BY THE SAME AUTHOR

————
FLEURS DE LYS, and OTHER POEMS
1887, E. M. Renouf, Montreal
————
THE ROMANCE OF SIR RICHARD, SONNETS, and OTHER POEMS
1890, W. Drysdale & Co., Montreal

THE SNOWFLAKE
AND
O T H E R P O E M S

BY
ARTHUR WEIR
MONTREAL:
JOHN LOVELL & SON
1897

Copyrighted, 1896, by Arthur Weir, Montreal.

CONTENTS.

TO
HUGH GRAHAM, Esq.,
TO WHOSE
ENCOURAGEMENT, TASTE AND ENTERPRISE
THE AUTHOR
IS LARGELY INDEBTED
FOR
WHATEVER OF PUBLIC FAVOR HE ENJOYS,
THIS VOLUME
IS
Gratefully Dedicated.

T H E S N O W F L A K E
AND OTHER POEMS.

THE SNOWFLAKE.

Fierce Neptune’s daughter, beneath the water,
In grottoes cool dwelt I,
And, laughing, hid in the seashell’s lid,
As fishes arrowed by.
My feet were free to the undersea;
I played amidst its gloom,
And in the deep where the mermaids weep
Above the hero’s tomb,
Where the sea snake strips dainty maiden lips
Of kisses once so warm,
And the lifeless child, by the eddies wild,
Is torn from the mother’s arm.
The foam-browed billow my head would pillow
Upon its bosom fair,
While the restless sweep of the moon-led deep
Would drift us here and there.
I oft would float in the dainty boat
The Nautilus oared for me,
Out, far, far out, where a noisy rout
Of breakers leapt in glee;
Or further urge to the world’s dim verge,
Where heaven meets the wave,
And the seagull’s wing was the only thing
To follow us was brave.
Then called by the blast, as it glided past,
I would turn and clap my hands,
As the waves were tossed on the tropic coast,
And furrowed the silver sands.

Where, with weedy locks, the bare limbed rocks
Bend over the foaming sea,
I oft resorted, and, as I sported,
The sunbeams played with me.
We would dance all day in the prismed spray,
Or in the blossoms hide,
That, trembling, clung to the crags and hung
Above the boiling tide.
Oftimes the cool, green depths of a pool
Would lure me down to rest,
Till the sunbeams came in a path of flame
And found me in my nest.
With colors gaily they decked me daily,
And tempted me to fly
Afar from the foam of my ocean home
Aloft in the cloudless sky.
But I said them nay, for the leaping spray,
And cool, green depths of sea,
Than the flight of birds and the sunbeams’ words
Were dearer far to me.
“I had seen,” I said, “to the sky o’erhead
My sisters, laughing, soar
For a merry flight through the azure bright,
And never saw them more.
I love my home in the ocean foam,
I love the moonlit sands,
And I would sigh in the depths of sky
And die in distant lands.”

But who can prove to the plea of love,
Unyielding and unkind?
At love’s low call we hasten all,
Like leaves at the voice of wind.
And ere the moon at the night’s high noon
Had twelve times orbed grown,
My heart was stirred at a whispered word,
My soul was not mine own.
My lover was fair as the balmy air
That follows after storm,
When the careless sea, with a song of glee,
Trips over the shallows warm.
He was the first through the gloom that burst
To bring the dawn to me,
And he was the last from my sight that passed
When darkness walked the sea.
One shimmering day, as asleep I lay
Upon the tide-worn sand,
He stole apart, with an eager heart,
From all the sunny band.
He came to me, as I lay thought free,
And bent my couch above,
And while I slumbered, with words unnumbered,
He pleaded for my love;
Then as I woke at the words he spoke,
And rising turned to flee,
I was closely pressed to his ardent breast,
And kisses were rained on me.

“My heart’s own dearest,” he cried, “why fearest
Thou to take flight with me?
Is there aught more fair than the realms of air
In yonder sullen sea?
Is the sea-gull’s scream or the under gleam
Of billows rushing by
More sweet to thee than the melody
Of larks in the azure sky?
Oh, be thou my bride, and side by side
We’ll float upon the breeze
O’er river and town, o’er forest and down,
Wherever we twain shall please.
We’ll swim in the wine of the luscious vine
Which brims the crystal high,
And when of her lover the fond words move her,
We’ll dance in the maiden’s eye.
We’ll scale vast mountains and o’er gay fountains
Hover in noon’s warm glare,
And when night lowers, shall sleep in flowers
That sway in the dewy air.
And shouldst thou tire, nor more desire
The airy plains to roam,
But pine again for the leaping main
And the drench of flying foam,
We need but glide on the leaf-sown tide
Of some swift coursing stream
To our home at last, and the happy past
Shall be but a varied dream.”

I could but yield as he thus appealed,
And clasping hand in hand,
With a parting glance at the sea’s expanse,
Dun rocks and silver strand,
We mounted high in the glowing sky,
And, leaving home behind,
Fared swiftly forth to the distant north
Upon the balmy wind.
O’er tangled brakes where the twilight makes
For evermore its home,
And the tiger sleeps and the cobra creeps,
And prowling jackals roam,
We floated fast, till the hills, at last,
To bar our path appeared,
And many a peak its forehead bleak
And tawny flanks upreared.
O’er many a cleft in the rocks bereft
Of life and the sunlight’s sheen,
Wild torrents were hurled to the under world,
And wheeled the eagles keen.
In faltering lines, the famished pines
Pressed up the mountain sides,
And sang to the blast, as it hurried past,
The song of the ocean tides,
Till I yearned once more for the tropic shore
Beside the emerald waves,
And my sisters gay and the dashing spray
And ocean’s weedy caves.

On, on we went, till the distance lent
The hills an azure hue,
And the earth beneath was a naked heath
Where winds in anger blew.
We saw the smoke like a wave that broke
Above the homes of men,
And in the bowers of the meadow flowers
Took rest for flight again.
A myriad sights were a thousand delights
As on through space we sped,
But the happy day soon faded away
And the sun in the west lay dead.
Then the shadows of death with their icy breath
Drew ever more surely nigh,
And in frightened crowds the murky clouds
Swept under the ebon sky.
Afar in the north a fire flamed forth
And flickered with ghastly light,
Like a lamp that burns when a soul returns
To God in the dead of night.
Gloom blotted the hills and the tinkling rills
Were bound in frosty chains,
And the flowers once gay all lifeless lay
Upon the dreary plains.
There was no sound in the air around,
No voice upon earth below,
Save the angry beat of the wild winds’ feet,
That wandered to and fro.

In a frenzy of fear, with many a tear,
I clung to my darling’s breast,
For the wintry night with its baleful light
My timorous soul distressed.
“Beloved,” he cried, “sweet sea-nurtured bride,
My love brings sorrow to thee,
For I feel at my heart the pitiless dart
That Death has made keen for me.”
I cried, “There are caves in the amethyst waves
Wherein love may make life sweet,
Oh! haste and return, ere the elements stern
Have beaten us under their feet.”
There was no reply to my passionate cry,
No answering kiss to mine,
And I felt in the storm from my trembling form
My lover’s arms untwine.
All heavy he grew, like a wounded sea mew
That dies in the midmost air,
And fell without sound to the frosty ground,
And lay like a dead bird there.
The tresses of gold on his forehead cold
I parted, and kissed his brow,
But his lips nor smiled at my fondling wild,
His eyes nor knew me now.
And the icy blast, as it thundered past
The hollow wherein he lay,
Tore him apart from my anguished heart,
And carried him away.

