The Canadian Pupert Brooke
A Canadian Twilight
and Other Poems of War
and of Peace
By
Bernard Freeman Trotter
With an Introduction by
W. S. W. McLay, M.A.
Professor of English and Dean in Arts, McMaster University,
Toronto
MCCLELLAND
PUBLISHERS
& STEWART, LIMITED
TORONTO
A CANADIAN TWILIGHT
AND OTHER POEMS OF
WAR AND OF PEACE
1 C.T.
BERNARD FREEMAN TROTTER
A Canadian Twilight
and Other Poems of War
and of Peace
By
Bernard Freeman Trotter
Second Lieutenant, Eleventh Leicesters, Killed in
Action, in France, May 7, 1917
With an Introduction by
W. S. W. McLay, M.A.
Professor of English and Dean in Arts, McMaster University,
Toronto
MCCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART
PUBLISHERS :-: : - : TORONTO
COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1917
BY MCCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART, LIMITED
TORONTO
First Edition, November, 1917.
Second Edition, December, 1917,
Third - Edition, March, 1920.
PRINTED IN CANADA
Since the Author did not live to gather his verses
together for publication in book form, upon others has
fallen the double task of selecting these poems from the
much larger number which he wrote, and of arranging
them as they are here presented. Responsibility in
these matters is in no wise attributable to the Author.
A number of the poems have appeared in The Cana
dian Magazine, St. Nicholas League, Western Field,
Munsey s Magazine, The Editor, Harper s Magazine,
The Acadia Athenaeum, and The McM aster Monthly.
For permission to reprint them acknowledgments are
due to the Editors.
It is here also desired to thank Professor W. S. W.
McLay of McMaster University for his kindness in
writing the introduction to this volume.
T. T.
Toronto, July 7, 1917.
\
To "LouiE AND ALF"
AND ALL WHO LOVED HIM THIS LITTLE BOOK
IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED
"And so I sing the poplars: and when I come
to die
I will not look for jasper walls, but cast about
my eye
For a row of windblown poplars against an
English sky."
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 11
WAR POEMS
To the Students of Liege 27
A Canadian Twilight 28
Dreams 30
To Esther 32
The Poplars 34
A Kiss 36
An April Interlude 1917, 38
Id Repose 40
THE CLAN OP THE WATERS 45
CALIFORNIA POEMS
Altars 55
Song of the Earth-Mother to the West Wind 56
The Violet s Home 57
A Ride by the Sea 59
Good-Night 62
The Garden of Graves 63
To Britta 64
The Grey-Robed Child of the Sea 65
At Miramar 66
Evening 68
Ingeborg : An Elegy 69
OTHER POEMS
The Log-Boom 75
9
PAGE
The Songs We Need 77
Winter Nocturne 78
March 79
To Mother 80
The Vision Splendid 81
"Oh! the lure of a Summer s Day . . " 83
Translation from Leuthold 85
Translation from Heinrich Heine 86
The Supreme Moment 87
The Road to Tartary 88
Makers and Menders 91
My Inn 94
Smoke 97
The Victor 101
The Passing 103
Margaret 105
A Christmas Fantasy 107
Morning Prayer 108
SELECTIONS FROM JUVENILE VERSES
Autumn Leaves 113
The Flames 114
The Wood-Land Spirit 115
The Goblin of Elfindale 117
A Lad and A Lass 119
The Queen of my Heart 121
My Dad an 1 122
Blomidon 124
Friends in the Forest 126
10
INTRODUCTION
Bernard Freeman Trotter was killed in action in
France on May 7th, 1917. By his early death he was
only twenty-six Canada lost a brave soldier and one
of the most promising of her younger poets. Those
who knew him best may be pardoned if they link
him in their thought with Rupert Brooke and Alan
Seeger. As the former died for England in the
Aegean, and the latter, an American, gave his life
for France at the Somme, so Bernard Trotter laid
himself on the altar of heroic and unselfish sacrifice
for his native land and the sacred cause for which
the Empire fights. Without claiming for him equality
with either of these "inheritors of unfulfilled renown"
in respect of promise or achievement, one may justly
say that, like them, he was a true poet, dowered with
love of beauty and a quick sense of her manifold ap
paritions, and possessed of a native gift for the expres
sion of poetic thought and feeling in musical rhythms.
Cut off in his youthful prime he has left only a slender
sheaf of verse, but enough to prove that he had the
authentic singing note of the born poet. The purpose
of the present writer, however, is not to give a critical
estimate of his poetry, but, with the sympathy the sad
circumstances manifestly demand, to record the facts
of his life and death and to point out the influences
that shaped his character and called forth his powers.
Bernard Freeman Trotter was born in Toronto on
11
June 16th, 1890, the son of Rev. Professor Thomas
Trotter of McMaster University and Ellen M. Free
man Trotter. When he was five years old the family
moved to Wolfville, Nova Scotia, where his father
became President of Acadia University. There for
ten impressionable years his soul had a fair seed-time
in a home of generous culture amid the lovely scenery
of the Cornwallis Valley and the storied land of Evan-
geline. The blue waters of Minas Basin, the towering
bulk of picturesque Cape Blomidon, and the grey hills
of Cumberland in the distance were daily before his
eyes, while from a neighboring ridge a perfect view
could be had of the enchanting valley of the Gasper-
eau. Many a happy hour he spent whipping that
stream for speckled trout. Wild flowers were plenti
ful, especially in early spring, when the trailing arbu
tus could be found in shy woodsy places. Later in
the year miles and miles of pink apple blossoms sup
plied a feast of colour and fragrance, and in the
autumn the gorgeous glory of the leaves was indeed
a "vision splendid." Inevitably such scenes fostered
his nascent delight in earth s loveliness and gave
him an impulse to poetic utterance. His first verses,
written at the age of fourteen, were an attempt to
describe a sunset even more exquisite than usual.
The "Juvenile Verses" in the present volume were the
product of these early years.
12
He received the greater part of his preparatory ed
ucation at the Horton Collegiate Academy, Wolfville,
but completed it at Woodstock College, Woodstock,
Ontario, entering the senior year in 1906 and matri
culating into McMaster University in 1907 at the age
of seventeen. In view of his physical frailty the doc
tors advised a visit to California. A three years stay
there proved beneficial to his health and exerted a fruit
ful influence on the growth of his poetic powers. In
the Montecito Valley, with magnificent mountains on
the one hand and the Pacific Ocean on the other, he
once more found himself in scenes that fed his eager
appetite for beauty. The first winter was spent on a
lemon ranch with his brother Reginald, and the other
two were devoted to teaching, first as a tutor to a small
boy in a private family and later as instructor in a select
school for boys.
For a youthful poet, with an increasingly ardent
love of nature and an insistent impulse towards self-
expression, the conditions of his life were ideal. His
work was light and left much leisure for life out of
doors. He tramped, swam, and rode a great deal,
finding keen delight in galloping over the sands on a
swift steed that was always at his disposal. One
such experience he caught and vividly limned in the
resounding lines of "A Ride by the Sea." Beautiful
friendships, too, were his, which left a deposit of sweet
13
memories in his soul, as may be gathered from the
sonnets "To Esther." He gave much time to the
study of literature. Feeling modestly conscious of
some poetic power, he put himself under rigorous dis
cipline to attain command of the technique of verse.
His note-books show how persistently he strove to cul
tivate his art. Altogether these three years in the West
were a very happy period in his short life. In later
days California always wore for him the shining
colours of romance. He cherished hopes of returning,
and just before going to the War received the offer of
an attractive position there but unhesitatingly put it by
in order to follow the path of duty.
In 1910 he came back to Canada and entered
McMaster University. Though he was much stronger
than when he went away, the state of his health made
watchful care imperative and he therefore resolved
to spend five years in proceeding to his degree. He
made a brilliant record as a student, especially in
English literature, in which he was recognized by his
fellows as easily first. His critical essays, notably
one on Browning s "Childe Roland," were little master
pieces of insight and appreciation and expression. He
took a prominent part in undergraduate activities, and
for one year was editor of the McMaster University
Monthly, in which a number of his verses first appeared.
On one occasion, when a divisive and artificial agita-
14
tion had sprung up, he wrote about it with such good-
humoured sanity as to contribute materially to the
restoration of good feeling. He gratefully took full
advantage of the opportunities for intellectual culture
afforded by the college course, but amid the pressure
of lectures and examinations and social distractions he
was able, as the verses entitled "My Inn" show, to
escape into a tranquil world of imagination where he
nourished his young spirit with high thoughts and
beautiful dreams. He wrote much and began to re
ceive a measure of recognition. He was greatly en
couraged when "The Road to Tartary" was accepted
by Harper s Magazine. All his vacations were spent
in northern Ontario. With rowboat and tent and
light camp outfit he explored the Maganatawan River
and on the banks of Lake Cecebe discovered a site for
a summer home for his parents and the family. A cot
tage in the Calif ornian style furnished with an artistic
fire-place now stands there as a mark of his taste as a
designer and practical capacity as a builder. For five
summers he lived in closest contact with Mother
Earth from May to October, delighting to listen to
"the mellow wind among the pines" and to
"The water washing on the lonely crags,
The evening call of loon and whip-poor-will."
There he saw great rafts of logs which had been
floated down the river, a sight which his transform-
15
ing imagination wrought up into an impressive picture
in "The Log Boom."
At the outbreak of the War, Bernard was just about
to enter his senior year at college. He promptly joined
the Canadian Officers Training Corps, and drilled
assiduously while completing his course for the degree
of B.A., which he obtained in May, 1915. Though
he was willing to enlist for active service, a commission
with the Canadian Forces seemed unattainable and his
capacity to undergo the hardships of life in the ranks
was questionable. The title poem of the present
volume is a sincere expression of how repugnant to
him were his apparent "ignoble ease and peaceful
sloth," and of how his spirit chafed at the bars of his
physical weakness. In imagination he lived in France,
but seeing no immediate prospect of following his
heart thither he entered the University of Toronto in
October, 1915, to pursue graduate study in English
literature. Shortly afterwards a call came for Cana
dian university men to apply for commissions in the
Imperial Army, and to this he responded with joyful
alacrity. After an initial disappointment, he was fin
ally chosen and with high heart sailed for England in
March, 1916.
