As towers the mountain o'er the valleys wide,
So lifts the pillar of the patriot's pride;
And 'neath the shadow of the Conflict stern,
Still brightly may the Christmas hearth-fire burn.
Our greatest and our humblest all are one.
To each, one privilege, one gift is given:
The love of Country—then from sire to son
Preserve our heritage, as our sires have striven.
The past is glorious: the future sure,
If we but labour, and with love endure.
Such joy as Christmas brings, I wish each one.
Let's "carry on"—until the Victory's won.
Theirs is the free unrutted tracts of air,
The clime of cloudland and of boundless space;
From grimy earth they soar to regions rare,
And meet the blue eternal face to face—
Above the clouds; the earth, a swallowed ball.
Lost in the gray abysses far below;
Biding the storm above the whirlwinds thrall,
The Aviators of the Allies go.
Theirs is the flight of eagles, and as they,
They swoop and drive their talons in the foe,
Then wheeling, strike again their crippled prey,
And send him crashing to the earth below.
O'er a city Saturnalian, when the feast was at its height,
Cried the demon of the riot, riding on the howling night.
Cried aloud in gleeful frenzy, "Who would wish to be divine,
When as fiend he reigns the master of unnumbered slaves of wine?"
Swept he o'er the noisome brothel where the Bacchanalians brawled,
Mingled with its maudlin wantons where with libertines they sprawled;
Hovered o'er the wine-room's riot where his dupes carnival held,
While the ribald song's wild chorus on the night's mad frenzy swelled.
Gloated as he perched above them, and his voice rang out in pride—
"Oh, my master! I have triumphed, I, thy fiend of drink," he cried.
"Master thou whose cause I cherish, Master thou who reign'st in hell,
Am I worthy of thy kinship? In thy cause have I done well?
"Fiend of drink am I, remorseless, ruling, worshipped everywhere—
Boon companion of the novice, prop of every wreck's despair.
Moods have I to meet the many, costumes fit for any state,
To the brutalized or polished I can be a fitting mate.
"Where patrician faces gather, clothed am I in bright champagne,
Sparkling gloriously golden, beading to an amorous strain.
Eyes grow bright as lips caress me; fevers burn within the veins;
I repay their love with madness, laughing as I forge their chains.
"Now, in ruby robes translucent, dance I in the goblet bright,—
Wanton of the wine-glass, weaving dreams with mirages bedight.
O'er the wastes of wine I lure men, till on sands of quenchless thirst,
Lo, my red simoom engulfs them, helpless, raving, and accurst!
"Ere the sun-god, swiftly rising, swings his flaming sword of day,
Gin-gowned for the assignation, wait I for my quivering prey,—
Wait I for my faithful lovers, they who crave my morning kiss,
Abject, pleading for my favour, for my warmth, reviving bliss.
"Sweet to me their hast'ning footsteps at the well-remembered hour,
And I sparkle with elation, conscious of my mastering power.
Sweet each lover's supplication for the balm he would obtain;
Like a maiden in her beauty reign I 'midst my servile train.
"Ne'er was queen of story olden wooed as I by mortal man;
Ne'er had king in ages golden court so cosmopolitan;
Not for wealth of my surroundings do they tribute to me pay,
For they love me all as faithful in dim dens where I hold sway.
"What a court is this, my master! Here I watch life's strange parade—
Here I view the grotesque pageant of mankind in masquerade—
Maskers from the grimy army tipple with the titled peer;
Every walk of life commingling, great and lowly, all are here.
"That fine fellow, deep imbibing, with the classic brow and chin,
Was an actor great and famous—sweet it was his love to win.
What a world of fine expression had he in his mobile face!
On the stage great were his triumphs ere I brought him to disgrace.
"He who rends the night with laughter, he with curls of glossy jet,
Wrote a poem of wondrous beauty, and he reigned a social pet
Till I touched his vibrant heart-strings with the madness of desire;
Now he sings no more of beauty, dimmed is his poetic fire.
"Now his songs are dark and gloomy, broken are his symphonies,
And the bright thought halts and falters, glides along,
then stops and flees;
Now he craves but for my kisses, all his hopes are wrapped in me,
Thus, a wreck, he rhymes unreason 'midst his ragged company.
"I have lured the pale religieux from his height of snowy dreams
By the sweet Circean measures of my strange, soul-haunting themes—
Strangled love and filial duty by the witchery of my charms—
Quenched the genius of a million, passion-drowned within my arms.
"From his love of virgin beauty, I have led the trusting swain
Till he sank in my morasses—till he sought her not again;
I have watched her fading, drooping like a rose in chilling dawn,
Waiting for love's warmth that came not, ever paling, sinking wan.
