Part 3

Theirs is the free unrutted tracts of air, The clime of cloudland and of boundless space; From grimy earth they soar to regions rare, And meet the blue eternal face to face-- Above the clouds; the earth, a swallowed ball. Lost in the gray abysses far below; Biding the storm above the whirlwinds thrall, The Aviators of the Allies go. Theirs is the flight of eagles, and as they, They swoop and drive their talons in the foe, Then wheeling, strike again their crippled prey, And send him crashing to the earth below.

HELL'S ACOLYTE

O'er a city Saturnalian, when the feast was at its height, Cried the demon of the riot, riding on the howling night. Cried aloud in gleeful frenzy, "Who would wish to be divine, When as fiend he reigns the master of unnumbered slaves of wine?"

Swept he o'er the noisome brothel where the Bacchanalians brawled, Mingled with its maudlin wantons where with libertines they sprawled; Hovered o'er the wine-room's riot where his dupes carnival held, While the ribald song's wild chorus on the night's mad frenzy swelled.

Gloated as he perched above them, and his voice rang out in pride-- "Oh, my master! I have triumphed, I, thy fiend of drink," he cried. "Master thou whose cause I cherish, Master thou who reign'st in hell, Am I worthy of thy kinship? In thy cause have I done well?

"Fiend of drink am I, remorseless, ruling, worshipped everywhere-- Boon companion of the novice, prop of every wreck's despair. Moods have I to meet the many, costumes fit for any state, To the brutalized or polished I can be a fitting mate.

"Where patrician faces gather, clothed am I in bright champagne, Sparkling gloriously golden, beading to an amorous strain. Eyes grow bright as lips caress me; fevers burn within the veins; I repay their love with madness, laughing as I forge their chains.

"Now, in ruby robes translucent, dance I in the goblet bright,-- Wanton of the wine-glass, weaving dreams with mirages bedight. O'er the wastes of wine I lure men, till on sands of quenchless thirst, Lo, my red simoom engulfs them, helpless, raving, and accurst!

"Ere the sun-god, swiftly rising, swings his flaming sword of day, Gin-gowned for the assignation, wait I for my quivering prey,-- Wait I for my faithful lovers, they who crave my morning kiss, Abject, pleading for my favour, for my warmth, reviving bliss.

"Sweet to me their hast'ning footsteps at the well-remembered hour, And I sparkle with elation, conscious of my mastering power. Sweet each lover's supplication for the balm he would obtain; Like a maiden in her beauty reign I 'midst my servile train.

"Ne'er was queen of story olden wooed as I by mortal man; Ne'er had king in ages golden court so cosmopolitan; Not for wealth of my surroundings do they tribute to me pay, For they love me all as faithful in dim dens where I hold sway.

"What a court is this, my master! Here I watch life's strange parade-- Here I view the grotesque pageant of mankind in masquerade-- Maskers from the grimy army tipple with the titled peer; Every walk of life commingling, great and lowly, all are here.

"That fine fellow, deep imbibing, with the classic brow and chin, Was an actor great and famous--sweet it was his love to win. What a world of fine expression had he in his mobile face! On the stage great were his triumphs ere I brought him to disgrace.

"He who rends the night with laughter, he with curls of glossy jet, Wrote a poem of wondrous beauty, and he reigned a social pet Till I touched his vibrant heart-strings with the madness of desire; Now he sings no more of beauty, dimmed is his poetic fire.

"Now his songs are dark and gloomy, broken are his symphonies, And the bright thought halts and falters, glides along, then stops and flees; Now he craves but for my kisses, all his hopes are wrapped in me, Thus, a wreck, he rhymes unreason 'midst his ragged company.

"I have lured the pale religieux from his height of snowy dreams By the sweet Circean measures of my strange, soul-haunting themes-- Strangled love and filial duty by the witchery of my charms-- Quenched the genius of a million, passion-drowned within my arms.

"From his love of virgin beauty, I have led the trusting swain Till he sank in my morasses--till he sought her not again; I have watched her fading, drooping like a rose in chilling dawn, Waiting for love's warmth that came not, ever paling, sinking wan.