Upon his arrival he at once went into training, for
a short time at Shorncliffe but mainly at Oxford, where
he was billeted at Keble College. To listen to Shelley s
16
lark and to tread the ground haunted by Arnold s
Scholar Gipsy were the happy fulfillment of his youth
ful dream. He had scant time for poetry, but one of
the many English scenes that sank into his heart evok
ed the melodious triple rhymes of "The Poplars." In
due course he qualified for a commission and by a
stroke of good fortune was assigned to the Leicester
Regiment as a second lieutenant. His father was born
in Leicestershire and members of other branches of the
family were still living in various parts of the country.
It was a joy to Bernard to seek out the tiny village of
Thurlaston, his father s birthplace, and to share the
hospitality of his English relatives, into whose affec
tions he won an easy way by his obvious graces. Now
that he is gone, it is a consolation to his parents and
loved ones to remember that it was his privilege to
spend some of his last days in the pleasant places of
England, and to receive kindly ministrations from his
own kith and kin.
About the middle of December he crossed over to
France, "quite well in body and restful in mind." He
was attached to a Pioneer Battalion, and during the
first four months saw some active service, repairing
trenches and consolidating after attacks, though for
part of this time he was busy taking the various
courses necessary to make young officers fully efficient.
In April he returned to the line "through a world
17
2 C.T.
bathed in sunshine and soft air, green grass sprouting
everywhere, sapphire seas and skies, and a flitting
glimpse of the far cliffs of Albion. * He was at once
temporarily installed as Assistant Transport Officer,
and in a few hours was in charge of a convoy and
"sniffing again the acrid reek of high-explosive and
listening with a very personal interest to the whistle
and bang of shells." "I m certainly pleased," he wrote,
"to get a chance at the Transport, even if it s only for
a short time" too short, alas! Every other night it
was his task to superintend the convoying of supplies
to the front line. In his last letter home, written on
Sunday, May 6th, he describes his experiences thus:
"Had a fairly quiet trip last night, though there
were a few bits of excitement. At times the Bosch
is a most methodical man. He picks out a certain spot
on the road and drops a shell on it for luck at regular
intervals of time. We ran across him in one of these
moods. We could see ahead a nice black crump go up
as regularly as clock-work about once a minute. It s
easy then. You go up as close as you dare, wait for
one to go off, and then make a dash for it, hell-for-
leather, sparks flying from the pave, wheels rattling,
din most glorious. It s really rather fun once in a
while, and not particularly dangerous, for when the
Bosch is in methodical mood he can usually be counted
on. ... This morning had ... a romp with some
18
little French kiddies who came around our stores shed.
... It seems strange to think of these kiddies here,
some of them not old enough to remember life with
out the sound of the guns."
On the night of May 7th he had just unloaded his
sixth and last load under heavy shell fire and had
commended his men for their good work when a high
explosive shell burst quite close to him, killing him
instantly. He fell from his horse, and "when they
went to him where he lay dead," wrote a fellow
lieutenant, "they found his face perfectly calm, with a
suspicion of a smile on the lips." The next afternoon
his brother officers bore his body to the Military
Cemetery at Mazingarbe, where the senior Noncon
formist padre of the Division conducted the funeral
service in the presence of the O. C., a large number of
the officers of the Battalion, and the whole of the
Transport Section. A simple oak cross and a wooden
curb mark his grave. "Brief, brave, and glorious
was his young career."
Though a novice in war, Lieut. Trotter had already
won golden opinions from those with whom he served.
Lieut. -Col. C. Turner, his commanding officer, de
scribes him as "an officer of great promise . . . one
of the coolest men I have ever seen under shell-fire,"
and as one who "gave his life for his comrades, his
King and country, without fear or excitement." His
19
orderly pays this tribute to his "late master and
friend" : "I have mourned him as if he had been my
own brother. He was a great favourite with the
officers and men of the Battalion, especially the men
of the Transport Section, who would have followed
him anywhere, never mind what the danger." A cor
poral tells of a soldier reported for misbehaviour that
exposed him to a court-martial. Instead of reporting
the man Bernard called him in and talked to him so
persuasively that "now," says the corporal, "the man
is one of the most obedient in the whole company and
would gladly have given his life for Lieut. Trotter."
Rev. I. Herbert Pearce, senior Nonconformist padre
of the Division, writes: "We spent many an hour
in discussing literature and politics, particularly, of
course, Imperial politics, the churches, the war, re
ligion and life. ... I learned a great deal from
him and came to appreciate very highly his quali
ties of mind and heart. In a quiet and unostentatious
way he lived a sincere and consistent Christian life.
In every way I was pleased with him, as a son of the
manse, a representative of the church to which I myself
belong, and as one who cherished that essential quality
of faith so much needed in these dark and difficult
times. I had learned to trust his judgment, and it is
quite evident his colonel appreciated his powers and
services, as he had chosen him for a position of re
sponsibility."
20
The following brief excerpts from his own letters
may be quoted: "I have been up the line every night
this week except last. It is a weird life in many
ways, but it is surprising how soon one becomes accus
tomed to it. The sudden kettle-drum staccato of the
machine-guns searching for working parties, the vivid
flares of the Very lights and the dense darkness which
succeeds, the whistle of the salvo of shells overhead,
hardly make you raise your head, unless something
is a bit close. Then, of course, you hug the bank, or
the bottom of the trench, and wait till the row stops
or the light goes out, and carry on." . . . . "Yesterday
was Sunday and for the first time since leaving the
Base I was able to attend service. It gave one a new
thrill at their majesty and beauty to repeat the Te
Deum and the Nunc Dimittis in a room scarred,
walls and ceiling, with shrapnel; and with the roll of
the guns for accompaniment instead of the organ."
. . . . "My present surroundings are hardly conducive
to the study or production of poetry, though they
frequently produce momentary poetical impulses which,
if more reflective opportunities come, may not be
wholly lost." .... "Arnold s Sohrab and Rustum
is pure poetry, satisfying as few things do." . . . .
"Service s Rhymes of a Red Cross Man is a book
worth reading and re-reading. He gives you modern
war with its glamour ( for it has a glamour in spite of
21
what most of us say), and he gives you it without.
You won t read many pages with dry eyes, and
yet it doesn t make you morbid or pessimistic. And
the best of it all is that he has preserved his sanity
with regard to the only possible way of bringing peace
on earth, and that is, having beaten the Bosch, to give
him the hand of friendship" .... "I didn t realize
how much I really did care for the honour of America
until I saw her actually coming into line. Wilson s
speech seems to have infused a fresh idealism into the
whole conflict."
Tennyson s lines may be used without impropriety to
describe Bernard Trotter. Like Arthur Hallam s, his
was a
"High nature amorous of the good,
But touch d with no ascetic gloom;
And passion pure in snowy bloom,
Thro all the years of April blood."
It is the simple truth to say that he was a knight
of the Holy Grail who fought a good fight because
his heart was pure. The spirit that animated his life
and was exemplified in his death may be learnt from
the concluding lines of "The Log-Boom" :
"For what is it to die,
Be it a man, or tree, or any other thing,
So that in death is service, and the world
Be thrust one hair s-breadth nearer to the dawn."
22
He was sincerely religious and had an unfaltering faith
in immortality. Not given to much speech about his
religious convictions, he lived Christianity in his
everyday life. Gentleness and strength were happily
blended in his winsome personality. In the home he
honoured his father with filial piety, displayed an ex
quisite courtesy of manner to his mother, and held
his sisters and brother in tender affection. To them,
and to others who knew him intimately,
"Earth seems more sweet to live upon,
More full of love, because of him."
W. S. W. McLAY.
Toronto, August, 1917.
23
WAR POEMS
TO THE STUDENTS OF LIfiGE
(August 1914)
IN old Liege, when those dark tidings came
Of German honor callously forsworn,
And the red menace that should bring the scorn
Of ages on the Kaiser s name and shame,
And crown their city with a deathless fame,
The students wrote, they say, that summer morn
For their degrees, then joined the hope forlorn
Of Liberty, and passed in blood and flame.
O valiant souls! who loved not Duty less
Than Honor, whom no fears could move to shirk
The common task, no tyrant s threat subdue
When Right and Freedom called in their distress,
Not vain your sacrifice nor lost your work:
The World s free heart beats high because of you !
Toronto, September 1914.
27
A CANADIAN TWILIGHT
PEACE .... Peace .... the peace of dusky shores
And tremulous waters where dark shadows lie;
The stillness of low sounds .... the ripple s urge
Along the keel, the distant thrush s call,
The drip of oars ; the calm of dew-filled air ;
The peace of afterglow; the golden peace
Of the moon s ringer laid across the flood.
Yet ah! how few brief, fleeting moments since,
That same still finger lay at Langemarck,
And touched the silent dead, and wanly moved
Across the murky fields and battle lines
Where late my Country s bravest kept their faith.
heavenly beauty of our northern wild,
1 held it once the perfect death to die
In such a scene, in such an hour, and pass
From glory unto glory Time, perhaps,
May yet retrieve that vision oh! but now
These quiet hills oppress me : I am hedged
As in that selfish Eden of the dawn
Wherein man fell to rise; and I have sucked
The bitter fruit of knowledge, and am robbed
Of my rose-decked contentment, when I hear
Though far, the clash of arms, the shouts, the groans
A world in torment, dying to be saved.
28 1
Oh God! the blood of Outram* in these veins
Cries shame upon the doom that dams it here
In useless impotence, while the red torrent runs
In glorious spate for Liberty and Right !
Oh, to have died that day at Langemarck !
In one fierce moment to have paid it all
The debt of life to Earth, and Hell, and Heaven!
To have perished nobly in a noble cause!
