Part 3

Over the tops of the trees, And over the shallow stream, The shepherd of sunset frees The amber phantoms of dream. The time is the time of vision; The hour is the hour of calm; Hark! On the stillness Elysian Breaks how divine a psalm! _Oh, clear in the sphere of the air, Clear, clear, tender and far, Our aspiration of prayer Unto eve’s clear star!_

O singer serene, secure! From thy throat of silver and dew What transport lonely and pure, Unchanging, endlessly new,-- An unremembrance of mirth, And a contemplation of tears, As if the musing of earth Communed with the dreams of the years! _Oh, clear in the sphere of the air, Clear, clear, tender and far, Our aspiration of prayer Unto eve’s clear star!_

O cloistral ecstatic! thy cell In the cool green aisles of the leaves Is the shrine of a power by whose spell Whoso hears aspires and believes! O hermit of evening! thine hour Is the sacrament of desire, When love hath a heavenlier flower, And passion a holier fire! _Oh, clear in the sphere of the air, Clear, clear, tender and far, Our aspiration of prayer Unto eve’s clear star!_

_THE WILD-ROSE THICKET_

Where humming flies frequent, and where Pink petals open to the air,

The wild-rose thicket seems to be The summer in epitome.

Amid its gold-green coverts meet The late dew and the noonday heat;

Around it, to the sea-rim harsh, The patient levels of the marsh;

And o’er it the pale heavens bent, Half sufferance and half content.

_MY TREES_

At evening, when the winds are still, And wide the yellowing landscape glows, My firwoods on the lonely hill Are crowned with sun and loud with crows. Their flocks throng down the open sky From far salt flats and sedgy seas; Then dusk and dewfall quench the cry,-- So calm a home is in my trees.

At morning, when the young wind swings The green slim tops and branches high, Out puffs a noisy whirl of wings, Dispersing up the empty sky. In this dear refuge no roof stops The skyward pinion winnowing through. My trees shut out the world;--their tops Are open to the infinite blue.

_THE HAWKBIT_

How sweetly on the Autumn scene, When haws are red amid the green, The hawkbit shines with face of cheer, The favourite of the faltering year!

When days grow short and nights grow cold How fairly gleams its eye of gold, On pastured field and grassy hill, Along the roadside and the rill!

It seems the spirit of a flower, This offspring of the Autumn hour, Wandering back to earth to bring Some kindly afterthought of Spring.

A dandelion’s ghost might so Amid Elysian meadows blow, Become more fragile and more fine Breathing the atmosphere divine.

_GREY ROCKS AND GREYER SEA_

Grey rocks, and greyer sea, And surf along the shore-- And in my heart a name My lips shall speak no more.

The high and lonely hills Endure the darkening year-- And in my heart endure A memory and a tear.

Across the tide a sail That tosses, and is gone-- And in my heart the kiss That longing dreams upon.

Grey rocks, and greyer sea, And surf along the shore-- And in my heart the face That I shall see no more.

_A SONG OF CHEER_

The winds are up with wakening day And tumult in the tree; Across the cool and open sky White clouds are streaming free; The new light breaks o’er flood and field Clear like an echoing horn, While in loud flight the crows are blown Athwart the sapphire morn.

What tho’ the maple’s scarlet flame Declares the summer done, Tho’ finch and starling voyage south To win a softer sun, What tho’ the withered leaf whirls by To strew the purpling stream,-- Stretched are the world’s glad veins with strength, Despair is grown a dream!

The acres of the golden rod Are glorious on the hills. Tho storm and loss approach, the year’s High heart upleaps and thrills. Dearest, the cheer, the brave delight, Are given to shame regret, That when the long frost falls, our hearts Be glad, and not forget!

_A SONG OF GROWTH_

In the heart of a man Is a thought upfurled, Reached its full span It shakes the world, And to one high thought Is a whole race wrought.

Not with vain noise The great work grows, Nor with foolish voice, But in repose,-- Not in the rush But in the hush.

From the cogent lash Of the cloud-herd wind The low clouds dash, Blown headlong, blind; But beyond, the great blue Looks moveless through.

