Part 4

And breasting an old path to the carved shore Where fell at ebb the sea-green billows clear,-- A path o'ertangled thick with alder hung With tags that take the rich brown Vandyke loved, And cool with dusky air in which, all still, Eye-bright and fronded fern and lichened spruce Swam deep in voiceless sea of wildwood balm-- My eye had sight of emerald moss and bells That wreathed the bearded rocks that once were fire.

"Ho! here is where the fisher lives who sings All day while fingering nets, and chants the tide To sleep," cried Harold, "as he tends his seines At night. Some three-score souls like his would make A state, and one such state the golden age. This old man never knows when spring is past, But pipes a robin song from May to May, A fresh-blown breezy song of coming good-- He's piping now!"

_Heirs of the century, Sons of the next, Hearten your spirits, Your souls keep unvext. There's an ebb in the tide, There's an open sea wide, But where sun and star dart, You've a trustworthy chart._

Beside the wave-worn cliffs, Painted with rainbows of a thousand storms, We sat us down, and took on grateful cheek And brow the waking winds that yestermorn, Far out Atlantic's grey unresting wastes, In awful tempest smote the full-winged ship And pluckt it naked to the hungry deep. "Peace is of conflict born," I said, "and good Seems rooted oft in ill. Man gropes in fog, And is a child tost in a cockle-shell. The stars wink over him and then are gone, The sun is not, and when he deems he's lost, The shore breaks forth in silver welcome sweet."

_Care for the coming man, Heirs of the race, Hearten your spirits, Gird! quicken your pace! There's a sound in the air, There are trumpets ablare, But there's nothing to dread, You've God overhead._

"The Sirens once were symbol of chief fears That met the hardy mariner on life's main," Said Harold, musingly, "but now the coast Is set with sirens groaning lest he touch The isles mist-veiled and hooded white with fog, But cruel as the Sisters twain of death. Science, to-day, the witchery of the past Turns into truth to guide the course of man, Tracks to its lair disease, and bolt and flame Subdues to service of the struggling race; While breeze of health begins to fan alike The cheeks of rich and poor in city ways, And wisdom cries aloud in every street."

_You of the world-ages, Saviors of man, Hearten your spirits, Lay open God's plan. Labor hungers and wastes While love tarries nor hastes, Yet the note's round and clear, The full time draweth near._

"But what of man's grim lust and greed?" said I. "The comradeship of stars and night is not More awful than is that of man with sin, Nor shows more steadfast purpose 'gainst the light. The sky and air fresh-washed with summer rain Forthwith begin to cloud with haze and smoke Till smit again with lightning's wrath, and torn By buffet of the thunder's pealing voice. So hath it been with man, till judgment-ire Reddens in vain to purge his murky sky And flash the light of God upon his soul. The beastly lure of drunkenness that cloaks Itself in the white mantle of the Christ; Delusion's wand that prints mirage for sight On eyes of civic crowds, and nations, too, Or, unclean, faith assoils in simple hearts; The simpering guile that toys with capital And robs the workman of his honest wage, While like the surgy murmurs of the sea Sounds out the moan of willing labor's voice For bread to fill its famished children's mouths; The lust of power to sit in place of God And turn for selfish ends the wheels of fate Of fellowman,--these wait a day of doom!"

_Heirs of the century, Sons of renown, Lift up humanity's Broad kingdom and crown. There's a purpose replete, To put all 'neath man's feet, And we see it begun In the Virgin's crowned Son._

"Injustice," Harold said, with eye that burned Like a star, "_is_ the devil's own trade-mark, And hottest comes from hell through saintly hands! The race of man is in the making yet. Hypocrisy still deftly apes true worth-- Thus prophesying universal good. Nature is non-committal of her end, But God is hiding not man's destiny. Yon fitful beacon flares the dark night through, And then the kindling clouds, day's heralds, burn In golden dawn. Earth's skyward crags, which thirst For news from God, are bathed in heavenly light, And from their sunrise shoulders the full morn Shoots far the splendors of its coming noon. The shadows of a fleeing night yet dim The age and mask a hundred ills as good, More eager graspt at since they haste away; But from the slopes there pours a clear new light, Divinely aired, above that of the sun. Philosophy of schools, nor science wise, Nor labor, of itself, life's secret finds, That fills the promise of man's vermeil bloom. 'Tis love alone can sheathe the alien sword, And crown mankind in his own kingdom lord."