"And unto her heart's slow breaking as she guessed her lover's plight, I have whispered to her, dreaming of him in the restless night: 'Maiden, of thy lover dreaming, practising thy girlish arts, I could teach thee subtle secrets, philter give that love imparts.

"'But my joy is in the breaking, not the mending of a heart, So I'll keep thy truant lover by my wiles from thee apart; I will drag him down to ruin, into gulfs where misery dwells; Where I lead he, too, shall follow, by my power that compels.

"'When a wreck he reels through passion, for my charms I'll take his health, Goad him down to sin's abysses, steal from him his scanty wealth. Know, O maiden, this remember, never more shall he be free; He, thy lover whom thou dream'st of, yet shall kill for love of me.'

"Thus fair womankind I torture, through that love for man they bear, Till from cheeks the roses vanish, till gray-tinged is raven hair; While my poison, slowly filtering, stains the fonts of purity, And they sink by man polluted, tainted to obscurity.

"I am Drink, the fiend remorseless, all that's mortal is my prey; These mad lovers 'neath me reeling are my playthings of to-day. Each to-morrow brings new victims, each to-day a grave I fill; He who loves me truest, fondest, with a demon's joy I kill."

So hell's acolyte satanic, where the tinkling glasses gleamed, Told the story of his triumphs to that other Master Fiend; While the laughter, wild, discordant, broke amidst the streaming lights, In the nearing midnight hour on that ribald night of nights.

Told how when, in prisons lonely, men, repenting all too late, Wake in frightful desolation, cursing at their woeful fate; Wake to awful understanding of hands red with bloody stains, Wake to hear his voice exultant crying in their clearing brains--

"Mortal, who in drunken frenzy consummated thy red deed, Now awakened and in terror, now, oh, now I take my meed-- Satiate my hate with gloating, as remorse shrieks in thy brain, When thy bloodshot eyes protruding read thy doom in that red stain!"

Told of bright homes rent and broken, of sweet maidens downward drawn; There recited stories sombre of the lives he held in pawn; Till the bright lamps dimmed and darkened, till each maudlin wretch sought home, Leaving, in the darkness gloating, Drink's dread demon throned alone.

COPPER JOHNNY[1]

You have seen him on the street Every day, Heard the shuffle of his feet On the way,

Heard his piercing voice so shrill, Calling out with right good will, Through a ragged, whiskered jaw, "Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."[2]

All the city knows him well, For he's queer; Half a century--quite a spell-- He's been here. Spent his life 'mong paper boys, Shared their hardships and their joys, Winter blast and springtime thaw, Calling "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."

Copper Johnny is his name, Poor old chap; He's a cripple with a cane And a pack. Selling papers is his trade, Makes a living without aid, Never broke but music's law, Crying "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."

There's a kind of wistful look On his face; Could we read it as a book We might trace Memories of a loved one, sweet, Her who helps his weary feet, As to fill Need's hungry maw He calls "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."

Copper Johnny's gray and old, Partly blind; And his face is rough in mold, But it's kind; And his eyes are blue and pale, Bleached by many a stormy gale; Cracked, his voice, with many a flaw, Calling "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."

We have missed him, for his place None can fill, And we long to see his face, But he's ill. He was strange and old and talked, Muttered always as he walked. Strangest newsie one e'er saw, With "Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."

Maybe Johnny won't get well, Who can tell! He's been sick for quite a spell Since he fell, Crushed beneath the horses' feet, As he called upon the street Through the evening gray and raw, "Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."

Should God take him up from here, This I know: There'll be flowers on his bier, Not for show; And the Lord who loves the poor Will grant Johnny this, I'm sure, Right to shout 'neath Heaven's law, "Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."

[1] John McDowell, known as Copper Johnny, for many years a newsboy of Ottawa, was knocked down by a horse near the Russell House, Sparks Street. He was in the hospital when this appreciation was written.

[2] Johnny pronounced Le Temps--"Le Taw".

