Part 9

Drift by and mark how bright they show, And how the mullion'd windows--mark! Burn in the western evening glow!

Drift down, or up, where'er you go, They flame from out the distant park, The red-til'd towers of the old Château.

So was it once with friend, with foe; Far off they saw the patriot's ark Burn in the western evening glow.

Think of him now! One thought bestow, As, blazing against the pine trees dark, The red-til'd towers of the old Château Burn in the western evening glow!

SEPTEMBER

I

Birds that were gray in the green are black in the yellow. Here where the green remains rocks one little fellow.

Quaker in gray, do you know that the green is going? More than that--do you know that the yellow is showing?

II

Singer of songs, do you know that your Youth is flying? That Age will soon at the lock of your life be prying?

Lover of life, do you know that the brown is going? More than that--do you know that the gray is showing?

NOVEMBER

These are the days that try us; these the hours That find, or leave us, cowards--doubters of Heaven, Sceptics of self, and riddled through with vain Blind questionings as to Deity. Mute, we scan The sky, the barren, wan, the drab, dull sky, And mark it utterly blank. Whereas, a fool, The flippant fungoid growth of modern mode, Uncapped, unbelled, unshorn, but still a fool, Fate at his fingers' ends, and Cause in tow, Or, wiser, say, the Yorick of his age, The Touchstone of his period, would forecast Better than us, the film and foam of rose That yet may float upon the eastern grays At dawn to-morrow. Still, and if we could, We would not change our gloom for glibness, lose Our wonder in our faith. We are not worse Than those in whom the myth was strongest, those In whom first awe lived longest, those who found --Dear Pagans--gods in fountain, flood and flower. Sometimes the old Hellenic base stirs, lives Within us, and we thrill to branch and beam When walking where the aureoled autumn sun Looms golden through the chestnuts. But to-day-- When sodden leaves are merged in melting mire, And garden-plots lie pilfered, and the vines Are strings of tangled rigging reft of green, Crude harps whereon the winter wind shall play His bitter music--on a day like this, We, harboring no Hellenic images, stand In apathy mute before our window pane, And muse upon the blankness. Then, O, then, If ever, should we thank our God for those Rare spirits who have testified in faith Of such a world as this, and straight we pray For such an eye as Wordsworth's, he who saw System in anarchy, progress in ruin, peace In devastation. Duty was his star-- May it be ours--this Star the Preacher missed.

THEODORE ARNOLD HAULTAIN

BEAUTY

Only in dreams she appears to me, In dreams of the earth, and the sky, and the sea; In the scent of the rose, the breath of the spring, The cloud of the summer, glistening; In the sound of an orient forest dim, Scarce heard far off on ocean's rim By wondering traveller who descries Naught of all its mysteries; In the wash of the wave, the sigh of the sea, The laughter of leaves on the wind-tossed tree.

Her hair is the dusk of an autumn night, Her brow the moonbeam's pallid light, Her voice is the voice of the wind and the wave, When the breeze blows low and the ripples lave The feet of a wooded mountain hoar Rising on southern storied shore. The breath from between her hallowed lips Is the breath exhaled from a rose that sips The dew on a lucid April day, Soft as the spring, as summer gay. In the flush of the early morning mist, Which the fervid sun has barely kissed, Far down in the balmy-breathing dale, I get a glimpse of her flimsy veil. In the glow of the lurid sunset hue I see the robe which her limbs shine through. On the grass-blade wet I see the tears Her eyes have shed for our hopes and fears. Her eyes ... her eyes ... the infinite deeps Of the holiest heavens where God He keeps All that is beautiful, good, and true-- Her eyes are the infinite heaven's blue, Gazing in sad serenity On restless, frail humanity. On softly-breathing evening still, Alone, where the whispering wayward rill To the love-sick leaves, which gently dip Low down to kiss it, lip to lip, Tells secrets strange of love and pain, Which the leaves lisp back to it again,-- Ah! then I dream that my love comes nigh, And think that I hear her softly sigh.

Or when, on a windy summer day, (The golden sunshine-gleam on the bay) To me, ensconced far out on the high And rocky weed-strewn promontory, Come multitudinous sights and sounds-- The rush of the boisterous wave which bounds Far up the cliff, the sea-bird's call, The flying spume, the cloudlets small That dance through the ether hand in hand-- The joy suffused o'er the sea and the land,-- Then, too, I dream that my love is near, And think that I catch her laughter clear.

Only in dreams she appears to me, In dreams of the earth, and the sky, and the sea.

CHARLES HEAVYSEGE

MAGNANIMOUS AND MEAN

Open, my heart, thy ruddy valves; It is thy master calls; Let me go down, and curious trace Thy labyrinthine halls.