I heard the trees moan in an undertone
As the storm king struck them low,
And the river flood grew still as he stood
And bade it cease to flow.
There was no flower in that sad hour
Had strength to lift its head,
And I was alone in a land unknown
And mourned my love for dead.
Then in countless hosts, like white-robed ghosts,
My sisters lost drew near,
And hemmed me round, but they made no sound
My breaking heart to cheer.
Each wore a star that glittered afar,
Amid her flowing hair,
And they went and came like the lightless flame
That pierced the northern air.
They floated high to the pitiless sky
And gathered on the heath,
Till their myriad feet did mingle and meet,
And hide the earth beneath.
And was it a dream that I should seem
A snowy robe to don,
And tread without pleasure their swift, weird measure,
As the wintry wind piped on.
Methought we flowed through that drear abode
In sheets of spray and foam,
As erst with hope and mirth on the slope
Of waves in our ocean home.

Then many a day in a trance I lay
Upon the dreary plain,
Till, at last, I heard the pipe of a bird,
And my heart grew warm again.
At the bird’s sweet call through night’s thick pall
The faint sun peered and shone,
As of yore at home through the flying foam
He looked from the gates of dawn.
He looked and smiled, and the air, beguiled,
Grew warm and bright again,
And my sisters all each to each did call,
As erst in the joyous main.
Like the leaping rills from the sunny hills
That tinkle to the sea,
They sang as they glanced in the sun and danced
On the rivers rushing free.
The flowers awoke from their sleep, and broke
With many an emerald spear
And banner bright to the warm sunlight
Through the leaves of the bygone year.
And one with a crown of gold bent down
And took me to its heart,
“Poor waif of the storm,” it said, “grow warm
And share of my joy a part.
In the sky above there are many will love
A heart as pure as thine;
Leave grief with the past, like the shadow we cast
As we hasten where sunbeams shine.”

I dwelt in the bower of the generous flower
For many a quiet day,
Till, on soft winds blown, the seeds were sown;
And then I wandered away.
For sake of my love, the sun above
Upraised me to the sky,
And east and west I went on my quest,
But my dear one found not I.
Oft I heard from brooks in shadowy nooks
My sisters call to me
To join their throng as they drifted along,
Seeking the distant sea.
And hearing their lays in the woodland ways
Through autumn’s golden air,
A yearning came that I could not name,
Stronger than my despair.
“If I must live on when my love is gone,”
I murmured to my soul,
“Oh, let it be by the throbbing sea
My sisters make their goal.
There let me rest like a child on the breast,
Close to its great warm heart,
Till my sorrows cease and I am at peace,
O lover, where thou art.”
So I sought the brook, and the sky forsook,
And reached the sea at last,
In whose briny waves and weedy caves
I brood upon the past.

THE MASQUE OF THE YEAR.
(Time is discovered seated in the midst of a bevy of maidens, each of whom represents a month.)

TIME.

Behold me, Time, inexorable Time,
Twin brother of Death. Like him all hearts I tame.
As babes with baubles play, so I with fame.
I weigh all deeds, judge every poet’s rhyme,
Sift heroes, smile at life’s quaint pantomime,
Put down the present great, and oft reclaim
From sad oblivion some forgotten name,
Uplifting it to heights that are sublime.
I sit, amid the months, upon my throne,
Waiting to greet the New Year drawing nigh,
And though it brings a destiny unknown,
Naught need ye fear, since God is in the sky.
Fate is God’s choice; be therefore of good cheer.
Let mirth and song welcome each new crowned year.

JANUARY.

Far have I come, out of darkness, from chaos,
The land of the future, dread realm unknown,
Out of silence, alone.
I have trodden the ice-fields of drear Baccalaos,
Heard the grinding of bergs in the seas of the north
As the gale urged them forth,
And at midday have looked on the sun’s feeble glory
With a smile of disdain, for the warmth that he felt
Ne’er my bosom could melt.
Death and stillness are mine, and, save wolves on a foray,
All is still, all is shrouded, all Nature’s asleep,
Under snow hidden deep.
I am the ruler of uncreate chaos,
Queen of absolute void, which life comes not anear—
First month of the year.

FEBRUARY.

I am the month of beginnings. I bear
In my bosom the seed of all changes to come.
As yet I am dumb,
But Hope has been born in the breast of Despair.
The pine boughs stir under their burden of snow,
As though promise they know,
Yet the sun shines no stronger, there’s naught that foretells
The coming of summer. No song of a bird
In the woodland is heard,
Not a sound, save the stroke of the axe, as it fells
Some wood king, whose form sinks beneath the keen blade,
With a crash, through the glade;
Yet the spirit of Nature’s awake, and the air
Thrills with love. I soothe grief with my wonderful balm,
Second month that I am.

MARCH.

I am the month of unrest and of yearning,
Of wild and untamable hatred and love.
I glide through the grove,
Calling on Summer, so slow in returning.
I seek for the fruit, bud, leaf, blossom and all.
When they heed not my call,
The winds I unleash, which, like hounds on the scent,
Give voice round the farmsteads, and course o’er the moors,
With a hundred detours,
Till they leap on the forests, whose branches are rent.
I heap up the snowdrifts, bind firmer the streams,
And defy the sun’s beams.
My heart throbs with hate, and all tenderness spurning,
With winter again I span heaven’s blue arch.
I am passionate March.

APRIL.

I am the month of transition. My breast
Heaves with sweet, delicate hope, that beguiles
Dreamy Earth into smiles.
Through woodlands deserted I go on my quest,
And summon the blood-root and shad-bush to flower
Though they fade in an hour.
I drop gentle rain on the faded, brown grasses,
And loosen the soil for all tender, green shoots,
To push up from their roots.
I summon the birds, and where’er my foot passes,
Sleeping Nature arouses itself at my call.
I am helpful to all.
While no ecstacy’s mine, I am never distressed,
But tranquilly wander, to fate reconciled.
I am April, the mild.

MAY.

I am the month of gay Summer’s beginning,
When earth with its verdure smiles up at the sky,
And the mayflowers shy,
And sun-loving blossoms, their way to light winning
Through strewn leaves of autumn, mute emblems of death,
Perfume with their breath,
The zephyrs released from their fetters of frost.
The streams murmur cheerily under their banks
Their melodious thanks
For sweet freedom regained, as they flow and are lost
In the broad, sunny river, that rushes along
To the sea, with a song.
Chill Winter’s forgot, with its woe and its sinning.
Youth leaps in my veins—I am young, I am gay—
I am love-kindling May.

JUNE.

