Part 7

Soft-foot beasts from frozen lair, Noiseless birds that wing the air,

Souls of seamen dead, who lie Stark beneath the pale north sky;

Shapes to living eye unknown, Wild and shy, come round the throne

Where the Ice King sits in view To receive their homage due.

But the Ice King's quiet eyes, Calm, implacable, and wise,

Gaze beyond the silent throng, With a steadfast look and long,

Down to where the summer streams Murmur in their golden dreams;

Where the sky is rich and deep, Where warm stars bring down warm sleep,

Where the days are, every one, Clad with warmth and crowned with sun.

And the longing gods may feel Stirs within his heart of steel,

And he yearns far forth to go From his land of ice and snow.

But forever, gray and lone, Sits the Ice King on his throne--

Passionless, austere, afar, Underneath the Polar Star.

BALLAD

Good Christmas bells, I pray you Ring him back to me; For I am in the village, And he is on the sea.

And out beyond the harbor The surf is playing white; Good Christmas bells, I pray you Ring him home to-night!

The reef beyond the harbor Is girt with hungry foam; Good Christmas bells, I pray you Ring my sailor home!

The lighthouse in the harbor Burns clear, and keen, and still; But a sound is in the village, A voice is on the hill:

The voice of distant surges, And he is on the sea-- Good Christmas bells, I pray you Ring him back to me!

JAMES DE MILLE

_From_ "BEHIND THE VEIL"

"Son of Light,"--I murmured lowly-- "All my heart is known to thee-- Known unto thy vision holy-- All my longing and my yearning for the Loved One lost to me-- May these eyes again behold her?"--and the Shape said, "Come and see."

'Twas a voice whose intonation Through my feeble being thrilled With a solemn, sweet vibration, And at once a holy calmness all my wakeful senses stilled, And my heart beat faint and fainter, with a dying languor filled.

Then a sudden sharp convulsion Seized me with resistless might, Till before that fierce compulsion All mortality departed; like a Thought, a thing of Light, All my spirit darted up to an immeasurable height.

I beheld bright visions darting Past, in long and quick review, Quick arriving, quick departing; Mortal sense had grown immortal, and I saw not, but I knew, And that spiritual sense was Knowledge, Absolute and True.

And there came amazement o'er me In that infinite career, For the scenes that rushed before me, Long removed, but long remembered, brought me memories old and dear, Bearing sweet familiar faces from that far terrestrial sphere.

For the spell of earth had bound me, And each quickly gliding scene Brought the shapes of earth around me;-- Vales of bright unclouded verdure; hills arrayed in living green; Limpid lakes in dim recesses overarched by skies serene;

Cooling rill and sparkling fountain, Purple peak and headland bold, Precipice and snow-clad mountain-- Lofty summits rising grandly into regions clear and cold, And innumerable rivers that majestically rolled.

* * * * *

By such wondrous scenes surrounded, O'er them all mine eyes I ran, All bewildered and confounded; Yet I sought amid that wonder all its mystery to scan, Till amid the forms of Nature I beheld the face of Man.

I beheld fair cities gleaming White on many a distant shore, And the battle banners streaming, And the pomp of mighty armies in the panoply of War, And the navies of the nations speeding all the Ocean o'er.

But the human form and faces Older still and older grew; Races followed fast on races, Vanished peoples seemed to rise again and robe themselves anew, And the life and acts of all the ages passed in swift review.

Olden populations swarming In an outward rushing tide, Scattering o'er the earth and forming Lines of march o'er lofty mountains, over deserts wild and wide, Seeking evermore a country where they might in peace abide.

Then there came unpeopled spaces Which no human token bore, And the pathway of the races Lessened slowly and diminished on the plain and on the shore, Till at last amid the Vision came the form of Man no more.

And bereaved of man and lonely Nature showed her aspect fair, And the brute creation only Peopled all her wilds and woodlands--lurked the tiger in his lair, Coiled the serpent, sprang the lion, sped the bird athwart the air.

Myriad scenes in swift succession Still with earnest gaze I viewed; But in rapid retrogression Nature faded;--forms of beauty followed fast by figures rude, Ending in the dismal prospect of a world-wide solitude.

But my soul the vast procession Of those countless vistas bore With a marvellous impression, Like the picture on the tablet by the sunbeam painted o'er Instantaneous; all-embracing; with a power unknown before.

Then my Heavenly Guide addressing-- For a wondrous power had birth In my nature, all expressing-- "What are these, and where belong they?"--and my Guide responded--"Earth-- For thy spirit turns spontaneous to its own domestic hearth."

"Where am I, O Radiant Spirit? Where amid the realms of space? Distant from the Earth, or near it?"-- "Where the rays projected from it at the birth-time of thy race Have not yet attained;--a distance more than mortal thought may trace."