Open, O heart, and let me view The secrets of thy den; Myself unto myself now show With introspective ken.

Expose thyself, thou covered nest Of passions, and be seen; Stir up thy brood, that in unrest Are ever piping keen. Ah! what a motley multitude-- Magnanimous and mean!

NIGHT

'Tis solemn darkness; the sublime of shade; Night, by no stars nor rising moon relieved; The awful blank of nothingness arrayed, O'er which my eyeballs roll in vain, deceived. Upward, around, and downward I explore, E'en to the frontiers of the ebon air, But cannot, though I strive, discover more Than what seems one huge cavern of despair. Oh, Night, art thou so grim, when, black and bare Of moonbeams, and no cloudlets to adorn, Like a nude Ethiop 'twixt two houris fair, Thou stand'st between the evening and the morn? I took thee for an angel, but have wooed A cacodæmon in mine ignorant mood.

THE COMING OF THE MORN

See how the Morn awakes. Along the sky Proceeds she with her pale, increasing light, And, from the depths of the dim canopy, Drives out the shadows of departing night. Lo, the clouds break, and gradually more wide Morn openeth her bright, rejoicing gates; And ever, as the orient valves divide, A costlier aspect on their breadth awaits.

Lo, the clouds break, and in each opened schism The coming Phœbus lays huge beams of gold, And roseate fire and glories that the prism Would vainly strive before us to unfold; And, while I gaze, from out the bright abysm A flaming disc is to the horizon rolled.

THE MYSTERY OF DOOM

'Twas on a day, and in high, radiant heaven, An angel lay beside a lake reclined, Against whose shores the rolling waves were driven, And beat the measure to the dancing wind. There, rapt, he meditated on that story Of how Jehovah did of yore expel Heaven's aborigines from grace and glory,-- Those mighty angels that did dare rebel. And as he mused upon their dread abode And endless penance, from his drooping hands His harp sank down, and scattered all abroad Its rosy garland on the golden sands; His soul mute wondering that the All-wise Spirit Should have allowed the doom of such demerit.

JOHN FREDERIC HERBIN

SIMON

I

Simon bent to his hissing saw, Simon the chopper gnarled and tough, All the years, till his hands were rough As the clumsy shape of a bruin's paw, Knotted and big with his labor long, Yet sure in the work that made them strong.

Snarling with curse for his hairy throat, Poverty feared his strong, rough grasp, Sick with rage at the saw's bright hasp That flashed with howl and cut with gloat. The mother of death and a merciless fate, She filled his life with the gloom of hate.

Yet his heart strives upward to his tongue Incomplete in shreds of song To help his heavy days along Through life with mental clouds o'erhung. Harsh as the saw the tunes depart, Half-made and dull from the singer's heart.

II

Simon the sage worked night and day, Simon the chopper wise and true; Only his song to help him through, And only his whistle to turn away The endless gloom of a lowly place, And the dreary tedium from his face.

His gleaming axe gives up to the light Hearts of stubborn sticks and blocks-- A century maple or birch unlocks Its fibres gathered through day and night; And he marks it all with his ancient lore As he reads the secret of bark and core.

In forest lore is Simon wise: The beech that ripens on the hill, The oak a century cannot kill, Are well-read books before his eyes; A forest beneath his axe has turned In the fifty years his blade has burned.

He speaks and knows as a wise man knows, Gathering together with dulling sense The labor's grudging recompense, Thoughtful and patient as wisdom grows. He drifts away from the walks of men, In a field where he alone has ken.

Simon is wise in days without tears, Though arms never rest and work cannot sleep,-- Wise in the patience that never shall weep; And toil looms yet in the coming years: Ceaseless and hungry is human desire, And Simon must feed the quenchless fire.

III

Simon the digger delves in the earth, Preparing a pillow for weary head, For tired limbs and heart a bed,-- Young, or gray, or dumb at birth, He makes all ready with prelude dirge, With careless foot on his own dark verge.

Like the book recording the village birth, Fifty years he has kept the file Of all defunct,--and who meanwhile May soon desire a strip of earth Are clearly writ--and the ancient book Has stamped a gloom upon his look.

And he often grappled with death in the grave, While Time stood by whetting his scythe. Water may drip, and worms may writhe, And the coffin will soon leave the chapel-nave:-- Who mourn the dead, as who soon forget, Look into the grave, unburied yet.

First to come and last to go, Simon waits on a fallen stone; No tear, no fear, though he work alone To make a grave where weeds may grow. He fingers the sod with a tender care As if part of the body resting there.

IV

Seasons have furrowed his features deep, Bark-like and grim as the axe's food-- His days have grown slow with the growing wood-- Furrows that never smile or weep. Axe and spade turn light away, He labors in gloom at bright midday.