"And unto her heart's slow breaking as she guessed her lover's plight,
I have whispered to her, dreaming of him in the restless night:
'Maiden, of thy lover dreaming, practising thy girlish arts,
I could teach thee subtle secrets, philter give that love imparts.
"'But my joy is in the breaking, not the mending of a heart,
So I'll keep thy truant lover by my wiles from thee apart;
I will drag him down to ruin, into gulfs where misery dwells;
Where I lead he, too, shall follow, by my power that compels.
"'When a wreck he reels through passion, for my charms I'll
take his health,
Goad him down to sin's abysses, steal from him his scanty wealth.
Know, O maiden, this remember, never more shall he be free;
He, thy lover whom thou dream'st of, yet shall kill for love of me.'
"Thus fair womankind I torture, through that love for man they bear,
Till from cheeks the roses vanish, till gray-tinged is raven hair;
While my poison, slowly filtering, stains the fonts of purity,
And they sink by man polluted, tainted to obscurity.
"I am Drink, the fiend remorseless, all that's mortal is my prey;
These mad lovers 'neath me reeling are my playthings of to-day.
Each to-morrow brings new victims, each to-day a grave I fill;
He who loves me truest, fondest, with a demon's joy I kill."
So hell's acolyte satanic, where the tinkling glasses gleamed,
Told the story of his triumphs to that other Master Fiend;
While the laughter, wild, discordant, broke amidst the
streaming lights,
In the nearing midnight hour on that ribald night of nights.
Told how when, in prisons lonely, men, repenting all too late,
Wake in frightful desolation, cursing at their woeful fate;
Wake to awful understanding of hands red with bloody stains,
Wake to hear his voice exultant crying in their clearing brains—
"Mortal, who in drunken frenzy consummated thy red deed,
Now awakened and in terror, now, oh, now I take my meed—
Satiate my hate with gloating, as remorse shrieks in thy brain,
When thy bloodshot eyes protruding read thy doom in that red stain!"
Told of bright homes rent and broken, of sweet maidens downward drawn;
There recited stories sombre of the lives he held in pawn;
Till the bright lamps dimmed and darkened, till each
maudlin wretch sought home,
Leaving, in the darkness gloating, Drink's dread demon throned alone.
You have seen him on the street
Every day,
Heard the shuffle of his feet
On the way,
Heard his piercing voice so shrill,
Calling out with right good will,
Through a ragged, whiskered jaw,
"Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."[2]
All the city knows him well,
For he's queer;
Half a century—quite a spell—
He's been here.
Spent his life 'mong paper boys,
Shared their hardships and their joys,
Winter blast and springtime thaw,
Calling "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
Copper Johnny is his name,
Poor old chap;
He's a cripple with a cane
And a pack.
Selling papers is his trade,
Makes a living without aid,
Never broke but music's law,
Crying "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
There's a kind of wistful look
On his face;
Could we read it as a book
We might trace
Memories of a loved one, sweet,
Her who helps his weary feet,
As to fill Need's hungry maw
He calls "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
Copper Johnny's gray and old,
Partly blind;
And his face is rough in mold,
But it's kind;
And his eyes are blue and pale,
Bleached by many a stormy gale;
Cracked, his voice, with many a flaw,
Calling "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
We have missed him, for his place
None can fill,
And we long to see his face,
But he's ill.
He was strange and old and talked,
Muttered always as he walked.
Strangest newsie one e'er saw,
With "Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."
Maybe Johnny won't get well,
Who can tell!
He's been sick for quite a spell
Since he fell,
Crushed beneath the horses' feet,
As he called upon the street
Through the evening gray and raw,
"Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."
Should God take him up from here,
This I know:
There'll be flowers on his bier,
Not for show;
And the Lord who loves the poor
Will grant Johnny this, I'm sure,
Right to shout 'neath Heaven's law,
"Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."
[1] John McDowell, known as Copper Johnny, for many years a newsboy of Ottawa, was knocked down by a horse near the Russell House, Sparks Street. He was in the hospital when this appreciation was written.
[2] Johnny pronounced Le Temps—"Le Taw".
Ofttimes across the plains of space I gaze,
When Night holds court amid her jewelled train,
And where her fairest handmaid beauteous glows,
I watch to see some signal-fire leap forth
To tell me if his soul's sojourning there;
For in his life I've heard him oft propound
This theory of the purpose of mankind—
The age-old mystery of the whirling spheres:
I bathe within the shoreless seas of space—
My soul floats o'er the billows fathomless,
And everywhere the beacon lights gleam clear
That mark the strands where I shall yet sojourn,
When finished is my visit on earth's shore;
For we are all eternal Argonauts
In hopeful quest of God's own blessed Isle;
Earth but a port upon the blessed way,
Where rest we for a space to trim our sails.
