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" There can be no doubt that we have a true, if not a great Artist, in the Author of * Songs from the Sunny South ' ; one sentence would be sufficient to stamp him as this, viz. : • That bitterest distress, The falsehood of a false success.' But such successes as Mr. Grant may win will be perfectly genuine, for his work has both thought and melody, and rises at times to no mean height. ' Old Seas and New 'and 'A Heart's Tragedy ' are very good indeed, and, if we feel inclined to cavil at the new version of Sir Thomas Mallory's old story, it is not because it is wanting per se, but more from force of association. A weird and effective piece is ' Double Identity,' carrying out that theory of the spiritual body * * *." — T/ie Graphic. "In 'Songs from the Sunny South' we find much admirable work, a genuine musical feeling, and some thought which should not be permitted to die. The best pieces are— 'Old Seas and New ' and • A Heart's Tragedy.' * * * A mystical Poem which will recommend itself to many is ' Double Identity.' * * *" — The Morning Post. 4 < * * # Song which bears tokens of imaginative powers and a keen relish for natural beauty." — Daily Telegraph. "The Author has a good deal of poetical fancy, and not a little power of poetical expression. * * *" — The Academy. " These Songs of Indian scenes and memories are an agreeable surprise. Kingsley's desire that a Poet should arise, who should sing the glories of the tropics, inevitably occurs to the mind ; and Prope-iy cf tl'o Library University of W&ierteQ 11 Fress Notices. though Mr. Grant scarcely fulfils the whole of Kingsley's wish, he does at least give some vivid and beautiful sketches of the luxuriant and wondrous riches before which our more temperate scenery pales into tameness. Not that all these songs are of India. Some have only the old themes of love, and life, and loss ; and one long Poem with a singular subject treats of Double Identity, a topic not unfrequently suggested in legendary story, but not to our knowledge developed in such a definite outline as in this Poem, which shows considerable ingenuity combined with poetic fancy. Yet the Indian pictures will probably be those most noted in this pleasant volume. * * * There is plenty more worth quoting. * * *" — TAe Literary World. *' Vivid description of the beauties of tropical nature. * * * " — Sunday Times. * " Mr. Grant possesses considerable facility of expression and mastery of form. * * *" — The Scotsman. " The Author aspires high, and has tried many themes and many styles. * * * The thought and feeling are often youthful and immature, tho the form is finished. * * * Mr. Grant's volume, however, raises expectation. It has now and then the touch of true experience, and in this case he can be bold and independent in utterance — which is much." — British Quarterly Review. "Of the contents of this volume there can be but one opinion expressed, and that is, that it is a very meritable one, full of vigour and tenderness, and giving promise of a bright future for the Author. * * * His verse is healthy and vigorous, and such Poems as 'A Southern Port,' and 'On the Backwater,' as well as many others, show that he possesses the poetic faculty to a great degree. * * * There is a long and clever poem in the volume called *A Heart's Tragedy.' * * * Mr. Grant is a Poet of great promise, and his volume of Poems is worth a careful perusal by every lover of true poetry." — The Chronicle. Press Notices. m fpfc quote with equal pleasure, but we trust our readers will study them for themselves." — The Liverpool Weekly Albion. "The Poems were written in the tropics, and every here and there a few lines or words seem to reproduce the fierce glare of the sun and the hot breath of the quivering air. The little poem on ' The Coming of the Monsoon' is curiously suggestive of the parched dustiness of the earth and air ' before the rains.' " — Glasgaiu Herald. " Will Mr. Grant take a kindly hint from a critic who has a genuine respect for his power, and give the Public what it really wants, and what he is evidently able to draw, — bright pictures of a life which is strange to us, and interesting because it is strange ?" — The Spectator. *' The writer is a genuine lover and a loving observer of nature; and his descriptions of natural objects are sometimes very beautiful and graphic. * * * ''—Madras limes. " That is the keynote of the whole Book ; and a wonderful Book it is. Evidently of a poeiically sympathetic temperament, * ♦ * these verses are chosen to reveal the Author in his most mystical mood, and for the sake of their masterful literary style. ' Double Identity,' a beautiful ly I ical poem, * * * is certainly a strange story ; but, as Mr. Grant remarks, it is folly to cast aside as mere illusion, whatever to limited Human Reason seems inexplicable. The fact, that when under the spell of the strange influence the young people seemed physically dead, is a curious testimony in favour of a theory propounded — by Dr. Fairbairn, I think it was — in the Contepmo7'ary Review a year ago. The Contemporary writer main- tained that in each human being there are two distinct entities, one physical and the other spiritual ; and that the one asserts itself in proportion as the other recedes into inactivity. That is just what happened in the case of Eric and Nerva. To Kant, also, a similar idea suggested itself. The philosopher found it unreasonable to disregard the ghost stories of reliable people ; and the result of his speculations was the theory that, the necessary conditions arising, as they may arise when between human beings there is a sufficiently strong spiritual affinity, one person's spiritual Being, overcoming the limitations of the body, is able to see, or to do something equivalent to seeing, the Spirit of another," — '* ^F.," in the Fifeshire Journal. a2 IV Press Notices. " The sweet melancholy of recollection undoubtedly bulks largely m the Poems, and the Author is needlessly apologetic of their personal applicability. * * * Both the thought and its expression frequently rise above the common levle, and evidence a clear and deep insight. Aspects of nature in the Sunny South are reflected in a few of the poems, and they impress themselves all the more strongly on the minds of readers in Northern latitudes, that they contain such com- parisons as in the first of some verses on * The Coming of the Monsoon.' * * ♦ The mind that produced these poems might, we imagine, yet give the world something more worthy of its powers. Signs of carelessness in expression sometimes occur, as well as eccen- tricity in the frequent use of particular words in unusual form. The spirit that animates the Singer, and the tendency of the song, are, however, always right, and come nothing; short of affording true pleasure." — The Batiffshire Journal. *' In this volume there are many evidences of high poetic power, and though there is considerable inequality in the merit of some of the pieces, the work, taken as a whole, is one which undoubtedly deserves a place of honour in the library of modern poetry. The graceful Ballades, and Rondeaus, and other of the shorter pieces, ^itract and charm the reader by their careful finish and successful treatment of suitable themes ; whilst the originality and power of such poetic sketches as * A Heart's Tragedy,' ' Epimetheon,' and ' Prometheon,' or the transcendental treatment of some of the psychological problems of existence (of which 'Double Identity* is, perhaps, the best example in the work), cannot fail to interest many readers. ' Vivian ' may be regarded as a Poet's protest against Tennyson's conception of one of the Author's favourites, and the piece will please many, in spite of the poetic merits of Tennyson's verses." — The Aberdeen Journal. " The volume contains much vigorous Poetry. The diction is forcible and direct, and many of the Poems show not a little sustained power. Mr. Grant's strength lies for the most part in description. In the shorter Poems, near the beginning of the volume, we get some vivid glimpses of tropical scenery. * * * Not a few of the pictures presented to us in the companion pieces,' Epimetheon' and 'Prometheon/ are sketched with a firm and rapid hand. Jn <\ 1 Press Notices. v * Double Identity ' there are some descriptions full of considerable beauty. * * * In ' A Midnight Vision ' we have an example of equally vivid, although more realistic, descriptive power. * * * Some of the sections of * A Heart's Tragedy ' are well conceived and carefully wrought out." — The Daily Revieiv. ** We must confess to having been much charmed with many por- tions of the volume before us. We subjoin a * Ballade,' for which we thank the Author. * * * There are not a few signs of careless- ness, but the picture is so good that we can forgive a great deal. * * * A much finer 'Ballade* is on page 192.— The Author seems to have a special skill in these intricate French measures — Rondels, Rondeaus, Villanelles, and Ballades. Altogether, the Book is worthy of a careful perusal by the public." — Stirling Journal . A. » « *' Will Mr. Grant take a kindly hint from a critic who has a genuine respect for his power, and give the Public what it really wants, and what he is evidently able to draw, — bright pictures of a life which is strange to us, and interesting because it is strange ? " — The Spectator, ® PRAIRIE PICTURES, LILITH, AND OTHER POEMS. A u ^t- ^ PRAIRIE PICTURES, LILITH, AND OTHER POEMS. BY JOHN CAMERON GRANT. (author of "songs from the sunny south"; "a year of life" ''the PRICE OF the bishop, ' ETC.) LONDON: LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 1884. All rights resaued. \ LONDON : I'RINTED BY \V. K. AND L. COLI.INGRI DCJE AI.DERSGATE STREET. E.C. 4 To ALL I've met, for all their kindness here, I dedicate this volume, to renew And deeper grave this truth, now trebly true, Your world-vast England still is veiy dear To that old England that her sons uprear O'er every land, whose greatness grows in you Whose blood is one with chat old blood she drew, From Angle, Saxon, Celt, or Viking year: — New Vikings plough the long green Prairie seas, — New Angles plunder Nature's every store, — New Saxons toil and fell the forest trees, — New Celtic blood boils up, and sweeps before All staider folk,— and still each northern breeze Flings wide the flag that bound us one of yore ! Manitoba, July, 1883. PREFACE. jHATEVER power I may have of description, whatever sway, slight tho it be, over the senses of men I may possess thro the influence of song, I would wish that herein developed to its utmost to do what little I can to attract the attention of my Countrymen to this Large Land, this huge Britain of the future. — To use a hackneyed expression, it is not a Land of Roses, and I for one am sufficiently grateful that it is not ; for as thought wanders over the past pages of History I feel my heart leap for joy that our crown is to be a wreath of Fir-needles and strong sprays of Northern Pine and not a languid coronal of Lotus. It is not a Land of Roses, but the actual grinding poverty met with in Europe and its vast Centres is utterly unknown, and work here will always meet with adequate, and more than adequate, repayment. Canada can take all England's over-crowded children and give, if nothing else, good XVI Preface. water, free air, fuel and food for the labouring, to each a home and freehold, to each a consciousness of indepen- dence and part in the political progress and development of the Nation : to all her Little-ones free Schools, and to each and all a grand climate, and that greatest of all God's gifts— Health. England little, nay, knows not at all her greatness out here ; has scarce noticed this Maiden grand-child of hers, — Manitoba — to-day but barely in her teens ; — has hardly heard the names of those giant Babies, — Alberta, — Sascatchewan, — Athabasca, and all the younger yet to be born throughout the boundless North-West. — Bountiful in summer, grand and kindly enough in winter, — albeit stern at times to the trifler and the careless, — these young children have in them yet undreamed possibilities. Theirs is to be a huge Agricultural Population, and those settling here will have no need to dwell in cities : on his own farm, with his family about him, a man may live as he can never hope to live in our dear " Old Country " with its ever increasing commercial and social centres, its expensive schools, and strange and artificial system of daily life. The indulgent kindliness with which my former Volumes have been received both by the reading Public and by 1 •* ^ f Preface, xvu the Press, has encouraged me to publish these few present sketches of pleasant places and of times spent over sea