I am the month of sweet, virginal joy,
When Earth, as the sun its first passion discloses,
Blushes with roses,
When all things are new, and nothing can cloy.
The birds, in a cloudland of leafage concealed,
By their songs are revealed.
All is young, all is love. In the shadowy vales,
In woodland and meadow, all Nature’s awake.
At the wind’s kiss, the lake
Breaks forth into smiles; but as yet passion fails
To weary itself. Soul is searching for soul,
And has not reached its goal.
Life leaping to life doth each moment employ,
And love doth all Nature’s grand chorus attune.
I am virginal June.

JULY.

I am the month of warm, passionate love,
When Earth silent lies, with shy longings opprest,
While soft sighs stir her breast.
All unclasped is her zone, and the Sun’s warm lips prove
Her lips ruby treasures, and make her soul his
With many a kiss.
I wander abroad in the murmurous hours,
While the silvery moonbeams sift down on the scene,
Rustling leafage between.
I whisper of joy to the slumbering flowers,
As, with petals close folded, like child hands in prayer,
They rest on the air,
And I drop cooling dews from the clear sky above
On the moist brow of Earth, as still she doth sigh.
I am July.

AUGUST.

I am the month of sweet langour and dreaming.
In the shadowy depths of the woods I recline,
While afar stand the kine,
Thoughtful, knee-deep, where cool waters are streaming
Over the sands, and at hand, loud and clear,
The cicada I hear.
Afar, by the plunging green waves of the sea,
I wander at times, when the shimmer of heat
Disturbs my retreat;
Or amid rugged crags, where the wind wanders free,
I sit in the shelter of hills, by the brook
That leaps forth from its nook
Adown the swart cliff, with its silver spray gleaming,
And I muse on the past with a rapturous sigh.
Dreamy August am I.

SEPTEMBER.

I am the month that brings peace to the weary,
The flush to the apple, the gold to the leaf,
And the grain to the sheaf.
I am the month that prepares for the dreary,
Long days of midwinter, when Earth lies asleep
Under snow hidden deep.
After the yearning of Spring and the passion
Of hot days of Summer, I cool the warm brow,
And the seeds that the plough
Gave to earth I give back, shaped in daintier fashion.
At the touch of my hand every toiler forgets
All life’s weeds and its frets,
And the heart that was grieving becomes again cheery.
When I rule, men no longer their sorrows remember.
I am September.

OCTOBER.

I am the hush ere the coming of storm.
I am the eventide, lulling to rest,
Upon Earth’s kindly breast,
Her offspring, the flowers, till they nestle up warm,
Folding their leaves and their blossomy eyes
Closing, child-wise.
I warn the still woodland, that doffs its gay dress
And upsprings, like a warrior armed for the fray,
To meet the dread day
When the Tempest’s huge shoulders against it shall press.
I breathe to the streams the fell tidings, until
Every bickering rill,
With a tremor of fear, seaward hurls its lithe form
In mad flight, ere with fetters the Ice King draws nigh.
October am I.

NOVEMBER.

I am the priestess of frost, and I bring
The winds in my train. I am vestured in snow,
And wherever I go
The ice maidens deck me with jewels, and fling
Crystal arches o’er streams that flow sombrely by
Beneath the grey sky.
Earth under my feet a soft carpeting spreads,
And from valley and hill, as I pass on my rounds,
There re-echo no sounds.
The lean, famished forests bow down their high heads
As among them I wander. The stars hold their breath
As, dread omen of death,
Flits the mystic aurora with rustling wing
High above, and some meteor falls like an ember.
I am November.

DECEMBER.

I am the month when worn Earth lies at rest
Under the eiderdown snow, that clings close
To her form in repose,
As her gossamer drape to the virgin, whose breast
Rises and falls as she dreams of her love.
Through the keen air above
The stars glow like watch-fires of summer. Anon
Come the jingle of sleigh-bells, a laugh and a shout,
As gay youth, in mad rout,
Sweeps merrily down the white road, and is gone.
Then silence returns, till the winds howl in glee,
Or some frost-riven tree
Shrieks aloud in its pain. Yet Earth sleeps, undistressed.
All ended her task, she has naught now to fear,
December is here.

THE NEW YEAR.

I am here, I have come from the home of the morning;
I am flushed with hope’s wine; I have treasures for all.
The old year is sped, let it serve as a warning
That the moments I bring shall bear fruit ere they fall.
The past none can alter; its grief and its sinning
Are writ for all time in the volume of life,
But behold me, the New Year, new records beginning;
Let love be their burden, not envy and strife.

CHORUS OF MONTHS.

Welcome, welcome, with chime of merry bell,
Welcome to thy kingdom, O monarch pure and true!
In gladness we will serve thee. Ah! rule this great earth well;
Efface the sorrows of the past, and all past joys renew.
We, the children of the sun,
Who watch the precious moments run,
Will wreathe thy brow with stars of snow and flowers sweet and fair.
But while we sow the fruits of earth,
That man shall garner in with mirth,
To Time alone belongs the power
Of harvesting each ripened hour.
Welcome, welcome, with chime of merry bell!
Another year is given to man to sow and reap his life.
When next the mystic book is sealed, what story will it tell?
Will it speak of love triumphant, will it tell of sin and strife?
O mortal man, remember
Every year has its December,
And when the year has ended naught can change the record there.

THE MUSE AND THE PEN.

The Muse, renowned in ancient story,
But seldom seen these humdrum times,
Came down to earth, in all her glory,
To put new life in modern rhymes.
“Forsooth,” she said, “I’m tired of hearing
Mechanic singers, every one,
With forced conceits and thin veneering,
Serving the lamp, and not the sun.”

The Muse was but a simple maiden,
Who loved the woodlands, meads and streams,
With odorous buds her gown was laden,
Her hair was bright with rippling gleams;
And murmuring an Arcadian ditty,
She wandered, with uncertain feet,
In wonder, through the crowded city,
Bewildered by each clattering street.

She gazed upon the hurrying mortals,
Each busy with his own affairs.
She spumed some lauded poets’ portals,—
“Let monthlies print such stuff as theirs.”
A milkman nodded her a cheery
“Bon jour, ma’mselle,” in ready French,
And as she passed a cabman beery,
He hiccoughed, “there’s a likely wench.”

She met a red-faced, buxom Chloe,
A dapper Strephon, full of airs;
The one in vesture cheap and showy,
The other versed in brutal stares;
And shocked and weary, hot and muddy,
Into the nearest house she turned,
And found herself within the study
Of one whose pen his living earned.

She looked quite curiously about her
(Being of a curious turn of mind),
To learn if he did also flout her
And still in life some pleasure find.
Shortly she marked his desk, half hidden
Beneath a mass of copious notes,
And turned to it and read, unchidden,
Of chartered banks and chartered boats.

She read that crops were thriving better,
But that the country needed rain;
And then another item met her
On “Watered stocks, the country’s bane.”
She read of “interest rates as under,
With money still in poor demand,”
And let the item fall, to wonder
Were poets wealthy in the land.

She read that “none who float on paper
Long raise the wind, for all their craft,”
“Bulls up a tree, a market caper,”
“A house in trouble with a draft.”
She read of butter growing stronger
And cheese more lively every day,
That baker’s flour will rise no longer,
And of “a serious cut in hay.”