_Heirs of the coming age, Makers of man, The Christ be your pattern, Ay, choose with elan. There's a presence at hand, There's a voice of command-- It is Love, King of men, Alleluia, Amen!_

And as we turned toward home by open beach, The waves were loud in clamor on the shore; But over all, and far away, we caught The drifting chant of the old Christian seer:

_It is Love, King of men, Alleluia, Amen!_

NORA LEE.

I.

Away from Howth into the south A stanch brave ship left harbor-mouth.

The _Easter Bell_, all sails a-swell, Gallantly swept to sea they tell,

And Nora flamed like one ashamed, When her fair sailor-man they named.

II.

Three moons did heap the cresting deep Since Nora Lee was wed at Dreep.

Up from the dim grey ocean's rim No tidings came of ship, or him.

A sea-gull's wing would make her sing, And eye with smiles her wedding-ring.

If signal high flew in the sky, She knew the _Easter Bell_ was nigh,

And pulled a rose, as wife that knows Her good man cometh at the close.

The white ship came--'twas not the name! And Nora Lee was not the same.

III.

The kraken grim, in dream, did swim Beside the _Easter Bell_, and him.

The ocean swell and harbor bell Chimed in an endless passing knell.

In gleaming green of breaker's sheen, The pallid light of death was seen.

The shaping clouds, the mist, like shrouds, Floated in ever-thickening crowds,--

Till piping wind her blood did bind, Froze by the phantoms of the mind.

IV.

"Cheer up, good wife," the neighbors rife Said all, "the _Bell_ has charmëd life.

"Brave Captain Head, no dawn a-red In vain e'er signaled him, 'tis said.

"Of all this town, from foot to crown No sailor has so just renown.

"The winds that blow, the reefs that grow, Each one by heart he'd know, he'd know.

"Some night full soon, or morn, or noon, The _Bell_ will fly her home gossoon!"

V.

The days they came and went the same, The moons, the tides, the mists, the flame.

And Nora said: "Since I was wed Six moons the heaping tides have led.

"In gloom I pine--(love makes him mine, Alive or dead)--I'll throw the line!"

VI.

She pulled a rose, as wife that knows Her good man cometh at the close.

Three neighbors true with her she drew To the grey shore, and, calling, threw,

With passionate leap, far to the deep, The life-line good wives always keep--

"O Mike, my man, my dear good man! The line, the line, my dear good man!"

(Calling so sore adown the shore, As fell the wintry surge's roar.)

Across the line of foaming brine, Low answer came that lit her eyne.

* * * * * * *

The neighbors three with Nora Lee All heard the words from out the sea,

Yet none e'er said what past the wed,-- A fearsome awe o'er them was spread.

VII.

When next moon fell, the _Easter Bell_ Sailed into harbor, as they tell,

With silk "gossoon" astream aboon-- And Nora in her calm did croon,

And softly tell: "I knew it well, His head it tosseth with weed and shell."

TO W.

I.

"Neural and hæmal arch," you say, "Tell out man's history to-day, Brain and mechanics have their way."

Is structure then sole test of kin? The ape from man, in form and skin, Is far as holiness from sin!

Emotion swears with hand uplift, That beauty is no mere makeshift, Significance divine its drift.

Beauty of sound, articulate speech, Lories and pyes might simians teach, These, therefore, nearer to man reach;

While nightingale and mocking-bird, Approach, in music's heavenly word, Closer than mammal e'er conferred.

II.

Were structure and function parallel, The word might break the mystic spell, But function doth its test compel.

Upward to man the beaver deft In structure gains of tail bereft-- But if there were no house-skill left!--

And if in structure beavers be In tooth and larynx nearer me Than flirting blackbird in ash-tree,

His song beyond all such control Comes up in kindred echo-roll, With those that tremble in my soul.

III.

True, in mechanics there is seen A gross resemblance in the mien Of ape and man--thought nigh unclean!

