Part 2
But one--he shambled aimlessly along Asham'd, and shrunk from the abstracted ken Of passers-by with conscience-struck recoil, A pariah, a leper in the throng, An alien from the commonwealth of men, A stranger to the covenant of toil.
SUCCESS.
What is success? In mad soul-suicide The world's vain spoils rapaciously to seize, To pamper the base appetite of pride, And live a lord in luxury and ease? Is this success, whereof so many prate?-- To have the Midas-touch that turns to gold Earth's common blessings? to accumulate, And in accumulation to grow old?
Nay, but to see and undertake with zest The good most in agreement with our powers, To strive, if need be, for the second best, But still to strive, and glean the golden hours, With eyes for nature, and a mind for truth, And the brave, loving, joyous heart of youth.
THE EXCLUSION OF ASIATICS.
Is our renown'd Dominion then so small As not to hold this new inhabitant? Or are her means so pitiably scant As not to yield a livelihood to all? Or are we lesser men, foredoom'd to thrall? Or so much better than the immigrant That we should make our hearts as adamant And guard against defilement with a wall?
Nay, but our land is large and rich enough For us and ours and millions more--her need Is working men; she cries to let them in. Nor can we fear; our race is not the stuff Servants are made of, but a royal seed, And Christian, owning all mankind as kin.
THE PEOPLE'S RESPONSE TO HEROISM.
Our hearts are set on pleasure and on gain. Fine clothes, fair houses, more and daintier bread; We have no strivings, and no hunger-pain For spiritual food; our souls are dead. So judged I till the day when news was rife Of fire besieging scholars and their dames, And bravely one gave up her own fair life In saving the most helpless from the flames.
Then when I heard the instantaneous cheer That broke with sobbing undertones from all The multitude, and watched them drawing near, Stricken and mute, around her funeral pall In grief and exultation, I confest My judgment erred,--we know and love the best.
AN ARISTOCRAT.
Her fair companions she outshone, As this or that transcendent star Makes all its sister orbs look wan And dim and lustreless and far.
Her charm impressed the fleeting glance, But chiefly the reflective mind; A century's inheritance, By carefull'st nurture still refined.
Devotions, manners, hopes that were, Ideals high, traditions fine, Were felt to culminate in her, The efflorescence of her line.
What time and cost conspired to trace Her lineaments of perfect grace!
IN WAREHOUSE AND OFFICE.
How can the man whose uneventful days, Each like the other, are obscurely spent Amid the mill's dead products, keep his gaze Upon a lofty goal serenely bent? Or he who sedulously tells and groups Their minted shadows with deft finger-tips? Or who above the shadow's shadow stoops, And dips his pen and writes, and writes and dips?
How can he? Yet some such have been and are, Prophets and seers in deed, if not in word, And poets of a faery land afar, By incommunicable music stirred; Feasting the soul apart with what it craves, Their occupation's masters, not its slaves.
H. M. S. "DREADNOUGHT."
Titanic craft of many thousand tons, A smaller Britain free to come and go, Relying on thy ten terrific guns To daunt afar the most presumptuous foe; Thick-panoplied with plates of hardened steel, Equipped with all the engin'ry of death, Unrivalled swiftness in thy massive keel, Annihilation latent in thy breath.
"Dreadnought" thy name. And yet, for all thy size And strength, the ocean might engulf thy prow, Or the swift red torpedo of the skies, The lightning, blast thy boast-emblazoned brow; Thou hast thy use, but Britain's sons were wise To put their trust in better things than thou.
THE REVOLUTION IN RUSSIA.
From Lapland to the land of Tamerlane, Kamchatka to the confines of the Turk, The spirit tyrants never can restrain When once awake is mightily at work. Liberty, frantic with a fearful hope, Out of long darkness suddenly arisen, Maddens the dull half-human herds who grope And rend the bars of their ancestral prison.
Over the wan lone steppe her couriers speed, The secret forest echoes her command, She smites the sword that made her children bleed, And Death and Havoc hold the famished land. But God overrules, and oft man's greatest good Is won through nights of dread and days of blood.
TEA'S APOLOGIA.