Borne by God's tide, each captain, without chart,
Must breast the unknown sea by faith sustained,
And whither bound ask not. One only knows,
The Omnipresent Pilot man calls God.
O soul of mine, yearn not, hope on, nor fear;
What though the frail-ribbed skiff wherein thou float'st
Sink in the depths unfathomed? Thou shalt live,
And one by one God's infinite islands tread;
For of His wine immortal thou hast drunk,
And blest art thou, His pledge upon thy lips;
Of His red wine enough thy cask contains
To cheer and nourish till life's sojourn ends.
And though thine eyes grow dim with watchfulness
Ere quite the newer harbour breaks to view,
Thy Pilot's hand shall guide thy tiny bark,
Nor yet disturb thy dreamless sleep, until
On glitt'ring sands of some new shore thou'lt wake,
A little child new-robed and wonder-eyed,
Gazing enraptured on that newer dream
Of landscapes rare and shades ineffable,
With eager steps exploring lovely vales
'Midst fair companions sweet as earth e'er knew,
Learning new truths that fancies old dispel,
And in their contemplation quite forget
The times unnumbered thou hast lived and loved
And dreamed fair dreams in other planets old.
The Father's mansion has full many rooms—
Each room a wonder-work, a throbbing star,
Hung with rare paintings from the Master's brush,
So wonderful, so mighty in their power,
That though we ponder them till life's nightfall,
Our souls scarce grasp the beauty of one scene.
O thou, who count'st thy crown as nearly won!
The child grows not o'er-night unto the man.
How hard the labour of the alphabet!
How long the contest 'gainst the icy Pole!
A thousand generations have not solved
The many secrets of one human frame.
Why hopest thou then by one life's little span
To grasp the mystery of a million suns?
The warring doctors, by their long dispute,
Their little knowledge prove to humbler men—
Each holds the secret of the Only Way,
Yet each can prove the other's chart is wrong.
Man in the image of his God was made,
Mark, then, how man considers earth's dull drones—
Will God in courts of Heaven then give place
That myriads may ever sing His name,
Sitting with jewelled harps in lazy ease?
Not so! God's plan is one of ceaseless aim,
And He himself unceasingly directs.
Have we not seen His fiery messengers,
Hard riding on some planet-rounding course
Across the ranges of infinity?
O Argonaut, the journey yet is long,
And countless worlds are thine yet to explore!
None know the hour of starting—then prepare
And let thy bark clean-decked put out to sea;
But yesterday a million ships left port,
But yesterday a million more sailed in;
Still thou with heart heroic face thy tasks—
Faith in thy Pilot keep—He knows the way—
And bravely through the mystery sail on,
With trust in Him. 'Twill be revealed some day.
Where the wilderness holds kingdom, where the primal fastness broods,
I, the rock, within my stratum, lay amid the solitudes,
Patient lay throughout the ages, part of the primeval plan,
Till the voice of progress called me to the purpose of the man.
From afar he came invading, pressing onward unafraid,
Braved the spirits of the vastness where they met him grim arrayed,
Piercing past my rugged outposts, hewing down my mighty guards,
Crying I, the earth god, seeketh, and my purpose none retards.
In the bosom of the mountain, there he found me, laid me bare,
Found me fitting for his purpose, found me worthy past compare,
With strange instruments attacked me, drilled and blasted me apart,
From the wilderness he bore me, from my mountain mother's heart.
Lifted me with strong devices, dragged me down the mountain trails,
Barged me down the rushing rivers, speeded me on gleaming rails,
Captive bore me to the city where I rose above the land,
For the purpose of the builders who an edifice had planned.
On the plateau by the river, 'neath the shadow of the tower,
There the purpose was unfolded of the man's creative power.
To the northward, the Laurentians purple-tinted cast their haze,
Such the setting of my future, such the vista for my gaze.
Came the toilers, swiftly shaping, blasting, through the day
and night.
Delving for my deep foundation by the city's vista'd site,
Came the long and slender girders all the iron, measured, bored,
Clanging protest as they piled it, while the blasting ripped
and roared.
Circling swung the straining derricks, shrieked the engine's
shrilly note,
As by magic to their places joint and girder seemed to float;
Stone on stone they laid and set me, tier on tier my structure rose,
On the plateau by the river, sweeping seaward as it flows.
They have hewn me to being, they have shaped with skilful hands,
And the chateau on the plateau o'er the river proudly stands,
Deemed a miracle of beauty, classic, stately, and refined,
Reared as fitting habitation for the leaders of mankind.