But grosser want of function's shewn Of human attribute and tone,-- Sweet rhythmic utterance unknown;

Beauty of form, proportion fair, And dignity--all wanting there, Though neural and hæmal arch compare!

IV.

Of structure, all you find is that A function it performs, whereat A thus or thus of sight's come at.

And yet you truly know far more-- Feeling from out her open door Affirms, in speech of beauty's lore:

"O, awesome!" "beauteous!" "pleasant too!" "Inspiriting!" "ennobling!" "true!" Or contrariwise--each as is due.

But no account of this you take; Your thoughts are polarized, and make An open sea of a tiny lake.

V.

You don't believe the colors of birds And insects are God's painted words To please the master of His herds!

"Mere marks ancestral, once of use, Now useless as an empty cruse-- Derived, but not designed," your truce.

Yet why such skilful pains bestow, That colors _once_ had use, to shew? Vain zeal, since that you cannot know.

Fruitless your words! Is it not plain, "Designed" or not, like April rain, The end achieved _is_ man's high gain?

VI.

'Tis folly to attempt truth's goal With logic got of half the soul,-- Truth will not have the half, but whole.

Beauty, God's gladness seen in time, Lights up Truth's calm white face sublime With radiance of the golden prime!

Shall you and I look down for light? Nay, upward let us fix our sight, Downward's the awful gulf of night.

MARIE DEPURE.

Not with her outward eyes, but with her mind, Her living soul, her faith,--for she was blind-- Marie Depure, with simple, loving heart, Had seen the Christ, and chosen the good part.

She never thought with Milton, in his pride, "Does God exact day labor, light denied?" But gave her willing hands as one who saw, Deftly to plait for use the yellow straw.

With humble workers of her craft she wrought For daily bread, and Christ's great lesson taught, That love the life far more than meat regards, And body, more than raiment sweet with nards.

For when the pastor, who, like John, had leaned Upon the Master's breast, spoke words that yeaned The pity of his heart for those that sit In heathen night, nor know Christ's torch is lit;

Marie Depure, her soul winged like a dove Eager to bear the news of light and love, Gave of her humble toil more than they all,-- Since love makes willing answer to Love's call.

Amazed, the man of God to Marie said: "Your gift is great, a part I take instead;" But she, with sweet insistence, spake him, "Nay, I'm richer far than those who see the day.

"These workers of the golden straw buy oil, When darkness falls, that they may see to toil; But I am blind, I need no oil for light,-- I give this love-lit lamp for darker night."

Marie Depure! A sweet and gracious beam Speed from thy burning lamp, a Christ-like gleam, To those who in the darkness sit, and some Who, without serving, pray, "Thy Kingdom Come!"

"BY THE LOVE."

AN EASTER IDYLL.

Twelve months agone The beauteous face, all white with pity as A wave with foam, sank in the dusk of death. Four summers and the wafture of the fifth Had poured their cataract of gold far down The shining shoulders of the seraph boy, While love, a father's and a mother's, hung Above its laughter like a thing divine.

O golden head that drifted down to death! Sweet eye and voice by silence swift devoured! Dawn's kiss upon the forehead of the day! The fresh-blown surge of grief was stilled, And halcyon hope her azure wings outspread As all the hollow sky on Easter morn Was, like a lily, filled with golden light. Swift through the hush of death the thrill of life Touched the still chords of the fair mother's heart, And woke unquenchable desire to lay White lilies from the darksome mother-earth Upon the tomb, where circled, like a dove, Her wingëd hopes,--the tomb where long ago White angels watched the birth of Life anew.

Beside the lilied mound she lingered long. Her rising soul pushed at the gates of death, Till, like a creek from which the moon has drunk The tide, they yawned empty and bare of hope. All spectral grew her heart with tearless grief As some sweet plot of lichens reft of rain. "There are no angels now," she said, "to roll The stone away. O that He now were here To raise my dead, if 'tis not all a myth!" And as she spoke she lift a bitter face Into the eyes of the bright Easter day.