Loved by a host from Noah's days till now, Extolled by bards in many a glowing line, My purple rival of the mantling brow May laugh to scorn this swarthy face of mine. I care not: many a weary pain I cure; Cold, heat and thirst I harmlessly abate; I bless the weak, the aged and the poor; And I have known the favor of the great.
I've cheered the minds of mighty poets gone; Philosophers have owned my solace true; Shy Cowper was my sweet Anacreon; Keen Hazlitt craved "whole goblets" of my brew; De Quincey praised my stimulating draught; What cups of me old Doctor Johnson quaffed!
A WISH.
When my time comes to quit this pleasing scene, And drop from out the busy life of men; When I shall cease to be where I have been So willingly, and ne'er may be again; When my abandoned tabernacle's dust With dust is laid, and I am counted dead; Ere I am quite forgotten, as I must Be in a little while, let this be said:
He loved this good God's world, the night and day, Men, women, children (these he loved the best); Pictures and books he loved, and work and play, Music and silence, soberness and jest; His mind was open, and his heart was gay; Green be his grave, and peaceful be his rest!
ALONE WITH NATURE.
The rain came suddenly, and to the shore I paddled, and took refuge in the wood, And, leaning on my paddle, there I stood In mild contentment watching the downpour, Feeling as oft I have felt heretofore, Rooted in nature, that supremest mood When all the strength, the peace, of solitude, Sink into and pervade the being's core.
And I have thought, if man could but abate His need of human fellowship, and find Himself through Nature, healing with her balm The world's sharp wounds, and growing in her state, What might and greatness, majesty of mind, Sublimity of soul and Godlike calm!
THE WORKS OF MAN AND OF NATURE.
Man's works grow stale to man: the years destroy The charm they once possessed; the city tires; The terraces, the domes, the dazzling spires Are in the main but an attractive toy-- They please the man not as they pleased the boy; And he returns to Nature, and requires To warm his soul at her old altar fires, To drink from her perpetual fount of joy.
It is that man and all the works of man Prepare to pass away; he may depend On naught but what he found her stores among; But she, she changes not, nor ever can; He knows she will be faithful to the end, For ever beautiful, for ever young.
A DAY REDEEMED.
I rose, and idly sauntered to the pane, And on the March-bleak mountain bent my look; And standing there a sad review I took Of what the day had brought me. What the gain To Wisdom's store? What holds had Knowledge ta'en? I mused upon the lightly-handled book, The erring thought, and felt a stern rebuke: "Alas, alas! the day hath been in vain!"
But as I gazed upon the upper blue, With many a twining jasper ridge up-ploughed, Sudden, up-soaring, swung upon my view A molten, rolling, sunset-laden cloud: My spirit stood, and caught its glorious hue-- "Not lost the day!" it, leaping, cried aloud.
OUTREMONT.
Far stretched the landscape, fair, without a flaw, Down to one silver sheet, some stream or cloud, Through glamorous mists. Midway, an engine ploughed Across the scene. In meditative awe I stood and gazed, absorbed in what I saw, Till sweet-breathed Evening came, the pensive-browed, And creeping from the city, spread her shroud Over the sunlit slopes of Outremont.
Soon the mild Indian summer will be past, November's mists soon flee December's snows; The trees may perish, and the winter's blast Wreck the tall windmills; these weak eyes may close; But ever will that scene continue fast Fixed in my soul, where richer still it grows.
THE NEW OLD STORY.
Hard by an ancient mansion stood an oak; For centuries, 'twas said, it had been there: The old towers crumbled 'neath decay's slow stroke, While, hall by hall, upgrew a palace fair; Lives and momentous eras waxed and waned, Old barons died, and barons young and gay Ruled in their stead, and still the oak remained, And each new spring seemed older not a day.
The vesture of the spirit of mankind,-- Forms and beliefs, like meteors, rise and set; The spirit too doth change; but o'er the mind This old Evangel holds young lordship yet; And here among Canadian snows we bring Each Christmastide our tribute to the King.
RECREATION.
Give me a cottage embower'd in trees, Far from the press and the din of the town; There let me loiter and live at my ease, Happier far than the King with his crown.