Untarnished, unpolluted, undismayed,
By the dank world s corruption, to have passed,
A flaming beacon-light to gods and men !
For in the years to come it shall be told
How these laid down their lives, not for their homes,
Their orchards, fields and cities : They were driven
To slaughter by no tyrant s lust for power;
Of their free manhood s choice they crossed the sea
To save a stricken people from its foe.
They died for Justice Justice owes them this:
That what they died for be not overthrown."
Peace .... Peace .... not thus may I find peace
Like a caged leopard chafing at its bars
In ineffectual movement, this clogged spirit
Must pad its life out, an unwilling drone,
In safety and in comfort; at the best
Achieving patience in the gods despite
And at the worst somehow the debt is paid.
Lake Cecebe, June 1915.
(Written while frail health prevented enlistment.)
29
DREAMS
NOT as we dream them,
Rose-sweet and wonderful,
Laughter-thrilled, magical,
Our dreams come true.
Always some hidden,
Unforeseen circumstance,
Seeming malevolence,
Darkens the view.
Something we want not,
Ugly and masterful,
Sprouts through the beautiful,
Wars with our joy.
Someone is missing:
Gone the sweet comradeship,
Commerce of eye and lip
Barren is Troy.
Yet go we ever,
Though earthly experience
Mocks at their radiance,
Dreaming our dreams.
30
Dreams without reason,
Rose-sweet and wonderful,
Laughter-thrilled, magical.-
Fools? So it seems.
Or is there a feeble
Spark of the infinite
Burning in Hell s despite,
In me and you,
Lighting us onward
Through the inscrutable
To a land wonderful
Where, as we dream them,
Our dreams will come true?
Toronto, March 1916.
(Written on the eve of his departure for England.)
31
TO ESTHER
WHEN I have reckoned all thy passing meant
The loss to earth of music and of dream,
Of smiles and laughter, that out-welling stream
Of thought and fancy, so divinely blent
With a sweet sympathy and pure intent
Of goodness, yea, those frailties ev n, which seem
Like virtues Rare Musician, then, I deem
Thyself wast earth s most perfect instrument.
Thou hadst a tone for every touch of Life,
His variant moods a variant music woke:
Now the bold treble of the marching fife,
The ethereal flute, the banjo s merry din,
Now through the organ s troubled brooding spoke
The deep soul-passion of the violin.
, n . -. *
I thought to-day, how, long and long ago,
Upon the beach at Santa Barbara,
And in the marble moon-washed pergola,
And up the canyon pathways treading slow,
We talked of England; and in words aglow
With the strange magic of that mighty name
Planned how, as pilgrims to the shrine of fame,
To our loved poets England we would go.
32
Ah ! happy dream ! but you will never stray
On Wordsworth s hills, listen to Shelley s lark;
And I, who thought no sterner part to play
Than pupil-idler, go with naked sword
Cry: "Take and use!" to England grim and stark,
Holding the pass gainst a barbarian horde.
Ill
If to those ambient regions penetrate
News of this planet, rumour of its wars:
How that the brazen monster stamps and gores
The great-souled little peoples, in mad hate
Of Liberty O Thou, her novice late,
Full well I know thy generous spirit adores
Her warriors, and a benediction pours
On all to her high service consecrate.
Therefore I take thee with me : come what may
Thou shalt share all : our spirits hand in hand
Will take the primrose-path our springtime planned,
In spite of storm-washed furrows ; if it lead
To the grim press of battle, on that day
Thou too wilt strike for England in her need.
Toronto, March 1916.
33
3 C.T.
THE POPLARS
O, A LUSH green English meadow it s there that I
would lie
A skylark singing overhead, scarce present to the eye,
And a row of wind-blown poplars against an English
sky.
The elm is aspiration, and death is in the yew,
And beauty dwells in every tree from Lapland to Peru ;
But there s magic in the poplars when the wind goes
through.
When the wind goes through the poplars and blows
them silver white,
The wonder of the universe is flashed before my sight :
I see immortal visions: I know a god s delight.
I catch the secret rhythm that steals along the earth,
That swells the bud, and splits the burr, and gives
the oak its girth,
That mocks the blight and canker with its eternal birth.
i
It wakes in me the savor of old forgotten things,
Before "reality" had marred the child s imaginings :
I can believe in fairies I see their shimmering wings.
34
I see with the clear vision of that untainted prime,
Before the fool s bells jangled in and Elfland ceased
to chime,
That sin and pain and sorrow are but a pantomime
A dance of leaves in ether, of leaves threadbare and
sere,
From whose decaying husks at last what glory shall
appear
When the white winter angel leads in the happier year.
And so I sing the poplars; and when I come to die
I will not look for jasper walls, but cast about my eye
For a row of wind-blown poplars against an English
sky.
Oxford, September 1916.
35
A KISS
SHE kissed me when she said good-bye
A child s kiss, neither bold nor shy.
We had met but a few short summer hours;
Talked of the sun, the wind, the flowers,
Sports and people; had rambled through
A casual catchy song or two,
And walked with arms linked to the car
By the light of a single misty star.
(It was war-time, you see, and the streets were dark
Lest the ravishing Hun should find a mark.)
And so we turned to say good-bye;
But somehow or other, I don t know why,
Perhaps t was the feel of the khaki coat
(She d a brother in Flanders then) that smote
Her heart to a sudden tenderness
Which issued in that swift caress
Somehow, to her, at any rate
A mere hand-clasp seemed inadequate;
36
And so she lifted her dewy face
And kissed me but without a trace
Of passion, and we said good-bye. . .
A child s kiss, . . . neither bold nor shy.
My friend, I like you it seemed to say-
Here s to our meeting again some day!
Some happier day. . . .
Good-bye.
August 1916.
37
AN APRIL INTERLUDE 1917
APRIL snow agleam in the stubble,
Melting to brown on the new-ploughed fields,
April sunshine, and swift cloud-shadows
Racing to spy what the season yields
Over the hills and far away :
Heigh! and ho! for an April day!
Hoofs on the highroad : Ride tr-r ot!
Spring s in the wind, and war s forgot,
As we go riding through Picardy.
Up by a wood where a brown hawk hovers,
Down through a village with white-washed walls,
A wooden bridge and a mill-wheel turning,
And a little stream that sports and brawls
Into the valley and far away :
Heigh! and ho! for an April day!
Children and old men stop to stare
At the clattering horsemen from Angleterre,
As we go riding through Picardy.
38
On by the unkempt hedges, budding,
On by the Chateau gates flung wide.
Where is the man who should trim the garden ?
Where are the youths of this country-side ?-
Over the hills and far away
Is war, red war, this April day.
So for the moment we pay our debt
To the cause on which our faith is set,
As we go riding through Picardy.
Then the hiss of the spurting gravel,
Then the tang of the wind on the face,
Then the splash of the hoof-deep puddle,
Spirit of April setting the pace
Over the hills and far away :
Heigh! and ho! for an April day!
Heigh! for a ringing: Ride tr-r ot!
Ho! of war we ve never a thought
As we go riding through Picardy.
France, April 1917.
39
"ICI REPOSE"
A LITTLE cross of weather-silvered wood,
Hung with a garish wreath of tinselled wire,
And on it carved a legend thus it runs :
"Id repose " Add what name you will,
And multiply by thousands: in the fields,
Along the roads, beneath the trees one here,
A dozen there, to each its simple tale
Of one more jewel threaded star-like on
The sacrificial rosary of France.
And as I read and read again those words,
Those simple words, they took a mystic sense ;
And from the glamour of an alien tongue
They wove insistent music in my brain,
Which, in a twilight hour, when all the guns
Were silent, shaped itself to song.
O happy dead! who sleep embalmed in glory,
Safe from corruption, purified by fire,
Ask you our pity?- -ours, mud-grimed and gory,
Who still must grimly strive, grimly desire?
You have outrun the reach of our endeavour,
Have flown beyond our most exalted quest,
Who prate of Faith and Freedom, knowing ever
That all we really fight for s just a rest,
40
The rest that only Victory can bring us
Or Death, which throws us brother-like by you
The civil commonplace in which twill fling us
To neutralise our then too martial hue.
But you have rest from every tribulation
Even in the midst of war; you sleep serene,
Pinnacled on the sorrow of a nation,
In cerements of sacrificial sheen.
Oblivion cannot claim you: our heroic
War-lustred moment, as our youth, will pass
To swell the dusty hoard of Time the Stoic,
That gathers cobwebs in the nether glass.
We shall grow old, and tainted with the rotten
Effluvia of the peace we fought to win,
The bright deeds of our youth will be forgotten,
Effaced by later failure, sloth, or sin;
But you have conquered Time, and sleep forever,
Like gods, with a white halo on your brows
Your Souls our lode-stars, your death-crowned en
deavour
The spur that holds the nations to their vows.
France, April 1917.
(His last poem, the manuscript of which reached his parents
the day after he was killed.)
41
THE CLAN OF THE WATERS
THE CLAN OF THE WATERS :
A Celtic Legend
MANANNAN, god of the winds and the sea,
Flat on his back on the sands lay he,
Trolling a song right merrily:
"Come hither, come hither, thou little wind,"
(Such and such was the song he sang)
"Come hither; I ve something for thee to find."
(Oh! how mellow the echoes rang!)
"Find me a wave with a sea-green base,
A rollicking, wandering, roisterous wave,
With a crest o foam, and a laughing face,
A bit o blue where the wind-flaws part,
And a sunbeam pricking his homeless heart
Ho! but I love the knave!"
Manannan, god of the winds and the sea,
Half of a summer s day sang he;
Till the croon of the waves, and the warm sunshine,
Had wooed him to sleep; and so, in fine,
He slept beside the sea.
Then came a man of the Island race,
Seeking his love by cliff and scaur;
And a mermaid rose to his embrace
Up from the foam of the bar.
Up from the foam of the bar came she,
Clad in a robe of rainbow mist,
45
That her clammy tail he should not see :
For he thought her a maid of the earth, did he ;
And she waited to be kissed.