Seventy years of months and days Weigh on his head and bend him down; His brow with thought has become a frown. Seldom a smile o'er his wrinkles plays, For his labor makes him a gloomy lore; Forgetting no face he has covered o'er.

V

Problems of living are hard to learn; The duty is clear, reward but a hope; Philosophy fails beyond life's dark scope. The sage is the digger whose dawns return That he drag the lingering minutes away-- There is no day but the present day.

What work is well when thrust to a close? Wisdom foretells no hidden good; Suffering follows the hardihood Of plunging thus into future woes. Living, alone, can quench distress; The moment seized is the one to bless.

Poverty near, and death at his heels, Simon is rich in the wealth of years; Working for bread, without joy, without tears, Till the changeless calm will gently steal Across his face and will silence his song. Where riches are equal his rest will be long.

THE DIVER

Like marble, nude, against the purple sky, In ready poise, the diver scans the sea Gemming the marsh's green placidity, And mirroring the fearless form on high. Behold the outward leap--he seems to fly! His arms like arrow-blade just speeded free; His body like the curving bolt, to be Deep-driven till the piercing flight shall die. Sharply the human arrow cleaves the tide, Only a foaming swell to mark his flight; While shoreward moves the silent ring on ring. And now the sea is stirred and broken wide Before the swimmer's passage swift and light, And bears him as a courser bears a king.

ACROSS THE DYKES

The dykes half bare are lying in the bath Of quivering sunlight on this Sunday morn, And bobolinks aflock make sweet the worn Old places, where two centuries of swath Have fallen to earth before the mower's path. Across the dykes the bell's low sound is borne From green Grand Pré, abundant with the corn, With milk and honey which it always hath.-- And now I hear the Angelus ring far; See faith bow many a head that suffered wrong, Near all these plains they wrested from the tide! I see the vision of their final griefs that mar The greenness of these meadows; in the song Of birds I feel a tear that has not dried.

THE SONNET

How fair thou art the poets long have known; And I have sought the beauty which is thine Through many days and nights of cloud and shine, Until one note of all sweet notes outblown Has spelled my ear; for dearest things alone Are found companionless; and the divine And single inspiration shall entwine The laurel till it fit the brow of one. And thou art rare among the things most rare; The beam consummate of the lights of day; The fullest note struck from the living flood Of melody; the gem that has most care In the kind workman's hand, till he shall say, "Thy beauty is the acme of all good."

ANNIE CAMPBELL HUESTIS

GENTLE-BREATH

Oh, Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing through the grass, And all the flowers know her and love to see her pass. Oh, all the flowers know her, and well they know the song That Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing all day long. O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath! They do not know you sing of death.

Oh, Gentle-breath comes crooning a tender lullaby. The merry day is over, the stars are in the sky-- The stars are in the sky, and the flowers droop their heads, They cannot hear her passing, so airily she treads. O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath!-- How mournfully she murmureth!

Oh, Gentle-breath comes crying--comes crying in the night Among the sleeping flowers, with footsteps swift and light. Her tears are on their faces--she sheds them for their sakes, And there is in her singing a tender heart that breaks. O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath!-- How tunefully she sings of death!

Oh, Gentle-breath goes wailing--goes shivering away, And Icy-breath comes howling, and clouds are dull and gray. Oh, Icy-breath comes howling--the pine trees sob o'erhead For the leaves that all have fallen, the flowers that are dead. O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath! They did not know you sang of death.

O promise sweet!--I hear it!--the falling of the rain! The leaves once more shall rustle, the flowers come again! The flowers come again, with their faces fresh and sweet, And all the grass shall tremble 'neath the touches of your feet. For you will come, O Gentle-breath! And sing again your song of death!

THE LITTLE WHITE SUN

The sky had a gray, gray face, The touch of the mist was chill, The earth was an eerie place, For the wind moaned over the hill; But the brown earth laughed, and the sky turned blue, When the little white sun came peeping through.

The wet leaves saw it and smiled, The glad birds gave it a song-- A cry from a heart, glee-wild, And the echoes laugh it along: And the wind and I went whistling, too, When the little white sun came peeping through.

So welcome the chill of rain And the world in its dreary guise-- To have it over again, That moment of sweet surprise, When the brown earth laughs, and the sky turns blue, As the little white sun comes peeping through!

TWENTY-OLD AND SEVEN-WILD

O Twenty, running through the wood! Where friendly leaves and grasses stir, Where airs are sweet and trees are strong, And hiding birds call out to her, And every little timid thing That creeps within the woods to sing Seems just to have a voice for her.

O Twenty, running through the wood! A woman grown, and yet a child! Now in the sun, now in the shade-- The wild gone out to meet the wild. And who can say life is not sweet To eager eyes and fearless feet To Twenty-old and Seven-wild.

