Kitabı oku: «The Cornflower, and Other Poems», sayfa 6

MEN O' THE FOREST MARK

 
What we most need is men of worth,
Men o' the forest mark,
Of lofty height and mighty girth
And green, unbroken bark.
 
 
Not men whom circumstances
Have stunted, wasted, sapped,
Men fearful of fighting chances,
Clinging to by-paths mapped.
 
 
Holding honor and truth below
Promotion, place and pelf;
Weaklings that change as winds do blow,
Lost in their love of self.
 
 
Tricksters playing a game unfair
(Count them, sirs, at this hour),
Ready to dance to maddest air
Piped by the man in power.
 
 
The need, sore need, of this young land
Is honest men, good sirs,
Men as her oak trees tall and grand,
Staunch as her stalwart firs.
 
 
Steadfast, unswerving, first and last,
Fearless of front and strong,
Meeting the challenge of the blast
With high, clear battle song.
 
 
Not sapless things of the byways,
Lacking in life and strength,
Not shrivelled shrubs of the highways,
Pigmy of breadth and length,
 
 
But noblest growth of God's green earth —
Men o' the forest mark,
Of lofty height and giant girth
And green, unbroken bark.
 

A SONG OF CHEER

 
Here's a song of cheer
For the whole long year:
 
 
We've only to do our best,
Take up our part
With a strong, true heart —
The Lord will do all the rest.
 

THE FIRSTBORN

 
The harvest sun lay hot and strong
On waving grain and grain in sheaf,
On dusty highway stretched along,
On hill and vale, on stalk and leaf.
 
 
The wind which stirred the tasseled corn
Came creeping through the casement wide,
And softly kissed the babe new born
That nestled at its mother's side.
 
 
That mother spoke in tones that thrilled:
"My firstborn's cradled in my arm,
Upon my breast his cry is stilled,
And here he lies so dear, so warm."
 
 
To her had come a generous share
Of worldly honors and of fame,
Of hours replete with gladness rare,
But no one hour seemed just the same.
 
 
As that which came when, white and spent
With pain of travail great, she lay,
Thrilled through with rapture and content,
And love and pride, that August day.
 
 
The fairest picture of the past —
Life's tenderest page till all is done —
A glad young mother holding fast
God's wondrous gift – her little son.
 

ST. PATRICK'S DAY

 
There's an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,
Here's to the Saint that blessed it!
And here's to the billows wild and free
That for centuries have caressed it!
 
 
Here's to the day when the men that roam
Send longing eyes o'er the water!
Here's to the land that still spells home
To each loyal son and daughter!
 
 
Here's to old Ireland – fair, I ween,
With the blue skies stretched above her!
Here's to her shamrock warm and green,
And here's to the hearts that love her!
 

LESLEY

 
From the little bald head to the two little feet,
You are winsome, and bonnie, and tender, and sweet,
But not for this do I love you.
 
 
You're wilful, cajoling, not fond of restraint,
A creature of moods – no tiresome saint —
You're wise and you're wistful, and oh, you are quaint,
But not for this do I love you.
 
 
You're a rose of a maiden, the pink and the white
Of your face is to me a rare thing of delight,
But not for this do I love you.
 
 
That "agoo" on your lips is the tenderest thing,
And the eyes smiling at me, ye bonnie wee thing,
Are violets washed with the dewdrops of spring,
But not for this do I love you.
 
 
Come, nestle down close on my bosom, you dear,
The secret I'll whisper right into your ear,
Because you are you do I love you,
 
 
Because you are you, just you, oh, my own,
Because you are Lesley, this reason alone
Will do for us, darling, until you are grown,
Because you are you do I love you.
 

THE TRYST

 
The harvest moon in yellow haze
Is steeping all the sea and land,
Is kindling paths and shining ways
Around the hills, across the sand.
 
 
And there are only thou and I —
O sweetheart, I've no eyes to note
The glory of the sea and sky,
I see a softly rounded throat,
 
 
A face uplifted, pure and sweet,
Two blue eyes filled with trust and love;
Enough, the sea sings at our feet,
The harvest moon sails just above.
 

A GOOD WOMAN

 
Her eyes are the windows of a soul
Where only the white thoughts spring,
And they look, as the eyes of the angels look,
For the good in everything.
 