Oh! when he found her among the rocks,
Fair and fair was she indeed !
With her foam-white breasts, and her tumbled locks
Falling adown, falling adown,
Over her face and her sea-spray gown,
And her girdle of brown sea-weed.
Close and close did he fold her fast,
And he kissed her lips so warm and red
But over their heads a lone gull passed;
And she sighed for a joy that could not last,
And she wished that she were dead.
He heard the sigh, and bye and bye,
He sighed himself, he knew not why,
And all at once he said:
"Come away, come away, come
Away and away with me,
For I hear in my heart the hum
Of the sweet-cloyed homing bee.
Too long, too long, have we gone our ways,
When the passionate eve was sped;
Too long, too long, have we spent our days
In the gloom of a nameless dread,
Lest one should come, and the other fail
Lest one should come and wearily wait,
And the other be knocking at Heaven s gate,
46
And all the sea should wail.
But come, come, come,
Home to my smouldering hearth:
Love shall kindle it into a flame
Warm to the ends of the earth.
These are yours if you will but come,
Share my portion, and take my name :
Love, and peace, and a home."
"Alas! alas! that cannot be,"
She cried in a woeful agony.
"He who weds me loves and loves
Whithersoever his fancy roves.
Oh ! woe is me ! no home I bring
To him who gives me a marriage ring.
The quiet of all his days shall cease
Oh! wed not me if you look for peace.
An you wed with me, this shall you have
Peace as the peace of the restless wave;
An you wed with me, this shall you find :
A love as light as the wandering wind ;
This shall you know, an you wed with me :
The homelessness of the sea."
What! say you so? and say you so?
You speak in riddles I cannot read-
Or else you are no woman, I trow!"
"A woman am I, indeed.
And woe is me for my woman s heart,
47
That you should ask what I cannot give !
And woe is me! that we two should part,
Forever apart to live!
But I must go to my home below,
And you to your lone hearthside :
The little mermaidens will cheer my woe,
And you will a kindlier passion know
In the arms of a warmer bride."
She reared her up on her finny tail,
And flung her rainbow garment wide.
He shuddered cold, his face grew pale,
He started from her side.
At that she laughed a bitter laugh:
"Farewell! I knew how this would be;
And here I strike Love s epitaph,
That is for you and me."
She clasped aloft her lily hands,
Her strong tail smote the wave-lapped sands,
She plunged beneath the sea.
Manannan, tho sound asleep he lay,
Had heard these lovers for that s a way
That the great gods have; and ere the spray
Of the mermaid s dive had touched the bay,
He roused himself, assumed a youth,
Mourned with the man for his love uncouth,
Who told his tale to this stranger- friend
Right readily. When he reached the end:
48
" T is well," said the god, "now list to me
Forget this woman from out the sea,
And seek a bride that is meet for thee.
Her shalt thou find among the heather,
Singing alone in a windy weather,
And fair and white is she.
But now, for that I know thy pain,
And lest thou sorrow so in vain
For thy lost love, the ocean s daughter,
Take thou a gift from the god of water."
He caught a wave with a sea-green base,
A rollicking, wandering, roisterous wave,
With a crest o foam, and a laughing face;
He plucked the good-man s dress apart,
And he threw it into his throbbing heart
Oh! what a gift he gave!
Home went the man, no longer sad,
And straightway did as the great god bade.
He sought his love on the purple heather,
And found her there in a windy weather,
Singing her song alone.
He wooed her, fair in her innocence,
Wooed her, and won her, and bore her thence,
Home to his own hearthstone.
But nevermore, till the day he died,
Was the soul of this man satisfied :
For ever he felt in his restless blood
The surge of the deep sea s rolling flood;
49
4 C.T.
And evermore would his fancy roam
With the wild wind out to the driving foam ;
And he loved he knew not how nor why,
With a love that changed, but could not die.
And still the gift that the great god gave
Leaps in the veins of his children brave:
By day and by night they may not flee
The spell of the ocean s mystery;
By day and by night a love they know,
Tameless, and changeable, as tho
The wandering wind had schooled it so ;
No peace have they by night or day,
For a restless longing calls them aye,
From the sheltered cove and the quiet bay,
Out where the stormy tempests meet,
To the drifting spray, and the driving sleet
And they cannot choose but go.
With a laugh they claim their heritage,
A laugh of something more than mirth,
That bravely rings across the sea,
And challenges eternity
For the home they lack on earth.
And all who hear, from age to age,
By this sign know their birth.
They are the children of the wave,
The wondrous gift Manannan gave;
And still they sing, as then he sang,
50
When the hollow caves in answer rang:
"Give us a wave with a sea-green base,
A rollicking, wandering, roisterous wave,
With a crest o foam, and a laughing face,
A bit o blue where the wind-flaws part,
And a sun-beam pricking his homeless heart
Ho ! but we love the knave !"
So, the sea in their blood cries out to the Sea ;
And they serve the wanton right loyally :
Whether she smiles on their devotion,
Cradling them with a slumbrous motion,
Or whether she storms, and wrecks, and slaughters,
It matters not to the Clan of the Waters.
Lake Cecebe, June 1912.
51
CALIFORNIA POEMS
ALTARS
YE barren peaks, so mightily outlined
In naked rock against the viewless sky,
Your rugged grandeur mocks my human pride,
And rouses it to passionate reply.
Ye scorn the foot that treads your pathless ways,
The voice that breaks your primal solitudes,
Yea, e en the eye that views your serried heights,
The ear that hears your canyon interludes.
Yet know that when your music-making brooks
Have buried you beneath the conquering sea,
And mingled heart of stone with oozy mud,
The topmost summit with the level lea,
This ear shall hear the deathless song of Life,
This eye shall see beyond the outmost skies,
This voice shall sing soul-music, and this foot
Shall tread the love-lit paths of Paradise.
Should I, then, born immortal, bow to you,
Who are but transient mounds of earthy clod ?-
O glorious heights ! I kneel in humble awe
To worship at the altars of my God.
Montecito, 1908.
55
SONG OF THE EARTH-MOTHER TO
1 THE WEST-WIND
O WIND! blow out from the golden west,
Bring up the damp of the silver sea,
And leave it pearled on my sun-dried breast!
So cool ! so cool ! blow over me !
Shake off the dust from my smallest flower,
Make rustle the leaves of my tallest tree,
And kiss my maids in their June-rose bower !
Ah sly ! so sly ! blow over me !
Pipe up your music, a merry dance
Lead off o er meadow, and brook, and lea,
And make your pretty children prance !
So gay! so gay! blow over me!
Waft on the breath of the columbine,
Catch up the scent of the rosemary,
And blend them all in a perfume fine!
So sweet! so sweet! blow over me!
Blow high! blow low! sweet, sly, and gay!
Blow on o er valley, and hill, and lea,
And sink to rest with the dying day,
So tired, tired, over me !
Pasadena, 1907.
56
THE VIOLET S HOME
I FOUND a grotto in a nest of hills,
Half hidden by down-drooping branch and vine,
Where year by year the mountain torrent drills
Deeper its pathway between slopes of pine.
A fairy cave it was, scarce large enough
To let a baby breeze turn twice within;
And all its over-arching roof was rough
With bright rose- jewels, crystal-clear, and thin,
From which a sweet and dewy dampness dripped
With liquid note, in bubbling ripples brimmed
The silver-shining basin, hidden slipped
Through mossy channels, fern- and flower-trimmed.
And there, a half-span from the water s edge,
A violet nodded, and, with coyest grace,
Bent lightly over from her crannied ledge
To see, reflected, her own perfect face.
The clustering grasses, nestled at her feet
In shy attendance, waited her command,
And, roguish, raised their slender forms to greet
Her green leaves, set like guards on either hand.
57
Thus wrapped in the incense of her honeyed breath,
And lulled by murmurs from the pearly spring,
The cave her dwelling was for life and death
A fitting casket for so fair a thing.
Montecito, 1908.
58
A RIDE BY THE SEA
CRASH of waves, and thunder of hoofs,
And a Cavalier song on the sea-drenched air.
And ho! for a ride by the ocean s side!
Ten miles of sand beach smooth and fair.
Strewn by the wind, by the strong waves packed,
Our course lies firm to the setting sun.
And ho ! for a race ! By my lady s grace
We ll spur for a token e er day is done.
"What? a ribbon? a scarf? say this."
She looses the band from her struggling locks.
" Tis yours" setting spur "with a kiss, good sir,
If you beat me from here to Consbury Rocks."
A word, a pressure of heel and thigh
Her bay mare s tail s in my sorrel s eyes.
Speed! Kelly, speed! if you make that lead
A month in pasture shall be your prize I
The waves, the rocks, and the cliffs fly past
In a smother of sand from the bay mare s heels ;
In the rush of the wind they are left behind
An inch and an inch my Kelly steals.
59
No need of the spur! how he tells his pride
By the fall and rise of his great red mane,
By the ears laid back as he follows the track,
By the restive tug on the shortened rein!
My lady s hair is a tangle of gold :
I could catch it now with my bridle-arm.
Ye gods! it is fair in the sunset s glare!
Ye gods! and here is Consbury Farm!
Then ho! my boy, for the final spurt!
Now show them, my Kelly, what you can do !
For yonder s the bend, and beyond the end;
And Consbury Rocks swing full in view.
Grandly his great flanks heave and sink.
Does he know the guerdon ? my Kelly, my pride !
One strong wild burst; neither last nor first,
We whirl to the finish side by side.
"Now whose," as we merrily slacken rein
"Now whose shall the kiss and the ribbon be ?"
With a look so sly in her witch s eye,
"We ll divide the trophies, sir," says she.
60
Straight, her loose tresses she gathers up,
And binds them again with her ribbon fine ;
Then turns, lifts her face, as the horses pace-
And the kiss? the kiss? ah! that is mine!
Beat of hoofs, and murmur of waves,
And an old love-song on the sea-drenched air,-
And ho! for a ride by the ocean s side,
And a maiden to love me and kiss me there !