THE QUEST ETERNAL

Ofttimes across the plains of space I gaze, When Night holds court amid her jewelled train, And where her fairest handmaid beauteous glows, I watch to see some signal-fire leap forth To tell me if his soul's sojourning there; For in his life I've heard him oft propound This theory of the purpose of mankind-- The age-old mystery of the whirling spheres:

I bathe within the shoreless seas of space-- My soul floats o'er the billows fathomless, And everywhere the beacon lights gleam clear That mark the strands where I shall yet sojourn, When finished is my visit on earth's shore; For we are all eternal Argonauts In hopeful quest of God's own blessed Isle; Earth but a port upon the blessed way, Where rest we for a space to trim our sails. Borne by God's tide, each captain, without chart, Must breast the unknown sea by faith sustained, And whither bound ask not. One only knows, The Omnipresent Pilot man calls God. O soul of mine, yearn not, hope on, nor fear; What though the frail-ribbed skiff wherein thou float'st Sink in the depths unfathomed? Thou shalt live, And one by one God's infinite islands tread; For of His wine immortal thou hast drunk, And blest art thou, His pledge upon thy lips; Of His red wine enough thy cask contains To cheer and nourish till life's sojourn ends. And though thine eyes grow dim with watchfulness Ere quite the newer harbour breaks to view, Thy Pilot's hand shall guide thy tiny bark, Nor yet disturb thy dreamless sleep, until On glitt'ring sands of some new shore thou'lt wake, A little child new-robed and wonder-eyed, Gazing enraptured on that newer dream Of landscapes rare and shades ineffable, With eager steps exploring lovely vales 'Midst fair companions sweet as earth e'er knew, Learning new truths that fancies old dispel, And in their contemplation quite forget The times unnumbered thou hast lived and loved And dreamed fair dreams in other planets old. The Father's mansion has full many rooms-- Each room a wonder-work, a throbbing star, Hung with rare paintings from the Master's brush, So wonderful, so mighty in their power, That though we ponder them till life's nightfall, Our souls scarce grasp the beauty of one scene. O thou, who count'st thy crown as nearly won! The child grows not o'er-night unto the man. How hard the labour of the alphabet! How long the contest 'gainst the icy Pole! A thousand generations have not solved The many secrets of one human frame. Why hopest thou then by one life's little span To grasp the mystery of a million suns? The warring doctors, by their long dispute, Their little knowledge prove to humbler men-- Each holds the secret of the Only Way, Yet each can prove the other's chart is wrong. Man in the image of his God was made, Mark, then, how man considers earth's dull drones-- Will God in courts of Heaven then give place That myriads may ever sing His name, Sitting with jewelled harps in lazy ease? Not so! God's plan is one of ceaseless aim, And He himself unceasingly directs. Have we not seen His fiery messengers, Hard riding on some planet-rounding course Across the ranges of infinity? O Argonaut, the journey yet is long, And countless worlds are thine yet to explore! None know the hour of starting--then prepare And let thy bark clean-decked put out to sea; But yesterday a million ships left port, But yesterday a million more sailed in; Still thou with heart heroic face thy tasks-- Faith in thy Pilot keep--He knows the way-- And bravely through the mystery sail on, With trust in Him. 'Twill be revealed some day.

THE BUILDING OF THE CHATEAU

Where the wilderness holds kingdom, where the primal fastness broods, I, the rock, within my stratum, lay amid the solitudes, Patient lay throughout the ages, part of the primeval plan, Till the voice of progress called me to the purpose of the man.

From afar he came invading, pressing onward unafraid, Braved the spirits of the vastness where they met him grim arrayed, Piercing past my rugged outposts, hewing down my mighty guards, Crying I, the earth god, seeketh, and my purpose none retards.

In the bosom of the mountain, there he found me, laid me bare, Found me fitting for his purpose, found me worthy past compare, With strange instruments attacked me, drilled and blasted me apart, From the wilderness he bore me, from my mountain mother's heart.

Lifted me with strong devices, dragged me down the mountain trails, Barged me down the rushing rivers, speeded me on gleaming rails, Captive bore me to the city where I rose above the land, For the purpose of the builders who an edifice had planned.

On the plateau by the river, 'neath the shadow of the tower, There the purpose was unfolded of the man's creative power. To the northward, the Laurentians purple-tinted cast their haze, Such the setting of my future, such the vista for my gaze.