 
Her lips can whisper the tenderest words
That weary and worn can hear,
Can tell of the dawn of a better morn
Till only the cowards fear.
 
 
Her hands can lift up the fallen one
From an overthrow complete,
Can take a soul from the mire of sin
And lead it to Christ's dear feet.
 
 
And she can walk wherever she will —
She walketh never alone.
The work she does is the Master's work,
And God guards well His own.
 

DESPAIR

 
We catch a glimpse of it, gaunt and gray,
When the golden sunbeams are all abroad;
We sober a moment, then softly say:
The world still lies in the hand of God.
 
 
We watch it stealthily creeping o'er
The threshold leading to somebody's soul;
A shadow, we cry, it cannot be more
When faith is one's portion and Heaven one's goal.
 
 
A ghost that comes stealing its way along,
Affrighting the weak with its gruesome air,
But who that is young and glad and strong
Fears for a moment to meet Despair?
 
 
To this heart of ours we have thought so bold
All uninvited it comes one day —
Lo! faith grows wan, and love grows cold,
And the heaven of our dreams lies far away.
 

OUR DEAD IN SOUTH AFRICA

 
Day of battle and day of blood
Found you steady and strong, I ween;
Sons of the land of the Maple Leaf,
Face to the foe, you died for the Queen.
 
 
Brave boys, our boys, filling to-day
Nameless graves upon veldt and plain,
Here's to your mem'ry gallant and true,
Sons of our soil, who thought it gain
 
 
To fight and win, or to fight and fall!
Strong of purpose, you took your stand,
Proved with your life-blood red and warm
Canada's faith in the Motherland!
 
 
Brave boys, our boys, this have you done,
Drawn us closer, and bound us fast;
One are we with the Isle in the sea,
One in the future, the present, the past.
 
 
Brave boys, our boys, honor we owe,
Honor and homage a mighty debt —
You proved our love and our loyalty —
The land that bore you will not forget!
Canada's soldiers, Canada's sons,
The land that bore you will not forget!
 

THE BARLEY FIELDS

 
The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge,
Saffron pale, where a star of white
Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe
Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.
 
 
O the green of the barley fields grows deep,
The breath of the barley fields grows rare;
There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep —
The wind is holding high revel there,
 
 
Singing the song it has often sung —
Hark to the troubadour glad and bold:
"Sweet is the earth when the summer is young
And the barley fields are green and gold!"
 

THE IMPRISONED LARK

 
Did you send your song to the gates of gold
In the days of long ago?
A song of sweetness and gladness untold,
Till fain was my lady to have and to hold —
Ah! my lady did not know.
 
 
'Tis love and joy make the soul of a song,
If we only understood.
Can each strain be tender, and true, and strong,
When the days stretch out so weary and long,
Dear little bird of the wood?
 
 
The sun came so boldly into your cell —
'Tis the springtime, pretty bird —
And full sweet the story he had to tell
Of doings in meadow and wood and dell,
Till your longing grew and stirred.
 
 
This cage of my lady's has silver bars,
And my lady's voice is mild,
But oh, to sail 'twixt the earth and stars,
Forget the hurt of the prison bars
In the gladness of freedom wild!
 
 
To soar and circle o'er shadowy glade
Where dewdrops hide from the sun!
O fields where the blossoming clover swayed!
O voices familiar that music made
Till the full, glad day was done!
 
 
Ah, then you sang, little bird of the wood,
And you stilled the laughing throng.
To make passionate longing understood
You took the height and depth of your mood
And flung them into a song!
 
 
These guests of my lady's did listen, I know,
When out through the silver bars
You sent forth a measure, liquid and low
As laughter of waters that ebb and flow
Under the shimmering stars.
 
 
You sang of the sweetest, gladdest, and best
Your longing heart held in store,
Till into the careless listener's breast
There flashed a sudden and vague unrest,
That grew into something more.
 
 
Eyes saw for a few brief moments' space
The heights that were never trod,
And, seeing, grew dim for the swift, bold race
That was planned in the hours when youth and grace
Came fresh from the hand of God.
 
 
Only a homesick bird of the field
Trilling a glorious note!
Only a homesick bird of the wood
With heaven in your full throat!
 