Though I stand a thing of grandeur, stone on stone majestic piled,
I am brooding on the open, I am dreaming of the wild.
They would tame me with their graces, they would lure me
with their songs,
From the olden memoried places where my stony heart belongs.
Though the wealthy loll within me and on luxury they feast,
Though they robe me and bedeck me with the weavings of the East,
Though my floors with rugs be matted, that their feet may
silent tread,
I am steel and stone and iron, and my soul is mountain-bred.
When the wind drives from the mountain far beyond the river shore,
All my being throbs in gladness to the music of its roar,
All the primal that's within me, all the hewn and chiselled stone,
Thrills in greeting to the booming of its mighty chested tone.
And I see the pine-tressed mountains where they taunt the raging gale,
As it roars adown the gulches to the cities of the vale,
And the bed within its shadows where for centuries I lay,
Beckons for the lost one, dwelling where the humans hold their sway.
When the night her mask of sable presses on the earth's warm face,
And when, satined and bejewelled, lovely women do me grace,
When the violins are throbbing out the passion of the dance,
Then I ponder on the future, and the destiny of chance.
I the chateau, I the splendid, shall I crumble and decay,
Lichened guard the shining river when the years have passed away,
Or a comforter still flourish, guarding humans from the blast,
When a century has rounded, when a hundred years have passed.
Time the jester, time the judger, time the measurer of things,
Time shall weigh the builders' cunning, as the earth to eastward swings;
They have hewn me to being, they have shaped with skilful hands,
And the chateau on the plateau o'er the river proudly stands.[*]
[*] This poem was written around the building of the Chateau Laurier, Ottawa. From the Chateau a fine view of the Laurentian Mountains can be had.
Snowflakes and happy bells,
And hopeful words sincere,
And hands that grip, while from the lips
Fall words of Christmas cheer.
Snowflakes and shining eyes,
And the joy that giving gives,
That opes heart-gates in love, nor hates
A single thing that lives.
Snowflakes and prattle sweet,
Heart music and soft chimes,
And stories rare where friends compare
The present with past times.
Snowflakes and leaden skies,
And men in prison cells,
That make their moans to cold gray stones,
Nor hear thy chimes, O bells.
Snowflakes and hearts that break
In longing for sweet home,
And faces worn and passion torn
That brood uncheered alone.
Snowflakes and tolling bells,
And the slow tread on the snow,
The sobbing hushed, the teardrops brushed,
And saddened voices low.
Snowflakes, and o'er it all
The voice of One divine
Calls low and sweet, "Be glad, nor weep,
For rich and poor are Mine.
"Snowflakes—O ye who joy,
Remember My commands:
Clothe ye and feed all those in need
In this and other lands.
"Snowflakes—O prisoned ones,
Grieve not, but kneel and pray;
For tidings glad I bring the sad:
I ransomed men this day.
"Snowflakes—Rejoice, O earth!
None need this day be sad
That read aright My message bright,
That shines to make men glad."
Somewhere in the Book 'tis written how God had a chosen race,
One he favoured, while the others could not get to see His face,
Not a smile of recognition, nor a momentary look,
And 'twas taken for the gospel, for 'twas written in the Book.
It's been thundered down the ages how Jehovah, in His wrath,
Swept His wayward, helpless children from the favoured people's path,
With the whirlwinds of His power, unto woeful death and flame,
That some despot might keep reigning, razing cities in his name.
Some have pondered as they heard it, and have wondered as they read,
If the language of the big Book told the truth in all it said;
For their souls have heard strange music, and their eyes have
seen a light,
And somehow His chosen people seems the whole world, black and white.
All the globe, with all its peoples, all its races, all its creeds,
With its wise and unwise sinners, and its strange and varied breeds;
For the sunlight tells the story, and the rain reveals the truth,
That our Father's universal, as He was in days of Ruth.
Not a God of wrath and battles to a chosen few confined,
But a Father omnipresent, taking care of all mankind;
And the Deity they worship, and the God to whom they pray,
Never slaughtered His poor children in the way some chapters say.
Have you seen the sunlight gleaming on a summer day in June,
Spreading broadcast texts of glory, while the birds hozannas tune?
How it floods the heart with gladness, and what charity it brings,
'Till all hate melts to forgiveness in the greater good of things.
Have you seen it kiss the foreheads of the mourners as they weep?
Have you watched it bathe the outcast as he lays forlorn asleep?
O, the blessed sun from Heaven shines alike on bad and good;
Read the lesson of the sunshine, then will He be understood.
Have you seen the falling raindrops, like a blessing glad and sweet,
On the rock and on the meadow, on the thistle and the wheat?