in that great Anglo-saxondom of the same tongue and blood as ourselves. The ties that draw the English- speaking Peoples together broaden and strengthen year by year, and it is for the welfare of each and all that each, in his place, strive to increase this feeling till we be no more twain but one flesh, even as in part we are so to-day and as so we were altogether in the Past. -I INDEX. PRAIRIE PICTURES: — THE PRAIRIE THE ROLLING PRAIRIE.. A PRAIRIE CITY PAGK I 8 lo LAKE LANDS I5 PIKE POOLS 21 WATERWAY 2$ BUSH 29 ALONG THE LINE 34 AFTER DARK 39 PERMANENT 42 OVER SEA 43 BACK ROME 47 LILITH 52 THE GIRL I LOVE 58 SONNET A Face Found 59 SONNET Continuance 60 SONNET. Beyond 61 SONNET A Queen of the May 62 SONNET Worldwise 63 SONNET The DeviVs Lake 64 SONNET Aurora 65 DANDELION 66 BURR BUSH 08 VICISTI 72 IN MEMORIAM IN ITALY October, 1883 81 85 o f o PRAIRIE PICTURES. THE PRAIRIE. I. Breathless almost, asleep, Unbroken, grand, and pure ; no furrow run Thro the thick grasses, and the green that meets The far off sky and melts into the deep Beyond, till lost in golden depths of Sun :— Man not yet here to break the ground and mar No stir beneath the still above defeats ; The Prairie lies as silent as a star. •' '■'" *- II. They stretch away before. The limitless billowing grasses blue and green, Pale topaz some with stalks of amethyst. Bowed to the breeze that passes gently o'er The leagues of wild oats lying wide between The marshy tracts and higher lands and dry, With spots of lighter soil caressed and kissed By Blue-bell buds of bpislazuli. h The Prairie. III. The Faerie's Flower here, Waif from a world above and still as bright, Whispering the wind that woo'd it to the west And stirred each delicate Hair-bell for and near, — Blue as a sapphire, clear as chrysolite, — O'er the now settled silent singing Lark, And o'er the piping Thrush of yellow breast, And Night-Hawk sleeping still from dark to dark. IV. There is but one awake, The Robin that would make a decent Rook But for his brick-red breast, in size and strength I almost think that he the palm would take, And quiet outface him with his knowing look — There rustling from nis furrow thro the grass A Gopher goes, who has awoke at length, And stands up like a man to see you pass. V. Along the way we go In the dried creeks and by the furrowed trail Great Burdock leaves, and Docks, and swampy plants, And countless Candy-tufts with crown of snow Beside their sisters showing pure and pale, And Flowers innumerable, whose legion mocks The very stars, and in the sunlight slants The great brave purple clusters of the Phlox. The Prairie. VI. See growing at our feet The wee white Rose, with every petal cleft Heart-wise, and with pink veins that delicate spread, To feed the fragile bloom in the fierce heat Thro the pure tissues tending right and left, And the green buds, some not yet grown, and some Thrust from their sheath with tender tip of red. The promise of the loveliness to come. VII. Rising above the wold With sea-green centre flecked with flakes of light Stands the dwarf Sunflower, yellow and maroon, Conscious of gorgeous dress, yet, not o'er bold, Bending his head and leaves of malachite Above that Dragon-fly of rapid wing, Who preys about thro all the afternoon The Shepherd's-purse once green now withering. VIII. Gay in his scarlet coat The splendid Soldier-lily, gilt and black With paley or and velvet, splendid plant. Touched here and there with richest brown we note, And bright green trimmings running down his back Gayer than aught, save Heralds when a King Is crowned, he stands, rich Autumn's Pursuivant, A Croesus o'er the gaudiest growths of Spring. 1] 2 The Prairie. IX. And Ariel's wild Thyme sweet, Crushed by the foot, sheds forth its clean perfume And fills the air with summer and delight, As lazily you turn and pick and eat The scarlet Strawberry that hides its bloom Most modestly beneath its trefoil leaves, Eclipsed in form and flower by its big white But fruitless bastard brother, who receives X. Attentions due from all The busy swarming crews of midge and gnat That hum around him and the purple Veitch, And make the wild-Pea flower a palace hall, The sweet wild-Pea, with long stem stretching at The white Wolf-willow, with his last year's sticks Left from the fire, whereon that wily wretch The Hunting-spider sits and plans his tricks. XL The gilded Marigold, Like burnished ore thro all the long warm day Staining the Lilies' cheek of angel white With his reflection, like a Sun grown old Burned swarthy red and told of time's decay, And coming Autumn, as his cousin did, The black-cored Marigold, with tips of light And every petal deep in velvet hid. The Prairie. XII. And all their kith and kin, The Marigold with every petal pink And three-fold deep indenture at each edge, And rich red seed and centering, closing in A core of green ; and flashed from heart to brink The starry Marigold with lustrous brown, Each petal cleft with a pale yellow wedge Shot from an opalescent glittering crown. XIII. The yellow Mustard-flower That spread the fields with cloth of saffron hue ; The flat -roofed Hemlock standing like a ghost ; The grand Valerian, a splendid power Of colour 'gainst the shade a dark bush threw ; Wind-flowers, and white Anemonies, and red, With lavish hand thrown round and without boast. Nature's rich treasure unimagined. XIV. • Light indescribable, And the Sun smitten back from the grand glass The Charlock stretches made, and sphered in Green clouds and billowy wastes of swathe and fell, With flowers like Planets flaming round, and sparse And scattered sprinkled mists of Nebulse Built by the legioned nameless blooms that win A place above that rolling grassy sea. The Prairie. XV. The strange Convolvolus, Half pink, half white, so fairy delicate You could but guess the colour, with pointed leaf And sheathed green buds trailed downward, hiding thus The dark earth bank beneath, rich, brown, and slate, From the small hovering brick-red butterfly, That soared and settled for a moment brief With Painted lady and Fritillery. XVI. With crumpled yellow cup A nameless Beauty next, and then the great Deep yellow Orchis, like an Alderman Of goodly personage, and rising up To ensure his small mottled Cousin, late At the flower council, who shows all his spots And smaller Self, but yet of goodly span, Shaking among the awed Forget-me-nots. XVII. Life everywhere, but Life That is not lust of living at the price Of something slain in the fierce strife to be. But a wide altar's incense, rich, and rife Not from some victim's bloody sacrifice, But with the gentle increase of the Land That goes up like a divine melody, All is so beautiful, so calm, so grand. The Prairie. 7 XVIII. Here man can draw near God, Or, may be, all the place is nearer drawn To Heaven, or Heaven stoops down and touches it, Until it lifts the soul from out the sod, Makes evident the light in all things born. Whereby we know their words are true, who tell, Earth hath her holy grounds that still permit The invisible Godhead nigh grow visible. f;J *4 THE ROLLING PRAIRIE. I. Set like a spell-bound ocean on a sudden transformed to land, Silent in every hollow, and with ridges yet blown by the breeze, It lies like an emerald before us, and held in an infinite hand, Limitless, rising and falling away to the western seas. n. Something of wonder about it, the look of the eyes of a child Seen on the face of its flowers, with a voice in the breezes that pass. And its calm airs are holy with hope, as tho, when Omni- potence smiled, It had caught the reflection of Godhead yet kept on its marvellous glass. The Rolling Prairie. 9 III. If ever a sound had silence, if ever a voice or prayer Went up from the speechless earth with a myriad tongues of praise, I think it was heard on the Prairie, and breathed in the delicate air That rose like an incense to heaven thro those long light July days. IV. I had no mind to paint it, and thought and hand grew weak As earth became transfigured and golden before my eyes, "It is good for us to be here " — and I prayed, but I dared not speak. For the Presence that filled His temple was the Hope of the Centuries. V. And the lamps of the evening were lighted and all was still and sweet. And the cloud? in the west rose-pink with a ruddier fringe of flame Round the holy spaces of Sunset, too pure for the Angels' feet. Where God had a new name written and Nature was that new name. lO A PRAIRIE CITY. Now we are drawing near : — We round the bluff and strange against the sky An Elivator lifts its quaint design, And traces past of man and beast appear, A Bison's skull bleached white and bare ; unsoled, With toe agape, a jack-boot long cast by ; And stretching west, and west, and west, the Line Fringed with a yellow foam of Marigold. II. The little Windmill brown, Almost a child's toy, spinning round and round. To feed the Engines pumping night and day : — The sturdy team that just have made the Town, With waggon loaded from some neighbouring farm : — A great black-boarded wall, made smart and crowned With long black stove-pipes, and a bright array Of lightning-rods to keep the place from harm. A Prairie City. II III. A wooden side-walk now : — Six barrels and a trestle and a crate Lying upon the vacant corner-lot, Scraps of brown-paper and a wandering cow, An empty flask, and bottles two or three, A stack of lumber and a broken plate, A worn out stove and battered cooking pot, A Loafer sleeping off his last night's spree. — !i,l nil i IV. Two Indians in their paint And usual garb of dirt and laziness, I speak of Sioux, studying the gaudy prints Whereby the coming Circus makes acquaint The Public of its stores; huge Snakes, with grunt And roar ten mighty Elephants, no less Than thirty feet at least in height, and hints Of monstrous Tigers and a Lion hunt. V. Gnawing upon a bone A Pup beneath a patent Harvester, With spare wheels leaned against a Poplar stump ; Some empty cans, torn sacks, and garbage thrown Fearless of any sanitary rule. And every one too busy to demur. About the green and scarlet wooden pump ; Three Churches and a really splendid School. 12 A Prairie City. VI. A Chinese Laundry ; — Cloths flapping free to dry next door in scorn Of aid Celestial, next the Something House, And half a dozen more Hotels hard by, Each with its own peculiar Hangers-on About the Bars and doors, with boots forlorn Of any blacking, who for pasture browse This one-year-old strange built up Babylon. vn. A Magazine for Oil, And piles of Cordwood cut for winter use, Cutters that take their summer holiday. Rolls of Tar-paper, and great heaps of soil Dug from the needful cellars under ground. Molasses-barrels, cans of Maple-juice, New Waggons, Harrows, Ploughs in bright array. And Barbed-wire fencing piled in many a round. vni. Here the succeesful Store With queer supply of goods and odds and ends, And then Her Majesty's Post-building strange, And further on a Barber's pole, before A shed with Graphic pictures on the walls, A man being shaved, who, I've no doubt, intends Some questions soon of Townships Section, Range, At the Land-office where everybody calls. A Prairie City. U IX. Well, may they call and get Each man his labour's right reward, and fruit Of his far travel to these Western plains, Whose bosom broad and bountiful and set With yellow gold of Harvest to increase Gives promise of man's Victory, and to boot One that will crown each Toiler's strifes and pains With the rich gifting of a glorious peace. X. A goodly Town indeed ; — That i", will be, when all the Town is built ; At present, well, at least there are the lots — " Fair homes for all," so the prospectus reads : And when the Track is touching either sea, And from his steed the Speculator spil't. And Capital has cut the present knots. No doubt a splendid Centre it will be. 1] XI. Beyond a River, seen As one looks down between the swarming wires And telegraph poles, and then the long low Hills Closing that quarter in with velvet green To bring the Wiltshire Downs before your mind, But dotted o'er with Homesteads and their hires : — A Half-bred shanty, soon to go, for kills The Anglo-saxon all but his own Kind. < ij H A Prairie City. XII. Drive down the street and soon You pass the graded section and are out Upon the open prairie, and the Track Stretches before you, and the burning noon Dances upon the plain and blows its haze Up as a furnace, till you turn about And see the City lying at your back Like a toy with which some Giant child yet plays. 