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diff --git a/old/53623-0.txt b/old/53623-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 59cf17b..0000000 --- a/old/53623-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4341 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Snowflake and Other Poems, by Arthur Weir - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Snowflake and Other Poems - -Author: Arthur Weir - -Release Date: November 28, 2016 [EBook #53623] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SNOWFLAKE AND OTHER POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ - - - FLEURS DE LYS, AND OTHER POEMS - 1887, E. M. RENOUF, MONTREAL - - THE ROMANCE OF SIR RICHARD, SONNETS, AND OTHER POEMS - 1890, W. DRYSDALE & CO., MONTREAL - - - - - THE SNOWFLAKE - - AND - - OTHER POEMS - - BY - - ARTHUR WEIR - - MONTREAL: - JOHN LOVELL & SON - 1897 - - Copyrighted, 1896, by Arthur Weir, Montreal. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - -THE SNOWFLAKE 1 - -THE MASQUE OF THE YEAR 11 - -THE MUSE AND THE PEN 21 - -THE BEAVER MEADOW 27 - -VOYAGEUR SONG 31 - -DEDICATORY ODE 34 - -ENTERING PORT 36 - -WILD FLOWERS 38 - -DEDICATORY BALLAD 41 - -TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBAT ME 44 - -ON NEW YEAR’S EVE 46 - -IN THE CLOSING HOURS 50 - -WHERE HEAVEN IS 51 - -NEW YEAR’S EVE 53 - -PEGASUS 55 - -IT WOULD BE EASY TO BE GOOD 57 - -THE LITTLE TROOPER 59 - -CUPID’S DISGUISES 61 - -MUSIC 63 - -BABY’S STOCKING 65 - -MY DIVINITY 66 - -THE SLEEPING SOUL 69 - -THE MOTHER 71 - -PLUCK FLOWERS IN YOUTH 73 - -O FOOLISH HEART 74 - -MY HEART’S A MERRY ROVER 75 - -THE CIGARETTE SMOKER 77 - -TAKE ME AS YOU FIND ME 78 - -AT THE TRYST 79 - -SONNETS IN CALIFORNIA 80 - -THE POOL OF SANT’ OLINE 83 - -WINTER IN THE SOUTH 85 - -THE KINDERGARTEN 87 - -THE POET 89 - -GOLD TRESSES 91 - -EN ROUTE 93 - -AT DAWN 95 - -MY STAR 97 - -TO A PICTURE 99 - -THE POET AND HIS RHYMES 101 - -TO AN INFANT 103 - -TO SCOTLAND 105 - -ROSINA VOKES 106 - -A LITTLE MAID 107 - -SAMSON AND DELILAH 109 - -MY LADY’S BONNET 110 - -FLOWERS AND FEARS 111 - -THE ROSEBUD 112 - -NIL DESPERANDUM 113 - -FLESH AND SPIRIT 114 - -IN CHURCH 115 - -SUCCOR THE CHILDREN 116 - -THE SUNSET LESSON 117 - -AS FROM THE NECTAR-LADEN LILY 118 - -MUMMY THOUGHTS 119 - -TO CERTAIN NATURE POETS 120 - -THE PATRIARCH’S DEATH 121 - -OH, WERE IT NOT 122 - -FAREWELL 123 - -THE TIDE 124 - -MY COMRADE 125 - -MY GIFT 127 - -HAMLIN’S MILL 128 - -A BALLADE OF JOY 130 - -REMEMBRANCE 132 - -THE GLOVE 133 - -THE MAGIC BOW 135 - -AT THE SEASIDE 137 - -THE ORPHANS 138 - -ALADDIN’S LAMP 139 - -SONG 142 - -QUATRAINS 143 - - -TO - -HUGH GRAHAM, ESQ., - -TO WHOSE - -ENCOURAGEMENT, TASTE AND ENTERPRISE - -THE AUTHOR - -IS LARGELY INDEBTED - -FOR - -WHATEVER OF PUBLIC FAVOR HE ENJOYS, - -THIS VOLUME - -IS - -Gratefully Dedicated. - - -ERRATA (corrected in this etext) - -Page 23, Second verse, first line, for “And” read “As.” - -Page 24, Second verse, last line, for “Thinkest” read “think’st.” - -Page 27, Third verse, third line, last word, read “athirst.” - -Page 86, Second verse, second line, for “a many” read “many a.” - -Page 44, for Conterbat, read “Conturbat” throughout. - - - - -THE SNOWFLAKE - -AND OTHER POEMS. - - - - -THE SNOWFLAKE. - - - Fierce Neptune’s daughter, beneath the water, - In grottoes cool dwelt I, - And, laughing, hid in the seashell’s lid, - As fishes arrowed by. - My feet were free to the undersea; - I played amidst its gloom, - And in the deep where the mermaids weep - Above the hero’s tomb, - Where the sea snake strips dainty maiden lips - Of kisses once so warm, - And the lifeless child, by the eddies wild, - Is torn from the mother’s arm. - The foam-browed billow my head would pillow - Upon its bosom fair, - While the restless sweep of the moon-led deep - Would drift us here and there. - I oft would float in the dainty boat - The Nautilus oared for me, - Out, far, far out, where a noisy rout - Of breakers leapt in glee; - Or further urge to the world’s dim verge, - Where heaven meets the wave, - And the seagull’s wing was the only thing - To follow us was brave. - Then called by the blast, as it glided past, - I would turn and clap my hands, - As the waves were tossed on the tropic coast, - And furrowed the silver sands. - - Where, with weedy locks, the bare limbed rocks - Bend over the foaming sea, - I oft resorted, and, as I sported, - The sunbeams played with me. - We would dance all day in the prismed spray, - Or in the blossoms hide, - That, trembling, clung to the crags and hung - Above the boiling tide. - Oftimes the cool, green depths of a pool - Would lure me down to rest, - Till the sunbeams came in a path of flame - And found me in my nest. - With colors gaily they decked me daily, - And tempted me to fly - Afar from the foam of my ocean home - Aloft in the cloudless sky. - But I said them nay, for the leaping spray, - And cool, green depths of sea, - Than the flight of birds and the sunbeams’ words - Were dearer far to me. - “I had seen,” I said, “to the sky o’erhead - My sisters, laughing, soar - For a merry flight through the azure bright, - And never saw them more. - I love my home in the ocean foam, - I love the moonlit sands, - And I would sigh in the depths of sky - And die in distant lands.” - - But who can prove to the plea of love, - Unyielding and unkind? - At love’s low call we hasten all, - Like leaves at the voice of wind. - And ere the moon at the night’s high noon - Had twelve times orbed grown, - My heart was stirred at a whispered word, - My soul was not mine own. - My lover was fair as the balmy air - That follows after storm, - When the careless sea, with a song of glee, - Trips over the shallows warm. - He was the first through the gloom that burst - To bring the dawn to me, - And he was the last from my sight that passed - When darkness walked the sea. - One shimmering day, as asleep I lay - Upon the tide-worn sand, - He stole apart, with an eager heart, - From all the sunny band. - He came to me, as I lay thought free, - And bent my couch above, - And while I slumbered, with words unnumbered, - He pleaded for my love; - Then as I woke at the words he spoke, - And rising turned to flee, - I was closely pressed to his ardent breast, - And kisses were rained on me. - - “My heart’s own dearest,” he cried, “why fearest - Thou to take flight with me? - Is there aught more fair than the realms of air - In yonder sullen sea? - Is the sea-gull’s scream or the under gleam - Of billows rushing by - More sweet to thee than the melody - Of larks in the azure sky? - Oh, be thou my bride, and side by side - We’ll float upon the breeze - O’er river and town, o’er forest and down, - Wherever we twain shall please. - We’ll swim in the wine of the luscious vine - Which brims the crystal high, - And when of her lover the fond words move her, - We’ll dance in the maiden’s eye. - We’ll scale vast mountains and o’er gay fountains - Hover in noon’s warm glare, - And when night lowers, shall sleep in flowers - That sway in the dewy air. - And shouldst thou tire, nor more desire - The airy plains to roam, - But pine again for the leaping main - And the drench of flying foam, - We need but glide on the leaf-sown tide - Of some swift coursing stream - To our home at last, and the happy past - Shall be but a varied dream.” - - I could but yield as he thus appealed, - And clasping hand in hand, - With a parting glance at the sea’s expanse, - Dun rocks and silver strand, - We mounted high in the glowing sky, - And, leaving home behind, - Fared swiftly forth to the distant north - Upon the balmy wind. - O’er tangled brakes where the twilight makes - For evermore its home, - And the tiger sleeps and the cobra creeps, - And prowling jackals roam, - We floated fast, till the hills, at last, - To bar our path appeared, - And many a peak its forehead bleak - And tawny flanks upreared. - O’er many a cleft in the rocks bereft - Of life and the sunlight’s sheen, - Wild torrents were hurled to the under world, - And wheeled the eagles keen. - In faltering lines, the famished pines - Pressed up the mountain sides, - And sang to the blast, as it hurried past, - The song of the ocean tides, - Till I yearned once more for the tropic shore - Beside the emerald waves, - And my sisters gay and the dashing spray - And ocean’s weedy caves. - - On, on we went, till the distance lent - The hills an azure hue, - And the earth beneath was a naked heath - Where winds in anger blew. - We saw the smoke like a wave that broke - Above the homes of men, - And in the bowers of the meadow flowers - Took rest for flight again. - A myriad sights were a thousand delights - As on through space we sped, - But the happy day soon faded away - And the sun in the west lay dead. - Then the shadows of death with their icy breath - Drew ever more surely nigh, - And in frightened crowds the murky clouds - Swept under the ebon sky. - Afar in the north a fire flamed forth - And flickered with ghastly light, - Like a lamp that burns when a soul returns - To God in the dead of night. - Gloom blotted the hills and the tinkling rills - Were bound in frosty chains, - And the flowers once gay all lifeless lay - Upon the dreary plains. - There was no sound in the air around, - No voice upon earth below, - Save the angry beat of the wild winds’ feet, - That wandered to and fro. - - In a frenzy of fear, with many a tear, - I clung to my darling’s breast, - For the wintry night with its baleful light - My timorous soul distressed. - “Beloved,” he cried, “sweet sea-nurtured bride, - My love brings sorrow to thee, - For I feel at my heart the pitiless dart - That Death has made keen for me.” - I cried, “There are caves in the amethyst waves - Wherein love may make life sweet, - Oh! haste and return, ere the elements stern - Have beaten us under their feet.” - There was no reply to my passionate cry, - No answering kiss to mine, - And I felt in the storm from my trembling form - My lover’s arms untwine. - All heavy he grew, like a wounded sea mew - That dies in the midmost air, - And fell without sound to the frosty ground, - And lay like a dead bird there. - The tresses of gold on his forehead cold - I parted, and kissed his brow, - But his lips nor smiled at my fondling wild, - His eyes nor knew me now. - And the icy blast, as it thundered past - The hollow wherein he lay, - Tore him apart from my anguished heart, - And carried him away. - - I heard the trees moan in an undertone - As the storm king struck them low, - And the river flood grew still as he stood - And bade it cease to flow. - There was no flower in that sad hour - Had strength to lift its head, - And I was alone in a land unknown - And mourned my love for dead. - Then in countless hosts, like white-robed ghosts, - My sisters lost drew near, - And hemmed me round, but they made no sound - My breaking heart to cheer. - Each wore a star that glittered afar, - Amid her flowing hair, - And they went and came like the lightless flame - That pierced the northern air. - They floated high to the pitiless sky - And gathered on the heath, - Till their myriad feet did mingle and meet, - And hide the earth beneath. - And was it a dream that I should seem - A snowy robe to don, - And tread without pleasure their swift, weird measure, - As the wintry wind piped on. - Methought we flowed through that drear abode - In sheets of spray and foam, - As erst with hope and mirth on the slope - Of waves in our ocean home. - - Then many a day in a trance I lay - Upon the dreary plain, - Till, at last, I heard the pipe of a bird, - And my heart grew warm again. - At the bird’s sweet call through night’s thick pall - The faint sun peered and shone, - As of yore at home through the flying foam - He looked from the gates of dawn. - He looked and smiled, and the air, beguiled, - Grew warm and bright again, - And my sisters all each to each did call, - As erst in the joyous main. - Like the leaping rills from the sunny hills - That tinkle to the sea, - They sang as they glanced in the sun and danced - On the rivers rushing free. - The flowers awoke from their sleep, and broke - With many an emerald spear - And banner bright to the warm sunlight - Through the leaves of the bygone year. - And one with a crown of gold bent down - And took me to its heart, - “Poor waif of the storm,” it said, “grow warm - And share of my joy a part. - In the sky above there are many will love - A heart as pure as thine; - Leave grief with the past, like the shadow we cast - As we hasten where sunbeams shine.” - - I dwelt in the bower of the generous flower - For many a quiet day, - Till, on soft winds blown, the seeds were sown; - And then I wandered away. - For sake of my love, the sun above - Upraised me to the sky, - And east and west I went on my quest, - But my dear one found not I. - Oft I heard from brooks in shadowy nooks - My sisters call to me - To join their throng as they drifted along, - Seeking the distant sea. - And hearing their lays in the woodland ways - Through autumn’s golden air, - A yearning came that I could not name, - Stronger than my despair. - “If I must live on when my love is gone,” - I murmured to my soul, - “Oh, let it be by the throbbing sea - My sisters make their goal. - There let me rest like a child on the breast, - Close to its great warm heart, - Till my sorrows cease and I am at peace, - O lover, where thou art.” - So I sought the brook, and the sky forsook, - And reached the sea at last, - In whose briny waves and weedy caves - I brood upon the past. - - - - -THE MASQUE OF THE YEAR. - -(_Time is discovered seated in the midst of a bevy of maidens, each of -whom represents a month._) - - -TIME. - - Behold me, Time, inexorable