What a sermon's in the downpour falling out of God's own hand!
Read the lesson of the rainfall, as it nourishes the land.
Maybe they're not strong on logic, maybe they have much to learn,
But it seems if Love created, Hate cannot creation spurn;
And the rain like benediction and the sunshine glad and bright,
Fills them with a hope unbounded and a faith that all is right.
Through vicissitude and conflict, as this old world wheels and turns,
Ever searching, tearful, calling, man for his Creator yearns;
And I know the Father's watching with a love so great and wide
That He never could be happy with a pleading soul outside.
Dark-orbed dear little miss,
Torn are your shoes, and the clothes
Bagged and thin that you wear;
How you live nobody knows.
Strange little waif of the slums,
Thrifty and business-like, too,
Plying your trade with the rest
Of the ragged, outcast crew;
Rushing about in the throng,
Calling your wares in the cold;
O child, such a heart as yours
Is made of God's purest gold!
Brave little buffeted ship,
Battered and blown in life's gale,
Where is your port in the storm?
To what refuge do you sail?
Born of some drab of the street
Down where the red beacons burn,
May God guide ever your way—
Free from sin's shoals may you turn.
Where do you live—'neath the street,
Or attic above the stair?
Where'er it be, little maid,
My heart goes out to you there.
Some pass who turn a deaf ear
To your shrill voice when you call;
But there's One hears, never fear,
Whose love is greater than all.
He alone hears your low sob,
Lonely at night in your bed,
With none to kiss you to sleep
Or smooth the curls of your head.
Sometimes in dreams do you see
Visions of dainties high piled?
Sometime may that dream be true,
Tired-out, motherless child.
O mothers, kissing to rest,
Praying to God o'er your dears,
Pray for these waifs of the world,
Unmothered in their young years.
Pray, too, that on that dread day
When judgments fall on earth's sons,
Censure-free we then may stand,
Uncharged by these little ones.
When for deeds done in the flesh
Each soul its place is assigned,
Pray no child may accuse you
Of being cold or unkind.
One passed you last night at dusk,
One whom the world brands with shame;
Say, was it then all her fault?
God, who knows, may not so blame.
Once as this child of the street
She strove for bread, pure of heart,
Till hope died in her young breast,
When mankind failed in its part.
And now if sinning she goes,
Fighting her battle alone,
Remember, she asked for bread,
And the world gave her a stone.
Dark is the world with its griefs,
But bright is joy's pathway wide,
And Sorrow smiles through her tears
When Charity walks by her side.
Derelicts lost in the dark,
Strange ships that pass in the night,
Guided by Love's lamp aglow,
God's harbour find by its light.
ON THE OCCASION OF A DEPARTMENTAL BANQUET
To every branch of this great tree,
That shelters you and shelters me,
Let's quaff a toast, and with a song,
Drink to the King—may he live long.
With quip and jest, with speech and tale,
In fellowship let us regale.
Here's to our chief! here's to each soul!
Toast with a will, fill high the bowl!
To comrades present, absent friends,
Drink while the curling smoke ascends;
And then one crowning toast we'll raise
To woman and her gentle ways.
O! lovely ladies, you who wait
For tardy husbands homing late;
I crave you, by your fair renown,
Forgive all these who here sit down.
So ends the feast, and if I heard
The twitter of the morning bird,
What matter, we have known good cheer—
Good-bye, old friends, until next year.
YEAR 1909
'Ees a-going down to London town, my lord as lives on the 'ill,
And 'e leaves to-day, the folks do say, to vote 'gainst the
Budget Bill.
It be now a score of years or more since 'es left 'is
'igh-walled seat,
But 'es going away, for 'ells to pay and the Welshman must be beat.
It do seem queer 'is leavin' 'ere, and I'm doctorin' for the gout,
For 'tween countin' rents and pounds and pence 'es never gone
much about.
It's the Welshman's scheme that spoiled his dream, it's
something about the land,
So 'es off, my lord, to protect his 'oard from the bloomin'
hupstart's 'and.
They be askin' gold for the fleet, I'm told, and they only ask
what's fair,
But 'im up there with 'is lordly air and wantin' to pay 'is share.
Well, I don't think much about law and such, but this I 'as to say,
If the people's right, and it comes to a fight, 'is lordship
will 'ave to pay.
Lor' bless the fleet, she's 'ard to beat, and she allus has been
our pride,
An' I'd shout for joy like a Devon boy, if I could but see her ride
Out o'er the sea as she used to be, the queen of the worldwide main,
With her cheerin' tars, and her bristlin' spars, and honour
without a stain.