There let the music that's sweeter than words Waken my soul's inarticulate song, Murmur of zephyrs and warbling of birds, Babble of waters that hurry along.
Under the shade of the maple and beech Let me in tranquil contentment recline, Learning what nature and solitude teach, Charming philosophy, human, divine;
Finding how trivial the myriad things Life is concern'd with, to seek or to shun; Seeing the sources whence blessedness springs, Gathering strength for the work to be done.
PAESTUM.
Paestum, your temples and your streets Have been restored to view; Your fadeless Grecian beauty greets The eyes of men anew.
But where are all your roses now-- Those wonderful delights That made such garlands for the brow Of your fair Sybarites?
They in your time were more renown'd, And dearer to your heart, Than these fine works which mark the bound And highest reach of art.
We'd see you as you look'd of old; Though column, arch and wall Were worth a kingdom to behold, One rose would shame them all.
RONDEAU: AN APRIL DAY.
An April day, when skies are blue, And earth rejoices to renew Her vernal youth by lawn and lea, And sap mounts upward in the tree, And ruddy buds come bursting through;
When violets of tender hue And trilliums keep the morning dew Through all the sweet forenoon--give me An April day;
When surly Winter's roystering crew Have said the last of their adieux, And left the fettered river free, And buoyant hope and ecstasy Of life awake, my wants are few-- An April day.
AUTUMN.
The Year, an aged holy priest, In gorgeous vestments clad, Now celebrates the solemn feast Of Autumn, sweet and sad.
The Sun, a contrite thurifer After his garish days, Through lessening arch, a wavy blur, His burnish'd censer sways.
The Earth,--an altar all afire Her hecatombs to claim, Shoots upward many a golden spire And crimson tongue of flame.
Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd In Midian's land to view The bush that unconsuming burn'd, I pause--and worship, too.
MY TWO BOYS.
To some the heavenly Father good Has given raiment rich and fine, And tables spread with dainty food, And jewels rare that brightly shine.
To some He's given gold that buys Immunity from petty care, Freedom and leisure and the prize Of pleasing books and pictures fair.
To some He's given wide domains And high estate and tranquil ease, And homes where all refinement reigns And everything combines to please.
To some He's given minds to know The what and how, the where and when; To some, a genius that can throw A light upon the hearts of men.
To some He's given fortunes free From sorrows and replete with joys; To some, a thousand friends; to me He's given my two little boys.
MY OLD CLASSICAL MASTER.
Ever hail'd with delight when my memory strays O'er the various scenes of my juvenile days, Do you mind if I sing a poor song in your praise, My jolly old classical master?
You were kind--over-lenient, 'twas rumor'd, to rule-- And so learn'd, though the blithest of all in the school, 'Twas your pupil's own fault if he left you a fool, My jolly old classical master.
"Polumetis Odusseus" you brought back to life, "Xanthos Menelaos" recalled to the strife: You knew more about Homer than Homer's own wife, My jolly old classical master.
You could sever each classical Gordian knot, Each "crux criticorum" explain on the spot; We preferr'd your opinion to Liddell and Scott, My jolly old classical master.
To you "Arma virumque," "All Gaul" and the rest Were a snap of the fingers, a plaything, a jest, Even Horace mere English--you lik'd Horace best, My jolly old classical master.
We esteemed you a marvel in Latin and Greek, An Erasmus, a Bentley, a Person, a freak; And for all sorts of knowledge we held you unique, My jolly old classical master.
You brought forth from your treasury things new and old, Philosophical gems, oratorical gold; And how many a capital story you told, My jolly old classical master!
Your devotion to learning, whole-hearted and pure, Your fine critical relish of literature, And your gay disposition, had charms to allure, My jolly old classical master.
Here's a health to you, sir, from a thousand old boys, Who once plagu'd you with nonsense and tried you with noise, But who learn'd from you, lov'd you, and wish you all joys, My jolly old classical master.
May your mien be still jovial, your mind be still bright, May your wit be still sprightly, your heart be still light, And long, long may it be ere your spirit takes flight, My jolly old classical master.