"Whence these shapes of things terrestrial?"-- "Shadows from the Earth that fall, Gliding into space celestial"-- "Does the Earth thus tell her story;--thus are all things imaged?"--"All-- Forms and actions all are imaged; naught is hidden, great or small."

--"They at last are dissipated,"-- I exclaimed in sorrow sore, --"At the brink of things created?"-- --"Things created know no limit; infinite space they traverse o'er; Still the starry vistas open and recede for evermore."--

Then a mighty woe came o'er me, Deep despair arose within, And a thought stood black before me-- Shall Infinity forever write the records of my sin? Is it thus that space shall treasure proofs of all that I have been?

EDWARD HARTLEY DEWART

SHADOWS ON THE CURTAIN

I awoke from the dreams of the night, From restful and tranquil repose, And looked where the sunbeams lay bright, To see what the morn might disclose. My window looked out on the east, And opened to welcome the sun, As he rose, from the darkness released, All girded, his journey to run. I watched, as I lay, The leaf-shadows play-- For the trees were still mantled in green-- As they silently danced, Curvetted and pranced, On the curtain suspended between.

Then I said to my soul: Here's some thought For thee to decipher and read; Every form, that in nature is wrought, Bears some lesson to those who give heed. Between our weak eyes and the light A thick-woven curtain is spread; All the future it screens from our sight, And the home and the fate of the dead. The phantoms which still With perplexity chill, Which doubting despondency brings, Are cast, as they shine, By the sunbeams divine, And are shadows of beautiful things.

Then I drew the broad curtain aside, And looked out on the beautiful world; The dewdrops were flashing, and wide Were the banners of beauty unfurled. The leaves that had silently flung Their shadows to darken my room, Each answered with musical tongue To the zephyrs that played with its bloom.-- And thus it may be At life's ending with me, When death rends the curtain away; I may rise to behold In beauty unrolled The morn of a shadowless day.

ON THE OTTAWA

The sun has gone down in liquid gold On the Ottawa's gleaming breast; And the silent night has softly rolled The clouds from her starry vest; Not a sound is heard-- Every warbling bird Has silenced its tuneful lay, As with calm delight, In the moon's weird light, I noiselessly float away.

As down the river I dreamily glide-- The sparkling and moonlit river-- Not a ripple disturbs the glassy tide, Not a leaf is heard to quiver; The lamps of night Shed their trembling light, With a tranquil and silvery glory, Over river and dell, Where the zephyrs tell To the night their plaintive story.

I gently time my gleaming oar To music of joy-laden strains, Which the silent woods and listening shore Re-echo in soft refrains:-- Let holy thought From this tranquil spot Float up through the slumbering air; For who would profane With fancies vain A scene so ineffably fair!

FREDERICK AUGUSTUS DIXON

A FEATHER'S MESSAGE

At the close of the day, when the year was a-dying, From the chilly north to the southern sun, High in the sky came the wild swans flying-- (Great white wings had each glorious one),-- And a snowy feather fluttered down On the muddy street of a dirty town.

Poverty passed, and wealth came speeding; Business and pleasure turned their wheels; But the feather lay, as men trod, unheeding, Stamped and crushed by a thousand heels. And the message it brought remained untold, Save to a child with a head of gold.

Up in a garret, all tearfully fretting, She peeped in her rags through the broken pane; And she clapped her hands with delight, forgetting Hunger and misery, cold, and the rain, As the strange white thing caught her wondering eye, Dropped down from nowhere, out of the sky.

And she cried as it fell, with the faith of seven, (Fanciful, credulous, innocent elf): "Look, mother, look! Here's a letter from Heaven! God didn't forget us--He's written Himself!"

Was it useless, that feather that so fluttered down On the muddy street of a dirty town?

HINC ILLÆ LACHRYMÆ

(_Hence these tears_)

Last night, and there came a guest, And we shuddered, my wife and I; A guest, and I could not speak; A guest, and she could but cry; And he went, but with no good-bye.

A little before the dawn He came, but he did not stay; And he left us alone with our tears, For he carried our babe away. Was there ever a sadder day!

Had you ever a babe of a year, With curls on a tiny head, With limbs like the peach's bloom, And learnt that your babe was dead?-- Could you have been comforted?

Had it bound itself to your heart, As with fairy gossamer strand, Slight as that of the worm, Strong as the hempen band Which holds tall ships to the land?

Did you look in its baby eyes As your treasure lay on your knee, And wonder what things they saw, And see, what they could not see, The life that was yet to be?