15 LAKE LANDS. ill I. A GLITTERING stretch of glass, Crimson with sunset to the west and crowned By two gold Islands, with the space between Like cloth of silver, when the shadows pass From strand to strand and cloud the small pools round The larger Lake's shore, and bring up the breeze That crisps the ripples and bends the rushes green, And shakes like faint smoke the blue distant trees. II. See, nearer by the Land, A watery world of Marestail and such plants. And flatter leaves that float and curl and flap Over before the wind, and stretch a hand Each to his fellow, flinging back the slants Of sunlight like gold javelins at the sky, That, like a shield, fills up the further gap Beyond, and blazoned with quaint heraldry. i6 Lake Lands. f« III. Swinging upon the reeds The Rushbird, with its ruddy breast that shows The old George-guinea colour, bobs and clears By hair-breadths only the crisp waves and weeds That rise upon the waters, as he stows His dainty little crop from those rich sheaves The Flags, with heads held up like Indian spears Set round with long straight feathers of their leaves. IV. And gathered at the shore, Where the stream meets the Lake from the far hills, Clumps of coned Willows cluster, thick and tough ; And Marestail shoots its jointed stem up, o'er All plants the Patriarch, that the water fills With life, except on rocks of distant range The great Club-mosses, remnant dwarfed and rough Of mighty Races passed and fallen in change. The blown Anemone Fills up the stretch of Marsh, toward us drawn With feathery Reed and curly-budded Rush, White stars reflected from a great green sea, Or foam bells flung from Venus newly born When all the world was breathless at her rise, Quiet as at that hour when comes the hush Of evening down the mountain galleries. Lake Lands. 17 VI. Along the water's edge The green and purple wild oats, flinging free Their supple limbs and proudly feathered heads, With set straight stems that form a natural hedge For the wild Duck and her young nursery That need a mother's care and all restraint, Chasing the feathers that she plumes and sheds From her broad back, — a family very quaint. I VII. Tufts of Swamp-cotton next, With knightly plumes and waiving pennonsils, Show firmer land between us and the lake : — And, like pouting Primroses, cross and vext. Wee crumple-petaled Flowers that sulk at ills Surly imagined, and their swampy home, Perhaps because they can't lift stalk and make, With leaves packed up, a ramble round, or roam. f 1 VIII. A lovely Butterfly, With great red vanes and dull gold underwing, Hovering about the hidden water pool The Dock leaves cover with a forestry, Dull green above, but when the wind makes swing A leaf, it shows the purest silver sheen Below, and gives you such a feeling cool Of dim worlds half beneath the water seen. c ' • I i8 Lake Lands, I I IX. And closer yet to us Dwarf-willows and Red-willows tangled up With wind-laced branches, thro which the wild Rice Shoots up with quivering lace-work marvellous, Dropping its bounty in the open cup That trembling Water-lily holds to catch And keep for some young thing, a dainty nice, For some young thing to be born or to hatch. I X. Another string of Ducks — Plump, plump, plump, plump, they spatter in the Lake And make each Marsh-bird scold them, as it sings, Against their greedy diving and loud sucks. And routing thro the mud : — and Birds that shake And pause in flight ; the grey Musquito-hawk That cannot cry except with quivering wings : — Swamp-gulls with their long vanes and plaintive squawk. XI. And there, at war with all, With small Birds chasing him from place to place, The outlaw Hawk, a ruffian little thief. Mighty for mischief, tho in body small. Of all I know most impudent of face, The careless little Esau of the land. With confidence almost beyond belief, A rascal perching almost at your hand. f Lake Lands. 19 XII. Beyond the muskeg green The Musk-rat built up island homes that rise, — A Rat on one of them sunning himself And seeming well-contented with the scene, And watching sleepily the Dragon-flies That chase their smaller brethren round his feet, Who thinks now of his rooms below, and shelf Well stored with all the dainties Musk-rats eat. XIII. A Bulldog wakes him up, And makes him snap, a most indignant Rat, — Those Flies in India we call Elephant — And those on whom they took a thought to sup Were quite as cross as our old Musk thereat, But couldn't dive below as he has done, Who made from that great white-stemed Water-plant A thousand ways the busy Tadpoles run. > XIV. Above the Swallows skim, And wheel and circle in their rapid flight, Yet watching where that grand Blue-bottle basks ; I wonder they don't take a snap at him And his green brother settled to the right. — That young Bird there. — 'Are those Bluebottles good ?' His Mother blue I do believe he asks. Who answers — ' No, keep to your proper food ! ' c 2 20 Lake Lands. XV. How pleasant is the light, And all that God hath made beneath the sun How fair to look on ; I have often thought If this world here can be so fair and bright At times, may it not be forever won From pain and death into that perfect state From which it wandered, and again be brought Into God's fold— or is the hour too late ? 21 PIKE POOLS. I. Leave the Assiniboin, Climb the steep slope and turn up to your right Along the wooded Southern bank, and, look, You see the corner where the waters join The larger river flashing in your sight, Like a great Salmon in the sunlight, now You've got a likely place to drop your hook. There, just beyond that Scrub-oak's ragged bough ! IL Carefully down the bank. Waist deep in wild Mint sweet as Spring's first breath. Break thro the tangled squirting Cucumber, And those lean Thistles myriad thick and rank ; You have a Frog, I think, chased to the death, Caught in that little swamp we just have passed, Well, let us see what fins you're going to stir, — By that dark log is just the place to cast ! 22 Pike Pools. ':! III. Hark at the Bumble Bee, His nest is somewhere near, if I could find Its mossy dome ; he stops, and starts again, And now rolls off: he always seems to me A surly sort of Bear among his kind. Yet with uncertain strange good-tempered ways As real Bears have, and with grumbling plain Will let you touch him. in hot summer days. IV. Hullo ! you've got him there. — A Beauty, keep your point up, or, — look out He'll get beneath that root and then, good-bye — I told you so : ah well, he didn't fight fair, Better luck next time : — this Musquito rout Are perfect Pirates, — Demons broken loose ; — See, see the first Columbus of the sky, ' ris early yet, the foremost year's Wild Goose ! ii II V. That's it:— cast further down. — What dear wee birds those small Canaries are, And so far North too ; see, a chrysalis, — Cold here must count for nothing, or this brown Great fellow never could survive. — One star Has just peeped out beyond that clump of brush And brings with it the sweetest time that is, Those moments e'er comes up eve's latest * Hush.' Pike Pools. 23 VI. So you've made up your loss And gained some splendid fellows from the Pool While I sat dreaming -.—did you hear that slap,— The ' old Man Beaver ' as he swam across Did it to show tho all was beautiful And still, his thoughts were but work, fight, and eat, So raised himself and gave the waves a tap That sent the ripples giggling to our feet. VII. You're done ? We'd better go For the day darkens, and for miles and miles Between the bluffs the gold Crysanthemums Take deeper colour and old-guinea glow, Where twixt the trees the quiet evening smiles While gathering up the light about our road, Where each tired fly that settles down becomes The quarry of some swift tongued silent Toad. VIII. Be careful where we crossed That quaking bit of swamp some short hours past, Crushing the tiny scattered petals white About one's feet, and the long Rush that tossed Its blood-red tresses in the air, and cast The red seeds round ; and now we cross again The old dry creek that takes so large a bite Of land from out of the rich loamy plain. ill 9' Pike Pools. IX. We left the horses here. — Aye, there they are, and harnessed now for home They make the wheels spin, bound for stall and rest And silent, like the Night-hawk hovering near, Night settles down ; a fringe of fiery foam Is all the Sun has left upon the shore Of that dim cloudland to the further West That iades, dies out, is gone, and day is o'er. I i WATERWAY. • I. A Northward flowing stream, With mile deep Willows growing on its bank, And patches here and there of Poplar trees ;— Long grasses green, that wave, or moveless dream Beneath each scorched and melancholy rank Of trees that suffered in the last year's fire ;- Dwarf-oaks upon the outskirts, and one sees Beyond the timbered ridges rising higher. ■ II. Great open flats of mud Gluelike and rich, and brown and steamy-warm, Piled here and there with drift wood lying waste ; A late Red-willow breaking into bud By banks that ta^'e fantastic shape and form With sides torn off in many a ghastly slice ; Trees driven downward, broken, scarred, misplaced. Showing the fierce onslaught of last Season's ice. 26 Waterway. IP III. High up in many a bush The d^drt's of the rushing furious flood, Like banners torn of some departed Host, And one Pine log, whose strong and sturdy push The river's utmost fury has withstood, Tho shattered sore and riven from bark to heart ; A Silver-willow like a silent ghost, An Otter that slips in with sudden start. IV. A winding stream indeed, Albeit too rough for any water-plants The long green snaky Slime-weed holds its own About what should be haunts of Rush and Reed, As the strong water thrusts its way and pants, Tho sluggish seeming, gearing like' a Bull The shores, where none could find a single stone. But banks of clay that hold their own and rule. V. Great stretches like green fields Of Rice or some such marish tropic grain. And Sorrels rising patchy here and there ; — And, in the hollow that the low ridge shields. Some yellow flowers and blue a living gain. Wild Turnips here and there, and weeds, and worts. And Goosegrass, with its quills up in the air, Shaken by the wind along the river skirts. 4 i Waterway. 27 VI. And next a long lagoon, The river's bed once ere Time altered it, With sandy looking bottom that would take A man up to his neck and drown him soon At one false step, a very treacherous pit, Smiling and fair with flowers of white and pink Spread neath the Sun, a seeming honest lake. With Lilies fair to tempt you from the brink. 1 VII. And, all along, the sides Are fringed yards deep with withered yellow scrub Starred twixt the stems with golden water-flowers ; Then patches of some water-wort, that hides Leeches, and beetles fierce, and snails that climb In clans together, and, where those bubbles rise, I see a dark and uncouth form that cowers But cannot tell who owns that pair of eyes. VIIL But there are some sweet spots Somehow grown dry, and with Convolvolus Flinging its white cups everywhere around Over the peeping blue Forget-me-nots ; And Briar, and Rose, and Lupin, leading us To brighter moods of thought, for here we see Earth's tenderest Children rising from the ground To do their best what ere those round may be. 28 lVatery>ay. IX. A Northward flowing stream, And strong a.-d sulky where I see it here, A Caliban of waters, made to bear Cargoes unwillingly for man, and dream Of winter' sleep, and of the waking year, When it can rend its banks with savage mouth. O River, rolling almost useless there, If but your waters flooded to the South ! 