Time, - Twin brother of Death. Like him all hearts I tame. - As babes with baubles play, so I with fame. - I weigh all deeds, judge every poet’s rhyme, - Sift heroes, smile at life’s quaint pantomime, - Put down the present great, and oft reclaim - From sad oblivion some forgotten name, - Uplifting it to heights that are sublime. - I sit, amid the months, upon my throne, - Waiting to greet the New Year drawing nigh, - And though it brings a destiny unknown, - Naught need ye fear, since God is in the sky. - Fate is God’s choice; be therefore of good cheer. - Let mirth and song welcome each new crowned year. - - -JANUARY. - - Far have I come, out of darkness, from chaos, - The land of the future, dread realm unknown, - Out of silence, alone. - I have trodden the ice-fields of drear Baccalaos, - Heard the grinding of bergs in the seas of the north - As the gale urged them forth, - And at midday have looked on the sun’s feeble glory - With a smile of disdain, for the warmth that he felt - Ne’er my bosom could melt. - Death and stillness are mine, and, save wolves on a foray, - All is still, all is shrouded, all Nature’s asleep, - Under snow hidden deep. - I am the ruler of uncreate chaos, - Queen of absolute void, which life comes not anear-- - First month of the year. - - -FEBRUARY. - - I am the month of beginnings. I bear - In my bosom the seed of all changes to come. - As yet I am dumb, - But Hope has been born in the breast of Despair. - The pine boughs stir under their burden of snow, - As though promise they know, - Yet the sun shines no stronger, there’s naught that foretells - The coming of summer. No song of a bird - In the woodland is heard, - Not a sound, save the stroke of the axe, as it fells - Some wood king, whose form sinks beneath the keen blade, - With a crash, through the glade; - Yet the spirit of Nature’s awake, and the air - Thrills with love. I soothe grief with my wonderful balm, - Second month that I am. - - -MARCH. - - I am the month of unrest and of yearning, - Of wild and untamable hatred and love. - I glide through the grove, - Calling on Summer, so slow in returning. - I seek for the fruit, bud, leaf, blossom and all. - When they heed not my call, - The winds I unleash, which, like hounds on the scent, - Give voice round the farmsteads, and course o’er the moors, - With a hundred detours, - Till they leap on the forests, whose branches are rent. - I heap up the snowdrifts, bind firmer the streams, - And defy the sun’s beams. - My heart throbs with hate, and all tenderness spurning, - With winter again I span heaven’s blue arch. - I am passionate March. - - -APRIL. - - I am the month of transition. My breast - Heaves with sweet, delicate hope, that beguiles - Dreamy Earth into smiles. - Through woodlands deserted I go on my quest, - And summon the blood-root and shad-bush to flower - Though they fade in an hour. - I drop gentle rain on the faded, brown grasses, - And loosen the soil for all tender, green shoots, - To push up from their roots. - I summon the birds, and where’er my foot passes, - Sleeping Nature arouses itself at my call. - I am helpful to all. - While no ecstacy’s mine, I am never distressed, - But tranquilly wander, to fate reconciled. - I am April, the mild. - - -MAY. - - I am the month of gay Summer’s beginning, - When earth with its verdure smiles up at the sky, - And the mayflowers shy, - And sun-loving blossoms, their way to light winning - Through strewn leaves of autumn, mute emblems of death, - Perfume with their breath, - The zephyrs released from their fetters of frost. - The streams murmur cheerily under their banks - Their melodious thanks - For sweet freedom regained, as they flow and are lost - In the broad, sunny river, that rushes along - To the sea, with a song. - Chill Winter’s forgot, with its woe and its sinning. - Youth leaps in my veins--I am young, I am gay-- - I am love-kindling May. - - -JUNE. - - I am the month of sweet, virginal joy, - When Earth, as the sun its first passion discloses, - Blushes with roses, - When all things are new, and nothing can cloy. - The birds, in a cloudland of leafage concealed, - By their songs are revealed. - All is young, all is love. In the shadowy vales, - In woodland and meadow, all Nature’s awake. - At the wind’s kiss, the lake - Breaks forth into smiles; but as yet passion fails - To weary itself. Soul is searching for soul, - And has not reached its goal. - Life leaping to life doth each moment employ, - And love doth all Nature’s grand chorus attune. - I am virginal June. - - -JULY. - - I am the month of warm, passionate love, - When Earth silent lies, with shy longings opprest, - While soft sighs stir her breast. - All unclasped is her zone, and the Sun’s warm lips prove - Her lips ruby treasures, and make her soul his - With many a kiss. - I wander abroad in the murmurous hours, - While the silvery moonbeams sift down on the scene, - Rustling leafage between. - I whisper of joy to the slumbering flowers, - As, with petals close folded, like child hands in prayer, - They rest on the air, - And I drop cooling dews from the clear sky above - On the moist brow of Earth, as still she doth sigh. - I am July. - - -AUGUST. - - I am the month of sweet langour and dreaming. - In the shadowy depths of the woods I recline, - While afar stand the kine, - Thoughtful, knee-deep, where cool waters are streaming - Over the sands, and at hand, loud and clear, - The cicada I hear. - Afar, by the plunging green waves of the sea, - I wander at times, when the shimmer of heat - Disturbs my retreat; - Or amid rugged crags, where the wind wanders free, - I sit in the shelter of hills, by the brook - That leaps forth from its nook - Adown the swart cliff, with its silver spray gleaming, - And I muse on the past with a rapturous sigh. - Dreamy August am I. - - -SEPTEMBER. - - I am the month that brings peace to the weary, - The flush to the apple, the gold to the leaf, - And the grain to the sheaf. - I am the month that prepares for the dreary, - Long days of midwinter, when Earth lies asleep - Under snow hidden deep. - After the yearning of Spring and the passion - Of hot days of Summer, I cool the warm brow, - And the seeds that the plough - Gave to earth I give back, shaped in daintier fashion. - At the touch of my hand every toiler forgets - All life’s weeds and its frets, - And the heart that was grieving becomes again cheery. - When I rule, men no longer their sorrows remember. - I am September. - - -OCTOBER. - - I am the hush ere the coming of storm. - I am the eventide, lulling to rest, - Upon Earth’s kindly breast, - Her offspring, the flowers, till they nestle up warm, - Folding their leaves and their blossomy eyes - Closing, child-wise. - I warn the still woodland, that doffs its gay dress - And upsprings, like a warrior armed for the fray, - To meet the dread day - When the Tempest’s huge shoulders against it shall press. - I breathe to the streams the fell tidings, until - Every bickering rill, - With a tremor of fear, seaward hurls its lithe form - In mad flight, ere with fetters the Ice King draws nigh. - October am I. - - -NOVEMBER. - - I am the priestess of frost, and I bring - The winds in my train. I am vestured in snow, - And wherever I go - The ice maidens deck me with jewels, and fling - Crystal arches o’er streams that flow sombrely by - Beneath the grey sky. - Earth under my feet a soft carpeting spreads, - And from valley and hill, as I pass on my rounds, - There re-echo no sounds. - The lean, famished forests bow down their high heads - As among them I wander. The stars hold their breath - As, dread omen of death, - Flits the mystic aurora with rustling wing - High above, and some meteor falls like an ember. - I am November. - - -DECEMBER. - - I am the month when worn Earth lies at rest - Under the eiderdown snow, that clings close - To her form in repose, - As her gossamer drape to the virgin, whose breast - Rises and falls as she dreams of her love. - Through the keen air above - The stars glow like watch-fires of summer. Anon - Come the jingle of sleigh-bells, a laugh and a shout, - As gay youth, in mad rout, - Sweeps merrily down the white road, and is gone. - Then silence returns, till the winds howl in glee, - Or some frost-riven tree - Shrieks aloud in its pain. Yet Earth sleeps, undistressed. - All ended her task, she has naught now to fear, - December is here. - -(_The clock strikes_) - -January “One.” -February “Two.” -March “Three.” -April “Four.” -May “Five.” -June “Six.” -July “Seven.” -August “Eight.” -September “Nine.” -October “Ten.” -November “Eleven.” -December “Twelve.” - -(_The New Year Enters._) - - -THE NEW YEAR. - - I am here, I have come from the home of the morning; - I am flushed with hope’s wine; I have treasures for all. - The old year is sped, let it serve as a warning - That the moments I bring shall bear fruit ere they fall. - The past none can alter; its grief and its sinning - Are writ for all time in the volume of life, - But behold me, the New Year, new records beginning; - Let love be their burden, not envy and strife. - - -CHORUS OF MONTHS. - - Welcome, welcome, with chime of merry bell, - Welcome to thy kingdom, O monarch pure and true! - In gladness we will serve thee. Ah! rule this great earth well; - Efface the sorrows of the past, and all past joys renew. - We, the children of the sun, - Who watch the precious moments run, - Will wreathe thy brow with stars of snow and flowers sweet and fair. - But while we sow the fruits of earth, - That man shall garner in with mirth, - To Time alone belongs the power - Of harvesting each ripened hour. - Welcome, welcome, with chime of merry bell! - Another year is given to man to sow and reap his life. - When next the mystic book is sealed, what story will it tell? - Will it speak of love triumphant, will it tell of sin and strife? - O mortal man, remember - Every year has its December, - And when the year has ended naught can change the record there. - - - - -THE MUSE AND THE PEN. - - - The Muse, renowned in ancient story, - But seldom seen these humdrum times, - Came down to earth, in all her glory, - To put new life in modern rhymes. - “Forsooth,” she said, “I’m tired of hearing - Mechanic singers, every one, - With forced conceits and thin veneering, - Serving the lamp, and not the sun.” - - The Muse was but a simple maiden, - Who loved the woodlands, meads and streams, - With odorous buds her gown was laden, - Her hair was bright with rippling gleams; - And murmuring an Arcadian ditty, - She wandered, with uncertain feet, - In wonder, through the crowded city, - Bewildered by each clattering street. - - She gazed upon the hurrying mortals, - Each busy with his own affairs. - She spumed some lauded poets’ portals,-- - “Let monthlies print such stuff as theirs.” - A milkman nodded her a cheery - “Bon jour, ma’mselle,” in ready French, - And as she passed a cabman beery, - He hiccoughed, “there’s a likely wench.” - - She met a red-faced, buxom Chloe, - A dapper Strephon, full of airs; - The one in vesture cheap and showy, - The other versed in brutal stares; - And shocked and weary, hot and muddy, - Into the nearest house she turned, - And found herself within the study - Of one whose pen his living earned. - - She looked quite curiously about her - (Being of a curious turn of mind), - To learn if he did also flout her - And still in life some pleasure find. - Shortly she marked his desk, half hidden - Beneath a mass of copious notes, - And turned to it and read, unchidden, - Of chartered banks and chartered boats. - - She read that crops were thriving better, - But that the country needed rain; - And then another item met her - On “Watered stocks, the country’s bane.” - She read of “interest rates as under, - With money still in poor demand,” - And let the item fall, to wonder - Were poets wealthy in the land. - - She read that “none who float on paper - Long raise the wind, for all their craft,” - “Bulls up a tree, a market caper,” - “A house in trouble with a draft.” - She read of butter growing stronger - And cheese more lively every day, - That baker’s flour will rise no longer, - And of “a serious cut in hay.” - - As still she turned the litter over, - Reading an item now and then, - She did beneath the pile discover - And pounce upon the writer’s pen; - And by the charm the Muse possesses - She made it speak like flesh and blood,-- - Oh! happy Pen, to have her tresses - Fall round thee in that solitude! - - “Dear Pen,” she cried, “in what strange service - Is this I find thy skill employed? - Thy master’s style seems bright and nervous, - Yet is of sense a little void.” - The Pen replied: “O gracious lady, - Trade questions are considered here, - And thou wilt find transactions shady - By master’s hand made easily clear.” - - The pouting Muse her pretty shoulder - Shrugged as she listened to the Pen. - “Thy master must than ice be colder - If thus content to write for men. - Go, bid him frame a graceful sonnet, - A simple poem from his heart, - And I will gently breathe upon it - And to its body life impart.” - - Again the Pen: “O goddess puissant, - My master lacks nor heart nor skill - To turn a stanza, but of recent - Days he hath hungry mouths to fill. - He loves thee, but he may not show it, - And Pegasus must drag the plough, - For men would starve him as a poet - Who earns at least a pittance now.” - - The Muse waxed wroth: “Would not my beauty - All else thy master make forget?” - The Pen replied: “The path of duty - My master hath not swerved from yet. - Thy beauty haunts his every vision, - Sweet on his ear thine accents fall; - Yet could he tread the fields Elysian, - Think’st thou, while