Montecito, 1910.
61
GOOD-NIGHT
GOOD-NIGHT! good-night! for the day is done,
And the shadow-ships lie long
Where the moon shines dim o er the curved sea s rim,
And the wild wind sings its song.
The wild wind sings to the sea, my love
Sing, heart of my heart, to me,
While the waves dull roar on the sounding shore
Fills up the melody;
Till I rest in peace in thine arms, my love ;
Till slumber has loosed the bars,
And my thought flies forth, as a gull to the north,
To wander among the stars.
Montecito, 1908.
62
THE GARDEN OF GRAVES
From out the musty gloom of the church,
The century-mouldered naves,
Come forth to the garden, spring-embowVd
The sunlit garden of graves.
No warder stands at the portal s side,
No beggar a pittance craves;
But the trumpet-flower a welcome breathes
To the silent garden of graves.
The west wind blows o er the garden wall,
And with sweet shed petals he paves
The path of the living, the mound of the dead,
In the beautiful garden of graves.
With a mellow rush the cool fountain leaps,
And in ripples its basin laves;
While a rainbow arc gleams fair, gleams fair,
O er the dew-pearled garden of graves.
And through the mist and the bow uprears
The cross, and the Christ that saves :
O envy them not! O pity them not!
That sleep in the garden of graves.
Montecito, 1908.
(The garden of the old Franciscan Mission at Santa Barbara.)
63
TO BRITTA
LITTLE companion of my solitude,
If you could hear, and know, and understand
The thought and impulse of this tribute rude,
Reared in rough measures by your master s hand,
I well can guess how you would look at me,
And thank me with those great brown loving eyes,
Then, glad of recognition, leap in glee,
And coax me off to play with puppy cries.
You could not know that you were showing forth
What made your little life a holy thing:
A simple love that asked not worth for worth,
And claimed small tribute for its offering.
A look, a smile, a word, a fond caress ;
With these your faithful love was satisfied.
I give you credit (I can do no less)
My love is nobler that you lived and died.
Santa Barbara, 1909.
64
THE GREY-ROBED CHILD OF THE SEA
LIKE an odor arising from fragrant gums,
Like a vision of things to be
A shadow, a breath, and a silence comes
The Grey-Robed Child of the Sea.
Her brow is damp with a beaded dew
Like the sweat of the toiling years,
Chill agues tremble her body through,
And her heart is drenched with tears.
Clammy and cold is her pallid hand :
Its touch is the touch of death.
She waves it thrice, and the fair sweet land
Fades out in a misty breath.
And some there be of a gladsome mood
Who hate this maid forlorn
With her chilly robes and her dusky snood :
For she puts their mirth to scorn.
But I, what care I how sad she look?
I love this Child of the Sea :
For the day that my False Love me forsook
She came, and she wept with me.
Santa Barbara, 1910.
65
ATMIRAMAR
HAVE you been at Miramar?
Have you walked along the sand?
Eaten melons in the shade
Of the crumbling cliffs that stand
Ankle-deep in weed and drift?
Have you watched the children wade
Laughing in the breakers froth?
Have you lain in dreamy sloth,
Lain and let the white sand sift
Through your fingers, listening
To the laughter and the shout
Of the heedless happy rout,
To the rolling rhythmic roar
Of the curving glistening
Slow breakers as they pour
Their gold-green crests along the shore?
Have you watched the white clouds sail,
And the far black ships go by;
While you framed a patchwork tale
Aimless as a sea-bird s cry,
Adding fancies each to each
In idle rounds of pleasant speech,
With laughter; till the sun went down
Trailing over sea and sky
The roseate cloud-embroidered splendid
Fringes of his orient gown;
Till the quiet night descended
66
From the mountain, sweet with blended
Odors from the gardens high
Along the cliff-top? By and by,
When the stars burned bright and clear,
Through the stillness did you hear
The poignant summons of a far
Faint bugle-echo, sounding Taps;"
And climb the cliffs, and looking back
Towards the ocean vast and black,
Stand a moment, closer prest
Each to each, and feel the soul
Slough its mortal bonds and flow
In sweet commingling with the slow
Strange tide of beauty, till, the goal
Of Being all but reached, the charm
Broke like a full-blown bubble; then
With awe-hushed whispers, arm in arm,
Turn to the common way again
And lightly pass to home and rest?
Such a day
Have you spent in such a way?
Then perhaps
You know the magic
And the tragic
Meaning of the simple-seeming
Phrase that glimmers through my dreaming
Like a star:
At Miramar.
1914. 67
EVENING
THE sacrifices of the day are done, the froth
Of busy tumult sinks in sweet desire,
And Night, high heaven s priestess, spreads her altar-
cloth -
Of spangled velvet, fringed with slumbering fire.
Montecito, 1909.
INGEBORG: An Elegy
OH ! what so wild as the white sea-gull !
So daring, so glad, so free!
Child of the blast and the roaring vast
Of the dauntless restless Sea!
Mourn for her, mourn for her, white sea-gull !
Kin of thy kin was she.
Mourn her, ye Winds from summer seas
That stir the orange-blooms!
In vain ye seek among the trees
Those tawny Viking-plumes
She loved to loose for your delight,
Till, ruffled by your kisses bold,
They clustered round her visage bright,
A tangled filigree of gold.
Mourn her, ye Mountains! for the voice
That made your shadowed glens rejoice
With echoes of its crystal laughter
Is hushed, is mute, is passed away,
Is lost in the remote hereafter,
In death s illimitable distance.
Wrap your purpled heads in grey:
She whose spirit drew subsistence
From your thunder-riven breasts,
She, your novice, your disciple,
69
Mid a world of transient guests,
She who marked your rarest summits
For the paths her feet should tread
She is dead.
Mourn her, thou Ocean ! Need I bid thee mourn ?
Ah ! no : thou knewest. Ere that word forlorn,
That "She is dead" could falter from the lips
Of those who watched, thou knewest; and the strips
Of umbrous kelp that hedge thy shoreward way
Shook tremulously, and a great shudder ran
Through thy deep bosom, and a voice began,
Thy voice, to wail along the desolate shore,
In anguish and in anger, that thy child,
Thy Viking-child, was lost forevermore,
Thy Viking-daughter, for whom a spirit wild
And free and unafraid had augured death
In storm-blown conflagration as of yore,
When the Valkyrie swooped the elusive breath
From heroes lips up to the realms of Thor
And left to thee to quench the scarring fire,
And salve the torments of thy love s desire
With the charred remnants of a funeral pyre.
But now thou mournest, since her form is given
To the rude keeping of the quiet earth,
And that which made it loved and lovely driven
O er nebulous seas to some invisible birth
In lands beyond our knowledge. All is lost
To thee and, therefore, mourn!
70
I, too,
Must haply weep a little, being tossed
From gulf to gulf of dark uncertainty:
Sure only that this loss, my loss, is true,
Her voice forever silent, and instead,
A cruel whisper through the vacancy:
"Thy Ingeborg is dead/
There is a solace in the grief of others
For our most bitter grief,
Our burden, part-transposed with our brother s,
Is lightened past belief.
And oh, I am not lonely in my sorrow :
Though these, my natural friends,
The winds, the mountains, and the ocean, borrow
A pulse my fancy lends ;
Though they in truth be but insensate matter,
Untouched by human woe,
And all this talk of kinship foolish chatter
To the wise ears that know ;
Yet have I comradeship in grief, for many
There be of human-kind
Who loved fair Ingeborg, nor are there any
But view with stormy mind
Her glorious planet s all-too-early setting.
O friends, what bonds are ours !
What fellowship of head and heart, begetting
Calm thoughts and mutual powers
Of consolation and encouragement!
71
So comes at last a strong tranquility
Upon my soul; the first unthinking grief
Gives place to quiet musings : Love and Death,
The Wherefore and the Why of Human Life
Old themes, but new until the end of time
And always, as thought-substance, memories sweet
Of those short summers by the southern sea,
When all the fabric of my life was lit
With golden strands of friendship, chiefly wove
By thy kind fingers, well-beloved friend,
And hers, whom now I sing the young, the fair,
The starry-souled, God- fashioned Ingeborg.
1913.
72
OTHER POEMS
THE LOG-BOOM
ACROSS the shining waters of the bay,
A giant half -moon, fettered to the shore,
Like some unruly beast, by either horn,
The log-boom floats, with every shifting wind
Straining now this way and now that, and still,
With sullen grumblings striving to be free.
O Sylvan deities! ye gods of wood and hill!
Look on this scene, and wring your hands and weep.
How are the mighty fallen ! Here they lie,
The monarchs of the forest lordly pines,
And shadowy firs, and twisted cedars here,
Stripped of their branches, riven of their bark,
Naked, and all unlovely in their chains.
Not theirs to ripen into hoary age,
To listen for the coming of the wind,
And welcome him with strings symphonious,
Until they fell, worn out, with hollow boom
The grand finale to their harmony;
Not theirs to lie at peace in forest mould,
Till tender mosses compassed them around,
And made their crumbling ruins beautiful;
Not theirs to shelter in their hollow trunks
The feeble woodland creatures ; and not theirs
To sink at last into their mother earth,
And through their children rise to life again.
75
These fell in all the glory of their prime,
Crashed down with angry rush of rending limbs,
And bled at every gash and cruel wound.
Man, the despoiler, stripped them for his use,
Harried them through snow and ice and freshet,
Bound them here to wait his pleasure. Soon,
Riven by whirring saws, some here, some there,
Will go, to be a part of hut or hall,
Palace or kennel merchandise of trade !
Thus mourned the poet in a bitter mood,
Thinking of those sweet dryads whom he loved,
Cast out by careless hands from house and home,
And of the mighty wrong the forest bore.
When lo! the setting sun smiled on the boom,
And over-decked those naked gleaming hulks
With princely robe of purple, gold, and white;
And then he saw seeing them thus crowned
That all was well: for what is it to die,
Be it a man, or tree, or any other thing,
So that in death is service, and the world
Be thrust one hair s-breadth nearer to the dawn.