29 BUSH. I. Patches of alkali : — On the horizon the faint smoke of trees Dim thro the haze that dances on the Bush,— The nearer Bush that touches us hard by, Full of the whispered secrets of the breeze. We turn to catch them, and thrust in one way Thro branches that resist with many a push Whereunder lights and shadows mingled play. II. We reach an open space, — So far the fire has run, a piteous scene. And ruin in the place of flowers and fruits. The Silver- willow stiff with blackened face, The ghostly Poplars killing o :t the green Beyond, and burnt about the lower stem. With shriv'led leaves and scorched and twisted roots Showing the agony that passed thro them. ii' 30 Bush. I: III. A miserable sight With green and dead wood strangely intermixed, Patches of bald scalped rock, an ashy patch Of grey and black mixed, here a streak of white, And fallen trees, and standing skeletons fixed, And unknown flowers of tawny orange red. And strangely flying butterflies to match, — A very carnival among the dead. f IV. A grim sight the burnt wood, — The very life that seems to strive assert Its presence first but makes it look more weird ; Evil has crushed but not o'er mastered good That upward strives the more in spite of hurt, Life cast down but unconquered, and it makes Somehow a promise, that, when most are feared. Then nearer draws the end of pain and aches. V. Bat the burnt wood is past And once more thro the fair green palaces Of Nature's folk we wander, fresh and cool The breeze blows on us, as ourselves we cast On mossy cushions ; what surpasses these In summer, when the leaves sing over head, And all about us is so beautiful We cannot dream of winter and the dead ? k... Bush. 31 VI. Look at this dear wee town Of tiny fungus, scarlet, buff, and white, With temple-roofs, hotels, and domiciles, For all the little midgets black and brown Working beneath them ; some with all their might Bearing great burdens, busy o'er the mould Whereon with leaves drawn up in ordered files^ The short-stalked Dandelion sits in gold. VII. Enormous Plantum trees, Fully twelve inches high, and great wild Beans, Pale purple starry flowers, and willow-galls On every willow leaf, D\d sweet Sweet-peas. — A tiny, darling Wren that flirts and queens It o'er her tiniest sweetest family, Teaching them use their wings, with tender calls Each moment to her Mate assisting by. VIII. Here a grey Squirrel flicks On to a black stump studded o'er with stars , Of pale white fungus — move, and he is off Scuttling along across that pile of sticks, Making for his Penates and his Lars Safe up in some old hollow, there, up there I think I hear his little playful cough. And almost see his tail that jerks, ' Don't care ! * 1" 1 li 32 Bush. II I' I IX. Red cups the Faeries use, And little cairn-gorn cups of yellow moss Or lichen, set upon the Poplar stems, And brown puff-balls whose skin the Faeries' shoes Are made of here, and ferns the breezes toss. And busy Bumble-bees and Grass-hoppers, And kingly Spiders with great diadems, Cicalas chirping when a chance occurs. :*!•: X. And in the waning year The Strawberry leaves grow scarlet and blood red. Set off beneath the tref jii Clover green, — Magnificent magenta Cockscombs here Such as at Home in some prim flower bed We only see ; and Berries whose own name I know not, save that on the woodland scene They seem to thro a ruddy sheet of flame. XI. Here thornless Bramble trees — They grow like trees — with clusters of ripe fruit Deep red, and Blue-berries with little leaf, And Whortle-berries, and bright Cranberries, Millions, — the proof is that all Hands are mute Amongst them, and the Raspberries, wild Plums, Wild Currants, and wild Cherries, and in brief Taking first fist of any fruit that comes. Bush. 33 XII. I have moved far and wide, India and Africa, our Island home, And European shores, but I confess That, in the glories of her summer-tide, There is no Land however far you roam That can compete one instant with this Land, So prodigal in over fruitfulness, So lavish in the bounty of her hand. D 34 Mfl !l 1 1 1 It i!''i ALONG THE LINE. "•<>•- I; . I ill''' L Only along the Line, No need to wander far on either side, Sufficient beauty lies about our feet To give us thought for years of the divine Great love that flows o'er all things like a tide ; — We will not wander tar away, but rest Here by the Rails, two Friends that never meet Thro all their iron length towards the West. IL Here the earth banks are brown. In the dry creeks and by the graded Track Great Burdock leaves, and Docks, arid swampy plants Whose lease of life looks shaky, nigh run down. Now that the water has slipped further back. But the orange Marigolds look well, and blink • In the bright sun, neath which the Marestail pants, With here and there a Rose of darker pink. Along the Line. 35 III. There, Aliens to the soil, The Thistles that have taken well their root About the Land, like those whose Country's sign They represent, the foremost Sons of toil. Our Scottish Folk that everywhere out shoot, — A kind of Gentile Jews, — all other men. And, with a strange freemasonry combine Their mutual help for sake of Hill and Glen. IV. Here's a construction Train Creeping along with load of ties and steel. Slow, for this track is not yet ballasted. Now then — one jump and we together gain An empty Flat in passing, and we feel The sudden cool breeze on our cheeks, tho slow Indeed the great black engine rolls ahead — How lovely lies the Land thro which we go ! V. We near a Pine-wood now, — A little patch, and far off from the vast Great Continent of Pine that stretches East, A place for axes only not the plough. But round this little wood a sea is cast. The densest, greenest, fruitfullest of seas, Where hangs for all live things an Autumn feast, Millions and millions of ripe Raspberries. D 2 n 36 Along the Line. ^^!: ( VI. Under the tall trees' shade, Blue-berries fit to fill a hundred pai)s, And Wortle-berries thick as they can lie, And Cranberries, so closely grown and laid, They seem to flame along the very rails, And low nut bushes, Hazels bent with fruit, A thousand spots for pic-nics by and by, To-day the Bear's, poor beast, a fated brute ! VII. Out in the sun again Among the beautiful wild Crysanthemums With sticky ball-like bud, and bursting forih In golden leaves that last night's shower of rain Has washed of dust caught by their resinous gums, So splendid are the flowers around us spent No doubt you ask, is this your tron North, Or some rich garden of the Orient ? VIII. Numberless nameless Blooms, The delicate wild Veitch pale violet Sometimes rich purple, tawny-red and pink. And here a single scarlet Lily looms Up o'er the treble scarlet Lilies, set Over the great grey Lark with mottled wings. Couched by the waterpool with hidden brink Dreaming the song the which at eve he sings. Along the Line. 57 IX. Again we get near man ; — The snaky lines of fence that now stretch out On either side the track declare him near, — With here and there a barbed-wire fence that ran To the far Farm and ringed it round about, — Show that we stop soon ; there, the brakes are on, We shunt and take the empties back from here. — Well, look round till 'tis time that we were gone. X. Mark you how Nature works ; — The old rail buried in rich growth of green, — Here we were meant to toil, you build a Track, Grow careless, for the constant labour urks. Let be the mould, nor scrape the moss between Its joists, and joints, and woodwork, suddenly Nature just rises up and takes it back, Like the old rail lost neath man's very eye. XI. Out yonder that great pile Of Railway iron rises yet too high For any growth, save of the last year's rust, But if those rails were left, while mile on mile The Track went on, 'tis certain by and by. And all of us have but to come to this— The welded iron would melt into dust. Iron or Man, what profit its or his ! I i |!)^ Ml II 38 Along the Line. ■I i' I XII. Back now to whence we came : — We pass the darkening wood at quicker pace For all the cars are empty— here we are, Now for a jump— the ground is all the same No soft spots here— the Train has left the place— We pick ourselves up— not a bruise, all right- Dark ! yes, but there swings out a friendly star. And we strike homewards thro the silent night ! 39 AFTER DARK. -*^*- From Earth to Heaven His finger points to-night, And flashes up past Merak and the plain Where rolls the Dragon and the lesser Vv^ain— His stretched out finger, the great Northern Light. Earth lies below us like a sea, to right And left, like moonbeams, two great rivers strain Their poleward course to meet the Arctic main Rolled thro dim lands of mazy malachite. Dark clouds are on the skv, but thro the joins Of high Heaven's armour shoot the meteors fierce His bright belt twinkles from Orion's loins, And his orbed sword at times would seem to pierce The pale electric haze, that spreads and coins New spheres each instant from the carU and /iene. 40 After Dark. i> <; I 11. Of the keen lightning blades that cross, and strike As on some infinite anvil sheets of flame, — But all is silence, for the secret Name That none can tell holds every thunder, like The still that bowed each rugged ridge and pike Of Sinai, ere the Voice to Moses came : — It still was here, the Presence was the same O'er Heaven's vast walls and rugged fence and dyke Of the wee World beneath ; and was I then The only Soul that looked upon His face, Mid all the spheres but one poor clan of Men, Mid all those worlds was mine the only Face, Our Earth the one Oasis in His ken Where life adored Him, ours the only place ?, HI. ' He made the Stars also,' and all the sweep Of Planets scattered o'er their plain of gold. Yea, set the Suns aloft to swing of old In glory on from Deep to vaster Deep ; He made the myriad things that swim or creep In tiniest drops on tiniest speck of mould, Filled all with life, as every leaf unrolled Shows daily round how Nature yet doth keep Undreamed reserves of life beyond our thought. And yet, altho this little Sphere of ours Is full to overflowing, all who taught That Planets, Suns, and Stars, and all the Powers Of vaster Nature, are not made for nought, Are Dreamers called, and scorn upon them showers. After Dark. 4« IV. God is in all these Worlds, and where e're God Is, Man ;— I take him in his vaster sense, Some Creature that has thought and eloquence To praise his Maker : not that our stone and clod Builds Sirius' bulk, or that Earth's grassy sod Clothes bright Capella, but that, wandering hence If we could pass thro all the vast immense, No single Star or Sphere would show untrod By some created thing whose life is praise ; And, sweeping onwards, countless Sun on Sun Has each its own Creation, and no rays Can further pierce than where that law hath run. For He who sits beyond the flight of days Allows no waste, sees desert spot in none ! 42 .J III I* I r " PERMANENT. ill -•<>•- * Another squatter,' the old man said, ' Has staked hie claim in the field of the Dead,' As passing we saw the fresh mould and the mourners And the rough posts standing at each of the corners. * Accident, }' guess, down on the Track,' * Went to his work and never came back ' * Only his body, — his wife or brother ' * Got that,- -but what of himself the other ! ' * I've often thought thro the long dark nights ' ' After the team had been fixed to rights ' * What would have happened, if, just on the minute, * There'd slipped from my body the man within it.' ' It must go somewhere, — of that I'm sure ;' * It must do something, or could'nt endure :' * We're busy enough here, and so, for certain,' ' We'll be busy enough behind the curtain.' Here he flicked his horses, the reins he raised. And I think I've his words scarce paraphrased. Save one more remark as we onward went. Sir, — ' TAai' Settlement there is permanent. Sir ! * ' 43 OVER SEA. To-night my thoughts fly back across the Sea To one sweet spot in England, where the pipe Of many a bird fills all the garden wild With thanks for tender Spring and glorious Summer, Now full of life about the land.— She sits, Perchance with some grand soul of other days In deep communion, may be in her hand The Book wherein are writ the exiled strains Of tender, royal James, our Poet-King, Who looked once on a garden, as I would, And saw his Queen, true Queen of heart and throne. Or, may be, thro the realms where Spencer passed She passes with him, or beyond this world With soul upborne on mighty Milton's wings : -While I— well, Blocks and Stocks and building terms Hold all my time !— yet even in such things There's poetry enough, if one but looks Below the scaly surface to the heart Even of the crocodile monster, Lust o' the world, And all the gifts the good world gives to go Against the higher gifts of song and soul. * * * * ! 44 Over Sea. Ml. id 'Ml I hardly heard it ; t'was a Mocassin The Red Man went by softly : now, crunch, crunch, Passes a great big English Navvy, pick On shoulder pannikin in hand, crunch, crunch, And he goes on : — but there's a poetry Hangs round his path, great towns and smiling fields And a good Land where men may multiply. — There's Poetry about us if we look I — God's blessing here on every driven spike, And rail and tie and ounce of iron used, Cumberland, Moss Bay, or Krupp's Essen steel ! — Each mile of Track means countless happy Homes, Each mile of Track more food for man to eat, Each mile of Track means rosy children's cheeks — Earth has no children like the Little ones Born in this fierce but kind North Mother-land — Each mile of Track means cutting from his feet The Agitator's Platform, and lifts up Our Politics once again to that clean height Clear from "Profession" and the evil slime That gilds some "patriot" fingers, right beyond The poison-planting selfish Politician, Preaching sedition with a ready lie, His one hand on their throats he holds in toil. The other for his fooled Constituency. — Such Liars are best answered straight across Three feet of table with your Derringer — Each mile of Track means independent men, 1 1 almost makes the brain spin round to think What the full years will make this great North Land, No longer lone, but keep so thro the years Over Sea. Surly for us, that, at her sorest need Our Mother Country hitherward might point Space for her overteaming Offspring. — Yea, True Mother England we have grown from thee, And we will grow until our greatness grows Thy pride and glory and thy chiefest Star, Thy crown of honour thro thy later days ! I love the East : six Millions of her Sons Speak the same language that I earliest spoke, I know her, Empress crowned, and marvellous In wealth and beauty, but for all the gifts She holdeth in her hand, not there, not there, Can any Son of England hope a Home ! — I know dark Africa, oppressed and rich, But free to Southward, diamond and gold. And oil, and spice, and ivory are her gifts, But what great future hath she to afford Unto us alien there, or to her own ? — Australia and her little consort Isle, And those twin Britains in the Southern seas, Are good Lands all, but distant many a day. E'en in these days of lightning swift and steam. - But here we are near England, and some day May be Earth's central Anglo-saxondom, For here t'would seem that the Race gravitates, Like drawing like. Already, at the test Of numbers only, we o'er match with Folk All other Continents, and certain this A few years more will see us far aliead, Aye, double them tho taken together all. 45 in !:! 