It's twenty years since the 'Ouse of Peers 'as seen 'im, and is
it right
That the people's will 'is kind can kill, and do it all in a night?
'E ain't been stirred like this, we 'eard, since the days of
Gladstone's bill,
But I'll bet my forge 'im they calls George will win, and I 'opes
'e will.
Because you love the fragrant weed, good friend,
This honest pipe in fellowship we send;
A true companion that has blessed mankind,
'Twill solace bring of peace to heart and mind.
'Tis hewed from wood of purest briar strain,
'Tis earthborn, nursed by sunshine, wind, and rain;
'Tis forest bred, a child of solitude,
And thus to lonely hearts 'tis drink and food.
Fill it, and to your mind it will conjure
Visions of joy to be that long endure.
Fill it, it asks no more than it can hold,
And 'twill repay your faith a thousandfold.
Light it, and when it feels the flaming kiss
'Twill throb and glow, returning bliss for bliss;
Light it, and it will answer to your touch,
No sweetheart's kiss will ere repay so much.
Smoke it, and as the azure wreaths arise,
'Twill soothe as sweet as sweetest lullabys.
Smoke it, and it will bring a strange delight,
A constant joy by daytime or by night.
Smoke it, it asks you but attention's wage,
And, like good wine, 'twill sweeten with old age;
Friends may turn foes and fortune fair may frown,
But pipes are friends that seldom turn us down.
Thus unto you this simple gift we make,
Accept it, and likewise our friendship take;
And when it weaves its aromatic spell,
May it recall those friends who love you well.
The sunlight beams,
The lily leans
Her sweet pale cheek to meet the breeze,
The garden glows,
The soft breeze blows
And shakes the blossoms on the trees.
The lilacs bloom,
The rivers croon
To willows bending for their kiss,
And scented flowers
Laugh in the showers
That tell of summer's coming bliss.
Again aglow
The roses blow,
Like rubies in the dewy morn;
The world, long bare,
Lets loose her hair,
And million-gemmed is beauty born.
O, wondrous change,
To mortals strange!
But yesterday 'twas cold and drear;
Some magic hand
Hath touched the land,
And, lo, the happy spring is here!
O, Master, we
Give praise to Thee;
Thou answerest kindly when we pray,
And thus is wrought
The boon we sought—
The wondrous miracle of May.
In summer, when the rising sun with keen and flashing ray,
Flings arrows at retreating night, and ushers in the day,
When out from every nook and glade the frightened shadows creep,
And scamper off to caverns dark, when life awakes from sleep.
The gentle sunbeams, kiss the dewy teardrops of the night
From off the eyelids of the flowers, with whisp'ring soft and light,
Then stirs my heart, with yearnings sweet
Is thrilled as from above,
Then would I worship at the feet
Of you, of you, my love.
In summer, when the fragrant earth basks in the shimmering glare
Of noontide warmth, and drowsy hum of insects fills the air,
When bashful flowers their glories hide amid the grasses tall,
And nature her siesta takes in hushed and langorous thrall,
When sparkling streamlets through the dells and o'er the mosses croon,
And birds and breezes fold their wings within the arms of June,
Then stirs my heart, with yearnings sweet
Is thrilled as from above,
Then would I slumber, rest, and dream
With you, with you, my love.
In summer, when the last faint rays from western sky has fled,
When earth wraps round her evening's cloak and day has gone to bed,
When moonlight glinting through the trees fantastic patterns trace,
And starry lamps illuminate the corridors of space,
When shining morn and burning day within the night's cool arms,
Rest from the pageant of the day, forgetful of their charms,
Then stirs my heart, with yearnings sweet
Is thrilled as from above,
Then for eternity I pray,
With you, with you, my love.
She stood in maiden loveliness serene,
Of fawn-like grace, and beauty rare of face,
Fair prey I deemed, for I had but to lean
To kiss her or to hold in my embrace.
And yet I paused, I hardly knew the why,
I said she, as the others, is fair game;
No guardian stood above her but the sky,
And yet I paused, the beast within me tame.
Her pure eyes fronted mine so unafraid,
And in their depths dwelt such a wondrous charm,
It seemed to wrap a glory round the maid,
That banished evil and the power to harm.
And somehow there the evil in me died,
As in a dream afraid I seemed to stand,
I am unworthy, all my being cried,
And yet she smiled, nor could I understand.
Days passed, once more beneath the sky,
As one enchanted, I beside her walked,
Drinking the freshness of her spirit high,
In a new world that blossomed as she talked.
"How beautiful the bird's song is!" she said,
And, lo, the singing came surpassing sweet,
"See how the flowers bloom all rosy red!"
I looked, and saw them springing at our feet.