suffering loved ones call?” - - “But I can make his name immortal.” - “Immortal shame!” replied the Pen. - “When he should pass Death’s sombre portal - And stand before his God, what then? - He hath a God-like, awful function, - To shield his own from want and wrong; - Wouldst have him, then, without compunction, - Barter his birthright for a song? - - “I am his trusted friend. Unflagging, - I help him win his daily bread. - Though heart may ache, or thought be lagging, - Still must the ink be ever shed. - Yet oft he lays me down, and, sighing, - Looks through the casement at the stars; - And then I know his soul is trying - Vainly to pass beyond its bars. - - “A soldier in the war of labor, - He battles on, from day to day, - Swinging the gold-compelling sabre, - Nor finding time to pluck a spray. - Nay, more! he must, through glorious bowers, - Press harshly on, with heavy tread, - Crushing to earth the beauteous flowers - With which he fain had wreathed thy head.” - - The Muse grew pensive. Softly sighing, - She said: “Now pity him I can. - Strong, purposeful and self-denying, - Here I have what I seek, a Man. - Would that this noble self-surrender, - These high resolves, this purpose stern, - Might yet the grander verse engender, - And brighter make his genius burn! - - “How grief must gnaw his heart asunder - As still Fate balks him, day by day!” - “Nay!” cried the Pen, “thou may’st wonder, - But know, my master’s heart is gay. - Perchance at times, a pang concealing, - His face grows sad; but not for long, - For sweet, loved arms, around him stealing, - Fill all his soul with unvoiced song.” - - The Muse above the table bending, - Laid her warm lips upon the Pen, - A thrill throughout its fibres sending: - “This for thy master.” Slowly then, - She passed away; and after, never - The writer labored, but a throng - Of fancies cheered him, singing ever: - “The Muse hath crowned each unvoiced song.” - - - - -THE BEAVER MEADOW. - - - ’Tis a meadow green as an emerald’s heart - In the heart of an emerald wood, - And a crystal stream doth loiter and dart - Through the sun-smitten solitude. - The orioles glance like flashes of fire - From foliaged limb to limb, - And the harsh frogs pipe in a ceaseless choir - From the marsh, when day grows dim. - - When the grey, cold Dawn in her robes of mist, - O’er meadow and wood and stream, - Looks forth from her tower of amethyst, - She sees the wild duck gleam - In the slender reeds that have waded out, - Far out, in the sinuous brook, - And she hears the loon, like a wary scout, - Shrill keen from his secret nook. - - Long years ago when our fathers first, - Fearless and full of hope, - With love of venture and wealth athirst, - O’er river and mountain slope, - To this woodland came, a lakelet lay - As bright as a burnished shield, - Where now the rivulet waters play, - And the loud frogs pipe, concealed. - - And a wonderful town with its sunward domes, - And wondrous people stood, - Where the deep mouthed frogs have now their homes, - And the wild ducks lurk and brood. - Grand were the fronts and the pictured walls - Of the Inca’s ancient sway, - But the town that stood where the streamlet calls, - More wondrous was than they. - - Not a listless brain nor an idle hand - Was there in all that town, - But strong defences the people planned, - And hewed the great trees down. - The rippling stream, with consummate art, - In barriers huge they pent, - And made their home in the new lake’s heart, - And dwelt therein content. - - But woe to the town and its people all! - Earth giveth no deathless joy, - And where man’s merciless glances fall - The simple they fain destroy. - The brutal and covetous Spanish horde - That raided the Aztec land, - Put its people and chieftains to the sword, - Its cities to the brand. - - And here in this northern wilderness, - This wonderful beaver town, - That baffled the elemental stress - Before our sires went down. - Its stately domes and its barriers vast, - Its sinuous streets, its lake, - The hunter destroyed and overcast, - For a little riches’ sake. - - He slaughtered the noble beaver kings, - And loosened the fettered stream. - And now the reeds, like a thousand strings, - With music as of a dream, - In the night wind mourn the departed lake - And the stately beaver town, - While the rippling waves in the rushes break, - As the stream goes eddying down. - - And musing here on the grassy site - Of the beaver colony, - My soul is carried in fancy’s flight - To the site of Ville Marie, - Where the Hochelagans, or beaver race - Of Indians, dwelt of old, - Their name renowned from their mountain’s base - To where the ocean rolled. - - Hochelaga the Beaver Meadow meant, - And where the beaver dwelt - Long since, the white man pitched his tent, - And before heaven knelt. - He felled the trees and he stayed the tide - Of tribesmen rushing down, - And, like the beaver, he builded wide - And strong a mighty town. - - The curious skill and the council sage, - And the beaver’s love of toil, - Became as well his heritage - As the broad and fruitful soil. - Then honor be to the beaver’s name, - And praise to the beaver’s skill, - And in the labor that makes for fame - May we all prove beavers still. - - - - -VOYAGEUR SONG. - - - Our mother is the good green earth, - Our rest her bosom broad; - And sure, in plenty and in dearth, - Of our six feet of sod, - We welcome Fate with careless mirth - And dangerous paths have trod, - Holding our lives of little worth - And fearing none but God. - - Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slide - Above the fretted sand, - Our frail canoes, like shadows, glide - Swift through the silent land; - Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide - Rocks rise on every hand, - Our path will we confess denied, - Nor cowardly seek the strand. - - The foam may leap like frightened cloud - That hears the tempest scream, - The waves may fold their whitened shroud - Where ghastly ledges gleam; - With muscles strained and backs well bowed - And poles that breaking seem, - We shoot the sault, whose torrent proud - Itself our lord did deem. - - The broad traverse is cold and deep, - And treacherous smiles it hath, - And with its sickle of death doth reap, - With woe for aftermath; - But though the wind-vext waves may leap, - Like cougars, in our path, - Still forward on our way we keep, - Nor heed their futile wrath. - - Where glitter trackless wastes of snow - Beneath the northern light, - On netted shoes we noiseless go, - Nor heed though keen winds bite. - The shaggy bears our prowess know, - The white fox fears our might, - And wolves, when warm our camp fires glow, - With angry snarls take flight. - - Where forest fastnesses extend, - Ne’er trod by man before, - Where cries of loon and wild duck blend - With some dark torrent’s roar, - And timid deer, unawed, descend - Along the lake’s still shore, - We blaze the trees and onward wend - To ravish nature’s store. - - Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eve - These calls the echoes wake. - We rise and forward fare, nor grieve - Though long portage we make, - Until the sky the sun gleams leave - And shadows cowl the lake; - And then we rest and fancies weave - For wife or sweetheart’s sake. - - - - -DEDICATORY ODE. - - (_Read at the unveiling of the Monument erected in the Parliament - Grounds at Ottawa to the Memory of the Rt. Hon. Sir John A. - Macdonald._) - - - Here, in the solemn shadow of these walls, - Wherein his voice long held the land in sway; - Here, where the cadence of the distant falls - Seems a lament for grandeur passed away, - We, who have reaped where he had sown, now bring - To him this thanksgiving, - This tribute to the unforgotten great, - That, for all time, men may revere his name, - And children learn the secret of true fame, - True greatness emulate. - - We paid long since the tribute of our tears, - When, at his post, the veteran statesman died; - But now that grief has been assuaged by years, - We mourn not, but rejoice, with sober pride, - That one of earth’s immortals, wise and strong, - Dwelt in our midst so long, - Teaching large thoughts and love of liberty, - And, Atlas-like, upon his shoulders bore - Our world of care, until, life’s turmoil o’er, - He passed from us away. - - He found the seven sisters of the North, - The Sea-Queen’s daughters, in primeval woods, - By lonely streams, lamenting, and them forth - He led from desert lands and solitudes. - The Pleiades of nations, they have shone - Upon Britannia’s throne; - With every passing year, their golden light - Waxing in lustre, until every land - In wonder looks upon the glorious band - That breaks the Northern night. - - He walked through life triumphant. Fortune’s son, - What were to others barriers, were to him - But gates, through which his high success was won. - He held strange spirit commune with the dim - Shapes of the future. His far-reaching mind - Some harmony did find - In elements discordant; and man’s strength - And weakness served with him the noble end - To build a nation and all factions blend - In brotherhood, at length. - - And shall we, in whose midst so long he dwelt, - Who had commune so long with his great mind, - Forsake his teachings, and, like Israel, melt - Our gold to rear false gods! Shall we grow blind - To those large thoughts, that tolerance which long - Made this Dominion strong? - Nay, never so! He left an heritage - Worthy himself and us; be ours the pride - To bind this new Dominion, rich and wide - Closer from age to age. - - - - -ENTERING PORT. - - (_In Memoriam The Rt. Hon. Sir John S. D. Thompson._) - - - Hark to the solemn gun and tolling bell! - What ship is this, that, dark as night or death, - Is entering port upon the sullen swell, - While an expectant nation holds its breath? - - From many a threatening port her cannon gape, - Above her deck the flag of Britain flies; - Like some sad dream she comes, her sombre shape - Crushing the waves that in her pathway rise. - - One of the Sea Queen’s ocean walls is she, - Grim guardian of her honor, yet that prow - Ne’er upon nobler errand cleft the sea, - Nor guarded Britain’s honor more than now. - - Day after day uprose the golden sun, - Night after night it sank beneath the wave, - Pointing the vessel on that carried one - The Empire honored to his western grave. - - As Truth led that strong soul where’er it would - Onward through strife to honor without stain, - So is he brought through ocean’s solitude, - With but the billows for his funeral train. - - No warrior he the blood of men that shed, - His was the higher task to make them one, - And Canada, awaiting now her dead, - With tears attests the task was nobly done. - - Yet, not within this sea-borne funeral car - The patriot lies. He is no longer here, - But onward, upward still, he journeys far - Beyond our ken to some still nobler sphere. - - The harbor of his earthly wishes won, - Fresh from new honors from his Sovereign’s hand, - To him the summons came. Earth’s voyage done, - He set his bark towards the eternal strand. - - He has gone forth, and leaves us but his name - And this cold clay that waits the silent tomb; - Yet passing years shall never dim his fame, - Nor love forget him in their gathering gloom. - - With tolling bell and beat of muffled drum, - With mournful boom of cannon, lay him down - Within the sepulchre, to which shall come - Faintly the murmur of his native town. - - In death he knit the Empire closer yet, - Causing unnumbered hearts to throb as one. - Here by his tomb may Canada forget - The bigotry that he had fain undone. - - With his Queen’s wreath upon his pulseless breast, - Lulled by the murmur of the restless wave, - Life’s voyage done, he takes his well-earned rest, - In port, at last, with God beyond the grave. - - - - -WILD FLOWERS. - - - In Arcady, the happy swain, - Who wandered through the woods and meadows, - Oft turned his head and oft was fain - To start or smile at shifting shadows. - Sometimes, within a verdant brake, - He saw a wood-nymph’s graceful form - Gleam white, and felt her beauty make - His heart beat fast, his cheek grow warm. - - Sometimes while loitering by a brook, - Whose ripples dreamy music made, - He spied in some sequestered nook - A naiad, on the marge who played, - Or when the breeze the leafage stirred - On drowsy summer afternoons, - Sometimes afar he thought he heard - The satyrs pipe their merry tunes. - - But Jupiter no longer wooes - Antiope, nor Venus’ lips - Tremble as she Adonis sues, - And he from her embracement slips. - No longer nymph nor naiad now, - Nor faun nor satyr haunts the wood, - Gone is Diana with her bow,-- - The woodland is a solitude. - - Are nymph and naiad gone indeed, - And is there now no Arcady? - A fairy choir in wood and mead - In gentle accents answer, “Nay.” - And those who leave the world awhile - With nature’s spirit to commune, - May still see nymphs in woodland aisle - And naiads bathe at sunny noon. - - Beside the murmurous streams that wind - Beneath the tangled foliage-meshes - Some sleeping naiad we may find, - With charms the inmost soul deems precious. - And deep within the tawny shade - Of pathless forests we may meet - Some true wood-nymph, who, unafraid, - Receives us in her cool retreat. - - At every step through sunny wood, - Beneath our feet the wild flowers spring, - Nymphs of that sylvan solitude - That us to love their beauty bring; - And still we follow, as of old - The swain pursued the fleeting shape, - For once their graces we behold - None can their mystic lure escape. - - At every step beside the stream, - Some nodding blossom beckons still. - We see its slender figure gleam - Chastely beside the crystal rill. - Perchance it droops its dainty head, - Or looks us fearless in the face,-- - Ah, no, the naiads are not fled, - The stream is still their dwelling-place. - - Earths turmoil has but dulled our ears, - Its dust has but obscured our sight. - The pipes of Pan whoever hears - Will see as well the woodland sprite. - The revels of the leaves and wind, - The sudden glimpse of blossoming flowers, - These are his prize who leaves behind - The world, and strays through Nature’s bowers. - - Oh, had I in Arcadia dwelt - I would have watched for every gleam - Of shoulder, as some naiad svelt - Clove the clear crystal of the stream; - I would have followed in pursuit - Of artful nymph through tangled brakes, - And heard with joy the satyr’s flute, - Whose melody soft echo wakes. - - And so, from earliest days of spring, - When the first wild flower lifts its head, - Till autumn, when the breezes fling - Broadcast the dying leaves and dead, - Through sensuous summer’s golden hours - I roam the vast, Canadian woods, - Seeking the wild Canadian flowers, - True nymphs of sylvan solitudes. - - - - -DEDICATORY BALLAD. - - (_Written for the unveiling of the Monument erected by the Citizens - of Montreal to Paul Chomedy de Maisonneuve._) - - - The leaf in the forest had budded, of verdure a billowy sea - Over the woodland was flowing, o’erwhelming valley and lea. - The great river, bright in the sunshine, set the isle in a circlet - of gold - As it swept to its tryst with the ocean, through realms of riches untold. - - The slow-moving oar cleft the water, the balmy May breeze filled - the sails, - As the wanderers drew near their haven, afar from the sea and its gales; - From the land of their fathers afar, and anear the keen Iroquois knives. - But the pilgrims, to fear ever strangers, to the Cross had entrusted - their lives. - - Not sordid were they. Not the treasures of earth they had come to pursue, - Not for honor nor glory. Far nobler the object our sires had in view. - To carry the cross to the savage, braving danger and hardship they came. - They came for the love of the Virgin, a city to found in her name. - - Their hearts were o’erflowing with gladness. They sang as they drew near - the strand. - Their barks gently touched on the shingle, and Maisonneuve, leaping - to land, - Bent his knee, and the others knelt with him, uplifting their voices - in prayer - To the Ruler of all, while, prophetic, the priest in his vestments stood - there. - - The shadows of twilight were falling, the frog loudly piped in the marsh, - The wild duck lurked in the shallows, and anear screamed the kingfisher - harsh, - High above swept the night-hawk in circles, in the meadow the fireflies - gleamed bright - And were caught, to adorn the rude altar with garlands of pulsating - light. - - The wanderers calmly sought slumber. The sentinel stood at his ease, - The rivulet gurgled and eddied, and answered the murmuring trees, - The mountain loomed dark in the distance, and the wolf looking down from - the height, - In wonder and awe, saw the camp fire that burned on a city’s birth night. - - If you ask how that mustard seed flourished, and spread its great - branches abroad, - If you ask at what sacrifice nourished or watered with what noble blood? - Lo! the pages of history answer. There ’tis written in letters of gold - How each was a Christian and soldier, who founded Ville Marie of old. - - They lived on the confines of chaos. Whenever the savage horde broke - On the ill-fated colony, they were the first whose arm parried the - stroke. - They were Dollards in heart, and went even to torture and death - with a smile, - While the women, like angels of mercy, stanched their wounds and - their woes did beguile. - - None braver, and no one more gentle, none wiser in council than he, - Maisonneuve, this, the new world’s defender, who for God held his - whole life in fee. - He led them in worship, consoled them when thickly their troubles - did fall, - Maisonneuve the undaunted, the founder, Æneas of old Montreal. - - And here where he battled lone-handed with savages thirsting for blood, - Where now beats the pulse of a city, the heart of a new nationhood, - Long years may his monument stand that our children may ask and be told - Of the leader who founded Ville Marie, and honor the heroes of old. - - - - -TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBAT ME. - - (_The Fear of Death Affrights Me._) - - - Shall I too sing, as he sang of old, - The tuneful singer beyond the sea, - When life’s flame sank and his blood waxed cold, - _Timor mortis conturbat me_. - - Earth is so fair to look upon, - And life so sweet, though there sorrows be, - Why welcome the summons to be gone? - _Timor mortis conturbat me._ - - Wife that I love as the sea the moon, - Babes that prattle about my knee; - Has heaven itself a dearer boon? - _Timor mortis conturbat me._ - - Is there heaven at all or only the grave - With the lisp of rain in the willow tree, - Will the after death give all I crave? - _Timor mortis conturbat me._ - - Will there be ideals still to follow, - And truths, like nymphs my pursuit to flee, - Or will the ancient faith prove hollow? - _Timor mortis conturbat me._ - - Are there golden suns in a golden noon, - Are there grey, still dawns on a dewy lea, - Are there twilights there, with a crescent moon? - _Timor mortis conturbat me._ - - Are there aims to spur me and goals to reach, - Are there wondrous lands for the eye to see, - Is melody there and dulcet speech? - _Timor mortis conturbat me._ - - Does friend meet friend and love meet love, - Greet and converse with sober glee, - Or is all new in the courts above? - _Timor mortis conturbat me._ - - Is heaven like earth on a nobler plan, - As in dreams we image it, hopefully, - Or does the Spirit forget the Man? - _Timor mortis conturbat me._ - - Shall I be I when the death-throe’s past, - Soul from the flesh set only free, - Or in new mould shall I be recast? - _Timor mortis conturbat me._ - - If heaven be not akin to earth, - I shall not be I, if I happy be. - If I be not I, what is heaven worth? - _Timor mortis conturbat me._ - - - - -ON NEW YEAR’S EVE. - - - The wintry moon was streaming - Through the window, silvery-clear, - And I sat in my study, dreaming - Sweet dreams of the coming year. - - There was no sound save the laughter - Of flames on the gusty hearth, - As hour followed fleet hour after - To welcome the Year with mirth. - - Then, sharp through the solemn quiet, - I heard in the gloomy hall - The scamper of mice run riot, - And I heard them in the wall. - - I leaned on my hand and listened - To hear the cravens go, - While paler the moonbeams glistened - And the fire on the hearth burned low. - - And was I awake, or sleeping, - That, close by the door, I heard - The voice of a woman weeping - The sigh of a farewell word? - - And was it the night wind mocking - That tapped and opened the door, - Or was it a woman knocking - And a light step on the floor? - - I saw at my side a maiden - With tears in her gentle eyes, - And her shapely arms were laden - With gems from time’s argosies. - - On her brow was a white star shining, - On her breast was a lily fair; - But of rue was a sad wreath twining - Among her golden hair. - - From my chair to her dear side springing, - I greeted her with a kiss, - For I thought her the New Year, bringing - New uncut jewels of bliss. - - She blushed at my warm embraces - And joy in her sweet face shone, - As sunlight a shadow chases - While a summer cloud floats on. - - I said: “I have long been yearning, - New Year, to behold thy face.” - Pale grew the maid, and, turning, - She shrank from my close embrace, - - And wept: “Oh! thou fickle hearted - The depth of my love to prove, - Yet ere from my bosom parted - To sigh for an untried love. - - “I brought thee the rarest treasures - Time’s treasury could bestow; - I sated thy days with pleasures, - And guarded thy heart from woe. - - “Thy wish I refused thee never. - I granted thee love and peace; - Yet thou scornest me now, or ever - My labor for thee doth cease. - - “See, here are the gifts I showered - Thy life’s pathway upon, - And now that thou hast been dowered - With all, canst thou wish me gone? - - “O thankless heart, wilt thou never - Be satisfied with thy lot, - Or must thou be pining ever - For joys that as yet are not? - - “And turn from my fond embraces - An utter unknown to greet, - As a child a butterfly chases - Treading flowers beneath his feet?” - - Then, like the great sun springing - Through night to a tropic dawn, - My heart, to the Old Year clinging, - Yearned for the joys nigh gone. - - And oh, what a wave of sorrow - Passed over my grieving soul, - As I thought of the new to-morrow - That led to some unknown goal! - - “Oh, stay,” I cried, soul-shaken, - “Heed not the flight of time, - Oh stay,”--But I was forsaken, - And heard the New Year chime. - - - - -IN THE CLOSING HOURS. - - - In the closing hours of night, - When the latest guest has gone, - By the hearth fire’s flickering light - Sweet it is to dream alone. - - Sweet the social joy, and sweet - Strife that ends in victory; - Sweeter still the peace complete - Following on the eager day. - - Then how sweet the lassitude, - Revelling in romantic rest, - Buoyed on dreams, whose mystic flood - Draws the soul on happy quest. - - In the closing hours of life, - When the friends of youth are gone, - Ended lust of gain and strife, - Peace approaches with the dawn. - - Sweet the rest and solitude - When the hair is turning white, - While the past, with broadening flood, - Murmurs through the closing night. - - - - -WHERE HEAVEN IS. - - - When the babe is swung in its pearly cot, the warm sun shining, the - song-birds gay, - Cool shades among, in its lacework grot, the child reclining doth - dreamful sway. - Hope’s hand, entwining life’s harp new strung with joyous garlands, - its sound doth stay, - And he thinks earth heaven, to him God-given, nor cares though the - passing hours delay. - - From the threshold of life on the bright pathway that stretches - afar to the infinite, - Youth yearns for the strife, as a child for play, and his dreamings - are of a well-won height. - As at dawn of day when the Morning Star unbinds the zone of the - virgin Light, - We watch, all breathless, for beauty deathless, so heaven’s beyond - us, yet seems in sight. - - And then, ah, then, as the years go by, and hope grows weary with - waiting long, - When trust in men we must fain deny, the _miserere_ replaces song. - Like slaves that ply in the galley’s den the laboring oar, through - sin and wrong, - The soul plods on, and heaven is gone; we can but suffer and yet be - strong. - - When the snows of age fall thick and fast, and passion has faded - like flowers that grow, - The memory sage dreams dreams of the past and all that has made it - have joys below. - When the friends long laid in the grave, at last, stand beckoning - us in the twilight glow, - And wrongs endured prove that which cured, the heaven behind us too - late we know. - - The heaven of man is never here; it always is where his treasures are. - To-day’s brief span arches little dear; the stream of bliss seems - wider afar. - From this to this the path is drear; there’s always something each - joy to mar, - Till the past that is real becomes ideal under the gold of life’s - twilight star. - - - - -NEW YEAR’S EVE. - -_Air--Belle Mahone._ - - - Hark! the tolling of the bells. - How it sinks and how it swells! - O’er the sleeping town it knells, - “_Fare thee well, Old Year_.” - Far across the snowy plain - Rolls the many-tongued refrain, - And the echoes cry again, - “_Fare thee well, Old Year_.” - - Thou hast been a kindly year, - Thou hast spared us many a tear, - Thou hast vanquished many a fear, - _Fare thee well, Old Year_. - Lightly touched by summer showers, - Budding hopes have grown to flowers, - Happy days have flown like hours, - _Fare thee well, Old Year_. - - Many a lesson thou hast taught, - Precious favors thou hast brought, - Pleasant changes thou hast wrought, - _Fare thee well, Old Year_. - - Now thy rule is near an end, - Thy last records have been penned, - We must part at last, true friend. - _Fare thee well, Old Year._ - - Close and seal the book of fate, - With whate’er it may relate, - Sin and goodness, love and hate, - _Fare thee well, Old Year_. - One more volume is complete, - Take it to the Mercy Seat, - Lay it at the Master’s feet, - _Fare thee well, Old Year_. - -REFRAIN. - - _Fare thee well, Old Year, - Fare thee well, Old Year, - Thou hast been a faithful friend, - Fare thee well, Old Year._ - - - - -PEGASUS. - - - If you find Pegasus a steed - Scornful of your control, - Who canters well enough, indeed, - But will not caracole, - So much the better, poet mine, - ’Tis bottom wins the race. - Let poetasters prance, in fine; - Keep you the steady pace. - - Let poetasters hunt for sound, - Chase metres, out of breath; - Great thoughts are not thus run to ground, - Nor fame in at the death. - So, let your Pegasus be free - To hunt some thought sublime, - While you sit still, with clinging knee, - And gallop simple rhyme. - - Ah, friend, of all the joys of earth, - There’s nothing like the hunt, - The good horse straining at the girth, - The clear-tongued hounds in front. - - And if your Pegasus can bear - You well before the rout, - Don’t curb and make him beat the air; - Loose rein, and let him out. - - Oft when a poet’s rhymes I read, - With ornate language wrought, - Its cadences, though sweet indeed, - But hide the lack of thought. - Be yours the poem that can stand - From trappings wholly free, - Each thought a Phryne, to be scanned - In fearless nudity. - - - - -IT WOULD BE EASY TO BE GOOD. - - - Who walks the paths of righteousness - Or follows ways of evil, - Who knows the joys that angels bless - Or sin’s insensate revel, - At last, too well has understood - Sin is not worth a feather.