O’er the loud world sweep The scourge and the rod; But in deep beyond deep Is the stillness of God;-- At the Fountains of Life No cry, no strife.

_TO G. B. R._

How merry sings the aftermath, With crickets fifing in the dew! The home-sweet sounds, the scene, the hour, I consecrate to you.

All this you knew and loved with me; All this in our delight had part; And now--though us earth sees no more As comrades, heart to heart--

This kindly strength of open fields, This faith of eve, this calm of air, They lift my spirit close to you In memory and prayer.

_THE BIRD’S SONG, THE SUN, AND THE WIND_

The bird’s song, the sun, and the wind-- The wind that rushes, the sun that is still, The song of the bird that sings alone, And wide light washing the lonely hill!

The Spring’s coming, the buds and the brooks-- The brooks that clamour, the buds in the rain, The coming of Spring that comes unprayed for, And eyes that welcome it not for pain!

_OH, PURPLE HANG THE PODS_

Oh, purple hang the pods On the green locust-tree, And yellow turn the sods On a grave that’s dear to me!

And blue, softly blue, The hollow Autumn sky, With its birds flying through To where the sun-lands lie!

In the sun-lands they’ll bide While Winter’s on the tree;-- And oh that I might hide The grave that’s dear to me!

_BRINGING HOME THE COWS_

When potatoes were in blossom, When the new hay filled the mows, Sweet the paths we trod together, Bringing home the cows.

What a purple kissed the pasture, Kissed and blessed the alder-boughs, As we wandered slow at sundown, Bringing home the cows!

How the far-off hills were gilded With the light that dream allows, As we built our hopes beyond them, Bringing home the cows!

How our eyes were bright with visions, What a meaning wreathed our brows, As we watched the cranes, and lingered, Bringing home the cows!

Past the years, and through the distance, Throbs the memory of our vows, Oh that we again were children Bringing home the cows!

_THE KEEPERS OF THE PASS_

[When the Iroquois were moving in overwhelming force to obliterate the infant town of Montreal, Adam Daulac and a small band of comrades, binding themselves by oath not to return alive, went forth to meet the enemy in a distant pass between the Ottawa river and the hills. There they died to a man, but not till they had slain so many of the savages that the invading force was shattered and compelled to withdraw.]

Now heap the branchy barriers up. No more for us shall burn The pine-logs on the happy hearth, For we shall not return.

We’ve come to our last camping-ground. Set axe to fir and tamarack. The foe is here, the end is near, And we shall not turn back.

In vain for us the town shall wait, The home-dear faces yearn, The watchers on the steeple watch,-- For we shall not return.

For them we’re come to these hard straits, To save from flame and wrack The little city built far off; And we shall not turn back.

Now beat the yelling butchers down. Let musket blaze, and axe-edge burn. Set hand to hand, lay brand to brand, But we shall not return.

For every man of us that falls Their hordes a score shall lack. Close in about the Lily Flag! No man of us goes back.

For us no morrow’s dawn shall break. Our sons and wives shall learn Some day from lips of flying scout Why we might not return.

A dream of children’s laughter comes Across the battle’s slack, A vision of familiar streets,-- But we shall not go back.

Up roars the painted storm once more. Long rest we soon shall earn. Henceforth the city safe may sleep, But we shall not return.

And when our last has fallen in blood Between these waters black, Their tribe shall no more lust for war,-- For we shall not turn back.

In vain for us the town shall wait, The home-dear faces yearn, The watchers in the steeple watch, For we shall not return.

_NEW YEAR’S EVE_

(AFTER THE FRENCH OF FRÉCHETTE)

Ye night winds shaking the weighted boughs Of snow-blanched hemlock and frosted fir, While crackles sharply the thin crust under The passing feet of the wayfarer;

Ye night cries pulsing in long-drawn waves Where beats the bitter tide to its flood; A tumult of pain, a rumour of sorrow, Troubling the starred night’s tranquil mood;

Ye shudderings where, like a great beast bound, The forest strains to its depths remote; Be still and hark! From the high gray tower The great bell sobs in its brazen throat.