THE GOLD-MINERS OF BRITISH COLUMBIA.
They come not from the sunny, sunny south, Nor from the Arctic region, Nor from the east, the busy, busy east, The where man's name is legion; But they come from the west, the rugged, rugged west, From the world's remotest edges; And their pockets they are filled with the yellow, yellow gold That they mined in the mountain ledges.
CHORUS--
Then, hey, lads, hey, for the mining man so bold, Who comes from the world's far edges! And hey for the gold, the yellow, yellow gold, That is stored in the mountain ledges!
They basked not, they, in balmy tropic shade, 'Neath orange tree and banyan; But braved the bush, the torrent and the steep, By gorge and gulch and canyon. They would not be held back in cities over desks, Or among the homestead hedges; So their pockets now are filled with the yellow, yellow gold That they mined in the mountain ledges.
They left their homes, their loved ones all behind, Forsook kind friend and neighbor, And went to seek the thing of greatest worth, For gold, rare gold, to labor. Oh! they bled the old earth--they opened up her veins With their picks and drills and sledges; And their pockets now are filled with the yellow, yellow gold That they mined in the mountain ledges.
WAR-SHIPS IN PORT.
The tread of armèd mariners is in our streets to-day, An Empire's pulse is beating in the march of this array. From western woods, and Celtic hills, and homely Saxon shires, They sailed beneath the "meteor flag," the emblem of our sires; And for the glory that has been, the pride that yet may be, We hail them in the sacred names of home and liberty, And know that not on sea or land more dauntless hearts there are Than the hearts of these bold seamen from the English men-of-war.
Trafalgar's fame-crowned hero stands, encarved in storied stone, And from his place of honor looks in silence and alone: But no, to-day his spirit lives, and walks the crowded way; For us Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher and Howard live to-day; For us from many a page of eld, 'mid war and tempest blast, A thousand thousand valiant forms come trooping from the past, And say, "Forget not us to-day, we have a part with these, The 'sea-dogs' of old England, the 'Mistress of the Seas.'"
No, no, ye gruff old heroes, ye can never be forgot; The memory of your prowess will outlive the storm, the shot Destruction pours impartially on common and sublime, And scorn the volleying years that mount the battery of time; For far above this tide of war your worth is written clear On fame's bright rock of adamant, imperishable here; Your names may be recorded not, your graves be 'neath the keel, But many a million English hearts some love for you shall feel.
Five grim old ocean-buffeters, stern ploughshares of the deep, Have come to visit us of those whose duty 'tis to keep, With the old lion's courage and the young eagle's ken, Their sleepless watch upon the sea that skirts this world of men: And if again in stately pride their lordly forms they bear Upon the ample bosom of our noble stream, whene'er From massive prow impregnable their peaceful anchor falls, We'll hail old England's hearts of steel who man her iron walls.
ON FINDING A COPY OF BURNS'S POEMS IN THE HOUSE OF AN ONTARIO FARMER.
Large Book, with heavy covers worn and old, Bearing clear proof of usage and of years, Thine edges yellow with their faded gold, Thy leaves with fingers stained--perchance with tears;
How oft thy venerable page has felt The hardened hands of honorable toil! How oft thy simple song had power to melt The hearts of the rude tillers of the soil!
How oft has fancy borne them back to see The Scottish peasant at his work, and thou Hast made them feel the grandeur of the free And independent follower of the plough!
What careth he that his proud name hath peal'd From shore to shore since his new race began, In humble cot and "histie stibble field" Who doth "preserve the dignity of man"?
With reverent hands I lay aside the tome, And to my longing heart content returns, And in the stranger's house I am at home, For thou dost make us brothers, Robert Burns.
And thou, old Book, go down from sire to son; Repeat the pathos of the poet's life; Sing the sweet song of him who fought and won The outward struggle and the inward strife.