As still she turned the litter over,
Reading an item now and then,
She did beneath the pile discover
And pounce upon the writer’s pen;
And by the charm the Muse possesses
She made it speak like flesh and blood,—
Oh! happy Pen, to have her tresses
Fall round thee in that solitude!

“Dear Pen,” she cried, “in what strange service
Is this I find thy skill employed?
Thy master’s style seems bright and nervous,
Yet is of sense a little void.”
The Pen replied: “O gracious lady,
Trade questions are considered here,
And thou wilt find transactions shady
By master’s hand made easily clear.”

The pouting Muse her pretty shoulder
Shrugged as she listened to the Pen.
“Thy master must than ice be colder
If thus content to write for men.
Go, bid him frame a graceful sonnet,
A simple poem from his heart,
And I will gently breathe upon it
And to its body life impart.”

Again the Pen: “O goddess puissant,
My master lacks nor heart nor skill
To turn a stanza, but of recent
Days he hath hungry mouths to fill.
He loves thee, but he may not show it,
And Pegasus must drag the plough,
For men would starve him as a poet
Who earns at least a pittance now.”

The Muse waxed wroth: “Would not my beauty
All else thy master make forget?”
The Pen replied: “The path of duty
My master hath not swerved from yet.
Thy beauty haunts his every vision,
Sweet on his ear thine accents fall;
Yet could he tread the fields Elysian,
Think’st thou, while suffering loved ones call?”

“But I can make his name immortal.”
“Immortal shame!” replied the Pen.
“When he should pass Death’s sombre portal
And stand before his God, what then?
He hath a God-like, awful function,
To shield his own from want and wrong;
Wouldst have him, then, without compunction,
Barter his birthright for a song?

“I am his trusted friend. Unflagging,
I help him win his daily bread.
Though heart may ache, or thought be lagging,
Still must the ink be ever shed.
Yet oft he lays me down, and, sighing,
Looks through the casement at the stars;
And then I know his soul is trying
Vainly to pass beyond its bars.

“A soldier in the war of labor,
He battles on, from day to day,
Swinging the gold-compelling sabre,
Nor finding time to pluck a spray.
Nay, more! he must, through glorious bowers,
Press harshly on, with heavy tread,
Crushing to earth the beauteous flowers
With which he fain had wreathed thy head.”

The Muse grew pensive. Softly sighing,
She said: “Now pity him I can.
Strong, purposeful and self-denying,
Here I have what I seek, a Man.
Would that this noble self-surrender,
These high resolves, this purpose stern,
Might yet the grander verse engender,
And brighter make his genius burn!

“How grief must gnaw his heart asunder
As still Fate balks him, day by day!”
“Nay!” cried the Pen, “thou may’st wonder,
But know, my master’s heart is gay.
Perchance at times, a pang concealing,
His face grows sad; but not for long,
For sweet, loved arms, around him stealing,
Fill all his soul with unvoiced song.”

The Muse above the table bending,
Laid her warm lips upon the Pen,
A thrill throughout its fibres sending:
“This for thy master.” Slowly then,
She passed away; and after, never
The writer labored, but a throng
Of fancies cheered him, singing ever:
“The Muse hath crowned each unvoiced song.”

THE BEAVER MEADOW.

’Tis a meadow green as an emerald’s heart
In the heart of an emerald wood,
And a crystal stream doth loiter and dart
Through the sun-smitten solitude.
The orioles glance like flashes of fire
From foliaged limb to limb,
And the harsh frogs pipe in a ceaseless choir
From the marsh, when day grows dim.

When the grey, cold Dawn in her robes of mist,
O’er meadow and wood and stream,
Looks forth from her tower of amethyst,
She sees the wild duck gleam
In the slender reeds that have waded out,
Far out, in the sinuous brook,
And she hears the loon, like a wary scout,
Shrill keen from his secret nook.

Long years ago when our fathers first,
Fearless and full of hope,
With love of venture and wealth athirst,
O’er river and mountain slope,
To this woodland came, a lakelet lay
As bright as a burnished shield,
Where now the rivulet waters play,
And the loud frogs pipe, concealed.

And a wonderful town with its sunward domes,
And wondrous people stood,
Where the deep mouthed frogs have now their homes,
And the wild ducks lurk and brood.
Grand were the fronts and the pictured walls
Of the Inca’s ancient sway,
But the town that stood where the streamlet calls,
More wondrous was than they.

Not a listless brain nor an idle hand
Was there in all that town,
But strong defences the people planned,
And hewed the great trees down.
The rippling stream, with consummate art,
In barriers huge they pent,
And made their home in the new lake’s heart,
And dwelt therein content.

But woe to the town and its people all!
Earth giveth no deathless joy,
And where man’s merciless glances fall
The simple they fain destroy.
The brutal and covetous Spanish horde
That raided the Aztec land,
Put its people and chieftains to the sword,
Its cities to the brand.

And here in this northern wilderness,
This wonderful beaver town,
That baffled the elemental stress
Before our sires went down.
Its stately domes and its barriers vast,
Its sinuous streets, its lake,
The hunter destroyed and overcast,
For a little riches’ sake.

He slaughtered the noble beaver kings,
And loosened the fettered stream.
And now the reeds, like a thousand strings,
With music as of a dream,
In the night wind mourn the departed lake
And the stately beaver town,
While the rippling waves in the rushes break,
As the stream goes eddying down.

And musing here on the grassy site
Of the beaver colony,
My soul is carried in fancy’s flight
To the site of Ville Marie,
Where the Hochelagans, or beaver race
Of Indians, dwelt of old,
Their name renowned from their mountain’s base
To where the ocean rolled.

Hochelaga the Beaver Meadow meant,
And where the beaver dwelt
Long since, the white man pitched his tent,
And before heaven knelt.
He felled the trees and he stayed the tide
Of tribesmen rushing down,
And, like the beaver, he builded wide
And strong a mighty town.

The curious skill and the council sage,
And the beaver’s love of toil,
Became as well his heritage
As the broad and fruitful soil.
Then honor be to the beaver’s name,
And praise to the beaver’s skill,
And in the labor that makes for fame
May we all prove beavers still.

VOYAGEUR SONG.

Our mother is the good green earth,
Our rest her bosom broad;
And sure, in plenty and in dearth,
Of our six feet of sod,
We welcome Fate with careless mirth
And dangerous paths have trod,
Holding our lives of little worth
And fearing none but God.

Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slide
Above the fretted sand,
Our frail canoes, like shadows, glide
Swift through the silent land;
Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide
Rocks rise on every hand,
Our path will we confess denied,
Nor cowardly seek the strand.

The foam may leap like frightened cloud
That hears the tempest scream,
The waves may fold their whitened shroud
Where ghastly ledges gleam;
With muscles strained and backs well bowed
And poles that breaking seem,
We shoot the sault, whose torrent proud
Itself our lord did deem.

The broad traverse is cold and deep,
And treacherous smiles it hath,
And with its sickle of death doth reap,
With woe for aftermath;
But though the wind-vext waves may leap,
Like cougars, in our path,
Still forward on our way we keep,
Nor heed their futile wrath.

