Part 8

As they swept on they saw a form of stone Cleaving the yellow sky-line, stern and lone And awful, so no man might bear to dwell 'Neath its eyes glaring with unwinking lids, As if of beings it alone could tell The giant mystery of the pyramids Ere centuries of sand had round them blown.

Now on the left bank of the river's flow, Where sentinelled with watch-towers and aglow With half-mooned vanes all flickering like jets Uprose a city walled, in proud estate, Full of domed roofs and tall white minarets The King's fleet veered towards a water-gate And anchored 'neath the walls of Cairo.

ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON

THE EGYPTIAN LOTUS

(NYMPHÆA LOTUS)

Proud, languid lily of the sacred Nile, 'Tis strange to see thee on our western wave, Far from those sandy shores that, many a mile, Papyrus-plumed, lie silent as the grave.

O'er dark, mysterious pool and sheltered bay, And midst soft-sleeping isles thy leaves expand, Where Alexandrian barges plow their way, Full freighted, to the ancient Theban land.

On Karnak's lofty columns thou wert seen, And Luxor's spacious temple palace walls, Each royal Pharaoh's emeralded queen Chose thee to deck her glittering banquet halls;

Yet thou art blossoming in this fairy lake As regally, amidst these common things, As on the shores where Nile's soft ripples break, As in the halls of old Egyptian kings.

Thy beauty daily lures men's curious eyes, But he who finds in thought his richest feasts, Looking at thee, sees stately temples rise About him, and long lines of white-robed priests,

That chant strange music as they slowly pace Dim, columned aisles; hears trembling over head Echoes that lose themselves in that vast space, Of Egypt's solemn ritual for the dead.

Aye deeper thoughts than these, though undefined, Wake in reflective souls at sight of thee, For this majestic orient faith enshrined Man's yearning hope of immortality.

And thou wert Egypt's symbol of the power That under all decaying forms lies hid; The old world worshipped thee, O Lotus flower! Then carved its Sphinx and reared its pyramid.

PURPLE ASTERS

I had a garden when I was a boy Wherein I planted fondly many a flower, And watched it grow until I felt the joy That every gardener feels, as Nature's power To make rare perfumes burst from stalks of green And dash rich colours o'er dull earth is seen.

In that old garden, bright with varied bloom From early tulip time till winter fell, It seemed as if no sombre growth or gloom Had any place, or could desire to dwell; Yet o'er one corner wildness still held sway, And there, I always felt, a shadow lay.

In that strange spot pale purple asters came, When earth wore gorgeous colours on her breast, And fields were ripe, and autumn's flood of flame From scarlet maples swept from east to west; They bore no wealth of royal purple bloom, But seemed meet products of great Nature's gloom.

The lives of men are gardens, from whose soil Spring rich red-petalled roses, violets blue As heaven; where, too, the passion-flower's strong coil Closes round frail anemones, hearts-ease, and rue; But in some sheltered spots, bright blooms beside, Pale purple fringëd asters love to hide.

They tell us there are gardens always clad With summer's richest robes, awaiting men Beyond the stars, where hearts at once grow glad, And never to low levels sink again; Perhaps even such light lands may need to see The purple asters of despondency.

DEEPENING THE CHANNEL

A rocky channel from the harbor led The ships to sea, a blue but shallow sound With surging tides, upon whose treacherous bed The keels of heavy vessels ground and ground. The channel must be deepened, men agree, And so great thunderous blasts of rock they blew, And all the sleepy sands were dredged; till, free From fear, the heaviest ships went swiftly through.

We fret and foam as if our surface tide Was fathoms deep, and never know the truth Till love or sorrow through the water ride And grate its keel upon the sands of youth; God cleaves the rock beneath the channel blue, And then his noblest ships sail safely through.

THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS

'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay; 'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide In ripples that reach to the forest side; 'Tis the fisherman's boat, in a track of sheen, Plying through tangled seaweed green O'er the Baie des Chaleurs.

Who has not heard of the phantom light That over the moaning waves, at night, Dances and drifts in endless play, Close to the shore, then far away, Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter light that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs?

They tell us that many a year ago, From lands where the palm and the olive grow, Where vines with their purple clusters creep Over the hillsides gray and steep, A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold, Famed, in that chivalrous time of old, For valorous deeds and courage rare, Sailed with a princess wondrous fair To the Baie des Chaleurs.

That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea, A murderous band as e'er could be, With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night, That flaunted and flew in heaven's sight, Sailed in the wake of the lovers there, And sank the ship and its freight so fair In the Baie des Chaleurs.

Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell: They say that a ball of fire fell Straight from the sky, with crash and roar, Lighting the bay from shore to shore; Then the ship, with shudder and with groan, Sank through the waves to the caverns lone Of the Baie des Chaleurs.