-- - It would be easy to be good, - If all were good together. - - Waiving the conscience we offend, - And weighing but the pleasure, - Though we all sinful joys might blend, - They make a sorry treasure. - The loftiest joys must be subdued, - The soul we fain must tether.-- - It would be easy to be good - If all were good together. - - Oh, would that man might give free scope - To every gentle feeling! - The soul would realize its hope - Its noblest side revealing. - - Would man might trust man’s brotherhood - In calm and stormy weather.-- - It would be easy to be good - If all were good together. - - If no one schemed to do a wrong, - No need for wrong were given; - If each his neighbor helped along, - This earth would be a heaven; - If men once met in rectitude, - Farewell, the regions nether.-- - It would be easy to be good, - If all were good together. - - - - -THE LITTLE TROOPER. - - - Swift troopers twain ride side by side - Throughout life’s long campaign. - They make a jest of all man’s pride, - And oh, the havoc! As they ride, - They cannot count their slain. - - The one is young and debonair, - And laughing swings his blade. - The zephyrs toss his golden hair, - His eyes are blue; he is so fair - He seems a masking maid. - - The other is a warrior grim, - Dark as a midnight storm. - There is no man can cope with him. - We shrink and tremble in each limb - Before his awful form. - - Yet though men fear the sombre foe - More than the gold-tressed youth, - The boy with every careless blow - More than the trooper grim lays low, - And causes earth more ruth. - - Keener his mocking sword doth prove - Than flame or winter’s breath. - Men bear his wounds to the realm above, - For the little trooper’s name is Love, - His comrade’s only Death. - - - - -CUPID’S DISGUISES. - - - Dan Cupid wears disguises. - We never see his form, - Till suddenly he surprises - And takes the heart by storm. - - He hides at times in the blushes - That tinge a cheek so fair, - Or oft in the moonlit hushes - In a sweet voice on the air. - - Sometimes he’s in the dancing - Of mirth in azure eyes, - Sometimes in the curve entrancing - Of lips that part in sighs. - - And sometimes in the glimmer - Of arm, rich lace beneath; - Sometimes in the tresses’ shimmer, - Sometimes in the peep of teeth. - - Oh, he’s a little bandit, - And bold as bold can be. - He leads us, single-handed, - Into captivity. - - For none is a match for Cupid. - He swifter is than thought. - The keenest mind is but stupid - When he begins to plot. - - - - -MUSIC. - - - Life hath such longings, bitter sweet, - And yet so few it satisfies - That man fain dreams life is complete - Only beyond the skies. - - And like the mystic cloud of fire - That guided Israel’s way by night, - Every unsatisfied desire - Leads man towards the right. - - Around him, mingling with the dust, - Youth’s pure ideals, shattered, lie; - Hope, virtue, charity and trust - Amid life’s deserts die. - - Fade aspirations, fades each dream - Of goodness, honor and renown. - Man floats on a polluted stream, - Which fain would drag him down. - - But music, like the nightingale - That sweetly sings in woodland brakes, - When hope and trust and virtue fail, - Man’s nobler nature wakes. - - Only in music doth man find - An echo of the dreams of youth, - When he saw gods among mankind, - In woman only truth. - - - - -BABY’S STOCKING. - - - Baby’s dainty little stocking - Hangs beside his wicker cot, - Darling mother’s wishes mocking - And the treasures she has brought. - - For it is so small that never - Gift can find a place inside. - Was there doting mother ever - So distressed at Christmas tide? - - Baby’s eyes are closed and dreaming - Of the gentle mother face; - Baby’s hands are clasped and seeming - Interlocked in fond embrace. - - Baby’s lips are softly smiling, - And the Rubicon of youth - He has passed, for lo! beguiling - Mother’s kisses, peeps a tooth. - - Naught for gifts is baby caring. - Santa Claus has many a gem, - But, God’s love and mother’s sharing, - Baby has no need of them. - - - - -MY DIVINITY. - - - I am a god; yes, I,-- - (Smile, if you will, at the claim) - Mote though I am in the ambient sky, - Housed, I confess, in putrescible frame, - Still, a divinity. - - My sceptre I claim, and, perchance, - My altars as well,--who knows? - You would prick my pride with your wit’s keen lance, - You know my radius. Well, suppose - You pipe, I dance. - - Am I the Primary Cause? - That’s my affair, not my creatures’. - Did I create nature’s adamant laws, - Or am I but one of her manifold features? - Fellow gods can pick flaws! - - But the little corpuscles of blood - I create by millions each hour, - Do you fancy the witless ephemeral brood, - As each lives its life, can my limits and power - Declare understood? - - Alone in the grey of my brain - I sit and my universe rule. - What can they know of their god, though they fain - Question, perhaps, each contemptible fool, - What joy is, why pain? - - Do they brag of their universe, boast, - Worsting some hostile bacillus, - Fight over their God, sect term other sect lost, - Read my ways or complain, “Why torment us and kill us?” - What fate has each ghost? - - Perfecting some large thought that may - Move the earth that I dwell on, - A million my creatures, remorseless, I slay. - Am I annoyed if they call me a felon! - It is I, or they. - - My work, for their sake, shall I cease, - My very nature disjoint? - Is there aught but destruction for all in such peace? - Must I miracle work for a microscope point,-- - Corpuscles to please? - - We are not one, we are twain, - Yet are we one and not two. - They are the universe, I am the brain, - In and about them, knit through and through,-- - Chords in one strain. - - In common we have, at least, this, - Creator and creature, that we - Must rise to the height of our powers, or miss - Life’s best for ourselves, and each other decree - Frustrate of bliss. - - * * * * * - - Is, now, this godhead of mine, - My limits, this difference vast - Between creature and maker, a symbol? In fine - Is mankind but a host of blood corpuscles, massed - Through the Divine? - - - - -THE SLEEPING SOUL. - - - Will ever thy soul awake, - Awake and come smiling to greet my own? - Will ever the love-light break - From thine eyes upon me, like the sun - On the billows that shoreward run, - Into foam by the winds of the ocean blown? - - To me seems thy pure soul sleeping. - Thou hast in thy heart a bird, - But its head is under its wing. - I watch it and think with weeping - How sweet a song it might sing; - Yet by love it is never stirred. - - Oft in the hush of a drowsy night - I dream that I hear that low bird voice - Lilting so merrily, - Singing so cheerily, - Bidding my heart to its depths rejoice; - But alas, takes flight - My dream before the dawn’s lance of light. - - Alas, it is not for me - To kiss thy soul, as the prince in story - Kissed the Sleeping Beauty’s lips, - And to a life-love waken thee. - Round thee there is a maiden glory - Fairer than circles the sun that dips - Into the sea while chill night comes creeping - Slowly, silently through the sky; - But as well might I - Reach out my hand to the sun and try - To make his glory my very own - As think to touch with my finger tips - Thy glorious beauty that shrinks from me. - - - - -THE MOTHER. - - - Down the bright pathway of life, where joy, like the throstle, was - singing, - She passed, like a sungleam at dawn, through mistlands of sorrows - and fears, - Seeking the soul of the babe at her bosom now nursing and clinging, - And stood in the valley of death, gloomed with the shadow of tears. - - Ghost glided past after ghost, and shook ghastly arms at the mortal - Who dared to the valley of pain go down for the winning of life. - Hour after hour trembled by, as we crouched in our woe at the portal, - Made strangers to her whom we loved by strangers who looked on her - strife. - - Angels spake hope to her there, as she stood in the vale of the shadow, - Demons snarled at her heels, she was haunted by visions abhorred; - But Love was a lamp to her feet as she passed through the woe-blossomed - meadow, - Seeking the soul of her child. She was brave, for her trust was - the Lord. - - Death turned his sword as she came, and she passed through the gateways - of heaven, - Treading the pavements of pearl and haloed with shimmering gleams, - On, till the veil hung between immortal and mortal was riven, - And she brought from the garden of God the blue-eyed flower of - her dreams. - - - - -PLUCK FLOWERS IN YOUTH. - - - Pluck flowers in youth, nor heed how old tongues prate; - Pluck flowers in youth, in age it is too late; - Pluck flowers when it is morn with flowers and you. - So soon they wither, do not hesitate, - Lest you should gather roses not, but rue. - Pluck flowers ere life grows cold and desolate, - And love turns hate. - - Pluck flowers in youth; age is the time for wheat; - To age not even the rose itself is sweet, - Pluck flowers, pluck flowers in youth, while faith is great, - Ere life and joy grow cankered with deceit. - Pluck flowers in youth; no sadder thought brings Fate - Than memory of scorned joys crushed by our feet - In flight too fleet. - - - - -O FOOLISH HEART. - - - O foolish heart, to flutter so - With hope and fear; - O treacherous blush, to come and go - When he is near; - Why do ye to the world reveal - The passion I would fain conceal? - - O ears, that love to hear him speak; - O downcast eyes, - Whose lashes droop upon each cheek, - Nor dare to rise; - Do ye not know she sees and hears - Fond looks and words that cost me tears? - - Be brave, mine heart, if he despise, - Give scorn for scorn; - Be deaf, mine ears, be blind, mine eyes,-- - Yet soul, why mourn? - Though she may claim him for her own, - My love, my love is mine alone. - - - - -MY HEART’S A MERRY ROVER. - - - My heart’s a merry rover, - Though innocent of wrong; - Forever beauty’s lover, - Yet never constant long. - - When coral lips are pouting, - Their smiling to disguise, - He kneels and loves, not doubting - They are his richest prize. - - Yet when, amid his dreaming, - He spies a bosom fair, - At once the rogue is scheming - To gain admittance there; - - Though should he see the tresses - That frame a pretty head, - His love and his caresses - He spends on them instead. - - Then, if bright eyes confuse him - With many a saucy stare, - The lips, the curls, the bosom - Must mourn their worshipper. - - And yet this merry rover - Is nothing if not true, - He’s but one maiden’s lover, - And, dearest, she is you. - - - - -THE CIGARETTE SMOKER. - - - Mark her as she stands, - Blue eyes bright, match alight, - Shielding with her hands - The growing flame, - Holding to her lips, where the bee, love, sips, - The fragrant pleasure of man’s leisure, - Cigarette by name. - - There! it makes her cough. - If she smoke, must she choke - When blue whirls come off? - Now she denies - The cigarette the bliss of her lips’ sweet kiss, - Holds it burning, to ash turning, - Till at last it dies. - - Thus she lit my heart, - By the fell magic spell - Of love’s witching art, - And just as I - Burned with passion’s fire, shrank from my desire, - Let my yearning and heart-burning - Into ashes die. - - - - -TAKE ME AS YOU FIND ME. - - - Take me as you find me, - Take me so, - Else from love unbind me, - Let me go. - - Two twin gifts God gave me, - Body and soul; - These shall lose or save me, - As years roll. - - I can never alter; - I must wend - Onward, thus, nor falter - To the end. - - If you love, then, love me, - Sweetheart, so - You’ll not look above me, - Nor below. - - - - -AT THE TRYST. - - - The evening stars are shining - Amid the gloom of air, - Like gold and jewels twining - Among thy golden hair. - - They guard the dawn’s shut portal - And count the moments fleet,-- - O maiden, we are mortal, - Why hasten not thy feet? - - The moonlight and the shadows - Are wooing by the stream, - And far across the meadows - Thy windows brightly gleam. - - My eager heart is beating - Beneath the trysting tree, - The evening hours are fleeting, - Why com’st thou not to me? - - - - -SONNETS IN CALIFORNIA. - -ON A FLASK OF WATER. - -_Taken from the Pacific at Santa Monica, Cal._ - - - From seas Alaskan, where, through sunless days, - The grinding ice floes cast a spectral glare, - I come to shores where, through the golden air, - Palms wave and bees dip in the orange sprays. - From shores Siberian, where the keen knout preys - On women, wan with torture and despair, - I come, a voiceless, palpitating prayer, - Where Freedom dwells, yet succor still delays. - - From far Cathay, the oldest land of lands, - A giant sunk in poppied, dreamful rest, - I come where earth’s great last-born nation stands, - Flower of the centuries, the titanic West. - I come where East and West stand face to face, - The childhood and the manhood of the race. - - -SPRING IN THE SOUTH. - - - Through the quaint southern winter without snow, - Without an icy blast or chilling air, - When the broad mesas arid lie and bare, - The Ishmael cactus and the sage brush grow. - - The golden orange bends the lithe branch low, - The sunflowers throng the by-ways everywhere, - Palms wave, birds sing. The earth lies free of care, - Basking in skies one golden, cloudless glow. - - Then come the rains, and in their cortege bring - Streams to the