Where glitter trackless wastes of snow
Beneath the northern light,
On netted shoes we noiseless go,
Nor heed though keen winds bite.
The shaggy bears our prowess know,
The white fox fears our might,
And wolves, when warm our camp fires glow,
With angry snarls take flight.

Where forest fastnesses extend,
Ne’er trod by man before,
Where cries of loon and wild duck blend
With some dark torrent’s roar,
And timid deer, unawed, descend
Along the lake’s still shore,
We blaze the trees and onward wend
To ravish nature’s store.

Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eve
These calls the echoes wake.
We rise and forward fare, nor grieve
Though long portage we make,
Until the sky the sun gleams leave
And shadows cowl the lake;
And then we rest and fancies weave
For wife or sweetheart’s sake.

DEDICATORY ODE.

(Read at the unveiling of the Monument erected in the Parliament Grounds at Ottawa to the Memory of the Rt. Hon. Sir John A. Macdonald.)

Here, in the solemn shadow of these walls,
Wherein his voice long held the land in sway;
Here, where the cadence of the distant falls
Seems a lament for grandeur passed away,
We, who have reaped where he had sown, now bring
To him this thanksgiving,
This tribute to the unforgotten great,
That, for all time, men may revere his name,
And children learn the secret of true fame,
True greatness emulate.

We paid long since the tribute of our tears,
When, at his post, the veteran statesman died;
But now that grief has been assuaged by years,
We mourn not, but rejoice, with sober pride,
That one of earth’s immortals, wise and strong,
Dwelt in our midst so long,
Teaching large thoughts and love of liberty,
And, Atlas-like, upon his shoulders bore
Our world of care, until, life’s turmoil o’er,
He passed from us away.

He found the seven sisters of the North,
The Sea-Queen’s daughters, in primeval woods,
By lonely streams, lamenting, and them forth
He led from desert lands and solitudes.
The Pleiades of nations, they have shone
Upon Britannia’s throne;
With every passing year, their golden light
Waxing in lustre, until every land
In wonder looks upon the glorious band
That breaks the Northern night.

He walked through life triumphant. Fortune’s son,
What were to others barriers, were to him
But gates, through which his high success was won.
He held strange spirit commune with the dim
Shapes of the future. His far-reaching mind
Some harmony did find
In elements discordant; and man’s strength
And weakness served with him the noble end
To build a nation and all factions blend
In brotherhood, at length.

And shall we, in whose midst so long he dwelt,
Who had commune so long with his great mind,
Forsake his teachings, and, like Israel, melt
Our gold to rear false gods! Shall we grow blind
To those large thoughts, that tolerance which long
Made this Dominion strong?
Nay, never so! He left an heritage
Worthy himself and us; be ours the pride
To bind this new Dominion, rich and wide
Closer from age to age.

ENTERING PORT.

(In Memoriam The Rt. Hon. Sir John S. D. Thompson.)

Hark to the solemn gun and tolling bell!
What ship is this, that, dark as night or death,
Is entering port upon the sullen swell,
While an expectant nation holds its breath?

From many a threatening port her cannon gape,
Above her deck the flag of Britain flies;
Like some sad dream she comes, her sombre shape
Crushing the waves that in her pathway rise.

One of the Sea Queen’s ocean walls is she,
Grim guardian of her honor, yet that prow
Ne’er upon nobler errand cleft the sea,
Nor guarded Britain’s honor more than now.

Day after day uprose the golden sun,
Night after night it sank beneath the wave,
Pointing the vessel on that carried one
The Empire honored to his western grave.

As Truth led that strong soul where’er it would
Onward through strife to honor without stain,
So is he brought through ocean’s solitude,
With but the billows for his funeral train.

No warrior he the blood of men that shed,
His was the higher task to make them one,
And Canada, awaiting now her dead,
With tears attests the task was nobly done.

Yet, not within this sea-borne funeral car
The patriot lies. He is no longer here,
But onward, upward still, he journeys far
Beyond our ken to some still nobler sphere.

The harbor of his earthly wishes won,
Fresh from new honors from his Sovereign’s hand,
To him the summons came. Earth’s voyage done,
He set his bark towards the eternal strand.

He has gone forth, and leaves us but his name
And this cold clay that waits the silent tomb;
Yet passing years shall never dim his fame,
Nor love forget him in their gathering gloom.

With tolling bell and beat of muffled drum,
With mournful boom of cannon, lay him down
Within the sepulchre, to which shall come
Faintly the murmur of his native town.

In death he knit the Empire closer yet,
Causing unnumbered hearts to throb as one.
Here by his tomb may Canada forget
The bigotry that he had fain undone.

With his Queen’s wreath upon his pulseless breast,
Lulled by the murmur of the restless wave,
Life’s voyage done, he takes his well-earned rest,
In port, at last, with God beyond the grave.

WILD FLOWERS.

In Arcady, the happy swain,
Who wandered through the woods and meadows,
Oft turned his head and oft was fain
To start or smile at shifting shadows.
Sometimes, within a verdant brake,
He saw a wood-nymph’s graceful form
Gleam white, and felt her beauty make
His heart beat fast, his cheek grow warm.

Sometimes while loitering by a brook,
Whose ripples dreamy music made,
He spied in some sequestered nook
A naiad, on the marge who played,
Or when the breeze the leafage stirred
On drowsy summer afternoons,
Sometimes afar he thought he heard
The satyrs pipe their merry tunes.

But Jupiter no longer wooes
Antiope, nor Venus’ lips
Tremble as she Adonis sues,
And he from her embracement slips.
No longer nymph nor naiad now,
Nor faun nor satyr haunts the wood,
Gone is Diana with her bow,—
The woodland is a solitude.

Are nymph and naiad gone indeed,
And is there now no Arcady?
A fairy choir in wood and mead
In gentle accents answer, “Nay.”
And those who leave the world awhile
With nature’s spirit to commune,
May still see nymphs in woodland aisle
And naiads bathe at sunny noon.

Beside the murmurous streams that wind
Beneath the tangled foliage-meshes
Some sleeping naiad we may find,
With charms the inmost soul deems precious.
And deep within the tawny shade
Of pathless forests we may meet
Some true wood-nymph, who, unafraid,
Receives us in her cool retreat.

At every step through sunny wood,
Beneath our feet the wild flowers spring,
Nymphs of that sylvan solitude
That us to love their beauty bring;
And still we follow, as of old
The swain pursued the fleeting shape,
For once their graces we behold
None can their mystic lure escape.

At every step beside the stream,
Some nodding blossom beckons still.
We see its slender figure gleam
Chastely beside the crystal rill.
Perchance it droops its dainty head,
Or looks us fearless in the face,—
Ah, no, the naiads are not fled,
The stream is still their dwelling-place.

Earths turmoil has but dulled our ears,
Its dust has but obscured our sight.
The pipes of Pan whoever hears
Will see as well the woodland sprite.
The revels of the leaves and wind,
The sudden glimpse of blossoming flowers,
These are his prize who leaves behind
The world, and strays through Nature’s bowers.

Oh, had I in Arcadia dwelt
I would have watched for every gleam
Of shoulder, as some naiad svelt
Clove the clear crystal of the stream;
I would have followed in pursuit
Of artful nymph through tangled brakes,
And heard with joy the satyr’s flute,
Whose melody soft echo wakes.

