywhere!

THE AXE OF THE PIONEER

Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree, What doth thy bold voice promise me?

"I promise thee all joyous things, That furnish forth the lives of Kings

For every silver ringing blow Cities and palaces shall grow!"

Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree, Tell wider prophecies to me.

"When rust hath gnawed me deep and red, A nation strong shall lift its head!

His crown the very heavens shall smite, Æons shall build him in his might!"

Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree; Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!

_From_ "THE HELOT"

Helot, drink--nor spare the wine; Drain the deep, the maddening bowl; Flesh and sinews, slave, are mine, Now I claim thy Helot soul.

Gods! ye love our Sparta; ye Gave with vine that leaps and runs O'er her slopes, these slaves to be Mocks and warnings to her sons!

Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes (God-touched still their frank, bold blue) On the Helot--mark the rise Of the Bacchic riot through

Knotted vein and surging breast: Mark the wild, insensate mirth: God-ward boast--the drivelling jest, Till he grovel to the earth.

"Drink, dull slave!" the Spartan cried: Meek the Helot touched the brim; Scented all the purple tide; Drew the Bacchic soul to him.

Cold the thin-lipped Spartan smiled: Couched beneath the weighted vine, Large-eyed gazed the Spartan child On the Helot and the wine.

Rose pale Doric shafts behind, Stern and strong, and thro' and thro', Weaving with the grape-breathed wind, Restless swallows called and flew.

Dropped the rose-flushed doves and hung On the fountains' murmuring brims; To the bronzed vine Hermos clung-- Silver-like his naked limbs

Flashed and flushed: rich coppered leaves, Whitened by his ruddy hair; Pallid as the marble eaves, Awed he met the Helot's stare.

Clanged the brazen goblet down; Marble-bred loud echoes stirred: With fixed fingers, knotted, brown, Dumb, the Helot grasped his beard.

Heard the far pipes mad and sweet, All the ruddy hazes thrill: Heard the loud beam crash and beat In the red vat on the hill.

Wide his nostrils as a stag's Drew the hot wind's fiery bliss: Red his lips as river flags From the strong Cæcuban kiss.

On his swarthy temples grew Purple veins like clustered grapes; Past his rolling pupils blew Wine-born, fierce, lascivious shapes.

Cold the haughty Spartan smiled-- His the power to knit that day Bacchic fires, insensate, wild, To the grand Achean clay.

His the might--hence his the right! Who should bid him pause? nor Fate Warning passed before his sight, Dark-robed and articulate....

"Lo," he said, "he maddens now! Flames divine do scathe the clod: Round his reeling Helot brow Stings the garland of the god."

THE SWORD

At the forging of the sword-- The mountain roots were stirred Like the heart-beats of a bird; Like flax the tall trees waved, So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- So loud the hammers fell, The thrice-sealed gates of Hell Burst wide their glowing jaws; Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- Kind mother Earth was rent Like an Arab's dusky tent, And monster-like she fed On her children, at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- The startled air swift whirled The red flames round the world, From the anvil where was smitten The steel the Forgers wrought into the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- The maid and matron fled, And hid them with the dead; Fierce prophets sang their doom, More deadly than the wounding of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- Swift leaped the quiet hearts In the meadows and the marts; The tides of men were drawn By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword!

Thus wert thou forged, O lissome Sword; On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought; In such red flames thy metal fused; From such deep hells that metal brought; O Sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

"THESE THREE"

A star leant down and laid a silver hand On the pale brow of death; Before it roll'd black shadows from the land-- That star was Faith!

Across fierce storms that hid the mountains far In funeral cope, Piercing the black there sailed a throbbing star-- The star was Hope!

From God's vast palm a large sun grandly rolled, O'er land and sea; Its core of fire, its stretching hands of gold-- Large Charity!

FRANCIS BLAKE CROFTON

THE BATTLE-CALL OF ANTI-CHRIST

Aforethought of the fated reign of peace Fell on the soul of Anti-Christ, I dreamed; And his brow darkened, and his hate-lit eyes Aloft glared lurid through the mist of space. Then vast and shadowy rose the Lord of War, And shook his right hand at a far White Throne, Brooding unutterable blasphemies. Anon he gazed upon our shuddering world, The while, with voice that fires or freezes souls, He spake his message to the circling winds And roused to battle all his myrmidons:

"Up, despot, trembling for a blood-bought crown! The smouldering flame that threatens thine own house Hurl at another's; lead thy people on By glory's flaring torches to their doom. (Ever the spear Pierces the spirit of the Prince of Peace!)

"Yoke Victory to thy chariot and ride on, Trampling the pride of nations, Conqueror! Let thy maimed warriors writhe alone; for thou Art scorn of God for His vile images. (And scorn of mine For Him who pleads for them at God's right hand.)