Not far away she saw a little child Of scarce five years, and drawing near she knew Him one who never felt a mother's kiss,-- Now sitting at the grave where one long month Had slept his father,--kith nor kin bequeathed The boy in the wide circle of the earth. She knew that, rose and rosebud on one stem, Father and child had crimsoned life with love, And that the wind of death had snatched The rose and left the unsheltered bud alone; Yet blinded by the night of her own grief Scarce had she seen his golden day's eclipse. Now swift she marked the tender mobile lips, The spirit-light aglow in eye, on brow, And the rare beauty of the noble face.

"Is your name Mary," fearlessly he asked, "Who with the angels talked when the great stone Was rolled away?--" "O no, dear child," she said,-- "Whom are you looking for?" With reverent mien, Yet eager voice, "For Jesus," said the child. "O Jesus is not here, my darling boy, He's risen, you know." "Yes," said the wistful face, "I've waited here all day for Him to come And raise my father up. I thought perhaps He sent you, 'tis so late, to bid me stay A little--O 'tis never too late for Jesus!" he said, and brushed away the tear; "He's sure to come, for 'tis the Rising-Day."

The woman stoopt to kiss the wondrous boy, And sat beside him there upon the grave, And sobbed like organ swept by the master's hand.

"What makes you cry?--perhaps your father's here To be raised up?" "No darling,--but my child." He stroked the woman's hand: "Don't cry," he said, "Jesus does not forget the Rising-Day, He'll surely come and give to you your child And me my father--He will come to-night. I saw the two men who from Emmaus came, Go by at early morn, and Jesus will Meet them, and turn and this way come, as they In wonder all about His dying talk, And rising too. The men will know Him not, But I shall, and will call to Him to stop And raise my father up." "How shall you know Him, my dear boy?" she asked. "O by His smile, And by the picture father shewed me once, But" (with his hand upon his heaving breast) "I'll know Him best by the love I keep in here." "Shall you?" she said, "and are you sure you'll know Your father?" "My own father!" said the boy, With wondering voice, "I'll know him by the love, And so will you your child. They will not look The same, for Jesus did not, but they knew Him by His love." And finer grew the face As the fond lingering voice, in love's own tones, Repeated: "And we'll know them by the love."

Moveless a moment, as the tide at full, Her heart hung in a balance, and as its Tremulous deeps swayed to the signs of heaven, Its wave broke o'er the banks of self to life.

"Philip," she cried, and clasped him in her arms, "Jesus has gone to heaven, and I am sent By Him to take you to your father now. Come!" With faith strong as is the noonday sight, Instant the child clasped home her trembling hand, And passed without the gates, nor backward lookt. Silent he went, for expectation held Him fast, and a great light was on her face.

Entering her home, she bade that food be given The famished boy; and when the maid brought milk, Honey and bread with broilëd fish, he said, With exultation: "Now I know this is The house--it's all here just the same, and He'll Be here to-night." With wingëd feet the wife Sped up the stair to meet her husband's step, And in a rapture told him all, and of The wonder-heart below. "Heaven, a fair child, An angel boy, has sent our stone to roll Away! For us his vision is no less Than for himself. O husband, this is life's Supremest hour for us!--'_I shall know him By the love_,' sweetly he says."--"It shall be So indeed!" cried the father's yearning heart.

As she returned, the child most eager said, In a sweet voice half-sob, but full of hope, "O wash my face and comb my hair, before I see my father--'tis not too late yet?" The touch of the ineffable child-trust Pierced deep her heart, yet with assuring tones The words fell: "Philip, come, let us now go To him."

The arras opened on a face Noble and winsome sweet, though smiles were close To tears. As azure bird on mountain stream Halts a brief moment on some jutting crag, Ere as a flash of streaming light it cleaves The dewy darkness of the trickling dell; So for a moment halted the sweet child, Took one step forward, and then leapt into The arms where death-shade once was deep as night, But where commingling love now glads the gloom, All lit by the sweet azure of the heart. With head thrown back, and questioning eyes agaze: "Father--you're--changed!" he said, "but by the love, We know each other--by the love, the love!" The father's heaving heart did echo sweet, "The love, the love!"