And so, from earliest days of spring,
When the first wild flower lifts its head,
Till autumn, when the breezes fling
Broadcast the dying leaves and dead,
Through sensuous summer’s golden hours
I roam the vast, Canadian woods,
Seeking the wild Canadian flowers,
True nymphs of sylvan solitudes.

DEDICATORY BALLAD.

(Written for the unveiling of the Monument erected by the Citizens of Montreal to Paul Chomedy de Maisonneuve.)

The leaf in the forest had budded, of verdure a billowy sea
Over the woodland was flowing, o’erwhelming valley and lea.
The great river, bright in the sunshine, set the isle in a circlet of gold
As it swept to its tryst with the ocean, through realms of riches untold.

The slow-moving oar cleft the water, the balmy May breeze filled the sails,
As the wanderers drew near their haven, afar from the sea and its gales;
From the land of their fathers afar, and anear the keen Iroquois knives.
But the pilgrims, to fear ever strangers, to the Cross had entrusted their lives.

Not sordid were they. Not the treasures of earth they had come to pursue,
Not for honor nor glory. Far nobler the object our sires had in view.
To carry the cross to the savage, braving danger and hardship they came.
They came for the love of the Virgin, a city to found in her name.

Their hearts were o’erflowing with gladness. They sang as they drew near the strand.
Their barks gently touched on the shingle, and Maisonneuve, leaping to land,
Bent his knee, and the others knelt with him, uplifting their voices in prayer
To the Ruler of all, while, prophetic, the priest in his vestments stood there.

The shadows of twilight were falling, the frog loudly piped in the marsh,
The wild duck lurked in the shallows, and anear screamed the kingfisher harsh,
High above swept the night-hawk in circles, in the meadow the fireflies gleamed bright
And were caught, to adorn the rude altar with garlands of pulsating light.

The wanderers calmly sought slumber. The sentinel stood at his ease,
The rivulet gurgled and eddied, and answered the murmuring trees,
The mountain loomed dark in the distance, and the wolf looking down from the height,
In wonder and awe, saw the camp fire that burned on a city’s birth night.

If you ask how that mustard seed flourished, and spread its great branches abroad,
If you ask at what sacrifice nourished or watered with what noble blood?
Lo! the pages of history answer. There ’tis written in letters of gold
How each was a Christian and soldier, who founded Ville Marie of old.

They lived on the confines of chaos. Whenever the savage horde broke
On the ill-fated colony, they were the first whose arm parried the stroke.
They were Dollards in heart, and went even to torture and death with a smile,
While the women, like angels of mercy, stanched their wounds and their woes did beguile.

None braver, and no one more gentle, none wiser in council than he,
Maisonneuve, this, the new world’s defender, who for God held his whole life in fee.
He led them in worship, consoled them when thickly their troubles did fall,
Maisonneuve the undaunted, the founder, Æneas of old Montreal.

And here where he battled lone-handed with savages thirsting for blood,
Where now beats the pulse of a city, the heart of a new nationhood,
Long years may his monument stand that our children may ask and be told
Of the leader who founded Ville Marie, and honor the heroes of old.

TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBAT ME.

(The Fear of Death Affrights Me.)

Shall I too sing, as he sang of old,
The tuneful singer beyond the sea,
When life’s flame sank and his blood waxed cold,
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Earth is so fair to look upon,
And life so sweet, though there sorrows be,
Why welcome the summons to be gone?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Wife that I love as the sea the moon,
Babes that prattle about my knee;
Has heaven itself a dearer boon?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Is there heaven at all or only the grave
With the lisp of rain in the willow tree,
Will the after death give all I crave?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Will there be ideals still to follow,
And truths, like nymphs my pursuit to flee,
Or will the ancient faith prove hollow?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Are there golden suns in a golden noon,
Are there grey, still dawns on a dewy lea,
Are there twilights there, with a crescent moon?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Are there aims to spur me and goals to reach,
Are there wondrous lands for the eye to see,
Is melody there and dulcet speech?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Does friend meet friend and love meet love,
Greet and converse with sober glee,
Or is all new in the courts above?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Is heaven like earth on a nobler plan,
As in dreams we image it, hopefully,
Or does the Spirit forget the Man?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Shall I be I when the death-throe’s past,
Soul from the flesh set only free,
Or in new mould shall I be recast?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

If heaven be not akin to earth,
I shall not be I, if I happy be.
If I be not I, what is heaven worth?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

ON NEW YEAR’S EVE.

The wintry moon was streaming
Through the window, silvery-clear,
And I sat in my study, dreaming
Sweet dreams of the coming year.

There was no sound save the laughter
Of flames on the gusty hearth,
As hour followed fleet hour after
To welcome the Year with mirth.

Then, sharp through the solemn quiet,
I heard in the gloomy hall
The scamper of mice run riot,
And I heard them in the wall.

I leaned on my hand and listened
To hear the cravens go,
While paler the moonbeams glistened
And the fire on the hearth burned low.

And was I awake, or sleeping,
That, close by the door, I heard
The voice of a woman weeping
The sigh of a farewell word?

And was it the night wind mocking
That tapped and opened the door,
Or was it a woman knocking
And a light step on the floor?

I saw at my side a maiden
With tears in her gentle eyes,
And her shapely arms were laden
With gems from time’s argosies.

On her brow was a white star shining,
On her breast was a lily fair;
But of rue was a sad wreath twining
Among her golden hair.

From my chair to her dear side springing,
I greeted her with a kiss,
For I thought her the New Year, bringing
New uncut jewels of bliss.

She blushed at my warm embraces
And joy in her sweet face shone,
As sunlight a shadow chases
While a summer cloud floats on.

I said: “I have long been yearning,
New Year, to behold thy face.”
Pale grew the maid, and, turning,
She shrank from my close embrace,

And wept: “Oh! thou fickle hearted
The depth of my love to prove,
Yet ere from my bosom parted
To sigh for an untried love.

“I brought thee the rarest treasures
Time’s treasury could bestow;
I sated thy days with pleasures,
And guarded thy heart from woe.

“Thy wish I refused thee never.
I granted thee love and peace;
Yet thou scornest me now, or ever
My labor for thee doth cease.

“See, here are the gifts I showered
Thy life’s pathway upon,
And now that thou hast been dowered
With all, canst thou wish me gone?

“O thankless heart, wilt thou never
Be satisfied with thy lot,
Or must thou be pining ever
For joys that as yet are not?

“And turn from my fond embraces
An utter unknown to greet,
As a child a butterfly chases
Treading flowers beneath his feet?”

Then, like the great sun springing
Through night to a tropic dawn,
My heart, to the Old Year clinging,
Yearned for the joys nigh gone.

And oh, what a wave of sorrow
Passed over my grieving soul,
As I thought of the new to-morrow
That led to some unknown goal!

“Oh, stay,” I cried, soul-shaken,
“Heed not the flight of time,
Oh stay,”—But I was forsaken,
And heard the New Year chime.

IN THE CLOSING HOURS.