Lake Cecebe, June 1912.
76
THE SONGS WE NEED
MYRIAD singers pour their treasures
Into wearied ears
Sweet, uncertain, minor measures,
Trembling doubts and fears.
Why repeat these strains of sadness,
Which but feed our fears?
Are there no clear notes of gladness
Straying down the years?
Sing of Sorrow? All men know it.
Share with them their tears;
Then ah! then, forget not, poet
Sing the Hope that cheers.
1913.
77
WINTER NOCTURNE
WITH me is revelry and light,
A wind-blown world of circling rink ;
With me is music and the clink
Of frosty steel on crackling ice ;
With me the sweet seductive sight
Of gliding figures that entice
The watcher to pursue their flight
Through mazy whirls, alertly tense
To steal swift passage left and right,
All thought o erwhelmed in giddy sense.
With me is revelry and light,
With thee, the silence and the night.
Yet oh! could I be with you, dear,
In your rose-garden, wet with dew,
To pluck one perfect bud for you,
Or where the sands at Miramar
In starlit silence glimmer clear,
Hold converse of the near and far,
No longer would I tarry here
In these mad gaieties; I d fly,
As from a desert lone and drear,
To that calm pleasure, chaste, and high,
Where souls commune in holy fear
That God should let them draw so near.
Toronto, December 1913.
78
MARCH
A KNAVISH-TEMPERED, disrespectful youth
Is this same March, with rude derisive peals
Larking along at Winter s tottering heels,
Mocking the white-haired wizard without ruth,
Stamping the slush about his legs forsooth,
The while in impotence the victim wheels
To threaten chastisement with weakness reels
And bares his ugly frost-envenomed tooth.
March must be taught his manners : in there comes
To warm his breeches good old Master Sun
Right lusty mellower he of rough and wild.
A few days drilling sniff! a scent of gums,
Twigs fringed with color; thus reform s begun.
Watch ! ere you know it was that April smiled ?
1914.
TO MOTHER
THERE is a wonder in this common world,
Which never sage nor poet understood,
Since the first nestling its bright wing unfurled
The holy, tender grace of motherhood.
And thou, who watchest, hovering, the flight
Of thy young birds, half glad, half sad to see
Th strengthening wing-beat and the bolder height
Oh! how that wonder lives and grows in thee!
For many virtuous women have there been,
And many with the wonder in their eyes ;
But none like thee, I wis, hath yet been seen,
Since Lemuel s mother taught him to be wise.
June 7, 1911.
THE VISION SPLENDID
IT came, the vision splendid,
By shimmering mists attended,
From the red peaks of dawn.
(And oh! could we recapture
Our childhood s wizard rapture!)
It led I followed on.
T was a celestial madness,
Glamour of love and gladness,
That made this place of tears
A dwelling rare and sightly
Possessed by Arthurs knightly
And stainless Guineveres.
It passed, the vision splendid,
In a dull vapour blended:
I climbed the hills it crossed.
(And oh! where goes that rapture
That we can not recapture?)
I followed it was lost.
It was a fairy vision:
The grey world s harsh derision
Has quenched its glowing joy.
I know the pain and badness
The cruel strife and sadness
I knew not when a boy.
81
6C.T.
Yet still that vision splendid
Remains, though all seems ended,
A star-gleam in the mind.
(Ah! we may yet recapture
That wise and holy rapture!)
I follow till I find.
1915.
82
"OH! THE LURE OF A SUMMER S
DAY . . ."
OH! the lure of a Summer s Day!
Shimmering squalls run over the bay,
Calling, calling: "Away! Away!"
And every leaf so green and new
On the wooded hills that skirt its blue
Thrills to his pipes as the Wind goes through,
Calling to me, calling to you,
Calling: "Away! Away!"
Sweet the lure of a Summer s Day,
Sweet the voice of the Wind at play,
Calling, calling across the bay
But oh! there s a lure more strong than they!
Look ! and let us away !
Look! a gap in the forest wall,
A pasture-slope from wave to sky,
Sheep asleep on the brow o the hill,
And a winding roadway white and still,
And never a cloud on high.
Look ! look ! Do you feel the call
Of a road that runs to the sky?
83
Then hasten, hasten, hasten away!
Laugh at the squalls on the rippled bay !
Nought care we what the fates may bring!
We follow, follow, you understand,
Follow, follow, and stay not still:
Time is nothing: the Road s the thing!
Who knows but the borders of Fairyland
Lie at the crest of the hill!
Lake Cecebe, June 1912.
84
TRANSLATION FROM LEUTHOLD
How fair art thou, O blue, unfathomed lake!
Whose face the West wind almost fears to trouble,
And only snow-white lilies dare to break,
Coy-dipping, that still flood with airy bubble.
Here casts no fisherman his treacherous lure,
Here glides no skiff with tremulous reflection
Here only Nature s voices, restful, pure,
Murmur to Solitude a sweet subjection.
Wild roses scatter incense on the air,
And scent the forests which around thee tower,
And like the columns of a temple bear
The azure dome of heaven s gracious bower.
A spirit once I knew, contemplative,
Who shut the world away with sealings seven :
Profound, and pure, like thee, he seemed to live
Only to mirror back the face of heaven.
Lake Cecebe, July 1912.
85
TRANSLATION FROM HEINRICH
HEINE
I KNEW, sweetheart, you loved me,
I guessed it long ago ;
Yet your confession moved me
As this had not been so.
I strode upon the mountains,
I shouted to the skies
The sunset on the ocean
Brought tears into my eyes.
My heart, aglow with passion,
A blazing sun I bear,
And in love s boundless waters
T is sinking, great and fair.
Lake Cecebe, July 1912.
86
THE SUPREME MOMENT
IF heaven and earth were but an artist s dream,
Star-dust God-flung across an inky sky
On that vast picture whose dim borders lie
In infinite regions; should creative gleam
Of artist eye pass on, and so redeem
No more this inch of canvas you and I
Call universe this earth whereon we die,
This heaven we fight towards gainst a murky stream;
Yet, Love, I d care not ; so I saw your face,
And heard your voice, and felt upon my lips
Your ruddy glowing kisses, crushed the bloom
And drank its fragrance, thus, one breathing space ;
I d cry: "We ve loved! then welcome, dark eclipse!
This moment s flame outweighs eternal gloom!"
1913.
87
THE ROAD TO TARTARY
O Arab! much I fear thou at Mecca s shrine wilt
never be,
For the road that thou art going is the road to
Tartary. Sa di.
I LEFT the dusty travelled road the proper people
tread
Like solemn sheep they troop along, Tradition at their
head;
I went by meadow, stream, and wood; I wandered at
my will;
And in my wayward ears a cry of warning echoed still :
"Beware! beware!" an old refrain they chanted
after me
The road that thou art going is the road to Tar
tary."
i
I clambered over dawn-lit hills the dew was on my
feet;
I crossed the sullen pass at night in wind and rain and
sleet ;
I followed trains of errant thought through heaven and
earth and hell,
And thence I seemed to hear again that unctuous fare
well,
For there I dreamed the little fiends were pointing
all at me:
"The road that thou art going is the road to Tar-
tary."
From all the pious wrangling sects I set my spirit free :
I own no creed but God and Love and Immortality.
Their dogmas and their disciplines are dust and smoke
and cloud ;
They cannot see my sunlit way ; and still they cry aloud,
From church, conventicle, and street, that warning
old to me:
"The road that thou art going is the road to Tar-
tary."
I found a woman God had made, the blind world
tossed aside
It had not dreamed the greatness hid in poverty and
pride.
I left the world to walk with her and talk with her and
learn
The secret things of happiness and will I now return
To that blind, prudish world that shrugs and lifts its
brows at me:
"The road that thou art going is the road to Tar-
tary" ?
Nay; we will go together, Love we two to greet the
sun.
There are more roads than one to heaven, perhaps more
heavens than one.
Here on the lonely heights we see things hid from those
who tread
Like sheep the dusty trodden way, Tradition at their
head.
We sense the common goal of all in Mecca we
shall be,
Though the road that we are going seem the road
to Tartary.
Toronto, November 1914.
90
MAKERS AND MENDERS
I TOOK my watch to the watchmaker.
It had stopped, but for this I could see no reason:
The case showed no flaw upon its golden surface,
The little wheels inside were bright as quicksilver.
"What is wrong with it?" said I, and waited for his
answer.
The watchmaker took it in his fingers,
And tweaked at the frail works with his slender for
ceps.
I wondered that he could handle them so rudely
So fine they were, so delicate seemed their arrange
ment.
"Aha!" said he, "there is a jewel broken."
"And can you mend it?" "Yes," he answered,
"I can easily replace it with another."
"And will the watch then go as well as before?"
"Yes," said he, "it will be as good as new."
The Idol that I loved was broken, was broken !
My beautiful Idol with the lips of crimson,
The Idol that the great God gave me in the garden.
In the garden of my dreams, in the morning of the
world,
Drawing back the flaming curtain of the sunrise,
He showed her me among the dew and flowers.
91
She laughed and sang and clasped her arms around me,
She raised her lips to mine, and the fire of youth ran
through me.
I thought she would be mine for ever and ever.
I watched her, and did not understand, but only mar
velled ;
I marvelled, and did not understand, but only wor
shipped ;
I worshipped, and did not understand, but only loved
her.
My Idol was broken, was broken, was broken!
Those lips like the petals of a broken lily
Were pale that laughed dawn-red in the red dawning,
And old age came upon me as I kissed them.
Then remembered I the broken watch and the watch
maker ;
And I bethought me of a certain mender of idols,
How that he had wrought great wonders with his
knives and simples ;
And I found him, and showed him my Idol that was
broken.
"Can you mend it?" said I, and hung upon his answer.
But he shook his head and looked at me in sadness :
"Alas!" said he, "there is a jewel broken,
A jewel that none can mend except the Maker."