A strange voice out of the pallid heaven, Twelve sobs it utters, and stops. Midnight! ’Tis the ominous _Hail!_ and the stern _Farewell!_ Of Past and Present in passing flight.

This moment, herald of hope and doom, That cries in our ears and then is gone, Has marked for us in the awful volume One step toward the infinite dark--or dawn!

A year is gone, and a year begins. Ye wise ones, knowing in Nature’s scheme, Oh tell us whither they go, the years That drop in the gulfs of time and dream!

They go to the goal of all things mortal, Where fade our destinies, scarce perceived, To the dim abyss wherein time confounds them-- The hours we laughed and the days we grieved.

They go where the bubbles of rainbow break We breathed in our youth of love and fame, Where great and small are as one together, And oak and windflower counted the same.

They go where follow our smiles and tears, The gold of youth and the gray of age, Where falls the storm and falls the stillness, The laughter of spring and winter’s rage.

What hand shall gauge the depth of time Or a little measure eternity? God only, as they unroll before Him, Conceives and orders the mystery.

_A CHRISTMAS-EVE COURTIN’_

The snow’d laid deep that winter from the middle of November; The goin’, as I remember, was the purtiest kind of goin’; An’ as the time drawed nigh fur turkeys an’ mince pie The woods, all white an’ frosted, was a sight worth showin’.

The snow hung down the woodpiles all scalloped-like an’ curled. You’d swear in all the world ther’ warn’t no fences any more. The cows kep’ under cover, an’ the chickens scratched twice over The yaller ruck of straw a-layin’ round the stable door.

’Twas Christmas Eve, in the afternoon, an’ the store was jest a-hummin’ When we seen the parson comin’ in his pung along the road; An’ as he passed the store he called in through the door, ‘Church to-night at the Crossroads! Come, boys, and bring a load!’

’Twas a new idee in them parts, an’ Bill Simmons made ’n oration About ‘High Church innovation,’ an’ ‘a-driftin’ back to Rome,’ But I backed the parson’s rights to have Church o’ moonlight nights; An’ I thought of Nance’s cute red lips, an’ pinted straight fur home.

I wasn’t long a-gittin’ the chores done up, you bet, An’ the supper that I eat wouldn’t more’n a’ fed a fly! Then I hitched the mare in the pung an’ soon was bowlin’ along Down by the crick to Nance’s while the moon was white an’ high.

She didn’t keep me waitin’, fur church was at half-pas’ seven; An’ my idee of Heaven, as I tucked her into the furs, Was a-ridin’ with Nance at night when the moon was high an’ white, An’ the deep sky all a-sparkle like them laughin’ eyes of hers.

I had a heap to say, but I couldn’t jest find my tongue; But my heart it sung an’ sung, like canaries was into it. So I chirruped to the mare with a kind of easy air, An’ Nance had to do the talkin’,--as was jest the one could do it!

An’ I could feel her shoulder, kind of comfortin’ an’ warm, Nestlin’ agin my arm,--sech a sweet an’ cunnin’ shoulder. My heart was all afire, but I kep’ gittin’ shyer an’ shyer, An’ wished that I’d been born a leetle sassier an’ bolder.

We come to them there Crossroads ’fore I’d time to say a word; An’ I reckon as how I heard mighty little of the sarvice. But ’twas grand to hear Nance sing ‘Glory to the new-born King,’ Tho’ the way the choir folks stared at us, it made me kind of narvous.

I wished the parson’d stop an’ give me another chance Out there in the night with Nance, under the stars an’ moon; An’ I vowed I’d have my say in the tidiest kind of way, An’ she shouldn’t have no more call to think me a blame gossoon.

At last the preachin’ come to an end, an’ the folks all crowded out. ’Fore I knowed what I was about we was on the road fur home. But the sky was overcast an’ a thick snow droppin’ fast, An’ a big wind down from the mountins got a-rantin’ an moanin’ some.

We hadn’t rode two mile when it blowed like all possessed, An’ at that I kind of guessed we was in fur a ticklish night. We couldn’t go more’n a walk, an’ Nance she forgot to talk; Then I jest slipped my arm around her, an’ she never kicked a mite.