WOMAN

 
Not faultless, for she was not fashioned so,
A mingling of the bitter and the sweet;
Lips that can laugh and sigh and whisper low
Of hope and trust and happiness complete,
Or speak harsh truths; eyes that can flash with fire,
Or make themselves but wells of tenderness
Wherein is drowned all bitterness and ire —
Warm eyes whose lightest glance is a caress.
Heaven sent her here to brighten this old earth,
And only heaven fully knows her worth.
 

THE MULLEIN MEADOW

 
Down in the mullein meadow
The lusty thistle springs,
The butterflies go criss-cross,
The lonesome catbird sings,
 
 
The alderbush is flaunting
Her blossoms white as snow —
The same old mullein meadow
We played in long ago.
 
 
The waste land of the homestead,
The arid sandy spot,
Where reaper's song is never heard,
Where wealth is never sought,
 
 
But where the sunshine lingers,
And merry breezes come
To gather pungent perfumes
From the mullein-stalks abloom.
 
 
There's a playground on the hillside,
A playhouse in the glade,
With mulleins for a garden,
And mulleins for a shade.
 
 
And still the farmer grumbles
That nothing good will grow
In this old mullein meadow
We played in long ago!
 

LIVING FRESHNESS

 
O freshness, living freshness of a day
In June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight,
And not a stain of wear shows on the grass
Beneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls,
"Our day of loveliness is past and gone!"
I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells,
The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks;
The wild-flowers found the sunlight where they stood,
And some hid their white faces quite away,
While others lifted up their starry eyes
And seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze.
 

LIFE'S DAY

 
"Life's day is too brief," he said at dawn,
"I would it were ten times longer,
For great tasks wait for me further on."
At noonday the wish was stronger.
 
 
His place was in the thick of the strife,
And hopes were nearing completeness,
While one was crowning the joys of life
With love's own wonderful sweetness.
 
 
"Life's day is too brief for all it contains,
The triumphs, the fighting, the proving,
The hopes and desires, the joys and the pains —
Too brief for the hating and loving."
 
 
To-night he sits in the shadows gray,
While heavily sorrow presses.
O the long, long day! O the weary day,
With its failures and successes!
 
 
He sits in the shadows and turns his eyes
On the years that lie behind him.
"I am tired of all things now," he cries,
And the hot tears rise and blind him.
 
 
"Rest and stillness is all that I crave,
Such robbing of strength has grief done.
Make room, dear love, in your lowly grave —
Life's day, thank God, is a brief one!"
 

MORNING

 
The eastern sky grew all aglow,
A tinted fleet sailed just below.
 
 
The thick wood and the clinging mist
Slow parted, wept good-bye, and kissed.
 
 
To primrose, tulip, daffodil,
The wind came piping gay and shrill:
 
 
"Wake up! wake up! while day is new,
And all the world is washed with dew!"
 

GRACE

(June 13, 1899.)

 
So still you sleep upon your bed,
So motionless and slender,
It cannot be that you are dead,
My maiden gay and tender!
 
 
You were no creature pale and meek
That death should hasten after,
The dimples played within your cheek,
Your lips were made for laughter.
 
 
To you the great world was a place
That care might never stay in,
A playground built by God's good grace
For glad young folks to play in.
 
 
You made your footpath by life's flowers,
O happy, care-free maiden!
The sky was full of shine and showers,
The wind was perfume laden.
 
 
Your dimpled hands are folded now
Upon your snowy bosom,
The dark hair nestles on your brow —
O tender, broken blossom!
 
 
The white lids hide your eyes so clear,
So mirthful, so beguiling,
But as my tears fall on you, dear,
Your lips seem softly smiling.
 
 
And do you feel that it is home,
The city far above us?
And were they glad to have you come?
And will you cease to love us?
 
 
Methinks when you stand all in white
To learn each sweet new duty,
Some eye will note, with keen delight,
Your radiance and beauty.
 
 
And when your laughter softly rings
Out where God's streets do glisten,
The angels fair will fold their wings
And still their song to listen.
 

THE WAY TO DREAMLAND

 
With an angel flower-laden, every day a dimpled maiden
Sails away from off my bosom on a radiant sea of bliss;
I can see her drifting, drifting, hear the snowy wings uplifting
As he woos her into Dreamland with a kiss.
 