That was the last of the pirate crew; But many a night a black flag flew From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed By a spectre band that wept and wailed For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land, For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand Of the Baie des Chaleurs.

This is the tale of the phantom light That fills the mariner's heart, at night, With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay, Now by the shore, then far away, Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter moon that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs.

THE MEADOW LANDS

The tide flows in and out and leaves Its richness on the meadow lands, The furrowed surface-soil upheaves, And sprinkles life among the sands.

Across the meadow lands of life The tide of time flows and recedes, Its muddy wave brings woe and strife, But forms the soil for noble deeds.

The tide flows in and out and brings New beauty to the meadow lands, With lavish tenderness it flings Fair flowers across the silver sands.

MY PUREST LONGINGS SPRING

My purest longings spring From the divine, The sweetest songs I sing They are not mine.

I chisel the rude stone With trembling hand, The statue comes alone At God's command.

Beyond earth's tainted air I sometimes fly On wings of faith and prayer; Yet 'tis not I.

Not I but He who lights My flickering creeds; The Power that writes My broken deeds.

Not I but God; for He, My larger life, Fulfils Himself in me With ceaseless strife.

I WATCH THE SHIPS

I watch the ships by town and lea With sails full set glide out to sea, Till by the distant light-house rock The breakers beat with roar and shock And foam fierce flying o'er their decks, While deep below lie ocean's wrecks; What careth she?

I stand beside the beaten quay And look while laden ships from sea Come proudly home upon the tide lake conquering kings at eventide, Or from fierce fights with wintry gales Steal shoreward now with tattered sails; O cruel sea!

I pass once more the old gray pier Where men have waited many a year For ships that ne'er again shall glide By town and lea on favoring tide,-- Strong ships that struggled till the gales Of winter hid their shrouds and sails In ocean drear.

Soft sailing spirits, how they glide Forth on life's fitful sea untried To breast the waves and bear the shocks Beyond the guarded light-house rocks, To strive and struggle many a year; Strong souls, indeed, if they can bear Life's wind and tide.

I watch beside life's beaten quay The tides bring back all joyously To anchor by the sheltered shore Some freighted full with golden store From rich spice-fields and perfumed sands Of soft, luxuriant tropic lands; O kindly sea!

But some have met with wintry gales, And come at last with shattered sails To anchor by the old gray pier; While loving ones in hope and fear Wait on for some that never more Shall anchor by a peaceful shore; O sad, sad sea!

JAMES DAVID EDGAR

THIS CANADA OF OURS

Let other tongues in older lands Loud vaunt their claims to glory, And chaunt in triumph of the past, Content to live in story. Tho' boasting no baronial halls, Nor ivy-crested towers, What past can match thy glorious youth, Fair Canada of ours? Fair Canada, Dear Canada, This Canada of ours!

We love those far-off ocean Isles Where Britain's monarch reigns; We'll ne'er forget the good old blood That courses through our veins; Proud Scotia's fame, old Erin's name, And haughty Albion's powers, Reflect their matchless lustre on This Canada of ours. Fair Canada, Dear Canada, This Canada of ours!

May our Dominion flourish then, A goodly land and free, Where Celt and Saxon, hand in hand, Hold sway from sea to sea; Strong arms shall guard our cherished homes When darkest danger lowers, And with our life-blood we'll defend This Canada of ours. Fair Canada, Dear Canada, This Canada of ours!

CONSTANCE FAIRBANKS

THE JUNCTION

Here, at the change of ways, the steel steed halts, The train stands still, and weary travellers gaze On what appears to be a wilderness Of barren rocks, grim, desolate, and stern. "What place is this," they ask, "so bleak and bald? Here surely are the bones of Earth laid bare; The gaunt frame of this time-worn world!" Such words, Contempt infused, are heard from jeering lips, But the drear wayside maketh no reply. Yet look! the train moves on; the funnel snorts, And rocks fling echoes on the trembling air; From the new point of sight the scoffer sees Deep pools of water bosomed in the waste-- Calm ponds reflecting Heaven's own lovely blue, With gray rocks, verdure-touched, around their brinks.

HALIFAX

Facing the ocean, guardian of our land, Thy frowning forts and ramparts front the foam Whose waves still ceaseless chafe the rocky strand, While salt winds waft sea-odors o'er our home.

All the round year the tramp of armed men, Crisp bugle call, the guns at noon and night, And martial music, tell us o'er again That Britain guards us with a jealous might.

THOSE FAR-OFF FIELDS

Those far-off fields, how fair they seem, As soft through mists of years they gleam! We never now around us see Such meads as those of olden be; We never find a lake or stream One half so lovely as we deem Those which we only view in dream, Watering the fields of memory-- Those far-off fields!