Well, now, if the hull blame roof’d blowed off I wouldn’t ’a keered, But I seen as how Nance was skeered, so I sez, ‘By gracious, Nance, I guess if we don’t turn, an’ cut back for the Crossroads, durn The shelter we’ll git to-night by any kind of a chance!’

Then the mare stopped short an’ whinnied, an’ Nance jest said, ‘Oh, Si!’ An’ then commenced to cry, till I felt like cryin’ too; I forgot about the storm, an’ jest hugged her close an’ warm, An’ kissed her, an’ kissed her, an’ swore as how I’d be true.

Then Nance she quit her cryin’ an’ said she wastn’t skeered So long’s she knowed I keered jest a leetle mite fur her; But she guessed we’d better try an’ git home, an’ ‘by-an’-by The storm ’ll stop, an’ anyways, it ain’t so very fur!’

My heart was that chock full I couldn’t find a word to say, But she understood the way that I looked into her eyes! In buffaler robe an’ rug I wrapped her warm an’ snug, An’ got out an’ broke the mare a road all the way to Barnes’s Rise.

’Twas a tallish tramp, I tell you, a-leadin’ that flounderin’ mare Thro’ snow drifts anywheres from four to six foot deep. An’ a ‘painter’ now an’ then howled out from his mountin den; But Nance, she never heered it, fur she must ’a fell to sleep.

It wasn’t fur from mornin’ when we come to Barnes’s Rise,-- An’ I found to my surprise I’d tramped nine mile an’ wasn’t tired. I was in sech a happy dream it didn’t hardly seem As the ride had been any tougher’n jest what I’d desired.

It was easier goin’ now, an’ Nance woke up all rosy. She was sweeter’n any posy as I kissed her at the gate. The dawn was jest a-growin’ so I wished her a Merry Christmas, An’ remarked I must be goin’ as it might be gittin’ late!

We was married at the Crossroads jest six weeks from Christmas Eve; An’ Nance an’ me believe in our parson’s innovations; We ain’t much skeered o’ Rome, an’ we reckon he can preach some, An’ we call that evenin’ sarvice a Providential Dispensation.

_THE SUCCOUR OF GLUSKÂP_

(A MICMAC LEGEND)

The happy valley laughed with sun, The corn grew firm in stalk, The lodges clustered safe where run The streams of Peniawk.

The washing-pools and shallows rang With shout of lads at play; At corn-hoeing the women sang; The warriors were away.

The splashed white pebbles on the beach, The idling paddles, gleamed; Before the lodge doors, spare of speech, The old men basked and dreamed.

And when the windless noon grew hot, And the white sun beat like steel, In shade about the shimmering pot They gathered to their meal.

Then from the hills, on flying feet, A desperate runner came, With cry that smote the peaceful street, And slew the peace with shame.

‘Trapped in the night, and snared in sleep, Our warriors wake no more! Up from Wahloos the Mohawks creep-- Their feet are at the door!’

The grey old sachems rose and mocked The ruin that drew near; And down the beach the children flocked, And women wild with fear.

Launched were the red canoes; when, lo! Beside them Gluskâp stood, Appearing with his giant bow From out his mystic wood.

With quiet voice he called them back, And comforted their fears; He swore the lodges should not lack, He dried the children’s tears;

Till sorrowing mothers almost deemed The desperate runner lied, And the tired children slept, and dreamed Their fathers had not died.

That night behind the mystic wood The Mohawk warriors crept; A spell went through the solitude And stilled them, and they slept.

And when the round moon, rising late, The Hills of Kawlm had crossed, She saw the camp of Mohawk hate Swathed in a great white frost.

At morn, behind the mystic wood Came Gluskâp, bow in hand, And marked the ice-bound solitude, And that unwaking band.

But as he gazed his lips grew mild, For, safe among the dead, There played a ruddy, laughing child By a captive mother’s head;

And child and mother, nestling warm, Scarce knew their foes had died, As past their sleep the noiseless storm Of strange death turned aside.