46 Over Sea. These are our riches, wood, and corn, and coal, Oil from the Earth, and eveiy fruit in Spring, Rich yellow fie!ds of waving wheat, and gold For those who seek adventure, silver, copper. Iron, and the chief metals of the earth. But they are not our boast, our pride is food. To give to all who ask us of our stores. Behold the Land is one where one may eat Of his hands' labour and be satisfied, None asking part or taking tithe of toil : All a man's labour here his very own. — O England, England, send us o'er your sons, And we will give them food, and they to you. So ever cry our rich dark loamy fields ! * * * But time draws on and brings up with it night. Eve has passed o/er and the night Hawks flit From side to side, a Frog croaks and is still. You hear the silent E.iver, that strange silence That broods above a sleeping host of men. So rise and go, lanterned with sudden light. The broad moon breaking from behind the trees ! 47 BACK HOME. -♦c*- The water grows more grey, Man and the Calf Are on the left, rock-girthed on every ridge There rides a great green saddle, more inland Slices of field and slope, and Castle-town, If I mistake not — dotted farms, and walls Like brown threads Hne the hills, upon the right The lighthouse we are passing, shoals of ships, The water growing ever yet raoi grey. — Colliers, and Packets, and great Merchant-Men, Tell we are in the Mersey ; now the bouys Bob up and stretch away in ordered file. And eve comes down ; the engines slow, and we, Seeing the lights and lamps of Liverpool, Will say goodby to-night on English soil. — The usual thing — a concertina comes Out from its case, and, while the Tender runs Up the dark river cwinkling to the shore. Compels from well worn windpipes " Auld Lang Syne Why concertinas always wander out In times like these is more than I can tell, But river tug-boats seem their habitat. 48 Back Home. , I' I ! I I i I There's mrd and rain of course to welcome us. — 'T would not be homelike without mud and rain, — Drive to the Station, book your Pullman berths, And, if you've time to do it, wander round ; So far so good : — we've selfish been, and cared, Well for our comfort. — * * * That rag-bundle there Touch it, it moves under the crust of dirt ; — Sits up, and, look you, 'tis an Englishman ! — Clothes, — Lodging, — not much. And the wolfish eyes Tell the hard struggle even to get food Picked greatly from the gutter ; here a girl, — You've girls yourself, old Fellow, have you not ? — The Country grows Republican— some day Their children, — but the subject : — change the text. Take this wee mite and preach on him. — you there, Matches ! a dozen applicants at once To sell you lights, a strange menagerie, Not wild beasts quite but, may be, better so. ^'i These last twelve lines or more will do for text. And I must gown myself for Pulpiteer : — We're a great Nation, fairly prosperous, Let all that pass — but, as we greater grow. The greater grows responsibility And every man has right to ask the State, I think, for just one chance — what chance have these ? Some might be helped at once across the sea Where they could help themselves, or rightly starve : And others, — Ah, the others ! — That's the rub : — New wine, old bottles — wine and liquor lost ! — It beats me, and it makes one very sad, Back Home, 49 For the State will not, could not, if it would ! — Yet there's a level best for all to do : Each in his place speak just one kindly word, Each give his penny with the Nation's pound. We wake in London, — how the night slipped by. — These English Pullman Cars are something short, Don't sway so much for all our speed. Turn out ; Hotel, and bath, and breakfast, — wonder much If those we saw last night have breakfasted, Chances against it : — here we're back again. And dusky day grows darker thro the streets. — Hours pass, the rain has ceased, the night is fine, There's as good mud here as in Liverpool : The Flagstones are strange fields to plough for Bread, And evil is the seed upon them sown. And bitter is the harvest reaped therefrom. — A strong man holding down the weaker : blood Counts little, and from fifty taken lives. If fairly taken, hands are easy washed. At least hereafter, but the mark of tears From one wronged child will leave upon your soul The smirch not all the Infinites of God Can wipe away ! — O London, were they caught, A larger than the Thames would flood thy marts With saltest brine, and float thy argosies O'er proud St. Paul's. — Sometimes I come to think Half London burnt would save the other half. And give the Folk who starve to-day, a chance. — E 50 Back Home, 1 1 ' 1 1 1 1 < 1 1 III I:! 1 1 This craze for " Jrt^'^ so called, must often bring The clenched fist of the real Artizan In anger on his left hand, open wide With fierce despair. A hopeless state of things, When fancy makes gape out the purse but draws Its strings to strangulation round the throat When Lazarus crys. — Go furnish forth your rooms I do not call against the Palaces, We need some grandeur in the Commonwealth, — But on those miles of slate and stucco-front And money squandered uselessly within — Our real great Folk are true Liberals — But that smug Opulence that sucks the State And, sponge-like, holds in all it takes, almost Would make me Socialist, with trust some hand Some day will wring the bloated polype dry. But hark you, t/iere are some preach socialism To advertise themselves, we take the hint, If houses ever flame theirs first shall burn — One hand upon their throats he holds in toil The other for his fooled constituency — We know the kind, some call them men of mark— Mark you, I'd rather be aristocrat And die Ver in than with Iscariot hang ! And, mark \ • too, this last died ages first And slipper ^ ith hisses to the pit ! O Truth, That sittest hidden save for thy face aflame. Thou hast a naked sword, and where it falls. The smitten darkness sheds out light, and all Back Home. The cause lies bare, where once men saw the lips And heard the voice that spoke to hide the heart 51 The World is wiser than its ears would show 'Tis a good Ass, and picking thistles up Teaches discrimination, wherefore Friends Just give it time, I've not lost all my hope ! E 2 fl"! 52 II i\ LILITPI. /'. 1 1 'I I '1 1 IM 1 I i' 1 1 I. On all that dream thro quiet hours and spaces Of silent thought by streams and stiller seas, And on all workers in the toil and strife For daily bread, it rises like the breeze, That Face, that Face that rules our inner life And comes between us and all other Faces. II. It is not that her eyes are lovlier Than any eyes we look on, or her hair And brow and breast more beauteous, but her smile Kills all the beauty out of all things there, Not that her lips have in them ought of guile But that she comes and we belong to her. III. Time has no laughter in it, and no scorn Is in the hand that points the past, for Time Is far too solemn to make mock of us, But lifts our thoughts up, thro the years to climb, Till on a sudden we are standing thus Beside her, who drew life when we were born. Lilith. 53 IV. For we, tho one, are twain, tho some wild fate Casts each from each upon this world of ours To grow up singly, fruitless blossoming, Neath the grim will of those mysterious Powers That doubtless rule for good, no doubt to bring At some far day together Mate and Mate. — V. Some Monkish Legend write I, — nay, not so : — I have no patience bat for what I see Enwoven in the mystery of life. So build no tale of Dark Age devilry. Of fallen gods, and x\dam's fair first wife, But write of what grows on us as we grow. VI. Take Boyhood : — Had we care of any girl Save as some weaker that required our care, And half despised, because not fit to climb, And wear the clothes that rough young Urchins wear, And for her tears for pain at any time, And gentler thoughts, and hair of longer curl. VI r. At the word " Love " : — why, I remember well How furious I would get, and take my gun And off into the Forest, or the Wild, To be seen no more home by that day's sun, Burning with that fierce anger of a child That thinks the whole world watches on him still. 54 Lilitli. % ') :^(J )v. I' I I < ! II' h'^ viii And then beneath some giant of the wood I would dose off the heated afternoon Until the evening birds were all in song, But, sudden I would cease to hear the tune, For a strange feeling round that made me long For something the no^ ' ow i or understood. IX. And I would think of some I had seen Tiiat knew me better than I knew myself. But when or where I knew not, till I thought This is the memory of some Fay or Elf That I have read of; — but the next breeze brought Her back again, half Huntress and half Queen. X. And I would almost rise to kiss her, — I Who feared no tiger like a Woman's kiss, — And almost hope her breath upon my hair Who found her presence perfect happiness. But when I stretched my arms to greet her there And turned, there was none other standing by. XL And in my dreams she slipped from dream to dream And filled my thoughts, till other things arose And drove her from my presence, as I deemed. With horns and skins and blowpipes, Indian bows, And huts in woods, and trees that no man dreamed, And model engines, or some toy of steam. Lilith, 55 Tl d, XII. Then I awoke and rose, and well content Passed on my morning path thro many days, With books and guns, and much with elder Folks, Loving the old, whose praise indeed was praise, Yet oft indignant at their careless jokes At a Boy's loves, — till she returned, who went. XIII. It was a lovely evening when I felt That she was once more with me, and I strove To see the lovely face of her that was So close beside, she only whom I could love Without a thought, and then again the gla' ? Grew dark, and from my sight did fade and i -it. XIV. 1 have loved Vxiany a Faery, Mab the fair, And many an Elf, and many a Mountain Queen, Vivian in h'^r clear lake and crystal halls, The wee sweet Empress of the Folk in green, And Undine in her streams and waterfalls. But all have died before one Presence there. XV. A Boy I write, and hardly yet of Men, Tho my years make me so, but in my days. Short tho those days have been and tossed and thrown O'er many Lands, I know that from her ways None have escaped, if they will freely own What rises on them ever and agen. ^ !'• Mm I'i;: !■■■ < 'tii. »i„ II' 111 56 Lilith. XVI. That Face, thut Face, between the very Bride And him that holds her to his heart it slips, It haunts the marriage pillows, and between The tenderest Loved and Lover's trembling lips Exacts its due caress, and, tho unseen Makes felt that Presence that no heart can hide. XVIL For none can wed his Lilith : — round her throat Is one gold hair, and round about his own Another gold hair linking hers to his ; — Albeit her tresses are like network thrown About him, he feels nothing of what is Save, when Another charmeth his life's boat XVIIL Across the waters for sweet harbouring To some fair Isle, where he may make his rest. He sees betwixt him and the faery land One pale and crowned, a Queen, but unaddressed Of any Lovers, who doth ever stand To sour and change the late desired thing. XIX. Yet who shall show us Lilith ; in whose eyes Have all men looked, so pale and pitiful And yet withal so full of Majesty, As tho she said, I, that would serve, must rule, And, as I am, so, Love, thou art to me, Who art the Adam I have lost, she cries ! / LilitJi. 