canyons, and to ranch and glen - Wild flowers and orange blossoms, wherein rides - The bee on golden zephyrs. Swiftly then, - Like wind-blown fire, up the Sierra sides - A blaze of poppies runs, and it is Spring. - - -A WINTER DAY. - -_In the Sierras._ - - - O’er the Sierras scarce the moon yestre’en - Was risen to flood each sombre peak with light, - Ere came a cloud host through the gusty night, - Storming the crags. Sheer canyon walls between - They swept, and hid bare ledge and living green. - Hoarse thunder pealed from unseen height to height, - As though the vast hills boasted of their might, - Though Chaos’ self upon them seemed to lean. - - Dawn drew aside night’s veil of mist, and came - Across the hills. The clouds retired, and lo! - On every wind-swept crag, as Day looked forth, - Bright in the southern sunshine gleamed the snow, - A vision of the unforgotten North - ’Twixt golden skies and poppy fields aflame. - - -_In the Valley._ - - - Snow on the hills, but in the valley, flowers, - Poppies aflame and orange blooms, whose scent - With the faint odor of the snow is blent. - Snow on the peaks, but in the canyons, showers, - And torrents drinking strength from stormy hours. - The geese wheel seaward through the clouds half spent, - Fleeing the snow and screaming discontent, - But in the vale birds trill in blossomy bowers. - - Summer is in the vale, though in the heights - The bandit Winter lurks to seize his prey. - Still springs the grain, vines grow and fruit delights - Sun and soft winds through many a golden day - In many an Eden valley, nestling warm - Below the stern Sierras, wrapped in storm. - - - - -THE POOL OF SANT’ OLINE. - -_Sierra Madre, Cal._ - - - Ere yet the Spanish cavalier - For this new world set sail, - Ere yet the padres came anear - San Gabriel’s sunny vale, - Ere yet the thirst for gold drew men - Across the western hills, - I rippled down this rocky glen, - The happiest of rills. - - The shadows of the spreading oak - Oft lay upon my breast; - Oft through the brown madronas broke - The bear upon his quest. - Past starry yuccas, to my brink, - At many a crimson dawn, - The mountain lion came to drink, - And oft a timid fawn. - - The golden moments came and went - Of many a sunny year, - And still I rippled on, content - And solitary here. - At times a weary miner came - And quaffed my cooling stream, - At times I saw the camp-fire flame - Of hardy hunters gleam. - - Though oft I paused to hear some bird - Trill in the leaves above, - A maid I never saw nor heard, - Nor knew the name of love. - Oh, there was never rivulet - So merry in a glen; - But now I never can forget, - Nor merry be again. - - She came, in thoughtless, girlish mood, - The dizzy trail along. - Upon my ferny marge she stood - And listened to my song. - I saw her, and I leapt for glee - In many a lucent wave, - And when she stooped to drink from me, - My very heart I gave. - - She passed, and now no more I sing - Among the granite hills; - Instead, my ceaseless murmuring - The sombre canyon fills. - Oh! ye to whom that maid divine - Hath also heartless been, - Come join your mournful plaint with mine, - The pool of Sant’ Oline. - - - - -WINTER IN THE SOUTH. - - - At home the blossoms are asleep - Beside the frost-bound rills; - At home the snow is drifting deep - Upon the windy hills; - At home the ice king mocks the sun, - The woods are drear and bare, - And of the birds there is not one - Left singing anywhere. - - But here the fields are green with grain, - The mesas bright with flowers. - The birds repeat each dulcet strain - They learned in Eden’s bowers. - ’Midst ripening fruit, the orange trees - Have mingled odorous blooms, - And here and there the eager bees - Hum through the golden glooms. - - The swart Sierras, crowned with snow, - Stand knee deep in the green, - Like patriarchs smiling as they go - Blithe groups of youth between. - Behind them is the burning sand - Of the Mojave[A] waste; - Before, the warm Pacific strand, - By golden seas embraced. - - When in the palm tree’s shade I rest - Through a many a perfect day, - My heart would fain forget life’s quest, - And live in dreams alway; - But when upon the snow-clad hills - Mine eyes again look forth, - I wake. Thy spell my bosom thrills, - Stern homeland in the north! - - Give me the seasons of the year, - The bursting of the leaf, - The northern summer brief but dear, - And autumn’s golden sheaf. - Give me the wintry moon’s pale gleam, - With snow and storm at strife. - The south is a bewitching dream, - But in the north is life. - - - - -THE KINDERGARTEN. - - - O blossoming lives that to the fruits - Now ripened for the gathering in, - Speak of old days, ere life’s pursuits - Touched the new soul with taint of sin, - - We who now watch you at your game, - We, weary of the toil and strife, - Must envy you your scorn of fame, - Your eager, loving trust in life. - - Perchance, the babe that, thoughtless, piles - His blocks unsteadily in air, - May yet a minster build, whose aisles - Shall echo to a nation’s prayer. - - Perchance, the child that scarce can tell - The letters on his cubes of wood, - May yet with a poetic spell - Charm and uplift the multitude. - - They question not, they only live - To pluck the blossoms of each hour. - Ambition frets them not, they give - No thought to pomp or place or power. - - We too have toys, and we pursue - Our trivial aims; we rage and sigh - Because our blocks are built askew, - And our best hopes in ruins lie. - - Yet over us, as over these, - A teacher watches, true and kind, - Striving to guide our fantasies, - And patient with the groping mind. - - From flower of wisdom unto flower - He leads us, as these babes are led, - Till chimes, at last, the closing hour, - The prizes won, the lessons said. - - And happy he who in this school - Of life, that fits the soul for death, - Has learned to serve as well as rule, - And speak for truth with every breath. - - - - -THE POET. - - - The budding flower that wakes at dewy morn - Attains perfection through the sun-swept day, - And poets, to life’s highest mission born, - By slow unfolding reach the perfect lay. - - And like the harp, attuned to every breeze, - That in the open casement sighs or sings, - The poet soul is void of melodies - Till unseen spirit fingers sweep the strings. - - Life, the magician, with his subtle powers, - Death, the dark helmsman over seas unknown, - Nature, all-mother, and the teaching hours - Through him their grand, mysterious chants intone. - - And oft his numbers falter, and his song - In discord breaks, ere he can hymn again - The anthems of the wondrous spirit throng, - And voice strange thoughts beyond our mortal ken. - - And oft the world and the world’s sins immesh - His soul, which still the pitying spirits calm; - And in the warfare between soul and flesh - His heart oft rises to the noblest psalm. - - But should he cease to wage the upward strife, - Or thrall himself a slave to evil’s power, - Too proud the Muse to bless a craven life, - Too pure, a sinful heart with song to dower. - - For the true poet, throwing down his gage - To fate, fights upwards far beyond life’s mist, - And with the broadened vision of the sage - Beholds all earth by hope’s warm sungleams kissed. - - He learns that all who would be truly great - Mix with the battling world, nor shirk their part, - But take such trials as are given by Fate - And set them to sweet music by their art. - - He only is a poet who can find - In sorrow, happiness, in darkness, light, - Love everywhere, and lead his fellow kind - By flowery paths towards life’s sunny height. - - - - -GOLD TRESSES. - - - My love is now a woman grown. - About her shoulders fall no more - Her locks, in beauty all their own. - Their days of liberty are o’er. - - No longer may, with soft caress, - The zephyr’s unseen hand uplift - Each net-like, golden-threaded tress - To catch the sunlight’s moted drift. - - I know each tress, and have a name - Whereby my memory holds it dear, - From that which is her forehead’s frame - To that which hides her shelly ear. - - And one there is I loved to touch, - On which my heart first suffered wreck, - That sometimes fell aside too much - And showed the ivory of her neck. - - And though ’tis bound upon her head - And all its beauty hid from me, - Still other charms I see instead, - And still am in captivity. - - I see the grace of neck and ear - Unveiled, that erst beneath the tress - But peeped, as pearly sea shells peer - Through ocean’s weedy wilderness. - - Ye captive tresses that disdained - My love, and wantoned in the wind, - I know your grief, for I was chained - Her slave ere ye were thus confined. - - She hath but gloried in our love, - And laughs to find us strain our gyves. - Come, let us slaves unite and prove - That power to break her bond survives. - - Aid me with love her heart to chain, - And soon, when she and I are wed, - My hands shall set ye free again - To wanton sweetly round her head. - - - - -EN ROUTE. - - - By town and hamlet, field and wood, - Past glimpses of empurpled hills, - O’er many a broad, sun-smitten flood - And many a myriad tinkling rills, - The train swings on and brings us twain - Each minute nearer by a mile, - While I to chafe at time am fain, - Which holds me sundered from thy smile. - - I see among the emerald trees - Embowered, the village church spires gleam; - I see white homestead front the breeze, - And of our own sweet home I dream; - While still the fleet train brings us twain - Each minute nearer by a mile, - And fewer moments yet remain - To hold me sundered from thy smile. - - The wheat fields shimmer in the sun, - Sleek cattle in the meadows browse, - Nor lift their heads, as past we run, - The lithe-limbed steeds and patient cows. - And still the fleet train brings us twain - Each minute nearer by a mile, - Till scarce a moment doth remain - To hold me sundered from thy smile. - - Onward we sweep, yet all our speed - Leaves not pursuing night behind; - Stars sparkle in the sky’s broad mead, - And homeward plods the weary hind; - And still the fleet train brings us twain - Each minute nearer by a mile, - Until my heart is home again - And I am basking in thy smile. - - - - -AT DAWN. - - - At dawn of day a shaft of light - Pierces the sable breast of night, - Which, dropping many a sable plume, - Flits far into the nether gloom, - All silently. - - At dawn of day the sun’s first beam - Dispels the mist that hides the stream, - And scatters from the hill and wood - The clouds that there did sit and brood, - Formless and grey. - - And when the night from earth is driven, - And clouds and mist have fled from heaven, - The waking birds take eager flight - Up through the golden rain of light, - With happy song. - - Into my life, that knew no day, - A maiden winged a kindly ray, - And, flying wearily and slow, - Far fled the sombre bird of woe - I harbored long. - - My heart no longer pined in night, - The mists that hid hope’s stream took flight, - Life’s hills a sunnier aspect took, - And I found many a pleasant nook - Within life’s grove. - - And now my thoughts, like birds, arise, - Singing, towards the golden skies, - Afar from earthly doubt and strife, - Through the pure radiance of her life, - On wings of love. - - - - -MY STAR. - - - There is a star in the pure ether high, - My other home it is, - Whereto, when sorrow threatens me, I fly, - And in my flight towards the vaulted sky - The hated sorrows roll - Down from my fleet-winged soul, - As from the sea gull’s circling form the spray - Drops to the storm-vext bay - Its pinions erst did kiss. - - Well said the Seer, that overstudy brought - A weariness of the flesh; - And oft my brain, worn with its overthought, - Watches the night steal past, while sleep comes not. - Then doth my star arise - Slowly before my eyes, - Steady, serene and cold, yet heavenly bright, - And, while my grief takes flight, - Binds all my thoughts in leash. - - No longer fear and discontent combine - To make my future drear, - For I arise and from that star of mine - Look down and see our small earth dimly shine; - And all life’s joy and pain - Their proper worth obtain, - And I to smile at all past fears begin, - For earth’s discordant din - Is stilled, and God I hear. - - - - -TO A PICTURE. - - - O stately head, O rippling grace - Of tresses flowing free, - O dark-eyed, queenly, thoughtful face, - Awake and comfort me. - - Since love can thrill with noble zeal - The meanest of us all, - It may thy glorious form reveal, - Thy tender soul recall. - - Then come thou from thy gilded cage - And nestle by my side, - And I will be thy faithful page, - If thou wilt be my bride. - - Come, trustful eyes, and trust in me, - O sweet one, heed my cry; - Speak sad, sweet mouth, I wait for thee - To bid me live or die. - - Tell me no artist’s god-like mind - To thy fair face gave birth, - But that his vision I may find - Alive upon this earth. - - And I will seek her far and wide, - In palace and in cot, - And love shall once more conquer pride, - And she shall share my lot. - - - - -THE POET AND HIS RHYMES. - - - Whoever reads a poet’s rhyme - To find the poet there, - Might equally essay to climb - To castles in the air. - - He lives not in reality, - Or rather, lives too much. - He makes a forest of a tree, - A palace of a hutch. - - To-day a transient pang appears - His life’s eternal sorrow, - But he is laughing through his tears - And full of joy to-morrow. - - For if there’s oft a germ of truth, - The flower is fancy’s own. - ’Tis the world’s heart he shows, in sooth, - And his is still unknown. - - And sometimes in his happiest days, - Without excuse or cause, - He pens