_HOW THE MOHAWKS SET OUT FOR MEDOCTEC_

[When the invading Mohawks captured the outlying Melicite village of Madawaska, they spared two squaws to guide them down stream to the main Melicite town of Medoctec, below Grand Falls. The squaws steered themselves and their captors over the Falls.]

I

Grows the great deed, though none Shout to behold it done! To the brave deed done by night Heaven testifies in the light

Stealthy and swift as a dream, Crowding the breast of the stream, In their paint and plumes of war And their war-canoes four score,

They are threading the Oolastook, Where his cradling hills o’erlook. The branchy thickets hide them; The unstartled waters guide them.

II

Comes night to the quiet hills Where the Madawaska spills,-- To his slumbering huts no warning, Nor mirth of another morning!

No more shall the children wake As the dawns through the hut-door break; But the dogs, a trembling pack, With wistful eyes steal back.

And, to pilot the noiseless foe Through the perilous passes, go Two women who could not die-- Whom the knife in the dark passed by.

III

Where the shoaling waters froth, Churned thick like devils’ broth,-- Where the rocky shark-jaw waits, Never a bark that grates.

And the tearless captives’ skill Contents them. Onward still! And the low-voiced captives tell The tidings that cheer them well:

How a clear stream leads them down Well-nigh to Medoctec town, Ere to the great Falls’ thunder The long wall yawns asunder.

IV

The clear stream glimmers before them; The faint night falters o’er them; Lashed lightly bark to bark, They glide the windless dark.

Late grows the night. No fear While the skilful captives steer! Sleeps the tired warrior, sleeps The chief; and the river creeps.

V

In the town of the Melicite The unjarred peace is sweet, Green grows the corn and great, And the hunt is fortunate.

This many a heedless year The Mohawks come not near. The lodge-gate stands unbarred; Scarce even a dog keeps guard.

No mother shrieks from a dream Of blood on the threshold stream,-- But the thought of those mute guides Is where the sleeper bides!

VI

Gets forth those caverned walls No roar from the giant Falls, Whose mountainous foam treads under The abyss of awful thunder.

But--the river’s sudden speed! How the ghost-grey shores recede! And the tearless pilots hear A muttering voice creep near.

A tremor! The blanched waves leap. The warriors start from sleep. Faints in the sudden blare The cry of their swift despair,

And the captives’ death-chant shrills ... But afar, remote from ills, Quiet under the quiet skies The Melicite village lies.

_THE WOOD FROLIC_

The Morning Star was bitter bright, the morning sky was grey; And we hitched our teams and started for the woods at break of day. _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_

Along the white and winding road the sled-bells jangled keen Between the buried fences, the billowy drifts between. _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_

So crisp sang the runners, and so swift the horses sped, That the woods were all about us ere the sky grew red. _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_

The bark hung ragged on the birch, the lichen on the fir, The lungwort fringed the maple, and grey moss the juniper. _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_

So still the air and chill the air the branches seemed asleep, But we broke their ancient visions as the axe bit deep. _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_

With the shouts of the choppers and the barking of their blades, How rang the startled valleys and the rabbit-haunted glades! _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_

The hard wood and the soft wood, we felled them for our use; And chiefly, for its scented gum, we loved the scaly spruce; _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_

And here and there, with solemn roar, some hoary tree came down, And we heard the rolling of the years in the thunder of its crown. _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_

So, many a sled was loaded up above the stake-tops soon; And many a load was at the farm before the horn of noon; _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_

And ere we saw the sundown all yellow through the trees, The farmyard stood as thick with wood as a buckwheat patch with bees; _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_

And with the last-returning teams, and axes burnished bright, We left the woods to slumber in the frosty shadowed night. _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_

And then the wide, warm kitchen, with beams across the ceiling, Thick hung with red-skinned onions, and homely herbs of healing! _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_

The dishes on the dresser-shelves were shining blue and white, And o’er the loaded table the lamps beamed bright. _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_

Then, how the ham and turkey and the apple-sauce did fly, The heights of boiled potatoes and the flats of pumpkin-pie! _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_