 
Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper, guarded by an angel keeper,
List'ning to the words he brings thee from a fairer world than this;
Sweet! thy heart he is beguiling, I can tell it by thy smiling,
As he woos thee into Dreamland with a kiss.
 
 
Could there come to weary mortals such a glimpse through golden portals,
Would we not drift on forever toward the longed-for land of peace,
Would we not leave joys and sorrows,
Glad to-days and sad to-morrows,
For the sound of white wings lifting, and the kiss?
 

HER MISSION

 
She is so winsome and so wise
She sways me at her will,
And oft the question will arise,
What mission does she fill?
O then I say with pride untold,
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me – For me,
She just keeps house for me!
 
 
A full content dwells on her face,
She's quite in love with life,
And for a title wears with grace
The sweet old-fashioned "wife."
Our children climb upon her knee,
And nestle on her breast,
And ah! her mission seems to me
The grandest and the best.
 
 
O then I say with pride untold,
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me —
For me,
She just keeps house for me!
 

FRIEND OR FOE?

 
There's a man I know —
A likeable man —
Whom you meanly wound
Whenever you can,
Remark with malice
His task is done ill,
He's poor of judgment
And weak of will.
I implore you, now,
As that poor man's friend,
Let persecution
Have speediest end.
 
 
Cease taunting the man
With blunders he makes,
Cease harping alway
On wrongs and mistakes.
Come, be his good friend —
Hail fellow, well met —
His failures forgive,
And his faults forget.
Who is the man you've
Discouraged and blamed?
The man is yourself—
Are you not ashamed?
 
 
For faults of the past
Make ample amends,
And you and yourself
Be the best of friends.
 

THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD

 
O the hills of purple heather,
And the skies so warm and gray!
O the shimmer of the sea-mist
In the sea-wind far away!
O the calling of the torrent,
Sweeping down Ben Vorlich's side,
And my white flocks faring foldward
In the hush of eventide!
 

CHRISTMAS CONVERSION

 
I can see her in the kitchen,
Apron on and sleeves rolled up,
Measurin' spices in a teaspoon,
Figs and raisins in a cup.
 
 
Now she's throwin' apple quarters
In that wooden bowl of hers,
'Long with lemon peel and orange,
An' she stirs, an' stirs, an' stirs.
 
 
Then she takes her knife an' chops it,
Chops so fast her hand jest flies.
Now I know what ma is up to —
Makin' mincemeat for the pies.
 
 
I smell Christmas in our kitchen,
An' my heart gets big an' glad,
An' I, somehow, fall to wishin',
That I wasn't quite so bad.
 
 
An' I tell myself I'll never
Cheat at marbles any more,
Nor make faces at my teacher,
Nor hang round the corner store
 
 
'Stead of goin' on my errands;
Never touch the cookie pail,
Nor play hooky an' go skatin',
Nor tie cans on Rover's tail;
 
 
Never let ma think it's spellings
When it's only Robin Hood.
With the gladness comes the wishin'
To be, oh, just awful good!
 
 
'Bout this time of year it takes me —
Pa, he doesn't understand,
Always says: "You sly young codger,
You know Christmas is at hand."
 
 
But it isn't that, it's something —
Can't explain it very well —
Takes me when ma fills the kitchen
With this juicy Christmas smell.
 
 
When she chops the spice an' raisins,
With the peels an' Northern Spies,
Sleeves rolled up above her elbows,
Makin' mincemeat for the pies.
 

A BIT O' SHAMROCK

 
We met her on the hillside green
Below old Castle Blarney;
Her name, she whispered, was Eileen,
Her home it was Killarney.
 
 
I see her yet, her Irish eyes
Blue gray as seas in summer,
And hear her welcome, on this wise,
Vouchsafed to each new-comer:
 
 
"I'll guide ye up the stairway steep,
And naught will ye be missing
O' battlement or donjon keep,
Or blarney stone for kissing.
 
 
"The tower that was McCarthy's pride,
The scene o' battles thrilling,
And where the Desmond kept his bride —
Me fee is but a shilling.
 
 
"Here's for ye, now, a keepsake charm" —
Her low tones grow caressing —
"A bit o' shamrock green and warm,
To bring ye luck and blessing."
 
 
The "keepsake charm" – I have it yet —
A thing of guile and blarney;
Each green leaf dares me to forget
Fair Eileen o' Killarney.
 