The breezes soft their peaceful preludes played
Along the glistening harp-strings of the grass,
I bowed my head as penitent that prayed,
The miracle of love had come to pass.
Love from his homeland hillsides led him forth,
A willing captive, to a foreign land,
Nor looked he either east or west or north,
But followed where she led him by the hand.
How strong he was in all that men hold good,
How fair to view in manly grace and form!
Yet as a child, against her maidenhood,
The castle of his heart she took by storm.
O lady, golden-haired and blue of eye,
Fair English beauty with the cheeks of rose,
Dost thou afar in moonlit gardens sigh,
And dream of him as evening shadows close?
Dost thou oft weep with troubled heart and brain,
Between each letter's ever-length'ning wait?
Ah, weep no more; he will not come again—
No more will he unlatch thy garden gate.
For eyes of night have pierced him to the core,
A forest maiden sings his child to rest.
He has forgotten, and will come no more—
Another head he pillows on his breast.
E'en now, perhaps, to some sweet forest song,
With rhythmic stroke he paddles her along
O'er some smooth lake that mirrors cloudless skies,
Deep as the love that dwells in her dark eyes.
Perchance ere now, in some green forest glade,
A home for her he's built, a cabin made,
Where sunshine greets them with its morning kiss,
And wakes them to a new day's perfect bliss.
'Tis o'er, thy dream; his ways and thine divide,
The sterile plains of memory grow more wide;
Love claims its own, and thou must pay the cost—
A dark-orbed maid has won what thou hast lost.
O Love, that blossoms on the desert sands
As sweet as in the richly gilded room,
That knows no age and blesses in all lands,
And strews upon the world its lovely bloom,
Where spring the fountains of thy mystic brew
That thrills alike the peasant maid and queen,
That flowers hearts with drops of wondrous dew
On gale-swept shores, as where the roses dream?
Give me the breath of dewy morns,
The stirring chase, the hunter's horns,
The scent of roses 'mid the thorns
In all their beauty dreaming.
Give me the shining fields so sweet,
Where sun and shadow love to meet;
The sickles swinging through the wheat,
While golden sunlight's streaming.
Give me the flower-jewelled hills—
A love-song that with rapture thrills,
That lifts the heart above earth's ills,
And gives to life new meaning.
Give me the hush of quiet eves,
The sleepy note amid the leaves,
God's calm, sweet slumber that relieves,
While starry lamps are gleaming.
Give me a woman sweet and true
To have and hold life's journey through,
And love like sunshine ever new
In bright eyes softly beaming.
Give these, the world may have the rest;
The heart's content the heart that's blest;
Ah, gold is bright, but these are best!
I'll ask no more, I'm deeming.
Think not 'tis death because so cold earth lies,
Wrapped in her snowy shroud of billowed white,
For when the tears of springtime kiss her brow
Her violet eyes will open wide and sweet,
And unseen hands will robe her wondrously,
Weaving with garlands all her tresses fair.
Again her cheek with blushing rose will glow,
And sighs sweet-scented will her bosom stir,
And radiant in her sunny maidenhood,
With ripples of sweet laughter she will roam,
Scattering auroral gifts of flow'ry bloom,
Till all mankind shall worship at her feet.
I haunt again those unforgotten ways
Where once we walked in dear remembered days;
And throbbing earth, the streams and skies so blue,
Call with my heart in longing, dear, for you.
I see thee sad with every wind that grieves,
Behold thy cheeks in autumn's blushing leaves;
Thy laugh I hear when come the rippling rills,
Sparkling and gay adown the grassy hills.
Ah, it is love that sees alone thy form
In every rose that doth the vale adorn!
Ah, it is love when all the summer sky
Seems but reflected beauty from thine eye!
I hear thy voice in cadences so sweet,
When birds that love in woody places meet;
Thy loving smile I see revealed again
In every sunburst following the rain.
When o'er the land soft steals the breath of June,
And happy birds within the treetops tune,
Then hand-in-hand again to love's sweet lays
I walk with thee as in the olden days.
The strands of gold, the sun-god's gleaming hair,
Is as the light within thy tresses rare;
The white-sailed moon-ship gliding on the night
Has gleaned her beauty from thy forehead white.
But food of dreams love cannot satisfy,
Nor mem'ries feed the starving heart; thus I,
Love-lorn, with weary wings toward heaven soar,
Beating for entrance 'gainst God's golden door.
Longing for thee, earth's ways in dreams I tread,
By thy white hand along its pathways led.
Counting the hours till on celestial strands
I'll kiss again thy lips, thine eyes, thy hands.
Say, have you met her?
I can't forget her,
Fair as the lily, her name;
She with the eyes blue,
Of summer sides' hue,
With her the world I would gain.