Came the toilers, swiftly shaping, blasting, through the day and night. Delving for my deep foundation by the city's vista'd site, Came the long and slender girders all the iron, measured, bored, Clanging protest as they piled it, while the blasting ripped and roared.

Circling swung the straining derricks, shrieked the engine's shrilly note, As by magic to their places joint and girder seemed to float; Stone on stone they laid and set me, tier on tier my structure rose, On the plateau by the river, sweeping seaward as it flows.

They have hewn me to being, they have shaped with skilful hands, And the chateau on the plateau o'er the river proudly stands, Deemed a miracle of beauty, classic, stately, and refined, Reared as fitting habitation for the leaders of mankind.

Though I stand a thing of grandeur, stone on stone majestic piled, I am brooding on the open, I am dreaming of the wild. They would tame me with their graces, they would lure me with their songs, From the olden memoried places where my stony heart belongs.

Though the wealthy loll within me and on luxury they feast, Though they robe me and bedeck me with the weavings of the East, Though my floors with rugs be matted, that their feet may silent tread, I am steel and stone and iron, and my soul is mountain-bred.

When the wind drives from the mountain far beyond the river shore, All my being throbs in gladness to the music of its roar, All the primal that's within me, all the hewn and chiselled stone, Thrills in greeting to the booming of its mighty chested tone.

And I see the pine-tressed mountains where they taunt the raging gale, As it roars adown the gulches to the cities of the vale, And the bed within its shadows where for centuries I lay, Beckons for the lost one, dwelling where the humans hold their sway.

When the night her mask of sable presses on the earth's warm face, And when, satined and bejewelled, lovely women do me grace, When the violins are throbbing out the passion of the dance, Then I ponder on the future, and the destiny of chance.

I the chateau, I the splendid, shall I crumble and decay, Lichened guard the shining river when the years have passed away, Or a comforter still flourish, guarding humans from the blast, When a century has rounded, when a hundred years have passed.

Time the jester, time the judger, time the measurer of things, Time shall weigh the builders' cunning, as the earth to eastward swings; They have hewn me to being, they have shaped with skilful hands, And the chateau on the plateau o'er the river proudly stands.[*]

[*] This poem was written around the building of the Chateau Laurier, Ottawa. From the Chateau a fine view of the Laurentian Mountains can be had.

THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS

Snowflakes and happy bells, And hopeful words sincere, And hands that grip, while from the lips Fall words of Christmas cheer.

Snowflakes and shining eyes, And the joy that giving gives, That opes heart-gates in love, nor hates A single thing that lives.

Snowflakes and prattle sweet, Heart music and soft chimes, And stories rare where friends compare The present with past times.

Snowflakes and leaden skies, And men in prison cells, That make their moans to cold gray stones, Nor hear thy chimes, O bells.

Snowflakes and hearts that break In longing for sweet home, And faces worn and passion torn That brood uncheered alone.

Snowflakes and tolling bells, And the slow tread on the snow, The sobbing hushed, the teardrops brushed, And saddened voices low.

Snowflakes, and o'er it all The voice of One divine Calls low and sweet, "Be glad, nor weep, For rich and poor are Mine.

"Snowflakes--O ye who joy, Remember My commands: Clothe ye and feed all those in need In this and other lands.

"Snowflakes--O prisoned ones, Grieve not, but kneel and pray; For tidings glad I bring the sad: I ransomed men this day.

"Snowflakes--Rejoice, O earth! None need this day be sad That read aright My message bright, That shines to make men glad."

THE CHOSEN PEOPLE

Somewhere in the Book 'tis written how God had a chosen race, One he favoured, while the others could not get to see His face, Not a smile of recognition, nor a momentary look, And 'twas taken for the gospel, for 'twas written in the Book.

It's been thundered down the ages how Jehovah, in His wrath, Swept His wayward, helpless children from the favoured people's path, With the whirlwinds of His power, unto woeful death and flame, That some despot might keep reigning, razing cities in his name.