In the closing hours of night,
When the latest guest has gone,
By the hearth fire’s flickering light
Sweet it is to dream alone.

Sweet the social joy, and sweet
Strife that ends in victory;
Sweeter still the peace complete
Following on the eager day.

Then how sweet the lassitude,
Revelling in romantic rest,
Buoyed on dreams, whose mystic flood
Draws the soul on happy quest.

In the closing hours of life,
When the friends of youth are gone,
Ended lust of gain and strife,
Peace approaches with the dawn.

Sweet the rest and solitude
When the hair is turning white,
While the past, with broadening flood,
Murmurs through the closing night.

WHERE HEAVEN IS.

When the babe is swung in its pearly cot, the warm sun shining, the song-birds gay,
Cool shades among, in its lacework grot, the child reclining doth dreamful sway.
Hope’s hand, entwining life’s harp new strung with joyous garlands, its sound doth stay,
And he thinks earth heaven, to him God-given, nor cares though the passing hours delay.

From the threshold of life on the bright pathway that stretches afar to the infinite,
Youth yearns for the strife, as a child for play, and his dreamings are of a well-won height.
As at dawn of day when the Morning Star unbinds the zone of the virgin Light,
We watch, all breathless, for beauty deathless, so heaven’s beyond us, yet seems in sight.

And then, ah, then, as the years go by, and hope grows weary with waiting long,
When trust in men we must fain deny, the miserere replaces song.
Like slaves that ply in the galley’s den the laboring oar, through sin and wrong,
The soul plods on, and heaven is gone; we can but suffer and yet be strong.

When the snows of age fall thick and fast, and passion has faded like flowers that grow,
The memory sage dreams dreams of the past and all that has made it have joys below.
When the friends long laid in the grave, at last, stand beckoning us in the twilight glow,
And wrongs endured prove that which cured, the heaven behind us too late we know.

The heaven of man is never here; it always is where his treasures are.
To-day’s brief span arches little dear; the stream of bliss seems wider afar.
From this to this the path is drear; there’s always something each joy to mar,
Till the past that is real becomes ideal under the gold of life’s twilight star.

NEW YEAR’S EVE.
Air—Belle Mahone.

Hark! the tolling of the bells.
How it sinks and how it swells!
O’er the sleeping town it knells,
“Fare thee well, Old Year.”
Far across the snowy plain
Rolls the many-tongued refrain,
And the echoes cry again,
“Fare thee well, Old Year.”

Thou hast been a kindly year,
Thou hast spared us many a tear,
Thou hast vanquished many a fear,
Fare thee well, Old Year.
Lightly touched by summer showers,
Budding hopes have grown to flowers,
Happy days have flown like hours,
Fare thee well, Old Year.

Many a lesson thou hast taught,
Precious favors thou hast brought,
Pleasant changes thou hast wrought,
Fare thee well, Old Year.

Now thy rule is near an end,
Thy last records have been penned,
We must part at last, true friend.
Fare thee well, Old Year.

Close and seal the book of fate,
With whate’er it may relate,
Sin and goodness, love and hate,
Fare thee well, Old Year.
One more volume is complete,
Take it to the Mercy Seat,
Lay it at the Master’s feet,
Fare thee well, Old Year.

REFRAIN.

Fare thee well, Old Year,
Fare thee well, Old Year,
Thou hast been a faithful friend,
Fare thee well, Old Year.

PEGASUS.

If you find Pegasus a steed
Scornful of your control,
Who canters well enough, indeed,
But will not caracole,
So much the better, poet mine,
’Tis bottom wins the race.
Let poetasters prance, in fine;
Keep you the steady pace.

Let poetasters hunt for sound,
Chase metres, out of breath;
Great thoughts are not thus run to ground,
Nor fame in at the death.
So, let your Pegasus be free
To hunt some thought sublime,
While you sit still, with clinging knee,
And gallop simple rhyme.

Ah, friend, of all the joys of earth,
There’s nothing like the hunt,
The good horse straining at the girth,
The clear-tongued hounds in front.

And if your Pegasus can bear
You well before the rout,
Don’t curb and make him beat the air;
Loose rein, and let him out.

Oft when a poet’s rhymes I read,
With ornate language wrought,
Its cadences, though sweet indeed,
But hide the lack of thought.
Be yours the poem that can stand
From trappings wholly free,
Each thought a Phryne, to be scanned
In fearless nudity.

IT WOULD BE EASY TO BE GOOD.

Who walks the paths of righteousness
Or follows ways of evil,
Who knows the joys that angels bless
Or sin’s insensate revel,
At last, too well has understood
Sin is not worth a feather.—
It would be easy to be good,
If all were good together.

Waiving the conscience we offend,
And weighing but the pleasure,
Though we all sinful joys might blend,
They make a sorry treasure.
The loftiest joys must be subdued,
The soul we fain must tether.—
It would be easy to be good
If all were good together.

Oh, would that man might give free scope
To every gentle feeling!
The soul would realize its hope
Its noblest side revealing.

Would man might trust man’s brotherhood
In calm and stormy weather.—
It would be easy to be good
If all were good together.

If no one schemed to do a wrong,
No need for wrong were given;
If each his neighbor helped along,
This earth would be a heaven;
If men once met in rectitude,
Farewell, the regions nether.—
It would be easy to be good,
If all were good together.

THE LITTLE TROOPER.

Swift troopers twain ride side by side
Throughout life’s long campaign.
They make a jest of all man’s pride,
And oh, the havoc! As they ride,
They cannot count their slain.

The one is young and debonair,
And laughing swings his blade.
The zephyrs toss his golden hair,
His eyes are blue; he is so fair
He seems a masking maid.

The other is a warrior grim,
Dark as a midnight storm.
There is no man can cope with him.
We shrink and tremble in each limb
Before his awful form.

Yet though men fear the sombre foe
More than the gold-tressed youth,
The boy with every careless blow
More than the trooper grim lays low,
And causes earth more ruth.

Keener his mocking sword doth prove
Than flame or winter’s breath.
Men bear his wounds to the realm above,
For the little trooper’s name is Love,
His comrade’s only Death.

CUPID’S DISGUISES.

Dan Cupid wears disguises.
We never see his form,
Till suddenly he surprises
And takes the heart by storm.

He hides at times in the blushes
That tinge a cheek so fair,
Or oft in the moonlit hushes
In a sweet voice on the air.

Sometimes he’s in the dancing
Of mirth in azure eyes,
Sometimes in the curve entrancing
Of lips that part in sighs.

And sometimes in the glimmer
Of arm, rich lace beneath;
Sometimes in the tresses’ shimmer,
Sometimes in the peep of teeth.

Oh, he’s a little bandit,
And bold as bold can be.
He leads us, single-handed,
Into captivity.

For none is a match for Cupid.
He swifter is than thought.
The keenest mind is but stupid
When he begins to plot.

MUSIC.

Life hath such longings, bitter sweet,
And yet so few it satisfies
That man fain dreams life is complete
Only beyond the skies.

And like the mystic cloud of fire
That guided Israel’s way by night,
Every unsatisfied desire
Leads man towards the right.

Around him, mingling with the dust,
Youth’s pure ideals, shattered, lie;
Hope, virtue, charity and trust
Amid life’s deserts die.