57 XX. Ah who shall show us Lilith ;— ever more She rises on Men, but 'tis vain to strive To view her who so rises oft on us, For none have seen her on this Earth alive, And what may be beyond of marvellous None have returned to tell us from that shore ! 58 m '{)!■; II! P 1 ii-i .>il M» ii '"Hi THE GIRL I LOVE. -*c>^ The girl I love has all her hair Rolled down her neck in ripples fair, And hardly faded from her eyes Are the soft lights of Paradise. The girl I love is hardly yet A woman, and the coronet Of glory from her Father's house Seems here encirling still her brows. The girl I love, — few words and fond But breathing still of more beyond, Her name which yet I dare not tell Is sweetness' self made audible. The girl I love, — more bright the fires Of Heaven for all that love inspires, And earth grows changed and not the same Steeped in the music of her name. The girl I love, — O seraph sent To touch my lips with fire, prevent Them that they sin not on the road That brings me nearer thee— and God ! 59 A FACE FOUND. (Stratford, Ontario.) -•o*- I The Face, the one Face of the World, I strove To meet in all my wanderings, here I found ; A tired wee Child's it was, and all around The weary forehead a gold network wove The clustered curls, like the first buds that prove The young ferns wake from winter and the ground. A tired wee Child,— but with such beauty crowned A Queen, I knelt in worship not in love :— Ah me, a face to make one strive and rise To very Heaven, or bend a Saint to sin, As fate might rule the possibilities That peeped between the lids, half hiding in The soundless sapphire depths of human eyes !— And, O, the chiselled mouth above the chin ! 6o iiji ft* CONTINUANCE. !1i:ii -*o»- '1 1 1. ' ,1;.. tie ft'"" : I I Life's deeps have deeper depths beyond them all ; — No sad thought is so sad it does not bring Some sadder thought to our remembering, No voice but wakes another at its call : The ear takes first the roaring of the Fall, But nearer drawn we hear the water-spring Murmur below, and the sad waves that fling Against the rocks the creeping lichens pall. There is a sea beyond the narrow seas With shores lying outward from our straitened shore, And, thither borne upon the moaning breeze, Only they learn those lands who heretofore Had deemed one mystery slew all mysteries. Nor read the eternal worth of Evermore. 1 On a Picture by wy Friend Herbert Schmai.z. BEYOND. Royal Academy, 1883, Beyond these Voices and the closing hills Before, beyond the moorland, and away Beyond the evening, sober, dim, and gray, Beyond the faery light that floods and fills The Western sunsets full of life, and kills Sad thought from off the face of lingering day, Beyond, beyond, — and face and eyes betray Her thought is far beyond them all, and wills Her whole self from the earth ! — Ah me, we strive Forever up and on with foncy fond Until the dream is broken, — we arrive Before that river wide whose depths dispond Upon the oozy shore, left here alive We can but dream that golden, great, "Beyond! " n !" 62 1' IM In: I'll I il! l':;i I", (9/; rr Picture by my Friend IIerhert Schmalz. A QUEEN OF THE MAY. (Perfecta, 1ST September, 1883.) -•o*- Hfs latest born : — sweet, solemn little Maid, His latest born : — dew-fresh from faery Land, A branch of wild-May careless in her hand, A wreath of white- May on her brown hair laid. — A pensive little Lady she, and staid. And full of strange new thoughts she seems to stand Out in the sunlight, waiting for the band Of village Revellers, King, and Mas(]uerade. — His latest born :— but not on her the years Will lay their weary touches and their weight, But each hour past, that never more appears. Will find her younger, watching at the gate. — We come out of our Home with hopes and fears, We come out of the Cottage crowned, — and wait ! 63 VVORLDWISE. Then did Worldly Wisdom^ rebuking simple Charity ^ cry aloud upon the young Man^ sayin^^ nay not so, she who hath prompted thee is kindly withal but of foolish mind ; withhold thine hand ; that help thou would st safely render unto a Brother thou shall not bestow upon a Sister, for One there is that shooteth sore with many shafts, and, albeit thou hast hardiness to resist their stroke, they will spill the life of her whom thou hast holpen before Men. — The World is HiSTORIE. A LOYAL lofty soul : a faery form : A high hcL.rt battling with a base world round : A great sob breaking from the frozen ground That leaves chilled thro and seared what it met warm. Poor weak strong shelter in the howling storm To those left orphaned, and whom snares surround, On this base villain path where snares abound. And where " trust no one " seems the written norm For all wise eyes to read. — Ah bitter this To know the little aid one can supply, For the foul serpent that will rise and hiss Behind your back, yet dare not face your eye, And strike her to the heart with fang that is O'er cruel, because ^;l |i I it. ' !' :i -•«•- The waves go on, the waves go on ! The Prairies here, that round us lie As silent as the silent sky And green below as those are blue, Were once great shallow shifting seas Between vast mountain terraces In those old years when Earth was new. The only breezes now that pass Are breezes rippling o'er the grass ; The sea gives place, the green fields smile Behind the waters mile on mile. The seas give place, advance, are gone, The waves go on, the waves go on ! The waves go on, the waves go on. And leave the land behind them good, Where, burdened neath the bending corn, The Prairies laugh for those unborn With promise here of home and food — The waves go on, the waves go on ! — f I Vicisti. 73 The waves go on, the waves go on ! Some doubtless once withstood the seas, Some wiser Slug or Ammonite That strove with all its little might Against the tide that did not please Its little mightship, one that spent What power it had of discontent, — But still the waters o'er it went. It did not see the good to come From its invaded oozy home, Tho water was its element, It cried, I hate the waters— well It strove its best, there lies the shell. — Who reads the parable I write. And these few verses penned upon Our present late-day Trilobite — The waves go on, the waves go on ! The waves go on, the waves go on ! I do not see that we have need To fear for Him who never failed. Who made the man, who made, indeed, The thought with which he is assailed. — The best survive :— a grand, great law Which makes Good's victory certain here, Where conquest works thro every flaw To surer ends, and now more near To the great finish nearer drawn The waves go on, the waves go on ! 74 Vicisti. I III !'* Ill The waves go on, the waves go on ! Tho here and there upon the sands Some sea-weed, shell, or straw, more tall Than any kith, a moment stands The tide rolls up, and o'er them all The waves go on, the waves go on ! ^(li P i:l i,i I'll! II il ll ll The waves go on, the waves go on. — The Sea is His, He bade it be, Yea, Christ is in the rising sea ! The Stars of Zoroaster set Behind the waves, and Mahomet Is shaken down, who once would round And barrier in the floods and bound The great Sea's progress ; what, exempt Shall Buddha be, upon whose shrine Is poured no blood or bubbling wine ; And Brahm, each idol, stick, and stone, And all the fanes he calls his own Today, where are they, overthrown ! — But 'tis with pity, not contempt, The waves go on, the waves go on ! The waves go on, the waves go on ! Those great blind stretches in the dark For Him, who, hid behind the ark. Flashed only thro the Cherubs' wings His glory on created things Must all give place, for when He came, Whose face transfigured grew as flame, Vicisti. The fountains of the mighty Deep Were broken up — with endless sweep His waves go on, His waves go on ! 75 The waves go on, the waves go on ! Where are the glories of the past ? Were not the Greek gods fair enough ; Had Beauty not a right to last And fearless of the buffet rough Of Time's harsh hand ; was Dian fair ; Cypris a light a glory there ; Did not Apollo in his bays Outshine the sunlight ; Hercules O'er master Death for many days. Like Love alone : did not each breeze Blow fresh from Boreas ? — ah ! their fruit Was dust and ashes, and the brute Of later Greece : — the rites allied To early cults were purified By their own force within them, but The seed was there in germ and shut To be developed later, when A softer, subtler race of men Interpreted to their desires The earlier truths of force and fires, And fervent faith of God in things To fervent faith in self, and lust To gratify imaginings That made what it has left them— dust ! The waves go on, the waves go on. — li!; •til .ill I'll I llll 'ill III !l M II till > 76 Vicisti. The waves go on, the waves go on. Some say I take too low a view : — I am not here to wrangle Creeds, — I care not what men say — but do, My life has mixed too much with deeds. — Small worth the philosophic talk Of Athens, and her garden walk, When I could stroll a few yards down And in the busy market drown All talk of rights out, and supply My vile desires, and choose, and buy. As common things are bought and sold, Valuing up each limb and curl. And depth of breast, and shade of eye, For some small cursed weight of gold For slave and sport a captive girl. — Thank God, thank God the waves go on ! The waves go on, the waves go on — Two thousand years ago you say These things took place — Both yea and nay Put it so. — I will take to-day. Thank Heaven ! I often lift my hands In thankfulness that I was born In the most fair of tropic Lands, And write no snatches, pilfering torn. From Guide-Book covers : — for my years I have roamed widely o'er the Earth, Wider, perchance, than he who hears And scorns— well, let him keep his mirth. Vicisti. 77 Take India ; Buddha did his best Is now wrapt up and laid to rest : — Take Burmah ; 'tis a standing joke What hides beneath the yellow cloak : — Mahomet yet has several lives But owes it to his several wives, And to his reading, deep in part. Of what composed the human heart : — Take Brahma, and his thousand lies. The growth of the dull centuries; For every temple thro the Land, Whose thousand granite columns stand Against the years, I have no name But haunts and homes of shameless shame.- What mean I here ? — Well, those at least Will understand who know the East. — Confucius, wise enough and good I grant you, yet but slender stay For Man to lean on ; and to-day We call his Land of silk and rice. And many a strange and quick device. And People, that when we wore blue Upon our bodies, used and knew The compass, printing, porcelain- clay, Gunpowder, paper, cotton cleaned. The Land of slaughtered babyhood, That grand achievement of the Fiend !— No wonder that the old Faiths cease. Are drowned away, and laid in peace, Whose good is broken up and gone The waves go on, the waves go on ! 78 Vicisti. kit I; Ijiii L 111 'III IK I'' ; 'III The waves go on, the waves go on. What Midget now would rise and take Mahomet's Sceptre — let him bring A world of men, who call hitn king, And we will stoop to say, Who spake ! Till then we must decline to see His forehead flame with majesty E'en of the earth. — A book or two, An answer, and a bald Review^ — We have Confucius ! At whose word The Faith of Ages shows absurd. — Another here ; Agnosticus Who knows not if^ and that: — and thus Grows modern Bude. In very scorn The great god-laughter round is borne. Be ye too of the giants ? — Hush ! No laughter in our ranks, but lay Dull ashes on our heads and pray For patience, and let pity gush Up in our hearts for these to-day His modern foemen here, to wit, The Bat, the Owl, the Mole, the Tit, God help them all before the night, For, ever rolling on to Right, The waves go on, the waves go on ! The waves go on, the waves go on. Musing to day in these new Lands Beyond Columbus' furthest seas, And thinking how the Centuries Vicisti, 79 Have kept them safe for the late hands Of their last Children, we of Time The latest born and come to prime, I cannot help but think that we Have yet some mighty destiny : For God is more about us here ; The splendour of the Winter year, The glories of our Summer brief, Would seem to build more true behef And more dependence on His hand Than is in some less giant Land. We need the God that Jacob felt And wrestled with, and strove, and held, The very Presence that compelled The man to worship, when he cried I have seen God and have not died, And heart, and soul, and body knelt ! The waves go on, the waves go on It is the fruit that makes the tree ; He spake who was and yet shall be, Our visible Eternity, Who is the Tide of that great Sea Whose waves go on, whose waves go on FINIS. hi ii i '\'\ 8i IN MEMORIAM. Oct., 1883. Done His Duty— and More. Detached from the Passenger Express the Engine he was driving and, to save both Train and Passengers, charged and derailed a rapidly approaching Goods' Train that thro some blunder had been switched on to the same 'Track. — It is almost needless to a.. I that this heroic act of gallantry and instant sacrifice of self to a sense of more than duty was only carried ottt xvith the loss of his own life. Pan out a story — is that the rule, Well, I reckon, I'll speak of old John Bull, So I'll just chip in till the next goes on. — Ohio State, county of Gallon, There's where he come from : true grit and hard Down to the bed-rock, you bet, Pard. I guess he didn't go much on fear. And was even tough for an Engineer. Only last month I shook his hand. And he started out for the other Land. — 'Twas kinder foolish, but somehow I Called after him, Jack, old Boy, good-bye. Things didn't seem square, I can't tell why ! He drove on the Express train that day And I watched the Cars for a goodish way. Till all was as still as before the rains. Or the noonday hush on the Alkali Plains. But then the telegraph bell rang out And startled me bad as a mule that hitches.