Some have pondered as they heard it, and have wondered as they read, If the language of the big Book told the truth in all it said; For their souls have heard strange music, and their eyes have seen a light, And somehow His chosen people seems the whole world, black and white.

All the globe, with all its peoples, all its races, all its creeds, With its wise and unwise sinners, and its strange and varied breeds; For the sunlight tells the story, and the rain reveals the truth, That our Father's universal, as He was in days of Ruth.

Not a God of wrath and battles to a chosen few confined, But a Father omnipresent, taking care of all mankind; And the Deity they worship, and the God to whom they pray, Never slaughtered His poor children in the way some chapters say.

Have you seen the sunlight gleaming on a summer day in June, Spreading broadcast texts of glory, while the birds hozannas tune? How it floods the heart with gladness, and what charity it brings, 'Till all hate melts to forgiveness in the greater good of things.

Have you seen it kiss the foreheads of the mourners as they weep? Have you watched it bathe the outcast as he lays forlorn asleep? O, the blessed sun from Heaven shines alike on bad and good; Read the lesson of the sunshine, then will He be understood.

Have you seen the falling raindrops, like a blessing glad and sweet, On the rock and on the meadow, on the thistle and the wheat? What a sermon's in the downpour falling out of God's own hand! Read the lesson of the rainfall, as it nourishes the land.

Maybe they're not strong on logic, maybe they have much to learn, But it seems if Love created, Hate cannot creation spurn; And the rain like benediction and the sunshine glad and bright, Fills them with a hope unbounded and a faith that all is right.

Through vicissitude and conflict, as this old world wheels and turns, Ever searching, tearful, calling, man for his Creator yearns; And I know the Father's watching with a love so great and wide That He never could be happy with a pleading soul outside.

THE WAIF

Dark-orbed dear little miss, Torn are your shoes, and the clothes Bagged and thin that you wear; How you live nobody knows.

Strange little waif of the slums, Thrifty and business-like, too, Plying your trade with the rest Of the ragged, outcast crew;

Rushing about in the throng, Calling your wares in the cold; O child, such a heart as yours Is made of God's purest gold!

Brave little buffeted ship, Battered and blown in life's gale, Where is your port in the storm? To what refuge do you sail?

Born of some drab of the street Down where the red beacons burn, May God guide ever your way-- Free from sin's shoals may you turn.

Where do you live--'neath the street, Or attic above the stair? Where'er it be, little maid, My heart goes out to you there.

Some pass who turn a deaf ear To your shrill voice when you call; But there's One hears, never fear, Whose love is greater than all.

He alone hears your low sob, Lonely at night in your bed, With none to kiss you to sleep Or smooth the curls of your head.

Sometimes in dreams do you see Visions of dainties high piled? Sometime may that dream be true, Tired-out, motherless child.

O mothers, kissing to rest, Praying to God o'er your dears, Pray for these waifs of the world, Unmothered in their young years.

Pray, too, that on that dread day When judgments fall on earth's sons, Censure-free we then may stand, Uncharged by these little ones.

When for deeds done in the flesh Each soul its place is assigned, Pray no child may accuse you Of being cold or unkind.

One passed you last night at dusk, One whom the world brands with shame; Say, was it then all her fault? God, who knows, may not so blame.

Once as this child of the street She strove for bread, pure of heart, Till hope died in her young breast, When mankind failed in its part.

And now if sinning she goes, Fighting her battle alone, Remember, she asked for bread, And the world gave her a stone.

Dark is the world with its griefs, But bright is joy's pathway wide, And Sorrow smiles through her tears When Charity walks by her side.

Derelicts lost in the dark, Strange ships that pass in the night, Guided by Love's lamp aglow, God's harbour find by its light.

A TOAST

ON THE OCCASION OF A DEPARTMENTAL BANQUET

To every branch of this great tree, That shelters you and shelters me, Let's quaff a toast, and with a song, Drink to the King--may he live long.

With quip and jest, with speech and tale, In fellowship let us regale. Here's to our chief! here's to each soul! Toast with a will, fill high the bowl!

To comrades present, absent friends, Drink while the curling smoke ascends; And then one crowning toast we'll raise To woman and her gentle ways.