Did it lie at your breast day by day While you gathered it near and more near? Did it sleep on your bosom by night, Ever growing so dear, oh, so dear,-- Your darling, your babe of a year;

While you dreamed of the wonder you held, A thing of so perfect a plan, Of the wonderful mystery of birth, Of the wonderful mystery of man, As only a mother can,--

Till your heart, like a human thing, Seemed to yearn for the child at your side-- Yearn to gather it in to itself, To the love that swept up, like a tide Whose fulness is ever denied?

If to you came that terrible guest We so dreaded, my wife and I, You will know why I could not speak, You will know why she could but cry-- You have seen your own baby die.

WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND

THE HABITANT'S JUBILEE ODE

I read on de paper mos' ev'ry day, all about Jubilee An' grande procession movin' along, an' passin' across de sea, Dat's chil'ren of Queen Victoriaw comin' from far away For tole Madame w'at dey t'ink of her, an' wishin' her bonne santé.

An' if any wan want to know pourquoi les Canayens should be dere Wit' res' of de worl' for shout "Hooraw" an' t'row hees cap on de air, Purty quick I will tole heem de reason, w'y we feel lak de oder do, For if I'm only poor habitant, I'm not on de sapré fou.

Of course w'en we t'ink it de firs' go off, I know very strange it seem For fader of us dey was offen die for flag of L'Ancien Regime, From day w'en de voyageurs out all de way from ole St Malo, Flyin' dat flag from de mas' above, a' long affer dat also.

De English fight wit' de Frenchman den over de whole contree, Down by de reever, off on de wood, an' out on de beeg, beeg sea, Killin' an' shootin', an' raisin' row, half tam dey don't know w'at for, W'en it's jus' as easy get settle down, not makin' de crazy war.

Sometam' dey be quiet for leetle w'ile, you t'ink dey don't fight no more, An' den w'en dey're feelin' all right agen, Bang! jus' lak' she was before. Very offen we're beatin' dem on de fight, sometam' dey can beat us, too, But no feller's scare on de 'noder man, an' bote got enough to do.

An' all de long year she be go lak' dat, we never was know de peace, Not'ing but war from de wes' contree down to de St Maurice; Till de las' fight's comin' on Canadaw, an' brave Generale Montcalm Die lak' a sojer of France is die, on Battle of Abraham.

Dat's finish it all, an' de English King is axin' us stayin' dere W'ere we have sam' right as de 'noder peep comin' from Angleterre. Long tam' for our moder so far away de poor Canayens is cry, But de new step-moder she's good an' kin', an' it's all right bimeby.

If de moder come dead w'en you're small garçon, leavin' you dere alone, Wit' nobody watchin' for fear you fall, and hurt youse'f on de stone, An' 'noder good woman she tak' your han' de sam' your own moder do, Is it right you don't call her moder, is it right you don't love her too?

Bâ non, an' dat was de way we feel, w'en de ole Regime's no more, An' de new wan come, but don't change moche, w'y it's jus' lak' it be before, Spikin' Français lak' we alway do, an' de English dey mak no fuss, An' our law de sam', wall, I don't know me, 'twas better mebbe for us.

So de sam' as two broder we settle down, leevin' dere han' in han', Knowin' each oder, we lak' each oder, de French an' de Englishman, For it's curi's t'ing on dis worl', I'm sure you see it agen an' agen, Dat offen de mos' worse ennemi, he's comin' de bes', bes' fren'.

So we're kipin' so quiet long affer dat, w'en las' of de fightin's done, Dat plaintee is say, de new Canayens forget how to shoot de gun; But Yankee man's smart, all de worl' know dat, so he's firs' fin' mistak' wan day-- W'en he's try cross de line, fusil on hae's han', near place dey call Chateaugay.

Of course it's bad t'ing for poor Yankee man, De Salaberry be dere Wit' habitant farmer from down below, an' two honder Voltiguers, Dem feller come off de State, I s'pose, was fightin' so hard dey can But de blue coat sojer he don't get kill, is de locky Yankee man!

Since den w'en dey'se comin on Canadaw, we alway be treat dem well, For dey're spennin' de monee lak' gentilhommes, an' stay on de bes' hotel, Den "Bienvenu," we will spik dem, an' "Come back agen nex' week, So long you was kip on de quiet an' don't talk de politique?"

Yaas, dat is de way Victoriaw fin' us dis jubilee, Sometam' we mak' fuss about not'ing, but it's all on de familee, An' w'enever dere's danger roun' Her, no matter on sea or lan', She'll find that les Canayens can fight de sam as bes' Englishman.

An' onder de flag of Angleterre, so long as dat flag was fly-- Wit' deir English broder, les Canayens is satisfy leev an' die. Dat's de message our fader geev us w'en dey're fallin' on Chateaugay, An' de flag was kipin' dem safe den, dat's de wan we will kip alway!

JOHN HUNTER DUVAR

JOHN A'VAR'S LAST LAY

(_He becomes a Carmelite_)

Take not from me my lute! There is a spirit caught among its wires That sentient thrills as if with living fires,-- Frères! let me keep my lute.