And we were happy then! The theme Of our existence, love supreme: And looking back on Fate's decree-- On all that happened you and me-- We sigh--for dear our souls esteem Those far-off fields!

JOSEPH KEARNEY FORAN

THE AURORA BOREALIS

As the twilight's gray was swallowed In the depths of night that followed, And the hand of darkness hollowed Furrows deep along the land, Distant bells in sheepfold tinkled, Million stars in azure twinkled, Over mountain-peaks that stand Like giants swarth and grand.

In the north behold a flushing; Then a deep and crimson blushing; Followed by an airy rushing Of the purple waves that rise! As when armëd host advances, See, a silver banner dances, And a thousand golden lances Shimmer in the Boreal skies! The vision slowly dies!

Now, in bright prismatic splendor, Comes a picture still more tender, As a curtain white and slender Falls across the space afar; Where its lacy folds are ending, With the black of distance blending, Are its miles of fringe descending, Hanging from a golden bar-- Pinned to heaven by a star!

Like a monster roused from sleeping, First to westward slowly creeping, Then, in headlong fury, sweeping, Rushed a mammoth cloud of black; Rolling upward, plunging, lashing, Through the fairy curtain dashing, With a thousand beauties flashing O'er its phosphorescent back-- Endless streamers in its track!

Visions of Arabian story; Crimson fields of battle gory; In kaleidoscopic glory, Shifting, fading, restless tents; Fairy armies wild in motion; Jewelled shrines of strange devotion; And a greenish, tideless ocean, Bound by ice-clad mounts and dents, Saw we through the curtain's rents!

Transformations still beholding, Up the veil is swiftly folding-- And fantastic shapes are moulding On the background of the sky; Dimmer armies are parading,-- Fainter wreaths the light is braiding, While the splendors all are fading Into one deep purple dye, Disappearing from the eye!

WILLIAM HENRY FULLER

A SONG OF THE SEA

I'll sing you a Song of the Sea! With the waves sparkling bright, And the breeze blowing light, And our dear native land on the lee, How glad is the Song of the Sea! With friends looking out from the quay, Their kerchiefs and hands waving free, And bright smiles and welcome for thee, How glad! how glad! How glad is the Song of the Sea!

I'll sing you a Song of the Sea! When the skies lour dark O'er the plague-stricken bark As she drifts on the desolate sea, How sad is the Song of the Sea! When overhead hangs the dun cloud, Like a pall o'er the dead sailor's shroud As he sinks in the vast wandering sea, How sad! how sad! How sad is the Song of the Sea!

I'll sing you a Song of the Sea! When the fierce lightnings flash, And the stormy waves dash, And the rocky shore looms on the lee, How dread is the Song of the Sea! When the hearts of the bravest will quail As they shrink from the furious gale And the wrath of the menacing sea, How dread! how dread! How dread is the Song of the Sea!

ALEXANDER RAE GARVIE

_From_ "PHANTASY"

Fancy many forms assumes! 'Tis a bee among the blooms, In the noon of June, that sips Honey from the heart and lips Of Anacreon's glorious rose. Now how warily it goes Past grim dragons to the trees Growing in Hesperides! And anon with Jason hears Sirens' luring song, and steers Straightway from the fatal shore, While each rower strains his oar. 'Tis a bat at twilight still, Flitting round a lonesome mill; 'Tis a falcon fleet that flies Into depths of opal skies; Oft it is a sullen owl-- Pallas' learnëd pensive fowl, Hooting hoarsely 'mong the trees; And again, o'er troubled seas As a petrel bold it wings Tirelessly. Sometimes it sings Lark-like in the heavens' scope When dew gleams on grassy slope. Roaming meadows, daisy-decked, 'Tis a child afoot, unchecked, Gladness in her azure eyes, As she sees with mute surprise Brooding birds in hedges' heart, Building nests with simple art. And at dawning, near a mere, Girdled by the bulrush spear, Fancy as a heron stalks Heedful of the hated hawks. Fancy is a butterfly Born to live brief life and die. 'Tis a pink-lipped shell afloat, Fit for tiny fairy's boat; Fair in fiction, false in fact, Shunned by men who are exact, Loved by poet whom it guides When on Pegasus he rides; Lover's joy when maid is true, Lover's woe when, stricken through With sharp dart, his trust is slain! Bright and dark and bright again, Phantom! none thy face may paint, Since--now sinner, and then saint-- Thou dost peer from cowl or crown, Now with smile, anon with frown. Sweet Sprite! thou alone canst trace Airy pictures of thy face; Thou who limnest Rosamond, Guinevere, and Juliet fond. Fancy, Fancy, come and charm, Grasped by clutch of graven gold, Jove's fetters, her to have and hold! This swift Ariel serves us well, Lets us in the glamour's spell, Drink beside Bacchante fair, Toy with Pyrrha's braided hair, Hear Apollo's matchless lute And the twy-formed Faun's soft flute; Shows us Aphrodite rise From foamy seas to sunny skies, Leads us down the track of Time, Bears us into every clime; Often paces kirkyard green Mourning in her garb and mien, Mingles with the dancing crowd, Broiders banners, weaves a shroud, Keeps a fast or festival-- Lean Lent here, there--Carnival Starves or surfeits, Fancy free, Sojourning in Italy. As an Arab, lo! how calm Under frondage of the palm; Like a Norseman, winter-bound, (Lest he be in dulness drowned); Over ice on skate-blades whirs Past the shaggy, sombre firs.-- Ha, my Fancy! art thou mad, Or with Folly's mantle clad?