Now I knew well who had made my Idol,
92
And that I could never hope to find Him;
Wherefore in a little while I took my Idol,
And laid it away where I could see it no more.
And now I walk all alone within the garden,
And watch the shadows creep from flower to flower;
And I know that very soon it will be night-time.
And I weep no more, for something whispers
Through the hush of evening from the cool vastness
That when the glory of the sunset ripens
The great God will draw once more the curtain,
The great God, the Maker and lo, my Idol !
Renewed, her arms the portals of heaven,
Her lips the chalice of eternal life !
Lake Cecebe, 1914.
93
MY INN
WHEN your feet are burning,
Soiled with the highway s dust;
When your soul is yearning
For the rest which it knows is just;
When the sweat-drops blear your eyesight, and night
rolls up the linn
Beyond the road s last turning
You ll find my Inn.
Like a bower in Maytime
All year the flowers blow,
And there is no haytime,
For green the grasses grow.
And the sunshine is your brother, and the birds are
all your kin,
And all the work is playtime
At my Inn.
When the tempest lowers
O er the world, and thunders crash,
Then friendly showers
Tap merrily on the sash;
For there s never a storm comes blowing to trouble
you with its din
In the fair vale of flowers
Where hides my Inn.
94
Would you enter lightly?
Step quickly to the door,
Howe er unsightly,
Travel-stained and sore.
For the door is always open, has neither bolt nor
pin:
You are ever welcomed rightly
At my Inn.
Be it late or early,
You will not lack for cheer :
From the well-spring, pearly,
They ll bring you vintage clear :
For there s never an empty barrel, nor ever an empty
bin
And the lettuces grow curly
At my Inn.
If you d rest or slumber,
The beds are clean and soft;
Cast off your cumber,
Mount you up aloft.
And there you may sleep till doomsday with the
clothes tucked round your chin:
For the hours have no number
At my Inn.
95
Oh ! a place of pleasure
Is this sweet Inn of mine,
Where you get full measure
For all that toil of thine.
And they never ask a penny to pay twice were a
sin!
Bring only your heart s treasure
To my Inn.
Be you faint or weary ?
On ever to the end !
Tho* the way be dreary,
Somewhere you ll reach that bend; -
And beyond the road s last turning, where the
flowered paths begin,
You ll see lights twinkling cheery
From my Inn.
Toronto, 1911.
96
SMOKE
All the windy ways of man
Are a smoke that rises up. Tennyson.
BREATH of the mine,
Wraith of the oak
Who shall divine
The riddle of smoke?
Weave me a cloud,
Cover the sky;
Weave me a shroud :
Life is a lie!
Weave it not thin,
Weave it not fine;
Vivid as sin,
This, the design :
Beings of might
Toiling with death ;
Frail things, affright,
Gasping for breath;
97
TC.T.
Cities of doom,
Blackened and grim;
Battle-cloud s gloom;
Charred forests dim;
Crater and pit,
Furnace and pyre;
Boldly in-knit
With garlands of fire.
Weave it ! The dust
Lies in the urn:
So at last must
All the world burn.
Take then your toll,
Weaver of cloud.
Follows the whole :
Weave me a shroud.
Weave me it true,
Weave me it well
Weave me it, weave me it,
Vapor of Hell !
98
II
I built for myself a lodge in a fringe of the forest
With joy I labored the joy of the builder, the home-
maker,
Building a dream with the sills and the joists and the
rafters :
Oh, the smell of the sweet wood, and the triumph-song
of the hammer!
And last of all I gathered flat stones from the lakeside,
And split them, and fitted them, filling the spaces with
mortar,
And fashioned a goodly hearth for the friendly fire.
Now for the crowning moment! the fire is kindled,
The light smoke rises, and eddies, and sucks up the
chimney.
Out of doors! quick! or lost the supreme satisfac
tion.
There it comes! puff puff. . . . The birds in the
branches were singing,
The sun shone, the breeze fanned the perfume of hay
from the meadows,
The lake laughed: all Nature insistent was wooing;
Yet I stood, heeding not, while wonder and joy filled
my spirit
As I watched the sweet smoke from my hearth curling
upward to Heaven.
99
Ill
Beyond a sky-swept crest of hills
I see a smoke-plume rise;
And who shall tell me if a god
Or devil in it flies?
Does it write black the Curse of Cain,
Portend a bitter wrong?
Or does it from the feet of Love
Float upward like a song?
Of shame, of ruin, and of death
Behold the baleful sign!
Of friendship, faith, and goodly cheer
Who shall the truth divine?
Is there no good without the ill?
No shadow without sun?
What know we yet of false and true,
When all is said and done?
1914.
100
THE VICTOR
THE laurel falls upon my brow,
The plaudits thunder round the throne!
Lord God, support me even now,
Lest my true feebleness be shown.
The laurel falls like crown of lead
Upon a brow that reeks with sweat.
Oh, might its leaves hang withered, dead,
Could I this weariness forget!
This weariness of eye and brain,
This heaviness of heart and limb,
That tell of struggle all but vain,
Triumphal torches all but dim.
How slight a thing had turned the scale,
The victor and the vanquished changed ;
And I had couched with those who fail,
And he had with the heroes ranged.
The flutter of a kerchief there,
A pebble kicked along the course,
A baffling lock of wind-blown hair
Across one s eyes so small a source
101
Sometimes has victory or defeat.
The Gods decide, the Fates decree,
They dice with Chance, and haply cheat
The sport of circumstance are we.
He sits in silence in his place,
With steadfast eye and tranquil brow.
Lest I should wear a poorer grace,
Lord God, be with me even now.
1914.
102
THE PASSING
He was instantly killed. Newspaper.
HAD I my way not that way would I die.
How the poor soul must shrink, snatched suddenly
From out its common pathway, sun and shade,
Into His presence, blinded by the glare
Of so great glory!
Rather would I know
And see the end far off, as one who stands
Upon a high ship s prow sees from afar
The lights of home, and lets his errant thoughts
Go wandering on adown the sinuous path,
The ever- shortening, sinuous path of light,
That streams from them to him along the waves.
He thinks no more of tempests that are past,
Forgets the raging bar he yet must cross,
. Sees only the bright welcome waiting him :
The smiles, the festive joy, the happy tears.
Thus, drawing near to my eternal home,
I would compose my mind, and send it forth
Along the shortening pathway of my days,
Till all my doubts, my fears, were merged, were lost
In the fair vision of the welcoming Christ ;
And I should wait Death s kiss with joy and peace.
103
Then, at the last be it my lot to lie,
Not girded by four walls, or hemmed about
By beauty-blotting handiwork of man ;
But in some forest shade beside the sea,
Or where the mellow wind among the pines
Sings the wild sweetness of our northern lakes
To souls that listen on their magic isles.
Here the bright day glides tranquil to its close.
I hear the kindly voices that I love,
The water washing on the lonely crags,
The evening call of loon and whip-poor-will.
I feel the cool breath of God s holy night
Breathed round me, on my hand the hand of one
Best loved of all I leave behind. I see
O Heaven, pity those who cannot see!
Glory on glory glory on that face
So near, so dear; gold glory on the wave,
Purple, and gold, and darting tongues of flame;
Calm glory on the cloud-piled dome of heaven;
Glory of fire on the great sun s face.
So slips my soul, scarce heeding of the change,
From glory unto glory: Heaven breaks
Eternal glory on the face of God !
Lake Joseph, 1911.
104
MARGARET
SICK in bed lies Margaret,
(Would that it were I),
All her castled world o erset:
Does she weep and sigh ?
She is brave as she is fair,
Fought has she and won:
All her soul is driven bare
For the lovely sun.
Here she lies, and with her smile
Teaches, rules, us all;
Thin white hands with gentle guile
Hold our love in thrall.
I should love her were she dead,
Dead to eye and ear:
When she lies upon the bed,
Talking, smiling, here
In her little boudoir cap
With its bow of blue,
Where s the undiscerning chap
Wouldn t love her too?
105
Christmas ! - o er the sleeping mart
Answers bell to bell :
How they ll clamor in the heart
When our Love is well!
Toronto, December 1914.
106
A CHRISTMAS FANTASY
A STAR came out of the East,
And a Dream came out of the West.
They thought that the Star would set,
They dreamed that the Dream was best.
The Dream of an Empire Vast
As the world s night-bordered hem,
The Star of Eternal Love
They met at Bethlehem.
And the Dream became a star,
That fell through the night, and died;
But the Star became a dream,
Fulfilled through aeons wide.
Toronto, December 1911.
107
MORNING PRAYER
THE old bell calls to morning prayers
From his bower of ivy-vine:
The old bell-ringer kneels on the stairs
To mumble o er his line:
The little birds have all sung theirs:
Lo! I will sing me mine.
Pater Noster Lord of Heaven,
Holy, Holy is Thy name!
Strike the chords of Lyra, seven,
Till each string sounds forth Thy fame.
Let the sun fulfil his motion
Day by day at Thy sure word,
Let the wind o er land and ocean
Sing the greatness of the Lord,
Let the rain in gentle showers
Patter patter praise to Thee,
Let the thunder s mighty powers
Rend the sky and shake the sea,
Till all nations shall enthrone Thee
King of Kings eternally.
108
Pater Noster The Creator
Of the earth and all therein,
From the poles to the equator
Cleanse it, cleanse it, Lord, from sin!
Thou, who mak st the flowers fragrant,
Send st the seasons ever sure,
Take Thy children, erring, vagrant,
Make their lives so true, so pure.
Grant them harvests free, abundant;
After labor give them rest;
Let not sorrow be redundant-
Lord, Thou knowest what is best.
Those who fall beneath life s burden,
Take, O take them to Thy breast.
Pater Meus O my Father,
Hear the cry of this poor soul !
Punish not my sins, but rather
In Thy mercy make me whole.
Doubt and Fear pursue, overtake me;
Faith and I oh! weak are we.