It may not be? ah, well,-- Once more ere yet thou diest, O breathing string! That plainest like the heart of sad sea-shell, And talk'st to me with voice of living thing. Sad now art thou and I-- Loved lute, ring out, ring out ere yet we die.

Ring out the clash of swords! The meeting shock! ring out the victor's strain! Or dirge, when peasants tramp o'er knights and lords,-- Jarring when the war trumpet blows amain, And scattered all afield The shivered lance-shaft and the shattered shield.

Ring out to ladies' eyes! To love's wild ecstasy of joy and woe, To morning's mantling blush, to passionate sighs That heave the rose-tipped mamelons of snow, To gage d'amor, I ween, That wakes the rapturous thought of--once hath been.

Ring out the words of fire! 'Gainst pride and hate and tyranny the strong, 'Gainst proud man's arrogance, and weak man's ire, And all the lusts that work the world wrong, 'Gainst envy, lie and ill Ring out protest once more, and then be still!

Wake gently softer themes! Of white-frocked children dead on cottage floors, Of dances 'neath the jasmine-clustered beams, Of greybeards drinking at the trellised doors, Of immortelles on graves, Of red-cheeked lasses where the ripe corn waves.

This world hath been so fair, So full of joyousness! Then what am I That I should thankless spurn God's blessëd air And shut my lids against the sunshine sky? But that is idle breath, Life may be quiet, even if life in death.

Dying as echo dies, Faint, and more faint, loved lute, expires my lay, And though my Lays have not been overwise Yet now methinks with thee I best could pray. Our mission now is o'er, O Soul of Song! fly free! No more. No more.

Loved lute, farewell. Farewell with other things. But though, for me, I henceforth am the Lord's, No meaner hand shall ever touch thy chords-- Thus--thus--I rive thy strings!

THE MINNÉSINGERS LIED

In the Rheingan standeth Aix, And in Aix is La Chapelle; On a royal marble daïs, Underneath a vaulted dome, With his feet upon a tomb, Sits a dread and fearsome Thing As ever minstrel-poet sang! Dead two hundred years! a King On his throne sits Charlemagne In his capital of Aix!

In awful state that mighty Shade Sitteth in its chair of stone; In the hand, long ages dead, The sword with unsheathed blade And sceptre bright with gems; On the breast a cross of lead, On the form a golden gown, And circling on his head The French and German diadems And the Lombard crown!

And throughout the centuries old, Underneath the vaulted dome, With his feet upon a tomb, Alone and ghastly, stern and cold, In silence save when midnight tolls And its heavy murmur rolls All among the columns round With a solemn measured clang,-- In the silentness profound, Sits the shade of Charlemagne Armed and crowned!

HOW BALTHAZAR THE KING WENT DOWN INTO EGYPT

Nilus! Nilus! and before them rolled The mystic river, while a barge of gold Lay moored with its carved prow against a pier, From which the King embarked with all his train. The reis on the fore-deck drew the spear From out the ringbolt and cast off the chain, And they were floating upon Nile the old.

Full bravely led the galley of the King, And all at once, like flap of ibis' wing, Flashed out the gilt and crimson-bladed oars And lightly o'er the molten surface skimmed; While slow unrolled the low and level shores, Like to a landscape on a curtain limned, And blended with the shadows, lessening.

Music was on the Nile boats: conch and horn, Flute answering flute, while zittern and lycorn Took up the keynote from the leading barge, And part and counterpart in measured strain, In gathering volume, rolled on to the marge, The while the swelling chorus grew amain And inland o'er the standing rice was borne.

Along the shore, as down the mystic river Floated the King, the boughs without a shiver Drooped in the breathless air, and ibises And birds of scarlet plumage waded grave; While small deer, timorous as their nature is, And panthers, to the brink came down to lave, But drew back as they saw the oar-blades quiver.

Along the burnished water meadow flowers Floated, and buds with berries, which the scours Of melted torrents, moons ago, had shred From Afric's inland mountain range of snows, And torn up with the rich mould from its bed And brought to Egypt when the waters rose To pour into her lap full harvest dowers.

The cortege passed the swamp of crocodiles, And labyrinth of submerged bulrush isles, With matted lilies growing on the ooze, While round the shallow bars the eddies swum, All changeless, as in old time when the Jews Mustered at beat of the Egyptian drum And laid their tale of brick upon the piles.

Upon the left bank of the river loomed A massive wall where Pharaohs lay entombed With their deeds vaguely limned in hieroglyph, In tincts of vivid azure, green and red, Ochre and vermeil,--standing stark and stiff Their rigid forms; while 'mong the mummied dead The frogs croaked and the woeful bittern boomed.