PIERCE STEVENS HAMILTON

_From_ "THE HEROINE OF ST JOHN"

I

'Tis dawn; but not such morning-tide As we had guessed the eve before: Armed ships within our harbor ride, And armëd men are on the shore.

But these are not the ships, or men, That sailed with Sieur La Tour away: Ah, no, their vengeful chief we ken,-- Accurst D'Aulnay de Charnisé!

Now quick the drum is beat to arms; We run the flag of France on high; The battle fierce each bosom warms, And adds a light to every eye.

And forth our lady chieftain came, All fearless from her chaste alcove; But first she snatched from duty's claim One moment for a mother's love;--

One moment pressed her darling child, And kissed its slumbers with a tear; One moment more from warfare wild-- She breathed a brief impassioned prayer;

Then to the ramparts hied in haste, To personate her absent lord,-- A baldrick o'er her swelling breast, And by her side a pendant sword.

With glowing cheek, and eye that gleamed, And voice forbidding all alarm, Yet graceful, beautiful, she seemed A warrior in an angel form....

II

Now dark D'Aulnay a parley seeks; Demands surrender of the fort! But, ha! soon back his herald takes An answer fearless, prompt, and short:--

"Madame will hold this fort St John, As she has held it once before, Despite of every robber loon, For France and for her lord, La Tour."...

Three days D'Aulnay's beleaguering force Assailed our fort with might and main; To every wile he had recourse,-- To fail again and yet again....

No craven cry our lady heard, Though small our band and sorely pressed; One soul our every action spurred,-- Her lion's heart in woman's breast!...

III

'Twas Easter morn.--A sudden cry!-- Our every heart a moment quailed:-- "The guard!--quick--ho!--the enemy Our ditch and parapet have scaled!"...

Too true: a rampart's coin they'd won, With skulking treachery for their guide; De Charnisé himself led on, With Ponce--the traitor!--by his side.

With one wild shout of "Vive La Tour!" We dash upon their bristling van; Where waves our lady's sword before, Herself unscathed by fiend or man.

Our headlong charge the foe appalled; They shrank; they staggered--turned for flight; D'Aulnay a parley loudly called And waved the craven signal white.

He vaunted his o'erwhelming force; Our stout defence, he said, was well;-- Our longer strife would end in worse; He offered terms most honorable.

Our lady viewed, with pitying eye, Her band toil-worn, diminishëd; With heaving breast and deep-drawn sigh, She slowly, sadly bowed her head.

IV

Our keys surrendered, arms laid down, We--penned and prisoned helplessly;-- Then dark and vengeful was the frown Of stern D'Aulnay de Charnisé.

That demon in a human form, Dark-souled, incarnate treachery,-- Now swore, with loud upbraiding storm, The prisoned garrison should die....

No sound, no utterance, passed her lips, The while that awful deed was done; As if her soul were 'neath eclipse-- Her beauteous form transformed to stone.

Then, with one long, loud piercing shriek, That form upon the earth she cast. No more can D'Aulnay vengeance wreak: The heroine's heart has burst at last!...

S. FRANCES HARRISON

VILLANELLE

Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars, Straight and sharp, of a gay glad green, My jonquil lifts its yellow stars.

Barter, would I, for the dross of the Czars, These golden flowers and buds fifteen, Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars?

Barter, would you, these scimitars, Among which lit by their light so keen My jonquil lifts its yellow stars?

No, for the breast may burst its bars, The heart its shell, at sight of sheen Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars:

Miles away from the mad earth's jars, Beneath a leafy and shining screen, My jonquil lifts its yellow stars.

And I--self-scathed with mortal scars, I weep, when I see, in its radiant mien, Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars My jonquil lift its yellow stars.

CHÂTEAU PAPINEAU

The red-til'd towers of the old Château, Perched on the cliff above our bark, Burn in the western evening glow.

The fiery spirit of Papineau Consumes them still with its fever spark, The red-til'd towers of the old Château!