"Pause not to reck the ruin thou hast made: Is not the comet's course foredoomed, and thine? A deathless name outweighs a million deaths, And orphans' sighs are mute 'mid the acclaim Of multitudes. (What is the grief of Jesus unto thee?)

"Statesman, behold, thy trustful neighbors sleep, And rust is on their swords, your blades are sharp! Swift and relentless press thy specious claim; Not thine the toil or risk, thine the fame to win With others' blood. (That human blood that filled the veins of Christ!)

"Flushed with a spotless triumph, patriots, From brave defence advance to stern revenge, And urge a war of conquest and bequeath A heritage of hatred to your sons. (For freedom's sake Stabbing His soul who 'came not to destroy'!)

"Wake, silent trump of holy discord! Sword Of God and Gideon, hew the Gentiles down! Slay, in your ruth for graceless babes unborn! Clash, rival crosses, mock the Crucified! Blaze, lethal fires! (_I_ will accept the incense that _He_ loathes.)

"Poets sublime who sway the souls of men! Sing still of arms and human hecatombs, And wrath and glory and the pride of race; Let rhymesters mumble of love, pity, peace. (Sing ye the spear That glances from its victims to Christ's heart.)

"And thou, enthusiast, whose genius caught The soul of Revolution and enchained The fiery spirit in a song, thy strains Again shall stir rapt throngs to fratricide: 'To arms! to arms!' (Christ mocks me with His pity from His throne!)

"Sound trump and drum and fife and clarion, Sound, to the rhythmic march of warriors, With priestly benedictions on their pride And beauty's smiles upon their waving plumes. (Marching in pomp To wound the wearied spirit of their Christ!)

* * * * *

"Oh, pygmy pomp and blazon of man's war! When Michael strove with Satan 'mid the stars, _There_ were seraphic deeds and agonies And not this earthly death! Nathless I crave Unnumbered slain-- The sin of His own slayers tortured Him!

"Hail to thy memory, war of wars, that jarred Awhile the calm of heaven, when Pride and Hate, Stung by the still rebuke of Love supreme, Rose, fought and fell! And to thy memory hail, Symbolic spear, That wounded the dead Christ on Calvary!

"Dear is the murderer's dagger; dear the rack That strains the frame of one who testifies With his last breath to Christ; dearest the spear That stabbed Him on the Cross and stabs Him still, Each thrust a balm To soothe my sleepless memory in hell!"

JOHN ALLISTER CURRIE

MY MOTHER

There are no colors in God's heaven-bent bow, Nor is there music in the quiring spheres, Can paint thy smile from out these youthful years, Recall the music of thy voice so low And sweet, dear mother, in the long ago. But gone art thou. Ah! how the bitter tears Burned deep into my heart! How memory sears, But cannot heal those wounds, while tears still flow.

Back from those bright and happy days gone by, Echoes of childish mirth and cradle song! Thy guiding hand and presence then were nigh, And I am weary, and life's road seems wrong. I miss thy smiling face, thy watchful eye. Life's heaven was short. Eternity's is long.

MARGARET GILL CURRIE

BY THE ST. JOHN

The broad round-shouldered giant Earth Upbears no land more sweet Than that whereon in heedless mirth Went free my childish feet; No fairer river furroweth, With its strong steel-blue share, The hill-sides and the vales of earth, Than that which floweth there.

For rigid fasting hermit John They named the glorious stream, As seamen on his holy morn Beheld its harbor's gleam. It was like rigid hermit John, A voice amid the wild, Its honey and its fatness drawn From forests undefiled.

Now that the green is on the plain, The azure in the sky, Wherewith clear sunshine after rain Decketh the rich July, Broad is the leaf and bright the flower; Close to the pale gray sands Coarse alder grows, and virgin's bower Grasps it with slender hands.

With honeysuckles, meadow-sweets, And rue the banks are lined; O'er wide fields dance gay marguerites To pipe of merry wind. By the tall tiger-lily's side Stands the rich golden-rod, A king's son wooing for his bride, The daughter of a god.

When fresh and bright were all green things, And June was in the sky, The dandelions made them wings, And did as riches fly; Now the bright buttercups with gold Empave a toil-trod road-- Can wayfarers their sheen behold Nor sigh for streets of God?

The birds are homed amid the boughs Of oak and elm trees grand; As for the snipe, her lowly house She maketh in the sand; The robin loves the dawning's hush, The eve's the chickadee, The thistle-bird the garden bush, The bobolink the lea.

From intervale and swampy dale Are wafts of fragrance blown, Of fern and mint and calamus, And wild hay newly mown. God's fiery touch hath reached the earth, And lo! its odors rise Like incense pure of priceless worth Offered in sacrifice.

SARAH ANNE CURZON

VISIT OF THE PRINCE OF WALES TO LAURA SECORD

Now wherefore trembles still the string By lyric fingers crossed, To Laura Secord's praise and fame, When forty years are lost?

Nay, five and forty, one by one, Have borne her from the day When, fired by patriotic zeal, She trod her lonely way.