Fade aspirations, fades each dream
Of goodness, honor and renown.
Man floats on a polluted stream,
Which fain would drag him down.

But music, like the nightingale
That sweetly sings in woodland brakes,
When hope and trust and virtue fail,
Man’s nobler nature wakes.

Only in music doth man find
An echo of the dreams of youth,
When he saw gods among mankind,
In woman only truth.

BABY’S STOCKING.

Baby’s dainty little stocking
Hangs beside his wicker cot,
Darling mother’s wishes mocking
And the treasures she has brought.

For it is so small that never
Gift can find a place inside.
Was there doting mother ever
So distressed at Christmas tide?

Baby’s eyes are closed and dreaming
Of the gentle mother face;
Baby’s hands are clasped and seeming
Interlocked in fond embrace.

Baby’s lips are softly smiling,
And the Rubicon of youth
He has passed, for lo! beguiling
Mother’s kisses, peeps a tooth.

Naught for gifts is baby caring.
Santa Claus has many a gem,
But, God’s love and mother’s sharing,
Baby has no need of them.

MY DIVINITY.

I am a god; yes, I,—
(Smile, if you will, at the claim)
Mote though I am in the ambient sky,
Housed, I confess, in putrescible frame,
Still, a divinity.

My sceptre I claim, and, perchance,
My altars as well,—who knows?
You would prick my pride with your wit’s keen lance,
You know my radius. Well, suppose
You pipe, I dance.

Am I the Primary Cause?
That’s my affair, not my creatures’.
Did I create nature’s adamant laws,
Or am I but one of her manifold features?
Fellow gods can pick flaws!

But the little corpuscles of blood
I create by millions each hour,
Do you fancy the witless ephemeral brood,
As each lives its life, can my limits and power
Declare understood?

Alone in the grey of my brain
I sit and my universe rule.
What can they know of their god, though they fain
Question, perhaps, each contemptible fool,
What joy is, why pain?

Do they brag of their universe, boast,
Worsting some hostile bacillus,
Fight over their God, sect term other sect lost,
Read my ways or complain, “Why torment us and kill us?”
What fate has each ghost?

Perfecting some large thought that may
Move the earth that I dwell on,
A million my creatures, remorseless, I slay.
Am I annoyed if they call me a felon!
It is I, or they.

My work, for their sake, shall I cease,
My very nature disjoint?
Is there aught but destruction for all in such peace?
Must I miracle work for a microscope point,—
Corpuscles to please?

We are not one, we are twain,
Yet are we one and not two.
They are the universe, I am the brain,
In and about them, knit through and through,—
Chords in one strain.

In common we have, at least, this,
Creator and creature, that we
Must rise to the height of our powers, or miss
Life’s best for ourselves, and each other decree
Frustrate of bliss.
. . . . . . . . . .
Is, now, this godhead of mine,
My limits, this difference vast
Between creature and maker, a symbol? In fine
Is mankind but a host of blood corpuscles, massed
Through the Divine?

THE SLEEPING SOUL.

Will ever thy soul awake,
Awake and come smiling to greet my own?
Will ever the love-light break
From thine eyes upon me, like the sun
On the billows that shoreward run,
Into foam by the winds of the ocean blown?

To me seems thy pure soul sleeping.
Thou hast in thy heart a bird,
But its head is under its wing.
I watch it and think with weeping
How sweet a song it might sing;
Yet by love it is never stirred.

Oft in the hush of a drowsy night
I dream that I hear that low bird voice
Lilting so merrily,
Singing so cheerily,
Bidding my heart to its depths rejoice;
But alas, takes flight
My dream before the dawn’s lance of light.

Alas, it is not for me
To kiss thy soul, as the prince in story
Kissed the Sleeping Beauty’s lips,
And to a life-love waken thee.
Round thee there is a maiden glory
Fairer than circles the sun that dips
Into the sea while chill night comes creeping
Slowly, silently through the sky;
But as well might I
Reach out my hand to the sun and try
To make his glory my very own
As think to touch with my finger tips
Thy glorious beauty that shrinks from me.

THE MOTHER.

Down the bright pathway of life, where joy, like the throstle, was singing,
She passed, like a sungleam at dawn, through mistlands of sorrows and fears,
Seeking the soul of the babe at her bosom now nursing and clinging,
And stood in the valley of death, gloomed with the shadow of tears.

Ghost glided past after ghost, and shook ghastly arms at the mortal
Who dared to the valley of pain go down for the winning of life.
Hour after hour trembled by, as we crouched in our woe at the portal,
Made strangers to her whom we loved by strangers who looked on her strife.

Angels spake hope to her there, as she stood in the vale of the shadow,
Demons snarled at her heels, she was haunted by visions abhorred;
But Love was a lamp to her feet as she passed through the woe-blossomed meadow,
Seeking the soul of her child. She was brave, for her trust was the Lord.

Death turned his sword as she came, and she passed through the gateways of heaven,
Treading the pavements of pearl and haloed with shimmering gleams,
On, till the veil hung between immortal and mortal was riven,
And she brought from the garden of God the blue-eyed flower of her dreams.

PLUCK FLOWERS IN YOUTH.

Pluck flowers in youth, nor heed how old tongues prate;
Pluck flowers in youth, in age it is too late;
Pluck flowers when it is morn with flowers and you.
So soon they wither, do not hesitate,
Lest you should gather roses not, but rue.
Pluck flowers ere life grows cold and desolate,
And love turns hate.

Pluck flowers in youth; age is the time for wheat;
To age not even the rose itself is sweet,
Pluck flowers, pluck flowers in youth, while faith is great,
Ere life and joy grow cankered with deceit.
Pluck flowers in youth; no sadder thought brings Fate
Than memory of scorned joys crushed by our feet
In flight too fleet.

O FOOLISH HEART.

O foolish heart, to flutter so
With hope and fear;
O treacherous blush, to come and go
When he is near;
Why do ye to the world reveal
The passion I would fain conceal?

O ears, that love to hear him speak;
O downcast eyes,
Whose lashes droop upon each cheek,
Nor dare to rise;
Do ye not know she sees and hears
Fond looks and words that cost me tears?

Be brave, mine heart, if he despise,
Give scorn for scorn;
Be deaf, mine ears, be blind, mine eyes,—
Yet soul, why mourn?
Though she may claim him for her own,
My love, my love is mine alone.

MY HEART’S A MERRY ROVER.

My heart’s a merry rover,
Though innocent of wrong;
Forever beauty’s lover,
Yet never constant long.

When coral lips are pouting,
Their smiling to disguise,
He kneels and loves, not doubting
They are his richest prize.

Yet when, amid his dreaming,
He spies a bosom fair,
At once the rogue is scheming
To gain admittance there;

Though should he see the tresses
That frame a pretty head,
His love and his caresses
He spends on them instead.

Then, if bright eyes confuse him
With many a saucy stare,
The lips, the curls, the bosom
Must mourn their worshipper.

And yet this merry rover
Is nothing if not true,
He’s but one maiden’s lover,
And, dearest, she is you.

THE CIGARETTE SMOKER.