She leaves the quiet road that winds Its pretty way the whole wood through And makes a pathway for herself, As who at Twenty would not do? Unseen and seen, the wind and she Go through the bush and round the tree-- Go roving 'round and singing through.

Such pleasure just to lose herself! O Seven-wild! O Twenty-old! The shadows stealing from the night Tread measures strange with gleams of gold. And Mayflowers lift their faces pink:-- Now who could look at them and think Of being young or being old?

O Twenty, running through the wood! Its wildness has a power to still; The voices low from rock and twig The silences with music thrill,-- And suddenly _she_ silent grows, And, searching out the path she knows, Turns back--but carries home the thrill.

WILLIAM EDWARD HUNT

GOLDEN-ROD

Beshrew the coinëd gold!--and so take heed, Nor palter with the dross to form a god-- Behold, the dandelion gilds the clod, The buttercup adorns the dewy mead! Doth it not bring contentment to thy greed?-- Then satiate thine avarice: the sod Gleams with illimitable golden-rod,-- And of a surety thou art rich indeed!

The burnished banner of the summer's prime Waves happy mortals to a golden feast (The largess rare of yon high Eastern priest!) Unstained by goaded greed, or shame, or crime. Oh, glorious yellow golden-rod!--sublime Free-offering to the greatest and the least.

THE SEA'S INFLUENCE

The brine is in our blood from days of yore, And ever in our ears the tide's tune rings; The wave runs through our legends and our lore, And permeates a thousand diverse things; The memory of our race's Island home Is charged with salt-sea spray and ocean foam.

THE PASSING OF SUMMER

"Summer is dead!"--it was the wind that spake In the bronze mantle of the sombre pine-- "The sumach bush unfurls a scarlet sign; The sere rush signals it in stream and lake; Soundeth a requiem in gilded brake, Where mateless birds a lonely fate repine; The sky is veiled in tears; each gray confine Bespeaks the shrunken branch the leaves forsake.

"I laugh with ruddy Autumn in the morn; I sound his praises in the golden light; But when high noon has passed and raven night Comes rushing down, I wail with those forlorn: The dying leaves, the lone flowers, pale and torn, The multitudes confronting death or flight."

RICHARD HUNTINGTON

SUNRISE ON THE TUSKET

I

Still, in the light of morning gray, That ushered in the summer day, The fair Acadien hamlet lay

Its fringing hem of forest round, Its verdured slopes with orchards crowned, Lie steeped in silence most profound.

No zephyr's wing the leaf hath stirred, No sound to break the calm is heard, Save crickets' chirp or trill of bird.

The frequent fireflies' fitful gleam, The star of morning's lucent beam, Shine mirrored in the glassy stream,

In whose clear depths are pictured seen The drooping boughs and foliage green Of graceful trees that o'er it lean.

II

Glows in the kindling East a blush, Morn's old and immemorial flush! Afar, the distant Tusket's rush

Is heard, in muffled murmur deep, As, past green isle and headland steep, Its eddying waters seaward sweep.

Morn's steps advance, and lo, the West Hath donned a new and gorgeous vest Of purple and of amethyst.

Look East once more!--a sea of gold Along the far horizon rolled-- The rising orb of day behold!

It gilds with flame St Michael's spire, Whose panes, agleam with living fire, Blaze like some sacrificial pyre.

It lights, as with celestial glow, The slender crosslets ranged below, Man's last, sad resting-place to show....

III

In yonder modest glebe-house near, Unconscious of my presence here, Sleeps one to friendship's heart most dear.

Unwakened by the orient beam, Perchance in some ecstatic dream He roams by Tiber's classic stream,

Or sees St Peter's mighty dome Soar grandly o'er the pomp of Rome-- His own loved Church's pride and home.

Blest be his visions, wheresoe'er His dream-enfranchised fancy veer-- The faithful priest, the friend sincere!

LOUISBURG

And this is Louisburg! whose moss-grown ruin Stretches before me--one deserted waste! Scarce can the eye, its eager search pursuing, The outlines of her strong defences trace-- Relentless by the miner's blast effaced. Yet was she once the brightest gem of all The gorgeous brilliants that with splendor graced The diadem of old monarchial Gaul,-- She who defiance frowned, and Britain foe did call.

The Dunkirk of this land!--how fallen since then! The eye but wanders o'er a waste of stone, Remains of dwellings once the abodes of men, But now forlorn, deserted, silent, lone; And rank and mantling grass hath overgrown Her streets, her sepulchres, her ruined walls. The voice of bygone ages hath a tone Which lingers yet amid these prostrate halls, As reverent 'mid their maze my pensive footstep falls.