— G S2 In Memoriam. \\ in ll i! «ij l!:i I'll 4il 'III I'l • : I I'll I n 1 . ! t!' " Somehow we've got a mistake about, And the Baggage train has passed our switches Going the down grade Track full pelt." And I almost felt like our operatist, A green-horn yet and a methodist, Who left his instrument straight, and knelt. — The grass didn't grow much you'll be bound As we rushed the station Tender round And followed them hard along the Line, On the chance, 'twas litde, nothing to nine ! — We followed them fast, and soon we reached The Cars, and still and safe on the Track, Lying along like a great log beached After the tide goes back. But the engine nowhere, we somehow guessed How matters had been as still on we went, * But none talked out or in words expressed The general sentiment. 'Twarn't long after before we were there For the mass was hot and smoking yet. With one white steam-jet flung out on the air And nobody spoke, you bet. Charged it^ that was all, and stopped the train The Passenger train behind to save. There were engine and flats piled up on the Plain, Well — but the deed was brave. — And there one body, burnt past dressing or salves, Smashed woodwork and twisted axle bars, Useless levers and throttle valves Under a wreckage of Cars. # « « « In Mcinoriam. 83 He had ever kept a good look out But, swinging around a curve, 'Twas enough to shake the strongest nerve To see what had come about : The heavy Goods' Train thundering down the Line. He had no t' '.e to wonder, But sudden knew that his Hfe was due The price of some Pointsman's blunder, And the thought flashed out on him like the sun Tho only a Man he could give his one To save the ninety and nine. — — One jump straight to the couplings, one — And the thought went thro like a Bowie Knife, What of my children, what of my wife. But what of their children, what of their wives, And what of my life to a hundred lives, — And the couplings were undone ! Onward the loosened engine sped, Like a great black warhorse it dashed ahead. Jack, with his hand on the valve wide open. Listening the hoarse harsh rush of the steam Stood still as the grave, where no word is spoken, As the engine swayed like a frightened team.^ — Yet, may-be, as he stoked the fire-blast higher He saw his Wife and her new Babe's face in the fire, And may-be, you know, But dash it, Pard, It cuts a fellow uncommon hard — G 2 84 In Memoriam. Ill III I'll:! :|i:i I "'I \\\ I'm There he stood up straight, with his brakes beside, And a single turn might have put them on, A single turn and they'd stopped like a stone, But the engine hurled down the trembling track Was lost in the vapour and dust flung back, And only the God that he met alone Saw how that great heart died ! « « « « Just one body, burnt past dressing or salves, Smashed woodwork and twisted axle-bars. Useless levers and throttle valves Under a wreckage of Cars. — v\ 'III III! •111 ■I'l riji /'»■ ^ 35 IN ITALY. San Remo, Christmas, 1883. I. I SIT out in the sun, In Italy to-day among the vines, Watching the crisp waves of the central sea That chase each other to the shore and run, Wrinkle on wrinkle of good-natured lines, Round the low rocks and weedless stones that rise Along the margin in quaint tracery Of mingled greens and lapislazulies. — II. All round the olive trees Seem full of busy-working woodpeckers, And tap, tap, tap, sounds out from every bough. For all the blue-green woods by sure degrees Are being stripped of their harvest :— if one stirs From any path they squash the rich ripe fruit. And, as we climbed the mule-track even now. The crushed black berries squirted at the boot. 86 In Italy, I ^i I) Hi. It I, I'M I III. A swelling chrysophras Breaks, tho 'tis early yet, from every stem That later on will bear the clustering grapes : — This terrace here belongs to one that has Begun to stake his vines, and fashion them To those espaliers the Italians love Straight bound and ordered, save when one escapes And hangs down loaded from the reeds above. IV. Against that terrace wall The cactus with its leaves of malachite, Unhandled raquets, doses in the sun. Sulky enough, with thorns for great and small ; Near him a cousin, grown a giant quite. With great red fruit stuck quaintly on his arms That stretch themselves above another one. The warty-cactus, like a bunch of charms. V. The old terreno dyke With spots and cracks and little crevices Bakes in the rays, and almost seems to dance In the kindly glow that quivers o'er it like A warm aurora : — weeds and mimic trees Upon the angled top grown bare of lime, And sparks of quartz from the scalped rock work glance Washed into hollows by the hand of Time. li ! In Italy. 87 VI. And round about the base A rank of mon^:ish capuchini grows, Hiding the early struggUng violet, With one dead thistle, and a grassy place Where the swift hawk-moth oft its shadow throws ; Beyond a Cyprus with its seeds, some round Some split, and o'er the tree like buttons set That lays its long black shadow on the ground. VII. Then bastioned olive bats, And zigzag terraces that wander up Past lemon groves, and loaded orange trees, An Oil Mill with its pile of drying mats Fresh from the press, and then a great blown cup The year's first tulip, then an aqueduct To carry off and wash the olive lees. Then wild-thyme sweet as ever wild-bee sucked. VIII. Next, see, a battered shrine, — They're getting pretty battered here abouts, — With sapphire burrage budding round its foot ; And then a little patch of unstaked vine ; A bank where the first wakened hyacinth pouts, Cloaked yet and folded, looking crossly at The great round-tabled bole of olive root On whose rough knotty knee awhile we sat. 88 I ii t! I'lr II! i' !|--5 /« /^a/y. IX. And higher up the hill We left the olives ; and the ridge grew bare With but pistachio shrubs and junipers ; Blue-berried myrtles ; brooms, where lingered still •A last year's seed-case ; sarsaparilla there, Thorny, red-fruited ; in tufts between the rocks Good honest plants of prickly coated furze ; A bay-tree, and a cousin of our box. X. Up higher yet a bit And then we'll rest : — what strange thoughts fill the heart As we mount up, and these grey rocks about Seem half to kill the landscape out of it And bring one's own kind back again in part. They sleep so very peacefully below. Or at least seem to, and the busy rout Is stilled into a silent come and go. XL Up : up : the bare ridge crossed. We pass the frontier fringe of chestnut trees And we are in among the pines, and sweet With resinous balms the breeze goes on, till lost O'er the grey ridge and lower terraces. And we sit silent here and almost dread The stillness of the mountains round our feet, The stillness of the heavens above our head ! — In Italy. 89 XII. I think we get near God Up in the mountains ! — Now the sapphire sea Meets the blue clouds, is lost, and passes out Of mind with all the towns that lie abroad And sun them on the slopes. It comes to me, The thought of Home, and God in all His ways With us I ponder, all to come about With our own Peoples in these later days. — XIII. Yes, turn to England now, For Italy fades out, and every Land Grows nought but that the thought of England makes Me love the world ! — I bend my head and vow I too will strive with heart and head and hand Do something for our Folk, all those that come. Or came from that strong Northern blood that shakes The grand pulse of our Anglo-saxondom. XIV. O keep her great and good ! O Statesmen see your first thought is the State, For perfect service is unselfishness. Crush out that lately risen, that hideous brood. That speak for hire and that professional wait Upon our latest phase of politics, Who cut the broidery from the Nation's dress And cook their caldron messes with her sticks! '• V. go In Italy. W' IN * XV. O workers thro the Land, They steal your penny with the rich man's pound, For labour lives and thrives on capital ; And in his grasp, who lifts a robber's hand, His own babe's strangled gullet will be found Torn from its throat : — America at least Has learnt this truth, — speak as you will, we shall. If deeds grow words, destroy the mad wild beast I XVI. For Parties in the State I care no jot ; on either side, I think, Go blind men often leading blind men on : 'Tis on the sound sense of our Folk I wait. And on those seas of, sometimes wasted, ink That wash all questions, till we come to see The crossed threads of the fabric lie upon The naked limbs of stern reality. XVII. I hate the law that makes My father's first his second son's first foe, And every thought of law that legislates Twixt Class and Class, and often sadly shakes Our sense of social justice — let it go With all such laws ; yet in our Polity Let worth and wealth and honour have their weights. You cannot make all one save in degree. ' In Italy. 9> XVIII. And these great questionings That tear to day the Nation roust come round At last to the same point they started from, Have them thrashed out, and well, for all such things Burn to grim ends if burning underground : And let him learn, who robs his neighbour's till, That Tom the socialist hurts only Tom, And rights are strong, and strong are Dick and Will! XIX. Reason we need not fear But some sad day of brute unreasoned deed, And instincts crushed, and all the beast aroused; Our constant watch should be upon that year. And we need guides as well as men to lead, And stern men like our Fathers, who bid cease When right required, and were not theory-drowsed, But fairly balanced kept the State at peace. ts, XX. Yet far above us all One Worker works, and we that work below See not the pattern ; as the shuttle flies. We hear the thundrous shafting rise and fall. We see the years like spinning reels that go. In endless whirl, uncoiling each its thread. We see unsearchable infinites, We see the starry roof spanned out o'er head. M J'l I It' I ''ill. pi 92 /« /^a/y. XXI. ' We work our little work ; We turn, we strive, we work against His will : — Yet how ? — Perchance, He wills us so to do, And wrong, may-be, is but the cloudy murk Needed to show the light off, needed still After these thousand ages over-past, If darkness was not dark could light shoot thro ? — Yet, God, Thy very lights a shadow cast ! XXII. In infinite degree Of littleness we work upon this world Our small plans out, and it its larger plan Works to the Sun, that spins out perfectly The vaster sche me of that perfection, pearled With many a system that aloft was hung Or ever man's life was, or thought of man. When to the stars the morning Seraphs sung. xxiir. It is unthinkable. But its vast day has that great Sun of ours That dwindles so before the infinite, As yet we are but in its morning. — Well, The day draws on ; the ages are the hours — The earth reels blindly after, watched of all Those unknown Powers beyond our day and night. To see, if aught Jehovah made, can fall. ' In Italy. 