'Twas on a May day—
Oh, such a gay day!
Sweet singing birds filled the trees;
Fair Spring went laughing
To the gay chaffing
Of her wayward love, the breeze.
I, too, was merry,
Heart light and airy,
Knew not I'd lose it that day;
Cupid was stirring,
His arrow whirring,
And my poor heart in the way.
She smiled so naively,
Glanced I so bravely,
Unthinking quite of the cost;
On that spring morning,
Done without warning,
I and my poor heart were lost.
'Twas a sweet losing;
Had I the choosing,
Gladly again she might take;
All I love dearest,
All I hold nearest,
Little would be for her sake.
Yet is the gladness
Mingled with sadness.
Did she but smile to betray?
Loving, I'm hoping,
In darkness groping,
Waiting her love to bring day.
Maid of moods like April ranging;
Tearful, then to laughter changing:
Luring sweetly, then estranging;
I have wondered if thou art
Just a playful nymph coquetting
With poor mortals, and forgetting
How thou woundest, nor regretting
That thou didst their wounds impart.
By thy body shapely, slender,
By thy glances languid, tender,
Thou hast made me thy defender,
Thou hast nestled in my heart.
By thy cheeks as rose-leaves tinted,
By thy hair from sunbeams minted,
Thou hast taken love unstinted,
Robbed me quite without return.
Each new mood but makes thee dearer,
Makes my passion stronger, clearer,
Makes me long to come the nearer,
Makes me love thee more and more.
When I see thine eyes compelling,
Dark with passion and rebelling
To thy bosom's quickened swelling,
Then I would thy love implore.
Or when from thy window glancing,
Bright they shine with laughter dancing,
They but make thee more entrancing,
If that could be, than before.
O thou April maiden, weaving
Spells alluring and deceiving,
Wilt thou some day me be leaving?
Wilt thou yet my true love spurn!
I have loved thee fondly, madly,
I would win thee, wed thee gladly,
In thy snare I'm tangled sadly,
'Tis thy love must set me free.
I have loved thee unabated
From a time now long undated;
In a desert land I've waited,
Thou must my oasis be.
Give me love, for time is pressing,
Doubt's red sands grow hot, distressing;
Send thy love's rain, sweet caressing;
There is none can save but thee.
Dear, the sands are round me burning,
Thus to thee, sweetheart, I'm turning;
For thy saving love I'm yearning,
Say thou lov'st me, or I burn.
I turn my face from the city, the City of Siren Songs,
I am going back to the prairie to where my heart belongs;
Her smile is true and gentle, there is peace in her ample breast,
And I know there's a welcome waiting with my love of the golden West.
It is years since I watched the shadows across her bosom roll,
Ere the luring voice of the city my boyish senses stole;
It is long since with swelling bosom I watched the sunbeams glide
Or the waving, far-flung reaches of her hills and valleys wide.
I am done with the sham and glitter where the huddled millions toil,
Lured with the money mirage, 'mid the din and the mad turmoil;
I am sick of the man-made temples that gloss the reeking sod,
So I take my course to the open, to the glorious temples of God.
I hear the voice of the mountains, they are singing the
oldtime strains,
The lure of the land is o'er me, the lure of the virgin plains;
The voice of rivers murmur, "Come back to your boyhood home",
So I turn my face from the city, I am going back to my own.
PRESENTED TO MY FATHER, ON THE OCCASION OF THE
CELEBRATION OF HIS EIGHTIETH CHRISTMAS, 1914
Born of the noblest impulse of the heart,
Love comes with joy to worship at a shrine,
Seeking the dear one, yearning to impart
A benediction drawn from wells divine.
So with a heartfelt tribute to your worth,
We gather round you in your life's decline,
To honour you, the author of our birth,
And ask a blessing on our lives and thine.
Rich is your life with honest effort filled,
And though your path with trials was beset,
You bravely fought and counselled and instilled
The noblest, and our hearts do not forget.
It is not wealth that marks life's crowning goal,
Nor power and place, nor tawdry pomp and fame;
But worth and true nobility of soul,
The white-robed years, the fair, untarnished name.
This is your priceless heritage, we hold,
May we bequeath it thus from sire to son,
Down generations, while the years unfold;
This is your children's wish, their prayer, each one,
And from this loving cup may ever flow
The vintage of our hearts, a glowing stream,
Winding beside you, singing soft and low
Of tender memories, with love adream.
We pledge you in its bowl with gladsome song,
And toast the happiness of days to be.
May life be joyous, and your years be long,
And every hour from care and ills be free.
T. H. BEST PRINTING CO. LIMITED, TORONTO