SLANDER

 
He does the devil's basest work, no less,
Who deals in calumnies – who throws the mire
On snowy robes whose hem he dare not press
His foul lips to. The pity of it! Liar,
Yet half believed by such as deem the good
Or evil but the outcome of a mood.
That one who, with the breath lent him by Heaven,
Speaks words that on some white soul do reflect,
Is lost to decency, and should be driven
Outside the pale of honest men's respect.
O slanderer, hell's imps must say of you:
"He does the work we are ashamed to do!"
 

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN

"Poet by the grace of God."

 
You sing of winter gray and chill,
Of silent stream and frozen lake,
Of naked woods, and winds that wake
To shriek and sob o'er vale and hill.
 
 
And straight we breathe the bracing air,
And see stretched out before our eyes
A white world spanned by brooding skies,
And snowflakes drifting everywhere.
 
 
You sing of tender things and sweet,
Of field, of brook, of flower, of bush,
The lilt of bird, the sunset flush,
The scarlet poppies in the wheat.
 
 
Until we feel the gleam and glow
Of summer pulsing through our veins,
And hear the patter of the rains,
And watch the green things sprout and grow.
 
 
You sing of joy, and we do mark
How glad a thing is life, and dear;
Of sorrow, and we seem to hear
The sound of sobbing in the dark.
 
 
The subtle power to sway and move,
The stamp of genius strong and true,
This, friend, was heaven's gift to you,
This made you great and won you love.
 
 
Your song goes ringing clear and sweet —
Though on earth's bosom, bare and brown,
All willingly you laid you down,
The music is not incomplete.
 
 
Sleep on, it is not by the years
We measure life when all is done;
Your rest is earned, your laurels won;
Sleep, softly sleep, we say with tears.
 

A HINT

 
Among the vivid green I see
A yellow leaf,
And yonder in the basswood tree
An empty nest swings lonesomely —
The wheat's in sheaf.
 

CHRYSANTHEMUM'S COURT

 
They lift their faces to the light,
And aye they are a gallant band;
The queen of all is snowy white —
A stately thing, and tall and grand.
 
 
See, close beside, in yellow drest,
Is the prince consort of the hour;
A bit of God's own sunshine prest
Into a glorious golden flower!
 
 
And mark the courtiers' noble grace —
Gay courtiers these, in raiment fine —
Their satin doublets slashed with lace,
Their velvet cloaks as red as wine.
 
 
Each maid-in-waiting is most fair —
Note well the graces she unfurls —
The winds have tossed her fluffy hair,
And left it in a thousand curls.
 
 
And yonder quaint, old-fashioned one,
Arrayed in palest lavender,
Ah! few there are, when all is done,
In beauty can compare with her.
 
 
The pink – I've seen at eventide
A something very like to this,
A cloud adrift upon the sky,
All rosy from the sun's last kiss.
 
 
Without the court, the chill and gloom
Of autumn twilight o'er the land;
Within, the grandeur and the bloom
Of queen, of prince, and courtiers grand.
 

HER LITTLE WAY

 
'Tis woman rules the whole world still,
Though faults the critics say she has;
She smiles her smile and works her will —
'Tis just a little way she has.
 

THE CRITICISM

 
The great man came to the country place,
To preach to farmers sturdy;
He said: "I'm in my happiest vein,
I'll be eloquent and wordy."
 
 
"Not often a great man like myself
Comes here to do the teaching —
A big event in these quiet lives —
They'll not forget my preaching."
 
 
The great man found him a text at length
In Ezekiel's ponderous pages;
From point to point of his sermon long
He travelled at easy stages.
 
 
He soared up high in the realms of thought,
Was rich in allegory.
"I have," said he, as he sat him down,
"Covered myself with glory.
 
 
"These simple rustics are overcome
With my rhetoric and power,
They're used to a sprinkling of thought
And I've given them a shower."
 
 
The great man got a terrible shock
As, the long service over,
He walked with a farmer grave and staid
Home through the fields of clover.
 
 
"Your people – ah – were they much impressed
With my sermon?" he queried.
"Preaching with earnestness, power and force
Has left me sadly wearied."
 
 
"A worse would a done us country folks" —
The farmer's tone a terse one —
"That is," reflectively, "if you
Happened to have a worse one."