93 XXIV. To his eternal noon Our small Sun hasteth, and, as some have said, Makes for the Pleiads and Alcyone— None know, save He who made Sun, Earth and Moon, Save that he hasteth ; but with live and dead, And good and ill he sweeps upon his way With many a myriad mate, to where, may-be, The central Sun Himself is light and day ! t, ilil Ml 111 1!) ill It H J' 111 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. A YEAR OF LIFE, THE PRICE OF THE BISHOP, AND OTHER POEMS. Cloth Boards^ 8vo, "js. 6d. "To write a sustained poem in Sonnet form, consisting of no less than three hundred and sixty-five stanzas, was rather a bold venture. The Author's earlier work had prepared us for graceful fancy and earnest thought, as well as for correct metrical expression, and there are no signs of deterioration in his present volume. Without professing entire agreement with the views as to the con- struction of English Sonnets put forward in the preliminary remarks, we may say that Mr. Grant has carried out his convictions in an able manner, and the collection contains some elegant and scholarly lines. In a different style, a weird and ghastly legend, entitled ' The Price of the Bishop ' has power to recommend it : and the minor pieces are not without their special merit. Indeed, the Book is much above the average." — The Graphic. "Were we never so much inclined to play the Aristarchus, Mr. Grant's modest preface to this volume would disarm us. Fortu- nately for him, however, and still more fortunately for us and for his readers, these Poems, in spite of much crudity, and some obscurity, and some inaccuracy of expression, are well worth reading. If any one doubt this, let him turn to stanzas 27 8 — 288, of *A Year of Life,^ and be convinced. They read like a chapter from one of Mr. Jefferies' works, done into verse, and lighted up with an extra gleam or two of pure poetic fancy. Is it possible to find higher terms of praise for this beautiful descriptive passage? " The Poem in which it occurs and from which the volume takes its title is an ambitious tour de force, consisting of 365 stanzas, each of which is a true Sonnet. This, according to Mr. Grant, is * such a very beautiful flowing and plastic verse that one should scorn to require more than four rhymes in the fourteen lines ; ' and that this Ill •I i III I! hjhibited his old liking for the French ' Bal ade ' and his mastery of its intricate measure. As a specimen we would direct the reader's attention to • Lilith,' the first of the * Ballades.' * Undine' is also a line Poem on a theme suggested by the well known romance of similar name." — T/ie Slirlhig Jotirnal. "There comes to us with the fair name of the writer of * Songs from the Sunny South ' a curiosity in literature. But it is not a curiosity that is to be passed lightly by. * * * Such a Poem may indeed claim for itself the merit of novelty ; for it is, we believe, as Mr. Grant considers it, * the first and only one of any length in the English tongue written throughout in true Sonnets.' * * * < A Year of Life ' lands us, at the outset, in a world of Fate, where ' we are torn and tossed about of various beliefs and misbeliefs, till in the Eternal nature of things we begin to see hope.' And there in that world of Fate, governed by Laws incomprehensible, we proceed slowly from Infancy to Boyhood, Manhood, and the Winter of Old Age — beautifully pictured as a Bride waiting and watching * through the starlit night for her strong groom the Summer,' till — * * * Mr. Grant has indeed set to himself a lofty theme ; but even if he shoot ' at the mid-day sonne, though he be sure he shall never hit the marke, yet as sure he is, he shall shoote higher than [him] who aymes but at a bush. ' There is vigour in his verse, and beauty, and at times there is a commendable simplicity. There is much touching earnestness in such a Sonnet as this:— * * * Such thoughts so put cannot fail in their moral effect ; and there is throughout the Poem an evident purity of purpose that sends home with double force its thrilling verse. Now and again it would seem that there is too much doubt and reasoning, too much unrest — a sentiment too strangely placed that Man is made, and does not make himself; Press Notices. lOI at lich say d it ihall aally inor iking sure, the :heine —The Songs 5 not a n may eve, as in the * 'A ;re ' we , till in there in proceed r of Old /atching f,' till- but even lU never in [him] i beauty, is much thoughts ihout the th double hat there iment too himself ; that man is what he jttust not what he would be. Fate, an inde- finable Intention, plays at times so great a part that there is but little room for the opportunity which is said to come once in his life to every man. Something of this may be seen in the first of the other stanzas we purpose to quote— stanzas which treat very naturally, very artistically, of the Poet's first god, Love. * * * Mr. Grant has wound up with the ' Year of Life, a few other Poems— all of them short, and most of them of merit. * * * The volume is strikingly bound and well got up, is deserving of study, and will, we confidently expect, meet with acknowledged favour." — The Oracle. " We scarcely think that the present volume of Poems will obtain for the Author so large a circle of readers as his other work, which, whatever its defects, proved the possession of rare qualities of thought and expression, affording unimpeachable grounds for congratulation. Still in the present volume Mr. Grant gives ample evidence of very considerable poetic gifts. His verse is charged with eloquent feeling, and the Author's ideal is a lofty one — full of hope and the ardent aspirations of youth, and a love and trust in all pure things. But excellent as is much of the work in this last volume, we feel convinced that Mr. Grant will, if his health permits, lise to even a higher level. * * * The writer tries to shadow forth a Creation, a Rising, an Origin, call it what we will, * under the cold, strong-blue eyes of the past Saurians, and vast creatures of the early swarming seas, keeping, too, before me " The still -eyed faces of our silent Dead. " ' — * * * The Author is cer- tainly seen to advantage in 'The Price of the Bishop,' which has a distinct interest of its own, and is, indeed, a poem-drama of unusual merit. The heroine is charmingly and gracefully sketched : — * * * There is real poetry in these last lines, as, indeed, there is in many others in this poem. The ' Ballades ' and miscellaneous pieces should not be overlooked." — Nottingham Daily Guardian. * * " He has admirable mastery of the form of verse he em- ploys. Some few eccentricities of spelling and punctuation might be pointed out, and alliteration is too freely indulged in ; but, these apart, Mr. Grant writes, as a rule, with fine facility and melody, and yet with vigour. We observe that he is the author of some H 2 M i 102 Press Notices. H- mI 111 \h in 'n'l .1 ':' it:: ^ ill I H previously published poems which have met with approval, bu*^, not being familiar with the former volume, we cannot institute com- parisons ; yet from that which is now before us we are satisfied that Mr. Grant has a good deal of the poetic quality in his nature, and a large measure of poetic grace in thought and expression. We open the Book at random to select a specimen of his powers, and we take the following bright descriptive passage. * * ♦ But Mr. Grant does not content himself with the beauties of Nature in his * Year of Life.' He touches Politics, Philosophy, Metaphysics, Science, Religion, and it is hard to say what not, including a seiies of stanzas to the ' Great Sons of Song.' In fact the aim of the Poem is so gigantic that the performance is dwarfed, and its real merits are apt to be overlooked." — T/te Glasgcnu Herald. '* The ordinary reader is apt to fancy that the Poet luxuriates in his work — that he becomes elevated, as it were, into a state of semi- consciousness, and that his thoughts, as well as his lines, arrange themselves in marching order he scarce knows how. * * * But in the case of a sustained effort, where time enters as an element, and the ordinary changes of life interfere, it is evident that there must be a plan, and that plan carried out. Whether his readers sympathise with him or not, the Author is certain to get the benefit of the mental discipline he has voluntarily undergone. And the higher and more sustained the effort, the greater the advantage. * * * We have simply thought and read as most men, and to that extent are able to appreciate the service our Author has rendered to thoughtful and earnest people. This is not Mr. Grant's first attempt. We have pleasant recollections of his * Songs from the Sunny South,' and with regard to his present Volume, whether his readers will derive the same advantage in reading it which the author had in composing it, is more than we would venture to affirm, for the language is often rather intricate. But making al- lowance for that, there remains more than enough richly to reward the re^der — only premising that he has something of the poetic instinct ; other redaers may be warned off. To give an idea of the labour involved in the production of the volume before us, the principal Poem ' A Year of Life ' contains a Sonnet for every day in the year. Now, the Sonnet, as we find from the Book and from li-i Press Notices, 103 a reference to Milton's Sonnets, which our author takes as his pattern, contains fourteen lines, and the following lines rhyme : — First, fourth, fifth, and eighth ; second, third, sixth, and seventh ; ninth, eleventh, and thirteenth ; and the tenth, twelfth, and four- teenth. To write so as to stand criticism under these conditions is enough to make the boldest shrink. * * * In the treatment of his subject the Author disiJays that remarkable familiarity with Nature, along with a reverent spirit, which were so apparent in his former volume. ♦ * * The volume is beautifully got up, and does great credit to printer and publisher." — T/ie Elgin Courant. " Tiie Sonnets, written after an approved model, are not only readable, but enjoyable, the ideas as well as the diction being refined and poetic. In ' The Price of the Bishop ' there is consideraMe dramatic power, and some of the fugitive pieces, notably ' Under- tones,' contain the very essence of genuine poetry." — Liverpool Daily Courier. ** Mr. Grant exhibited considerable promise in his former volume, * Songs from the Sunny South,' and he now challenges criticism with a more ambitious effort. * * * There are many indi- ; iaal Sonnets which have real poetic value, namely those that aim at ex- pressing simple feeling. For instance * * * is very beautiful. Here there is something of true passion, and the higher knowledge of love. There is also sweet pathetic beauty in * * * and much sweet hopefulness in those Sonnets treating of childhood and boy- hood. * * * * The Price of the Bishop ' is a grim story, powerfully conceived, and told with picturesqueness, pointing to the moral duty of rising against tyranny and wrong. * • * Perhaps the best poems in the volume are those descriptive of natural scenes, such as * Away West,' in which Mr, Grant shows much sympathy with the various aspects of nature ; and the ' Mystery of Margaret,' a sombre ballad, in which the natural and the supernatural are blended in an artistic manner, reminding us of the late Dante Gabriel Rossetti. * * * Altogether we prefer Mr. Grant's lyrical work, * * * where his expression is freer and therefore truer. * * * There is much crudeness in Mr. Grant's verse, but there is also much that is grace- ful, and much that is happily expressed, while earnest and lofty intention pervades the whole of his •e in determining the cha- racter of a life Some of the best of them take up aspects of what used to be called ' the argument from design,' treating it in that rich variety and with that abundant j)lay of feeling which are only found in con- nection with the poetical temperament. Although we would never advise our readers to go to their poetry for their philosophy, nor to their philosophy for their poetry, they will find somewhat of both finely expressed in the following ; * * * Space will not permit us to do more than indicate briefly the other matters treated in his subse- quent course. Many choice things will be found in connection with the subjects Boyhood, Manhood, a few reflections from the Boston Light in pretty or'ginal settings on marriage; and then we land among the 'Sons of Song,' where will be found Sonnets on Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Burns, Shelley, Keats, and Wordsworth. Our readers may wish to see the one on Burns. Here it is — * * * The Author afterwards passes on to subjects of personal liberty and national freedom, touching in his progress on recent incidents of political imp>)rtance in Russia, America, Ireland, Sic, devoting well on to his last hundred stanzas to the appmach and accomplishment of age in nature and in man. The other Poems in the volume show considerable mastery over various forms of versification. Their sub- jects are treated somewhat mystically, which will please many, but as bits of literature few of them show the same vigour of thought and expression that many of the Sonnets do. Taken altogether, we have not met for a long time with a volume of poetry written with so much heart-warmth, and in a style so efifective in phrase and figure. It is a work of more than pas-ing interest, and as such, we com- mend it to all lovers of genuine pottiy." - A dt'rdeen Daily Free Press. W. H. & L. Colli N(jKIoge, City Press, London.