the mournfullest of lays, - To win the world’s applause. - - And from the saddest heart, at times, - The merriest stanzas flow. - Friend, think not by the poet’s rhymes - The poet’s heart to know. - - - - -TO AN INFANT. - - - O little one, new born, - I would I were like thee; - Then were this whole world’s scorn - And praise alike to me. - - Then would I look on life - As do thine azure eyes, - And know how vain its strife, - How paltry what we prize. - - Tradition cannot claim - Dominion over thee, - Nor fear the pinions maim - Of thy young soul and free. - - All things to thee are new. - Thy mind runs in no groove. - Thou dost both false and true - Question alike, and prove. - - Thou art no shadowy soul, - But the incarnate “I”, - And thou wilt reach thy goal, - Or failing, thou wouldst die. - - Indomitable will - That makes us all obey,-- - If I were childlike still, - I were more man to-day. - - - - -TO SCOTLAND. - - - Miles upon miles of ocean - ’Twixt Scotland roll and me. - Its hills and dales I have not seen, - And scarce expect to see. - The homestead of my fathers - The keen ploughshare has torn, - And where the hearth once welcomed all - Waves now the golden corn. - - Oh, Canada, my country, - My love for thee is deep, - Yet I fain would see the old church-yard - Where my forefathers sleep. - And fondly, ever fondly, - My heart in secret yearns, - That its songs may find a welcome - In the bonnie land of Burns. - - Upon the Scottish heather - I opened not my eyes, - I cannot speak the sweet Scotch tongue, - Remote my pathway lies; - Yet Scotland, mother Scotland, - Though fate us twain may part, - I claim my heritage of thee, - For I have the Scottish heart. - - - - -ROSINA VOKES. - - - The years may come, the years may go, - And many a song be sung - Across the footlight’s golden glow - By many a silvery tongue, - But though new divas charm the ear, - Still memory shall recall - One song we nevermore shall hear: - “His ’art was true to Poll.” - - For who that hath the singer’s heart - Will care to sing that song - To those whom She, with witching art, - Had held in thrall so long? - Let other songs our pulses stir, - Delight us with them all, - But leave unsung for sake of her - “His ’art was true to Poll.” - - Time was when every heart beat high, - Each lip was wreathed in smiles - To hear her sing that melody - With all her witching wiles; - But now, ’twould be no song of mirth, - ’Twould bid the sad tears fall, - For though She dwells no more on earth, - Our ’arts are true to Poll. - - - - -A LITTLE MAID. - - - I know a maid beyond compare - For virtue sweet and beauty rare. - Her eyes are turquoise and her hair - Is sunlight netted. - - She has her lovers, great and small, - The quiet student, wise and tall, - The child that hugs its battered doll,-- - By them she’s petted. - - Her heart seems ever warm and gay, - In smiles and kindly words, each day, - She scatters round her on life’s way - Love beyond measure. - - The wild flowers, as she passes by, - Bloom sweeter for her being nigh; - The bird that mounts into the sky - Sings for her pleasure. - - Her sorrows she is wont to hide, - Her joys she shares on every side; - She is her doting mother’s pride, - Her father’s jewel. - - If we, who style this world so bad, - But strove, like her, to make it glad, - Life then would seem by far less sad, - Nor half so cruel. - - - - -SAMSON AND DELILAH. - - - Thou art o’erbold, Delilah, thus to try - Thy traitorous arts upon a soul like mine, - And lure me to eternal slavery - With glances warm like wine. - - One clasp of my strong hands at will could break - Thy tender body, like a fragile flower. - How darest thou prey of my heart to make, - And plot against my power? - - Hast thou no fear the brute in me will rise, - Wrathful, and tear thy shapely limbs apart, - And dull the jewelled lustre of thine eyes, - And still thy faithless heart? - - Why dost thou let me look upon thy face, - And see myself embowered in thine eyes, - And every curve of thy lithe figure trace - Beneath thy robe’s disguise. - - What harm have I wrought thee that thou shouldst stand - And menace all my life with one great woe? - Thou hast me in the hollow of thy hand-- - Take me or let me go! - - - - -MY LADY’S BONNET. - - - My lady has a stylish bonnet, - Bedecked with ribands, gay and bright, - And with a song bird perched upon it, - With tiny wings outspread for flight. - - Its little beak is opened wide, - As though in its most joyous trill - The harmless thing had suddenly died. - One waits to hear it carol still. - - My lady has a tender heart, - She feeds the poor, instructs the young, - At tale of woe her tears will start, - And words of kindness throng her tongue. - - My lady’s eyes are full of glee, - But cloud and with just anger flash - If in her walk she chance to see - Some poor beast cringe beneath the lash. - - My lady has a stylish bonnet, - Bedecked with ribands gay and bright, - But with a slaughtered bird upon it.-- - My gentle lady, is this right? - - - - -FLOWERS AND FEARS. - - - She had been in the fields at play - Through golden summer hours, - And brought with her, at close of day, - A cluster of wild flowers. - - And when she slept, we went to see - The little one at rest, - Our own sweet flower, and there, ah, me! - The flowers lay on her breast. - - Her little brow was smooth and white, - Her merry eyes were closed, - She smiled, as though some heavenly sprite - Whispered as she reposed. - - She looked so pure, so white, so fair - Below the ominous flowers, - She seemed a blossom plucked from care - To bloom in heavenly bowers. - - And oh, the whelming flood of pain, - The sudden sense of dearth! - We kissed her o’er and o’er again, - And brought her back to earth. - - - - -THE ROSEBUD. - - - In my garden a rosebud is growing, is growing, - So fast, ’twill be blossoming soon. - Around it the zephyrs are balmily blowing, - The sweet scented zephyrs of June, - Of June, - The odorous zephyrs of June. - - My love shall watch o’er, and protect, and protect it, - While shyly its petals unfold. - The bees shall not rob nor the canker affect it, - Nor night make it tremble with cold, - With cold, - Nor night make it shudder with cold. - - And when it is blown, I’ll bear it, I’ll bear it - To her whom I worship alone. - On her beauteous bosom she’ll lay it and wear it - And rival its charms by her own, - Her own, - And shame all its grace by her own. - - - - -NIL DESPERANDUM. - - - Life with life is woven in. - Neither sorrow nor delight, - Neither nobleness nor sin, - Known to one - But falls upon - All men with its grace or blight. - - He who sinks into despair, - He who from his task recoils, - Makes his fellow-laborers bear - On life’s road - A heavier load. - Some one for each sluggard toils. - - What though failure crown our task! - ’Tis the portal to success. - Often Fortune wears a mask. - Face the strife - And live your life; - Be no coward in distress! - - - - -FLESH AND SPIRIT. - - - Say what you will, - If love would have its fill, - Though it may feed long on the one dear face, - It never is content, save in embrace. - - Say what you will, - Though passion have its fill, - It never is content, nor has delight, - If love come not to sanctify the rite. - - Harmonious flesh and spirit, - These only shall inherit - The joys of earth, and in the dread To Be - Not death itself shall break that unity. - - Woe to the narrow heart - Would strive these twain to part; - Look down the ages, through the world’s mad din, - This is the one unpardonable sin. - - - - -IN CHURCH. - - - I never feel so near to God and heaven - As when I kneel in worship at thy side, - And hear thy humble prayer to be forgiven - For sake of Him who for our saving died. - - And though I do not mingle with thy prayer - Plea of my own, but, silent, bow my head, - So close our souls are knit, I seem to share - The bounteous blessings God on thee doth shed. - - I hear the choir their joyous praises singing, - But not their voices soften my flint heart; - Thine only in my inmost soul is ringing, - Bidding peace enter, grief and sin depart. - - And as the music through my pulse is stealing, - The rampart of my pride a ruin falls, - Even as of old the Jewish trumpets’ pealing - Shook down of haughty Jericho the walls. - - - - -SUCCOR THE CHILDREN. - - - Wan hands that never grasped a flower, - Ears stranger to the wild bird’s song, - To rule, where shall they find the power? - How wage life’s battle, right the wrong? - - When the great hour of duty comes, - How shall they meet the mighty toil, - Whose blood is tainted by the slums, - Whose ears know but the street’s turmoil? - - Succor the children of the street, - And teach them in the fields to play, - Nor let them in the stifling heat - Of crowded cities fade away; - - That, when we drop the thread of life - And, dreamless, sleep beneath the sod, - They may be ready for the strife - That brings this planet nearer God. - - - - -THE SUNSET LESSON. - - - I watched the sun one summer eve - Sink slowly in the west, - And the quiet sea and fleecy clouds - In rosy robes were dressed. - - I saw the evening glide away, - Yet still the sea and sky, - As faint the star-zoned twilight grew, - Were full of majesty. - - And as, upon the breezy hill, - I turned to sky and sea, - Methought that nature spake and bade - My spirit guileless be, - - That, as the deepening shades of age - Close round me, like the night, - The memory of my past might still - Life’s evening gild with light. - - - - -AS FROM THE NECTAR-LADEN LILY. - - - As from the nectar-laden - Lily the wild bee sips, - A British queen, sweet maiden, - Drained with her loving lips - The poison that was filling - Her husband’s veins with death, - Her love with new life thrilling - His heart with each drawn breath. - - Not less thy love, sweet maiden, - Nor less thy bravery, - For when I came, o’erladen - With poisoned hopes, to thee, - With smiles and shy caresses - The venom thou didst drain, - And, healing my distresses, - Didst give new life again. - - - - -MUMMY THOUGHTS. - - - Once those who sought for relics of the past - Stumbled by chance on an Etrurian tomb, - And saw a monarch sitting in the gloom, - Sceptred and crowned. Their eager hearts beat fast, - And on the masonry themselves they cast, - To seize the wonder. As, throughout the room, - The axe stroke rang, it knelled the monarch’s doom. - He fell to dust, and left them all aghast. - - So, oft while searching through the realms of mind, - I have discovered many a kingly thought, - In solitary grandeur throned and crowned, - And striven to bear it forth, only to find - That, when the first stroke of my pen did sound, - It fell to dust, and lo! I had it not. - - - - -TO CERTAIN NATURE POETS. - - - Friends,--such I call ye, for it is not meet - To hail ye brethren in the tuneful art, - Since I but falter, though of earnest heart,-- - Friends, I have thought, reading your measures sweet, - Your verses, though with many a charm replete, - Were bettered did they some high thought impart, - Or in man’s conscience plant a sudden dart. - Why proffer roses when the world craves wheat? - - Who paints a picture hath ill done his task, - If he show not the soul in that he paints. - Why give to mere description all your lays - While what the eye beholds is but a mask - To some grand truth the poet’s hand should raise, - Revealing that for which man’s spirit faints. - - - - -THE PATRIARCH’S DEATH. - - - The birds that twitter in the budding trees - And build their nests in some umbrageous grove, - Through early summer guard the young they love, - And fill the air with tuneful melodies. - Then, as the fledgelings wake from dreamful ease, - Eager throughout the unknown world to rove, - The parents teach them their new strength to prove, - And beat with fearless wings the summer breeze. - - And then the nest sways empty on the bough. - The parents, weary, although sweet the task, - Take flight to other haunts, to rest from care. - The fledgelings in the glowing sunbeams bask, - Living their life. So is it everywhere,-- - The patriarch dies; he is but resting now. - - - - -OH, WERE IT NOT. - - - Oh, were it not for one fair face, - One angel voice, one loving smile, - The world would be a dreary place, - And life to me not worth the while. - - Methinks the sun shines but to show - How wondrous fair the maiden is; - Methinks the warm winds only blow - That they may kiss her draperies. - - I know the roses bloom that they - May live an hour upon her breast; - I know that I would willingly - Share their brief life to share their nest. - - - - -FAREWELL. - - - When the heart speaks, the lips are still, - And if I cannot say farewell, - ’Tis that a thousand yearnings thrill - My heart, and hold my lips in spell. - - Let thine own heart the thoughts express - My lips would speak. Yet why repine? - I knew thee, and, at least, can bless - Thy life, though sundered far from mine. - - - - -THE TIDE. - - - Twice in the day a mighty tide there rolls - Throughout our city streets, - A limitless, deep sea of human souls, - Each wave, a heart that beats. - - Ah, me! what various ships are drifting there, - Upon that living sea; - What guile and innocence, what joy, what care, - What utter misery! - - At morn it ebbs far from home’s golden shore - Into the sea of life, - Where its dark billows meet and foam and roar - In never-ending strife. - - At night it flows, far from the mart’s turmoil, - Backward upon its way, - Where wives and children bring sweet rest from toil, - Till dawns another day. - - From year to year ’tis thus these waters move, - Life’s duties to fulfill; - Obedient to the silvery