Go down, grand Book, from hoary sire to son; Keep by the Book of books thy wonted place; Tell what a son of man hath felt and done, And make of us and ours a noble race,--
A race to scorn the sordid greed of gold, To spurn the spurious and contemn the base, Despise the shams that may be bought and sold,-- A race of brothers and of men,--a race
To usher in the long-expected time Good men have sought and prophets have foretold, When this bright world shall be the happy clime Of brotherhood and peace, when men shall mould
Their lives like His who walked in Palestine; The truly human manhood thou dost show, Leading them upward to the pure divine Nature of God made manifest below.
THE IDEAL PREACHER.
It was back in Renfrew County, near the Opeongo line, Where the land's all hills and hollows and the hills are clothed with pine, And in the wooded valleys little lakes shine here and there Like jewels in the masses of a lovely woman's hair; Where the York branch, by a channel ripped through rugged rocks and sand, Sweeps to join the Madawaska, speeding downward to the Grand; Where the landscape glows with beauty, like a halo shed abroad, And the face of nature mirrors back the unseen face of God.
I was weary with my journey, and with difficulty strove To keep myself awake at first, as, sitting by the stove In old William Rankin's shanty, I attended as I might To the pioneer backwoodsman's tales far on into the night; But William talked until the need of sleep one quite forgot, Not stopping but to stir the fire, which kept the stove red-hot; For the wind was raw and cold without, although the month of May: Up north the winter struggles hard before it yields its sway; And the snow is in the forests, and the ice is in the lakes, And the frost is in the seedland oft when sunny June awakes.
He talked of camps in winter time, of river drives in spring, Of discords in the settlement,--in fact, of everything; He told of one good elder who'd been eaten by a bear, And wondered that a beast of prey should eat a man of pray'r; Of beast, from wolf to porcupine, killed with gun, axe and fork, And, finally, of college men who did not pine for pork. "But yet among them students," said the bushman, "there wuz one As hit me an' the settlement as fair as any gun.
"O' course, he wa'nt no buster, hed no shinin' gifts o' speech; But jis' as reg'lar he could give some pointers how to preach. He talked straight on like tellin' yarns--more heart, I'd say, 'an head; But somehow people felt he meant 'bout every word he said. He wa'n't chuck full o' larnin' from the peelin' to the core;-- Leastwise, he wa'n't the kind they call a college batch-o'-lore; He'd no degree, the schoolma'am said,--though soon he let 'em see That o' certain sterlin' qualities he had a great degree,-- Leastwise he hed no letters till the hind end o' his name,-- But, preacher, say, you don't set much importance by them same?-- Y' may hev titles o' y'r own, an' think I'm speakin' bold; But there's that bob-tailed nag o' mine, the chestnut three-year-old; It's true she can't make such a swish, to scare away the flies, But if y'd see her cover ground, y'd scarce believe y'r eyes.
"O' course, he hed his enemies,--you preachers alluz hez,-- But 'twa'n't no use their tellin' us he wa'n't the stuff, I gez; An' after while they closed right up an' looked like,--it wuz fun,-- When they seed the way he 'sisted out ol' Game-leg Templeton. O' course, y' knows ol' Templeton,--twuz him as druv y' in; Y' noticed, maybe, how he limped, and sort o' saved his shin. He's run the mail through fair and foul 'tween this and Cumbermere, And faithful served Her Majesty fur nigh on twenty year.
"The preacher stayed with Templeton, the same's you're stay'n' with me, On a new clearance back o' this, which, course, y' didn't see. An' one day on a visit tour the chap wuz startin' out In the way o' Little Carlow,--twuz good twelve mile round about,-- An' in the bush he'd lose hisself, as everybody knowed: 'I'll take the axe,' says Templeton, 'an' go an' blaze a road. It's only three mile through the bush.' An' so they started in, Quite happy like,--men never knows when troubles will begin. 'Bout noon,--the folks was in the house a eatin' o' their snack,-- The chap comes home with Templeton a-hangin' on his back.
"The call wuz close fur Templeton, who'd somehow missed his stroke; He alluz swung a heavy blow, an' the bone wuz well-nigh broke; An' wust of all, 'twuz two whole days afore the doctor came; He was up the Long Lake section, seein'--what's that fellow's name?-- Well, never mind.--An' when he did examine of the wound, He said 'twould take all summer fur the man to git around.