And nestling down upon The manly breast, the curly head, soft-stroked, And soothed with all the lullabies of love, Was rocked, like harbored sail, to rest of sleep, Lapt in the love which fed his simple faith, And poured a golden Easter in the heart Of her who groped in darkness 'mong the tombs.

NOTES.

Page 17. _and erst "rose noble" bore thy grace._--The "rose noble," an ancient English gold coin, first minted by Edward III., was stamped with the figure of the rose.

19. _The phantom of the buried tide._--This phenomenon is not infrequently seen in the evenings of the last of August or early September. It is caused by the condensation of the invisible vapor of the air resting on the dyked lands--the former sea-bed. As the condensed vapor lies close upon the ground, the illusion of a full sea is complete in the moonlight, the shore line and creeks being perfectly traced.

28. _The title deeds of these rich shores are thine._--Geologists affirm that Partridge Island is older than the mainland, or than the other islands mentioned.

29. TENNYSON ROCK.--This rock is the pinnacle of Pinnacle Island (one of the Five Islands, Basin of Minas). The rock is solitary, and nearly two hundred feet high at low water,--a seated figure strongly resembling, as seen from the Basin, Lord Tennyson in his old age--with his cloak about him.

32. GLOOSCAP.--The divine man of the Micmac Indians. His home was on the shores of the Basin of Minas, particularly at Partridge Island, the Five Islands, and Blomidon. He sailed away "into the west," because of the wickedness of men and beasts, not to return till they should heed his voice. (See "Legends of the Micmacs," gathered by the late Rev. Silas Tertius Rand, D.D., LL.D, of Hantsport, Nova Scotia, and published by Wellesley College, Wellesley, Mass.)

40. DAY AND NIGHT.--The last three lines of the sonnet refer to the "afterglow," which often appears (at Minas Basin) from half an hour to an hour or more after the first sunset colors have entirely faded into dusk.

45. MAYFLOWER.--_The Trailing Arbutus._

48. THE GHOST FLOWER.--The _monotropa uniflora_,--a true flower, not a fungus. It grows in the deep shadows, the entire flower and stalk being colorless and wax-like. It has white, wax-like bracts in place of green leaves. The cup nods, and stalk and flower together often form an interrogation point (which fact, it will be observed, determines the cast of the sonnet). The flower is widely known as the Ghost Flower, but is often called Indian Pipe.

52. MCMASTER UNIVERSITY.--Founded as a distinctively Christian university, by the late William McMaster, of Toronto, merchant, founder of the Bank of Commerce, and a member of the Senate of the Dominion of Canada.

54. _Areopagus ... Furies._--The sessions of the Areopagus, the highest judicial court at Athens, were held on Mars' Hill. The Cave of the Furies was beneath the same rock.

66. _And shewed the prints of palfrey's shoe._--These tiny horse-shoe prints, many of them sharp and perfect even to the nail-heads, may be seen in abundance on the branches of any horse-chestnut tree.

82. _Had I two loaves of bread_,--Mohammed. _Or let me die_--Wordsworth,--uttered in view of his emotion at the sight of the rainbow.

84. THE DRAGONFLY.--The species of neuropterous insects referred to in the poem deposit their eggs in water. The grub lives at the bottom of the lake or pond, creeping on the submerged parts of aquatic plants and feeding on aquatic insects. When the final transformation is about to take place, the body of the insect becomes swollen until, lighter than the water, it rises to the surface. As its skin dries, it splits at the back, and the perfect insect comes forth, with body and wings quite soft and moist. When dry, the wings expand, until presently the insect spreads them, and soaring upwards, begins to dart to and fro in the full enjoyment of its new and wondrous life.

115. _The moon at her utmost poised._--The moon is in meridian at high water in the Bay of Fundy.

159. "BY THE LOVE": AN EASTER IDYLL.--The story on which this poem is founded was published in the _Congregationalist_, by Helen Strong Thompson, as a true incident of the Easter of 1894.

Transcriber's Notes

Words surrounded by _ are italicized.

Small capitals are presented as all capitals in this e-text.

Apparent printer's errors and inconsistent spellings have been retained.

End of Project Gutenberg's At Minas Basin and Other Poems, by Theodore H. Rand