moon of love, - That rules them at its will. - - - - -MY COMRADE. - - - Could I have had you made a boy, - And both be young through life, - Methinks I might forgo the joy - Of calling you my wife. - - For sweet as is the kiss of love - And all our converse staid, - Still dearer to our hearts doth prove - Some wayward escapade. - - When from behind your glistening foil - You dare me to the fray, - From sober spousehood I recoil; - It is “en garde” straightway. - - And when we urge our light canoe - Upon some sparkling tide, - More prone am I to think of you - As comrade than as bride. - - Ah, were you but a youth, like me, - Who could, unawed, recline - By huge camp fire, beneath some tree, - Upon a couch of pine; - - And could you press through marsh and brake - And thrive on hunter’s food, - What sweet excursions we might make - To nature’s solitude! - - Yet if you were a youth, some maid - Might lure you from my side, - So I shall wish you still, comrade, - My dainty, fair-haired bride. - - - - -MY GIFT. - - - I bring a gift that all may bring, - So common ’tis to human kind; - And yet it is so rare, a king - His crown for it had well resigned. - - It is a gift gold cannot buy, - And one which never can be sold; - A gift no mortal can deny, - And one that fades not, nor grows old. - - And while I would not have it spurned, - Such is my heart’s perversity, - Unless I know my gift returned, - Life hath no joy in store for me. - - - - -HAMLIN’S MILL. - - - Brightly the sun that summer day - Upon the charming scene was shining, - And warm the thrifty village lay, - Amid its silent fields reclining. - The river, like a silver thread, - Wound round the hazy, shimmering hill, - Till, plunging o’er the dam, it fled - In eddies down to Hamlin’s Mill. - - Along the pathway, through the grove, - Beneath the shady trees, we hurried. - The birds were twittering above, - While in and out the squirrels scurried. - We took the narrow road which wound - Through clearings that were smoking still; - And soon our merry chat was drowned - Amidst the noise at Hamlin’s Mill. - - We stood within the sunlit room - And watched the busy bobbins turning; - Then gathered round a jangling loom, - The flying shuttle’s secret learning. - Across the mossy flume we crept, - Whose leaky sides their burden spill, - And stood beside the pond, where slept - The giant power of Hamlin’s Mill. - - Beside the ceaseless loom of fate - We stand and watch what it is weaving. - The warp is spun of love and hate, - The woof of merriment and grieving. - But far beyond earth’s noise and dust, - There rules the one stupendous Will, - The power in which His creatures trust, - As in the mill-pond Hamlin’s Mill. - - - - -A BALLADE OF JOY. - - - Dear one, who wast chosen, ere time was made, - The heart of my heart and my wife to be; - Who cam’st, with the gifts of the gods arrayed, - To lighten the labors of life for me; - Ere yet I had looked on the face of thee, - My soul dreamed dreams and awoke and said: - “None other is worthier love than she, - And earth shall be heaven when we are wed.” - - But woe as a burden on man is laid, - And the soul finds its vision not readily. - Between us came many a mocking shade, - That smiled with the smile of my fantasy, - And I thought, can it be I have met with thee? - Then the arrows of truth through the false were sped, - And I heard thy soul murmuring cheeringly, - “The earth shall be heaven when we are wed.” - - Like streams in the hollows of hills that played, - Though sundered by league upon league they be, - That, slipping through tangles of sun and shade, - Meet, mingle and flow to the shoreless sea, - At last my soul met with the soul of thee, - And woes fell from me as leaves fall dead - When winds have wakened the sleeping tree, - And earth became heaven when we were wed. - - -ENVOI. - - And now, though years like the birds may flee, - And death draw nigh us with noiseless tread, - I reek not how soon may the summons be, - For earth became heaven when we were wed. - - - - -REMEMBRANCE. - -(_From the German of Fredrich Matthison._) - - - I think of thee - When through the brake - The nightingales sweet music make. - When dost thou think of me? - - I think of thee - By the shady well, - Under the twilight’s glimmering spell. - Where dost thou think of me? - - I think of thee - With pleasant pain, - With yearning, while the hot tears rain. - How dost thou think of me? - - Oh, think of me - Till in some star - We meet again. However far, - I think of none but thee. - - - - -THE GLOVE. - - - A narrow glen with winding sides, - Bestrewn with rocks and gloomed with trees, - Grey, rolling clouds, chased by the breeze, - A stream, which through the valley glides. - - Among the trees that climb the hill - The eager squirrels scold the crows, - And sharply sound the sudden blows - Of some woodpecker’s greedy bill. - - The blood root, crouching in the grass, - From its protecting broad leaf peers; - The horse tails shake aloft their spears, - Like foemen, at us as we pass. - - Here wandering with a friend I love, - Our speech with sparrow-chatter drowned, - He in the little valley found - An early violet, I a glove. - - The flower grew beside a stone, - And shyly peered above the sod, - While, distant from it not a rod, - The dainty glove lay all alone. - - Some child had drawn it from her hand - To dabble in the sunny spring, - And then, the thoughtless little thing, - Had left it lying on the rand. - - And as I saw the symbols there - Of budding life and blossoming spring, - Arose and from my heart took wing - To heaven a brief and heartfelt prayer: - - O little child, whoe’er thou art, - And in whatever station set, - Be modest, like the violet, - And act in life an earnest part, - - That, as the streamlet by the sun - Is gently lifted to the skies, - Thy soul may unto heaven arise - Whene’er its earthly course is run. - - - - -THE MAGIC BOW. - -(_From the French of Charles Cros._) - - - Rippling low to her dainty feet, - Tress with tress did mingle and meet, - Yellow as ripening August wheat. - - Her voice had an eerie melody, - Like that of an angel or a fay. - Beneath dusk lashes her eyes shone gray. - - He by no rival swain set store, - As valleys through, or mountains o’er, - The maid upon his steed he bore. - - For all the land had held not one - That she in her pride would look upon - To the day she met him, and was undone. - - Love did her fond heart so enchain - That when her lover smiled disdain, - She to sicken and die was fain. - - As she lay dying on his arm, - She said, “Bind thy bow with my locks, to charm - The maid to whom thy heart grows warm.” - - One long, wild kiss, and the maid was dead. - The shimmering aureole round her head - He bound to his bow, as she had said. - - Then as a blind man mournfully - Sweeps his Cremona, so did he, - And went forth, seeking charity. - - And all were thrilled with ecstasy, - For the dead lived within the lay, - And with her songs all hearts did sway. - - The king showered honors on his head; - The dark-eyed queen, to honor dead, - With him by moonlight swiftly fled. - - But when, to please her, he essayed - To play, no more the bow obeyed, - But mournfully did him upbraid. - - And at its plaint the sinful twain - In mid-flight by remorse were slain, - And the dead had her pledge again. - - Her locks that to her dainty feet - Rippling low, did mingle and meet, - Yellow as ripening August wheat. - - - - -AT THE SEASIDE. - - - O sun, with thy ardent glance, - Thou hast made my darling flush! - But the swarthier tints enhance - The charms of her modest blush. - Thou hast lent thy warmth and light - To the gleam of her melting eyes, - Till a glance in their depths so bright - Seems a peep into Paradise. - - O sea, with thy great white arms, - Thou hast stolen my love from me! - Thou hast clasped to thy breast her charms; - She has rested her head on thee. - Thou hast tangled her silken hair, - And kissed her face and her lips-- - Ah! Love, he is false! Beware - Of that spoiler of men and ships! - - - - -THE ORPHANS. - - - Shall walls have pity and man’s heart have none? - Shall walls protect and man refuse to aid? - At Christmas, when our children are arrayed - In furs, shall orphans crouch behind a stone - To hide them from the storm? Is there not one - Will see the outstretched hand of that frail maid, - To whom the baby brother clings, afraid? - Will no ear heed when hunger makes its moan? - - No father’s arm about their forms is thrown - To shield them from distress, no mother’s love - Draws them within the shelter of her breast. - Those tender souls must front the world alone; - But, if Christ came not vainly from above, - Some noble heart will aid them, thus distressed. - - - - -ALADDIN’S LAMP. - - - Aladdin’s lamp of Eastern tale, - Which claimed my simple faith in youth, - Its loss no longer I bewail, - But hold it mine in very truth. - - The geni waits but my command - To raise me, and, as swift as thought, - Bear me abroad, from land to land, - Wherever I would fain be brought. - - Amid the silent northern snows, - Or where Egyptian deserts burn, - Wherever man has been, he goes, - And tells me all I wish to learn. - - He tells me how the stars had birth, - And how their wondrous cycles run, - Or places me beyond the earth, - Unharmed, upon the giant sun. - - Through him I learn what Science knows, - How this vast universe began; - How life, from mean beginnings, rose - High as God’s noblest creature, man. - - On me dawns many a truth profound - About the swinging earth I tread, - That it is one vast burying ground, - The living living through the dead, - - That where once flowed the ocean’s tide, - Now stand the homes of countless souls; - That where once mountains rose in pride, - Billow on foaming billow rolls. - - The geni stems the flood of time, - And bears me almost to its source; - Then as we float, bids scenes sublime - And sad and happy shore our course. - - I see the tower of Babel rise, - With busy builders everywhere, - Up, ever up, towards the skies, - Spearing the azure depths of air. - - I hear a voice from out a cloud, - And see the workmen making signs,-- - How humble God can make the proud! - How easily mar man’s best designs! - - I see the wild Light Tresses fall - In cruel waves on fated Rome, - And in an emperor’s audience hall - I see the jackals make their home. - - Sleek monks I see within their cells, - And knights in burnished armor housed. - I hear the chime of marriage bells - For maids whom death hath long espoused. - - I hear the poet’s stirring strain, - That wins him immortality, - And weep with such as found with pain - Their idol but ignoble clay. - - Writ by the fearless Luther pen, - The words that stirred the world I see; - I hear the tramp of arméd men, - And know that thought, at last, is free. - - The joys and hopes, the griefs and fears, - Defeats and conquests of the race, - Through all the swift, eventful years, - The geni at my wish will trace. - - And though he builds no palace vast - For me, nor gives me queen for bride, - While I am free to all the past, - I ask from him no boon beside. - - - - -SONG. - - - When a maiden’s heart is tender, - And her soul as pure as snow; - When her eyes, with sunny splendor, - Set her countenance aglow; - When her every move discovers - Newer graces without end, - She can win a hundred lovers,-- - Yet may hunger for a friend. - - Pearly teeth and curly tresses, - Ruby lips, in smiles that part, - These will lure a man’s caresses, - Easily enslave his heart; - Yet, when all is said and over, - Even though souls in passion blend, - She has only one more lover, - And may hunger for a friend. - - Blind I am not, no, nor callous; - Beauty hath its charm for me. - Yet would I, beyond life’s shallows, - Push towards the depthless sea. - Friendship’s true, and Love’s a rover, - Love is selfish in the end. - Choose thee, Sweet, whatever lover, - Let me still remain thy friend. - - - - -QUATRAINS. - - -I. - - The oyster turns into a gem - The sand that chafes it long; - My woes, can I not banish them, - I round into a song. - - -II. - - Fear less the villain than the fool. - The villain may be read, - But heaven itself can set no rule - To judge an addled head. - - -III. - - Nurse thou no sorrow, only learn - All that it has to teach, - And lo, a glorious gem shall burn - Upon the brow of each. - - -IV. - - The bard alone immortal is; - In death he liveth still, - And, godlike, with a word of his - Makes deathless whom he will. - - -V. - - Would they but speak who proved but weak - To those who think self strong, - How they would cry, continually, - “Beware the first small wrong!” - - -VI. - -_To Felix Morris._ - - Twin arts are ours, to act and write, - And yours, perhaps, the greater is; - You bring the world before men’s sight, - I can but proffer fantasies. - - -VII. - - Flowers are earth’s resurrection, yet the rocks, - Ere raised in blossoms, first shall fall to dust. - Take comfort, then, O brother, when life mocks - Thine aspirations, as perforce life must. - - -VIII. - - Man loves the ideal and not the maid; - Her he but garlands with hopes and dreams, - And worships, not her in those wreaths arrayed, - But the vision of fancy that then she seems. - - -FOOTNOTE: - - [A] Pronounced Mohavy. - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Snowflake and Other Poems, by Arthur Weir - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SNOWFLAKE AND OTHER POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 53623-0.txt or 53623-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/6/2/53623/ - -Produced by Larry B. 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