I am lost if Thou forsake me :
Pity my humility!
Give me strength to fight and vanquish
The grim foes who bar my way,
Heal my wounds, and calm my anguish
Hear, O hear these prayers I say!
Lead me through the world s long night-time
To the pure and perfect day.
109
Pater Omnis Shall I ask it?
Yea: for Thou hast loved me.
Let me bear one fragment-basket,
Filled with love by Galilee :
Let me, for my soul s salvation,
Love on all men here bestow,
Not for mine own exaltation,
But for His, whose love I show.
Save me from the name of scorner,
Teach me how to help the weak,
Lift the fallen, soothe the mourner,
Comfort those who comfort seek
Make me like, and ever liker,
Holy Jesus kind and meek.
The prayer is sung, the bell is still,
The ivy flashes in the sun.
The old bell-ringer hath a chill :
His course is nearly run.
Pll forth and aid him up the hill :
The new day is begun.
110
SELECTIONS FROM
JUVENILE VERSES
(Written before the age of
AUTUMN LEAVES
GOLDEN and red, golden and red,
Beautiful dying, beautiful dead,
Autumn leaves.
In the winds of winter, bitter,
Sparkling with the snowflakes glitter,
Sway the buds.
In the spring awake from slumber,
Tiny leaves, in countless number
Myriads.
Through the summer, hot and dreary,
Hang they, parched with waiting, weary
For the Fall.
Twould be scarce worth while their growing,
Mid the breezes, idly blowing,
Were this all.
This is but the preparation
For the glorious consummation
Of their day ;
Tis when they at last are dying,
And when some in death are lying,
That we say :
Golden and red, golden and red,
Beautiful dying, beautiful dead,
Autumn leaves.
Wolfville, October 1905.
113
8C.T.
THE FLAMES
THE weird fantastic motion of the flames
Upon the soul exerts a mystic power:
We watch them paint, with wonder, hour by hour,
Strange objects having neither forms nor names;
And now each picture as it fades away,
Starts in the mind some train of hidden thought
A dream of what shall be, perhaps, is wrought,
Or yet again, fond mem ry holds its sway;
But oftenest on fancy s wings we re borne
To the dim precincts of the spirit-world,
And Ghosts and Goblins seem more real when furled
In fiery garments ever gashed and torn.
Oh! better far is it than songs or games,
To read sweet myst ries in the dancing flames.
Wolfville, Nova Scotia, 1906.
114
THE WOOD-LAND SPIRIT
HIGHER and higher,
Flamed our camp-fire,
Casting a glow
Over the snow,
A circle of light
Surrounded by night.
Sudden each heart stood still:
Over the vale and the hill,
Sounding from regions remote,
A long-drawn mystical note
Swelled on the air and dropped
Softly it sank and stopped.
Then, through the branches,
Swift avalanches
Of music and song
Hurried along
From this side and that
All round where we sat.
While yet the forest rang
Into our midst there sprang
Ghost-like, a figure bright,
Robed like the winter night;
Backward her tresses flung,
Softly this song she sung:
115
Queen of the wood-land,
Angel of wild things,
Spirit of Freedom, I am.
Come to my good land,
Drink of its mild springs,
Rest in its quiet and calm.
Rich your reward is,
Ye who obey me,
Ye who answer my call.
What your reward is,
No need to say ye:
Ye yourselves know of it all.
Ceasing, she whirled around,
Rose from the snowy ground
Leaving no foot-print or mark
Vanishing into the dark;
While the last long mystical note
Was echoed in regions remote.
Wolfville, 1906. ,
(Prize poem in Acadia Athen&um when the author was
fifteen years old.}
116
THE GOBLIN OF ELFINDALE
THE Goblin of Elfindale ages long
Had sung in the woodland his merry song.
He had lived in the far-off, golden day
When the Druids under their oaks held sway.
He had crouched with fear in his snug abode
When the Romans were making the woodland road.
He had heard the ring of the clanging blades
As the knights rode by to the far Crusades.
And now, each day, when the sun was high,
He sang as the stage-coach rattled by.
But at last he grew weary, and went to bed
On a bank of mosses ; "I m sleepy," he said.
And no wonder he was, the poor little thing:
For a thousand years he d done nothing but sing.
So he rested, and knew not what passed on the way.
The leaves fell around him, and rotted away,
And the wild rose silently over him crept,
But still the Goblin of Elfindale slept.
117
But ah! he jumps! he s awake at last!
With a snort and a roar a great car flies past.
And the Goblin stared at the dust that rose,
And with elfin fingers he held his nose.
The Goblin of Elfindale scratched his head,
"My whiskers! I must have slept!" he said.
Toledo, Ohio, 1906.
(Gold Badge in St. Nicholas League when the author was
sixteen years old.)
118
A LAD AND A LASS
A WILD-ROSE twined o er the old oak-tree:
Sweet Lucy sat by me upon the grass :
She plucked a flower, and gave it me
I was a lad, and she was a lass.
A thorn on the flower pricked her hand :
I bowed my head like a priest at mass,
And healed the hurt with a potion bland
I was a lad, and she was a lass.
I feared her frown, but she smiled instead,
And the light, like the sparkle of wine and glass,
Which shone in her eyes, quite turned my head
I was a lad, and she was a lass.
I kissed the rose, and I kissed her lips.
The crickets were chirping among the grass.
We were happy through to our finger-tips
I was a lad, and she was a lass.
The rose is faded I keep it yet
The gray years come, and the gay years pass,
With joy, with sorrow, but no regret,
For those who once were a lad and a lass.
119
And the rose still twines o er the old oak-tree,
And often we sit there upon the grass;
And the past is lost in to-day for me,
And I am a lad, and she is a lass.
1907.
120
THE QUEEN OF MY HEART
WITH mother-love I am wrapped about!
And I ll hold it fast in my heart s redoubt,
For mother s love is worth more to me
Than all the gems in the depths of the sea.
I have uncles and aunts and relations galore;
My affections are scattered on these and some more ;
Yet mother has always had her part,
And she has been ever the queen of my heart.
T is said that, when I am older grown,
And have a family of my own,
The love that now is so deep and strong,
Will shrink to make room for the new love-throng.
I may have babes, and nephews, and nieces galore,
I may scatter affection to every shore!
But mother will never lose her part,
And she shall be ever the queen of my heart.
June 7, 1905.
121
MY DAD AN I
MY dad an I we re splendid chums,
We ll stick thro every ill that comes
Together like two sugar-plums,
My dad an I.
We go afishin in the spring,
An tho we oft get nary thing,
We re each as happy as a king,
My dad an I.
We go agunnin , too, for game,
An tho we don t attain to fame,
We like it first rate just the same,
My dad an I.
I find, when I the past review,
He s given me lickin s very few:
We know each other through an through,
My dad an I.
Besides the cane he s given me pills
An other things to cure my ills,
An all along he s paid the bills;
I thank him for t
122
Thus through the past, until this time,
When I do pen this little rhyme,
We have worked out a fair regime,
My dad an* I.
Into the future none may look,
Fast is it shut, like a brass-bound book ;
But we ll pull through by hook or crook,
My dad an I.
Wolfville, 1905.
123
BLOMIDON
DARKNESS, and smoke, and a distant rumble,
A sulphurous smell and a grinding grumble,
And the earth began to heave and tumble.
It heaved and tumbled, till, at the close,
When after the tumult came repose,
A mighty pile majestic rose.
Then through the ages nature wrought
With cunning skill, and ever sought
To shape the mountain to her thought.
The rain and frost both lent their aid;
A dress of pine and fir she made,
With grassy slopes and rocks inlaid.
O Blomidon ! when wreathed in mist,
Or by Acadian sunsets kissed,
Or when the Storm-king s mighty fist
Descends with thunder on thy crest,
And seas are dashed upon thy breast,
Or when all round is perfect rest
124
A waveless sea, an azure sky,
With dainty cloudlets floating by,
Or snowy banks of cumuli
Of far-famed scenes the central part,
Thou stand st, a masterpiece of art,
Belov d of nature s artist heart.
Wolfville, 1905.
125
FRIENDS IN THE FOREST
GIVE me no crowded city,
When my heart is lone and sad,
With its countless thronging thousands.
The tumult would drive me mad.
In the throbbing life of the city,
Who cares for another s moan?
Tho around me the crowd were surging,
I should stand by myself, alone.
Give me no heaving ocean,
Give me no wind-swept plain;
For there is but time for brooding,
Nothing to heal the pain.
But give me the wide-spread forest,
With its hemlock, and beech, and pine,
With its ash, and its oak, and its maple,
And its ferns, and its mosses fine,
With its rocky glens and streamlets,
And the music of water-falls,
With its birds, and beasts, and flowers,
And its dreamy wild-wood calls.
126
Tho I wander, alone, through the forest,
There are friends upon every hand:
Tried friends, who comfort and soothe me,
As they whisper "We understand."
Wolfville, 1906.
127
Warwick Bro s & Rutter, Limited,
Printers and Bookbinders, Toronto, Canada.
COLL.
Coo. 3
My Pocket Beryl
By
Mary Josephine Benson
The gift of poesy sometimes runs in families. Here
we find Mary Josephine (Trotter) Benson following, as it
were, in the footsteps of her soldier poet cousin; her verse
shews a freshness both of thought and vocabulary, and
unique aspects of imagination and fancy that stamp it with
a distinct and impressive individualism.
Her themes are of a wide range and show technical
skill in the handling of a variety of forms there are poems
purely lyrical; poems contempla f ive of human aims and
aspirations, of scenes and incidents, descriptive poems;
metrical stores of legend and romance; poems on aviation;
and poems on the war s aftermath.
These verses from the title page epitomize the poet s
conception of her task:
For piece by piece, and part by part,
It is the crystal-gazer s art
To find Arcana s chambered heart.
Within my beryl the signs rehearse
Faint murmurings from the universe
In runes that animate my veise.
MCCLELLAND & STEWART, LIMITED
PUBLISHERS - - TORONTO
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