Her hair is white, her step is slow, Why kindles then her eye, And rings her voice with music sweet Of many a year gone by?

O know ye not proud Canada, With joyful heart, enfolds In fond embrace the royal boy Whose line her fealty holds?

For him she spreads her choicest cheer, And tells her happiest tale, And leads him to her loveliest haunts, That naught to please may fail.

And great art thou, O Chippewa, Though small in neighbours' eyes, When out Niagara's haze thou seest A cavalcade arise;

And in its midst the royal boy Who, smiling, comes to see An ancient dame whose ancient fame Shines in our history.

He takes the thin and faded hand, He seats him at her side, Of all that gay and noble band That moment well the pride.

To him the aged Secord tells, With many a fervid glow, How, by her means, FitzGibbon struck His great historic blow.

Nor deem it ye, as many do, A weak and idle thing That at that moment Laura loved The praises of a king;

And dwelt on his approving smile, And kissed his royal hand, Who represented, and should wield, The sceptre of our land;

For where should greatness fire her torch If not at greatness' shrine? And whence should approbation come Did not the gods incline?

INVOCATION TO RAIN

O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King, Where dost thou stay so long? our sad hearts pine, Our spirits faint for thee. Our weary eyes Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn Or east or west, no vaporous haze, nor view Of distant panorama, wins our souls To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant. Thy brother Spring is come. His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray-- The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee. Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds Of feathery ferns, in strewing o'er his path; The dielytra puts her necklace on, Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose. Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass Grows up in single blades and braves the sun. But thou!--O, where art thou, sweet early Rain, That with thy free libations fill'st our cup? The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note From off the ridge-cap, but can find no spot Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence Explores the pasture with his piercing eye, And visits oft the bushes by the stream, But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tufts Are there to hide a house.... A-missing thee The husbandman goes forth with faltering step And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard The labouring plough, but the dry earth falls back As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs The plough-boy's feet with rich encumbering mould. The willows have a little tender green, And swallows cross the creek--the gurgling creek Now fallen to pools--but, disappointed, Dash away so swift, and fly so high We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land Doth mourn for thee.-- Ah! here thou comest, sweet Rain. Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies! See now, what transformation in thy touch! Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white As angels' raiment. Little wood children Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth Offers rich gifts. The little choristers Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake And mingle with the swift roulade of streams. The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!" And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms, And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks, And the plover whistling in the fields. The little children dream of daisy chains, And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday,-- A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers. O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain! Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become Like that Great Heart whose almoner art thou.

NICHOLAS FLOOD DAVIN

_From_ "EOS"

Now the Fraser gleamed Below, its benches white with apple trees In bloom. 'Neath one an Indian stood, in hand A tom-tom rude, on which he beat, the while He sang in sad tones looking towards the sea. The children of his tribe impassive sat And smoked their deep-bowled long-stemmed pipes:

With spread wings forever Time's eagle careers, His quarry old nations, His prey the young years; Into monuments brazen He strikes his fierce claw, And races are only A sop for his maw.

The red sun is rising Behind the dark pines, And the mountains are marked out In saffron lines, The pale moon still lingers, But past is her hour Over mountain and river Her silver to shower.

As yon moon disappeareth, We pass and are past; The Paleface o'er all things Is potent at last. He bores through the mountains, He bridges the ford, He bridles steam horses Where Bruin was lord, He summons the river Her wealth to unfold, From flint and from granite He crushes the gold.

Those valleys of silence Will soon be alive With huxters who chaffer, Prospectors who strive, And the house of the Paleface Will peer from the crest Of the cliff, where the eagle To-day builds his nest.

The Redskin he marred not White fall on wild rill, But to-morrow those waters Will turn a mill; And the streamlet which flashes Like a young squaw's dark eye, Will be black with foul refuse, Or may be run dry.

From the sea where the Father Of waters is lost, To the sea where all summer The iceberg is tost, The white hordes will swarm And the white man will sway, And the smoke of his engine Make swarthy the day.

Round the mound of a brother In sadness we pace, How much sadder to stand At the grave of a race! But the good Spirit knows What for all is the best, And which should be chosen, The strife or the rest.

As for me, I'm time-weary, I await my release; Give to others the struggle, Grant me but the peace,-- And what peace like the peace Which death offers the brave? What rest like the rest That we find in the grave?

For the doom of the hunter There is no reprieve; And for me, 'mid strange customs, 'Tis bitter to live. Our part has been played Let the white man play his; Then he too disappears, And goes down the abyss. Yes! Time's eagle will prey On the Paleface at last, And his doom like our own Is to pass and be past.

A. B. DE MILLE

THE ICE KING

Where the world is gray and lone Sits the Ice King on his throne--

Passionless, austere, afar, Underneath the Polar Star.

Over all his splendid plains An eternal stillness reigns.

Silent creatures of the North, White and strange and fierce, steal forth: