IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 u 1.25 m 112.5 " IM ill 2.2 Hi ,, It: II 36 2.0 1.8 14 I 1.6 % vl 'c^. w %> / / O 7 M Photographic Sciences Corporation « 4v :\ ^ \ 4\^; W^ <^ signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre film^s d des taux de reduction differents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour etre reproduit en un seul cliche, il est film6 d partir de Tangle supdrieur gauctie, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images n^cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 \h /tf^:JuJ/ cKjJr^ay\A^ n\^t.^ m .^. >J1 /Jf/o The Poems ^^^ Archibald Lamprnan Edited with a Memoir by Duncan Campbell Scott I r k Toronto N, Mo) , imited Mb ■.V-. V(V :!fjS;i>!^y'i^-'^£^' A /> ^ 1^1^ The Poems of Archibald Lampman Edited with a Memoir by Duncan Campbell Scott t k to Toronto George N. Morang & Co., Limited 1900 ^ 47536 //^ )>l)>^; V^ /v^ Entered accordingr to Act of Parliament of Canada, by Emma Maud Lampman, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture, in the year 1900. ! I CONTENTS MEMOIR XI to XXV AMONG THE MILLET Among the Millet - April An October Sunset 5 The Frogs - An Impression lo Spring on the River 10 Why do ye call the Poet lonely? n Heat ....*'.. 12 Among the Timothy 13 Freedom j- Morning on the Lievre ig In October 21 Lament of the Winds . . 22 Ballade of Summer's Sleep 23 Winter 24 Winter Hues Recalled 27 Storm ^ Midnight ,4 Song of the Stream-Drops 35 Between the Rapids 36 New Year's Eve . . 39 Unrest .... 40 Song ^^ One Day ^i r I iv CONTENTS Page Sleep 42 Three Flower Petals 43 Passion 44 A Ballade of Waiting 45 Before Sleep 46 A Song 48 What do Poets want with Gold? 50 The King's Sabbath 51 The Little Handmaiden 52 Abu Midjan 54 The Weaver 57 The Three Pilgrims 59 The Coming of Winter 62 Easter Eve 63 The Organist 71 The Monk 75 The Child's Music Lesson 88 An Athenian Reverie . . . . 90 Love-Doubt 104 Perfect Love 105 Love- Wonder 106 Comfort 106 Despondency 107 Outlook 107 Gentleness 108 A Prayer log Music log Knowledge no Sight no An Old Lesson from the Fields in Winter-Thought 112 Deeds 112 Aspiration 113 The Poets 113 The Truth 114 The Martyrs 115 A Night of Storm 115 The Railway Station 116 Page 42 43 44 45 46 48 SO SI 52 54 57 59 62 63 71 75 88 90 104 105 106 106 107 107 108 109 log no no III 112 112 "3 "3 114 115 "5 116 CONTENTS V Page A Forecast ii6 I.v November ,. , 117 The City 118 Midsummer Night 118 The Loons iig March ng Solitude 120 Autumn Maples .... 120 The Dog . . . . . . 121 LYRICS OF EARTH The Sweetness of Life 125 Godspeed TO the Snow .. .. .. ., 126 April in the Hills 127 Forest Moods 129 The Return of the Year . . , . . . 129 Favorites of Pan .. ,. ., 131 The Meadow ., .. .. 134 In May 23-, Life and Nature . . , 138 With the Night , 139 June 140 Distance 143 The Bird and the Hour 143 AiTER Rain , . . 144 Cloud-Break 145 The Moon-Path . . . . 146 Comfort of the Fields 148 At THE Ferry 150 September 154 A Re-assurance 156 The Poet's Possession 157 An Autumn Landscape . . . . . . 157 In November 1^8 By an Autumn Stream 160 Snowbirds 152 Snow 162 Sunset 164 I ! Vi CONTENTS Pack Winter-Store 165 The Sun Cup 173 ALCYONE Alcyone 177 In March i7q The City of the End of Things 179 The Song Sparrow 182 Inter Vias 183 Refuge 184 April Night . . . • 185 Personality 185 To MY Daughter j8g Chione 187 To the Cricket 193 The Song of Pan 193 The Islet and the Palm 194 A Vision of Twilight 195 Evening ,. 198 The Clearer Self 199 To the Prophetic Soul 200 The Land of Pallas 201 Among the Orchards 210 The Poet's Song 210 A Thunderstorm 214 The City 215 Sapphics 217 Voices of Earth 218 Peccavi, Domine 219 An Ode to the Hills 221 Indian Summer 225 Good Speech 226 The Better Day 226 White Pansies 227 We too shall Sleep . . 228 The Autumn Waste 228 ViviA Perpetua 229 The Mystery of a Year 242 w CONTENTS vH Paob Winter Evening 243 War 243 The Woodcutter's Hut 247 Amor Vit^ 250 Winter-Break 252 SONNETS An Invocation 255 A Morning Summons 255 Nesting Time 256 The Spirit of the House 257 April Voices 257 Beauty 258 On the Companionship with Nature 258 In the City 259 Music 260 The Piano 260 May 261 EuPHRONE 261 Across the Pea- Fields 262 Night 263 Salvation 263 After the Shower 264 In Absence 264 To THE Warbling Vireo 265 The Passing of the Spirit 266 Xenophanes 266 In the Pine Groves 267 SiRIUS 268 At Dusk 269 Dead Cities 269 A Midnight Landscape 270 To Chaucer 271 By the Sea 272 A Niagara Landscape 272 The Pilot 273 Sunset at Les Eboulements 273 Thamyris 274 Viii CONTENTS Page The Death of Tennyson 275 Storm Voices 276 To A Millionaire 276 The Modern Politician '^11 Virtue '^71 Falling Asleep 278 Passion 279 The Ruin of the Year 279 The Cup of Life 280 The March of Winter 280 Sorrow 281 Love . . 282 To Death 282 The Vain Figkt 283 Earth— The Stoic 283 Stoic and Hedonist 284 Avarice 285 To an Ultra Protestant 285 A January Morning 286 A Forest Path in Winter 286 After Mist - 287 Death .. •- •• -. 288 In Beechwood Cemetery 288 Before the Robin . 289 A March Day ' 289 Uplifting 290 A Dawn on the Lievre 290 A Winter Dawn 291 goldenrod •• •• 292 Temagami 292 On Lake Temiscamingue 293 Night in the Wilderness 294 In the Wilds 294 Ambition 295 The Winter Stars 295 The Passing of Spring 296 To the Ottawa 297 To the Ottawa River 297 CONTENTS IX Page A Summer Evening 29S Wayagamack - 298 Winter Uplands 299 The Largest Life 300 POEMS AND BALLADS The Minstrel 30^ Yarrow 308 To A Flower 309 Sorrow 309 Paternity 310 Peace 310 Strife and Freedom 312 The Passing of Autumn 312 The Lake in the Forest 313 Drought 317 After Snow 318 The Wind's Word 320 Bird Voices 321 Hepaticas 321 The Old House ^ . . .... . . 321 King Oswald's Feast * . . . • . . 325 Sostratus 327 Phokaia , 328 The Vase of Ibn MoKBiL 336 Baki 340 A Spanish Taunt . . ..... . . 344 The Violinist 345 Ingvi and Alf 348 DAVID AND ABIGAIL 357 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 409 * * ^ 4 ■9 * ' MEMOIR More than a century ago in the American colonies of Great Britain, there were two families of German and Dutch descent, one surnamed Lampman the other Gesner. The Lampman family lived in Pennsylvania, and belonged to the community called Pennsylvania Dutch. At the outbreak of the American Revolution one of these Lamp- mans, a Tory with strong feelings in favour of British connec- tions, turned his face toward the North, and eventually taking land that the British government had provided for loyalists like himself, settled near Niagara in the present Province of Ontario. Colonel John H. Gesner, a contemporary of this loyal Lampman, was a resident of Long Island, the family to which he belonged being of Knickerbocker stock. But he also was a King's man, and when the Revolution was imminent, he crossed the stretch of sea to Nova Scotia and settled at Annapolis. Peter Lampman, the son of the original settler, struck firm root at Niagara, and the old homestead known as Mountain Point still remains in possession of the family. During the war of 1812, both the Lampmans and the Gesners fought for their land and had their due share in the events of those times. One of the Gesners was a colonel of militia and was therefore prominent in the conflict. While the Lampmans were clearing their land in the fruitful Niagara peninsula, the Gesners had been making homes for themselves in the Annapolis valley. David Henry Gesner, a son of the colonel who had migrated from Long Island, drifted to Upper Canada, a far journey from the sea in those days. One may find his name in the record as L-m, ■ — ■.<*■- li III!! Xll MEMOIR 1 i • 'i. Ii li ill Crown Land Agent in the County of Kent, and he is remembered as a strong man mentally and physically, with aptitudes for colonization. He settled on the Talbot Road in the County of Kent, about seven miles from the Village of Morpeth, where the homestead still stands. His wife was a Stewart, from the County of Tyrone, Ireland, whose mother was of Dutch descent, springing frori a Knicker- bocker family called Culver. The fifth child of this union was Susannah Charlotte, the mother of Archibald Lampman, the poet. The sons of Peter Lampman were brought up for differ- ent employments, and one, Archibald, studied divinity and took holy orders, and in 1858 was appointed Rector of Trinity Church, Morpeth. Here he married Susannah Ges- ner on the 29th of May, i860, and here was born Archibald Lampman, "the poet, on Sunday morning, the 17th of November, 1861. There had been poets and scientists on his mother's side of the house; the Gesners were an intellectual race and Dr. Abraham Gesner, Archibald's gr^at-uncle, is, in Nova Scotia at least, a well-remembered writer and scientist. The Lamp- mans were men of their hands, fighting King's battles and winning them too; a valiant, loyal race. So the young Archibald had men and women for forebears who were remarkable for their achievements and worthy of remem- brance and honour. It was seen as years went by that Archibald resembled his maternal grandmother Stewart in his disposition, which was gentle, unselfish and tender, and in the physical charac- teristics of dark auburn hair and clear brown eyes. His intellectual endowments came both from the Gesners and the Lampmans, and if liis temperament can be traced to a maternal source, his father gave him logical power, accuracy of observation and expression, and his rare gift of language. In Morpeth Mr. Lampman continued to live until Archi- bald had entered his sixth year, when a change of residence was made and for a short time the home was located at Perrytown, near Port Hope, in the County of Durham. MEMOIR Xlll In October, 1867, he moved to Gore's Landing, a small town on the shore of Rice Lake. Here the family remained for seven years. It is well that these impressionable years of Archibald Lampman's life were passed upon the shores of this beautiful lake. The scenery seemed enchanted, the society was congenial, and many forces united to strengthen his love of nature and his powers of observation, and much of his descriptive work is reminiscent of this region. Unfortunately the only house available for a rectory at Gore's Landing was damp, and in November, 1868, Archi- bald was stricken with rheumatic fever, and lay sufifering acutely for months. It was not until spring that he could walk, and for four years he was lame and during part of the time was compelled to uSe crutches. His physique was never powerful nor was his health robust, and it may be that the main cause of both lay in this severe illness. But despite his crutches he was active and interested in life, for his spirit was always great and courageous to triumph over any ills of body or estate which he had to bear. In March, 1870, Mr. Lampman purchased a house in the village and there he sojourned until he left Gore's Landing and the pleasant shores of Rice Lake. Previously to 1870 Archibald's studies had been conducted at home under his father's direction, but in September of that yeat he entered the school of Mr. F. W. Barron, M.A., of Cambridge, formerly Principal of Upper Canada College. The recollections of the four years he spent there were always vivid and pleasurable. Mr. Barron was a famous schoolmaster. He was thorough m his system, stern in his manner and a strict disciplinarian; but he had the respect of his boys. Many were sent to him who had conquered other masters, but he managed them by rod or by will, and made men of them, some great, and all self-reliant. Every school day, we are told, the master marched into the room with a cushion upon his outstretched hands, upon that lay the Bible, and upon the Book the rod. He had a liking for Archibald and his clear and ready wit. He laid a deep foundation for his scholarship, taught him how to XIV MEMOIR write beautifully, and grounded him in Latin and Greek. Archibald, during the first year at the school, could not join in the sports; but in January, 1872, his health was so far restored that he was able to run about freely with his companions. Gradually during the last four years of the residence at Gore's Landing Mr. Lampman's health had begun to fail. The home at Gore's Landing had to be given up, and to Cobourg, a larger town upon the shores of Lake Ontario, the family was next transplanted. Young Archibald, now thirteen, had to leave his beloved flower-beds, and the deep bass pools in which he had fished on Saturday afternoons, and the lovely lake wiih its sunny water and shimmering rice fields. Cobourg seemed grim and uncertain, merely an arena for struggle and possible failure, compared with this dear spot transfigured by the glamour of childhood. But when affairs wore their darkest aspect, it became clear that good fortune was with young Archibald in the protection of his mother. She at least would fight condi- tions, subdue them, would have for her children what she considered their right, cost what it would of her own strength and energy. Through many schemes in which she did not spare herself she succeeded in educating her son and daughters. In the dedication of "Lyrics of Earth" Archibald acknowledged in some part what he owed to the mother who had battled for him in those early days. In Cobourg, Archibald first attended the Collegiate Institute, and after a year went to Trinity College School at Port Hope. This is an institution of preparation for Trinity College, Toronto, modelled on the English Public Schools. Through the interest taken in him by Bishop Bethune and John Cartwright, Esq., scholarships were given nearly suffi- cient to cover his expenses at the school. This genuine interest was well repaid, for during his two years' stay at Port Hope he won many prizes and in his last year was Prefect of the school. At the commencement exercises of that year he was chaired by his companions and carried in triumph and with much cheering through the buildings and I Ml! MEMOIR XV school grounds. Although during these years his applica- tion was intense, he found time to be interested in others, and while he was Prefect many a disheartened lad at his gentle bidding and encouragement took up with awakened trust in himself tasks thrown by in despair. In September, 1879, he entered Trinity College, Toronto. There must have been some hard work scattered through the years at Trinity, for it was in the main by the help of the scholarships that he won that his course was completed. But at best he was a desultory student. His love of general reading was great and many an hour when he ought to have been labouring at some set task he was poring over the pages of a history or some narrative of travel, or enjoying a pot of beer, a pipe and a lively discussion in some friend's quarters. At Port Hope he was singular for an intense application which won him nearly all the prizes that were to be gained in each year, and his memory as a lad shy of the energies of the cricket crease and foot-ball green might have more speedily waned had not rumours come from Trinity that Lampman was not the man he was taken for, that he was a boon companion, and was to be found foremost in any innocent wildness that was afoot. And so Dame Rumour kept his fame aglow at Port Hope, and the boys who were next year or so to meet him at Trinity had their curiosity roused and their interest piqued by the discordance between his past record and his present fame. When they did come within his circle they found a man who had gained a unique position in his college by his temperament and character. He was probably the poorest man in a worldly sense in the school, and physically the least powerful, yet he had a greater influence than any of his fellows. He did not work as hard as many, nor did he play so successfully, but he was accepted without reserve. He had done nothing in particular, so far as his companions knew, he had never written anything that showed genius, but there was an opinion abroad that Lampman was in some way different from ordinary men, that he would do something famous some day. I III ill XVI MEMOIR ii ! I f f He was editor of the college paper "Rouge et Noir," so called from the college colours, and "Scribe" of the manu- script journal called "Episkopon." A fair half of his time was ?pent in writing for these papers both in prose and verse and in the work of editing them. The poets he had begun to read with care, and he com- menced to form poetic ambitions of his own. He laid epic plans, and in the endeavour to realize them he sat long and late with his heroes and demi-gods. These labours were useful, as they taught him the weight and colour of words, gave him exercise in rhythm, and fertility in rhyme. But he left them unfinished and passed on to other work and served his apprenticeship, joyously, full of happy dreams and ambi- tions. He laid the foundation of a few chapters of what was to be a long novel, which in after years he used to describe with a glow that would lead one to imagine a very paragon of a novel, full of tragic pathos and illuminating laughter, pervaded by deep knowledge of life. But the dis- sertation would end with his genuine laugh, and the per- ception by his auditors that the matter was a mere whim. He graduated in 1882 with second-class honours in clas- sics. This was hardly a matter of surprise to his class-mates or concern to himself. It was beyond question that he could have taken a first had he applied himself, but his final year had been spent in that general reading and social intercourse which he so greatly valued and which was a larger force in his development than many text-books devoured for exami- nation. There was some doubt as to what he should do in the world, now that he had received his equipment. The first employment that offered was uncongenial. He was appointed assistant master in the High School at Orangeville. He did not dislike the actual labour of tuition, for which he was well prepared, but it was quite impossible for him to enforce dis- cipline and to maintain order in his class. Chaos ruled in his form at the Orangeville High School; the pupils did as they pleased, and the assistant master wished fervently that he might do the same. II liiiill L^f MEMOIR XVlI But release came shortly from this bondage. One of his friends at college had been Archibald Campbell, son of Sir Alexander Campbell, and through the son's influence with the father, who was then Postmaster-Genoral, he was ofTered a clerkship in the Civil Service of Canada. He gave up his uncongenial task at OrangeviDe without regret, and was appointed temporary clerk in the Post Office Depart- ment on the i6th of January, 1883. On the 23rd of March fol- lowing, his position was made permanent, and he was fixed in an employment that was to continue with his life. If an artist be possessed of a private fortune, he is happy indeed; if not, some occupation not subject to the ordinary stress and change of business life is best for him. In the Canadian Civil Service at headquarters there is that element of security, and it is well that Archibald Lampman became a member of the permanent service when he did. He was appointed without reference to any literary achievement, for his name was at that time unknown, and he received the small increments of salary and the single promotion which came to him as the years went by, merely in the ordinary routine, not as a reward for the poetry which was gradually making his name well known. He became an excellent clerk, valuable in his office to those whom he assisted. The work he did not like, and the confinement he found irksome, but he recognized that the life had its compensations, in periods of leisure secure and serene, which he might devote to his one great passion, poetry. He was fortunate too in his removal to O tawa. He found in the strenuous climate of the growing city all that is characteristic of Canadian summers and winters. He was on the borders of the wild nature that he loved, and in the midst of a congenial society. To some extent, if not to the limit, he might now follow his inclination. The result was that he began to apply himself steadily to composition. His first contributions to the public journals were two poems, which may now be found in "Among the Millet" — "The Coming of Winter" and "Three Flower Petals." They XVIll MEMOIR " appeared in 1884 in "The Week," a literary periodical since discontinued, of which Mr. Chas. G. D. Roberts was at that time the editor. His first poem presented to a wider public was a quatrain called "Bird Voices" printed in the Century Magazine for May, 1885. The early encouragement of Scribner's Maga- zine gave him confidence, and the greater part of his con- tributions to the periodical press appeared in its pages. During the first year of his sojourn in Ottawa he lived at home, as his father had removed thither from Toronto, and resided in the cottage now No. 144 Nicholas Street. In September, 1887, he married Maud, the youngest daughter of Edward Playter, Esq., M.D., of Toronto. In 1892 a daughter was born to them, and in the early summer of 1894, a son. The loss of this child in the August following was a source of great grief to his father and its poignancy may be traced in the poems "White Pansies" and "We Too Shall Sleep." In 1895 the death of his father broke the family circle. Archibald was in faithful attendance upon him during his long and trying illness. In his early days his father had taught him the art of verse, as he says in the dedication to "Alcyone," and had sharpened his wits in disputations upon the poets. Pope was the idol of the older man and the model for his own verses, of which he wrote many. Pope was to be upheld before the youngster, and Keats, Tennyson and Coleridge were to be given their proper rank beside the giant. He was a man of strong opinions and scholarly attainments, and to the last he retained his eagerness for discussion on all topics, sacred and profane, and was a worthy antagonist. In 1895 the poet received the only honour that our country can offer a literary man: he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada. Gradually his poems written between 1884 and 1888 had increased, and in the latter year he decided to collect and publish them. Without taking the useless course of pre- senting the manuscript of his first book of poems to a pub- lisher, he determined himself to accept the risk. Fortunately at this 1 faithful! the Mil a local I accompl to mak< fame an afterwar his seco poems f The or actioi the dem: years we but they varied b; by an ab routine. recreatio the lowe ence, in Lampma often an coveted the heart nor lonel were peo tured as It WJ his heart never ral his broth Nipissing The trip and the Mr. Lam his chest illl MEMOIR XIX at this time his wife had received a small legacy, which was faithfully placed at her husband's disposal, and so "Among the Millet" came into being. It was printed and bound at a local establishment and everything was done that could be accomplished with limited skill, experience and equipment to make the book a success. It brought its author wider fame and surer standing in the world of letters. Five years afterwards Messrs. Copcland & Day of Boston, Mass., issued his second book entitled "Lyrics of Earth," a ccllection of poems following the sequence of the seasons. There is in the years between 1883 and 1899 no incident or action that the world would call stirring, that would meet the demands for a relation of adventure or peril. The sixteen years were full of high endeavour and of fine accomplishment, but they were outwardly placid and uneventful. They were varied by change of residence now and then, and every year by an absence of three or four weeks from the office and its routine. These weeks were spent in short journeys and recreation, sometimes in visits to Boston, t( Niagara, or to the lower St. Lawrence; but more frequently, and by prefer- ence, in camping expeditions. Nowhere was Archibald Lampman so content as in the great wi' ' ".ess, which he so often and so lovingly described. The only existence he coveted was that of a bushman, to be constantly hidden in the heart of the woods. There he would neither be solitary nor lonely, for the clear distance and the tangled undergrowth were peopled with companionships known to few men nur- tured as he was. It was probably upon one of these canoe journeys that his heart, naturally weak, received the injury from which it never rallied. In the autumn of 1896 accompanied by two of his brothers-in-law he went into Lake Temagami by Lake Nipissing down the Metabechawan River to the Ottawa. The trip is not an arduous one, but the party was small and the time limited. After his return from the journey Mr. Lampman developed a severe and constant pain across his chest, which increased and would not yield to any XX MEMOIR ordinary remedies. His physicians traced the trouble to his heart, and then were recalled by his companions the feats he had performed in the wilds of Temagami, his labours at the portage and the camping place, and their fruitless endeavours to restrain him from doing an undue share of the work. For heavy burdens and tasks requiring great endur- ance his physique was ill-fitted, yet there was in the man that robustness of will and tenacity of purpose that prompted him to lift as if he were a giant and paddle as if he were a trapper. His weakness, finally called by his physicians enlargement of the heart, with valvular incompetence, and an aneurism of the artery at the base, gradually developed, and it became evident that he could not survive a great while, that he must leave many of his plans unfinished, many of his dreams unrealized. During the winter of 1896-7 he produced several poems, but he laboured without his wonted spirit, and with perhaps a foreboding unexpressed that there were many that he would never write. He was constantly at his desk until September, 1897, when he enjoyed his last sojourn in the woods at Lake Achigan, east of Maniwaki. By this beauti- ful lake, amid dense forest, n ighbour of many wild shy things, he was once more restored at the heart of nature. After his return he continued his employment until it became clear that a long rest must be had if he were ever to be even conditionally well. Full of hope that many years of life might be left to him, bearing suffering and fatigue with absolute patience, he rested quietly during the first months of 1898. When the spring drew on he was sufificiently well to walk about slowly in the sunshine, observing the process of nature, in which he took the old delight, the advent of the warblers, and the triumph of the fruit blossoms. It was then that he heard for the first time that when he was ready he might gain whatever benefit was to be derived from change of scv:ne and air, that a few of his friends and admirers had removed the only material obstacle. In June a son was born to him and when he felt he MEMOIR XXI could leave home he travelled to Montreal and passed the summer and part of the fall in sojourning at Lake Wayaga- mac, Digby and Boston. He returned to his work on the iSth of October benefited by the change, and by the prolonged freedom from official labours. But as the winter drew on it became apparent that his strength was gradually declining. He spent these last weeks happily in the correction of the proofs of a new book "Alcyone," which he designed to issue in the spring. It gave him pleasure to look into the future, with this project, around which he had built many hopes. He had again assumed the risk himself, as he Iiad ten years before when "Among the Millet" was published. But on this occasion he had gone to one of the best presses in the world, and the Messrs. Constable & Company of Edinburgh had done the work. It was to be in form such a book as he loved to contemplate, and day by day he was expecting to hear of its completion. But he was never to hold it in his hands. On the evening of the 8th of February, 1899, he was stricken with a sharp pain in the lungs, and lingered with intermittent suf?ering until the loth; then in the first hour of the morning he passed away as if to sleep. He was no more in this world, in which he had worked so steadfastly, and which he understood and loved so well. On Saturday, the nth, his body was borne to Beechwood Cemetery sur- rounded by many of the men who had loved and respected him in life. Archibald Lampman was of middle height, and of a slight form. In the city he walked habitually with a downcast glance, with his eyes fixed upon the ground; in the fields and woods he was alert and observant. His manner was quiet and undemonstrative. His voice was mellow and distinct. The portrait preceding this memoir gives an idea of his features and is the best of several in existence. Before the camera the lines of his face hardened, and the lovely spirit in his eyes departed. It would explain the fascination of his personality if that deep, bright, lucid glance could be xxu MEMOIR I m preserved, if it could look out upon the old and new readers of his poems with the shadowed sweetness that chaimed and attracted in life. Ahhough his face and its expression were in harmony, the index of his character was written in his brow, candid and serene, and in his eyes sincere and affec- tionate. His brow was finely moulded and over it fell the masses of his brown hair, that glowed with a warm chestnut when the light touched it. His eyes were brown, clear and vivid. Perfect sincerity was the key-note of his character. He was true to his ideals, in !as work and in his life. Born without means and always living on a narrow income, his desire was for the greatest simplicity. A lodge in the forest and the primitive life would have fitted his contemplative mood. And when he built castles his imagination always placed them beside one of our northern lakes where every- thing was profoundly free and natural. His genial, tranquil temperament lent a quietness to his manner that gave not a hint of his virile spirit. There was no balance between the body of the man and his mind. That was radical and pierced to the sources of things. He was on the side of all good in the wider way. No convention frightened him or obscured his judgment. His writing proves his faith, his courage and the soundness of his morality. In the wider politics he was on the side of socialism and reasonable propaganda to that end, and announced his belief and argued it with courage whenever necessary. Caution might have been prophesied from his want of bodily vigour, but he had aii adventurous spirit, and believed in the independence of Canada, and many other things commonly esteemed wild and visionary. Behind all he said and wrote was felt a great reserve of wisdom and integrity. As a companion he had two manners, one absorbed, thoughtful, reticent; the other happily external, with brilliant conversation, an outpouring of genial criticism on current life or literature, with flashes of whimsical humour, and with a ready and ringing laugh. His talk was always uncommon MEMOIR XXlll in a manner natural to him, expressed in singular words and uttered in long flowing cadence. Solitude he loved, and society, and he was always warm towards any scheme for a union of men, or men and women of intelligence, where a free discussion of all topics could be had. His manner with his acquaintances and friends, old and new, had the charm that Isaac Walton reports of the behaviour of that admirable poet Dr. John Donne, that winning behaviour "which when it would entice had a strange kind of elegant, irresistible art.' His deep love of his own children was but a well-spring of love for all the children he knew. Again, what he was in his life and in his work came from sheer sincerity, from a temperament in har- mony with clear ideals, directed by a mind free from guile. His poems were principally composed as he walked either to and from his ordinary employment in the city, upon excursions into the country, or as he paced about his writing-room. Lines invented under these conditions would be transferred to manuscript books, and finally after they had been perfected, would be written out carefully in his clear, strong handwriting in volumes of a permanent kind. Although this was his favorite and natural method of composing, he frequently wrote his lines as they came to him, and in many of his note-books can be traced the development of poems thiough the constant working of his fine instinct for form ^:M expression: both were refined until the artist felt his limit. With Archibald Lampman, as with all true artists, this was short of his ideal; as he frequently confessed, there always remained some shade of meaning that he had not conveyed, some perfection of form that he had not compassed. He did not win his knowledge of nature from books, but from actual observation and from conversations with men who had studied the science of the special subjects. Without a thought of literature he would intently observe a landscape, a flower or a bird, until its true spirit was revealed to him. Afterwards, it may have been days, weeks or months, XXIV MEMOIR 11 i P 'HI! he called upon his knowledge, striving to revive his impres- sion and transcribe it. To write verses was the one great delight of his life. Everything in his world had reference to poetry. He was restless with a sense of burden when he was not composing, and deep with content when some stanza was taking form gradually in his mind. Although there were periods during which he added nothing to the volume of his work, the persistence of his efTort was remarkable. He did not over-estimate his own powers, and lie wrote with no theory and unconscious of any special mission. It amused him when .he was called a didactic poet, not as slighting the term, but all such poems as "Insight," "Truth" and "The Largest Life," having been written from fulness of conviction and experience and prompted only by the joy of production, the idea of didacticism had its humours for him. He was not a wide reader; books of history and travel were his favorites. During his last illness he read "The Ring and the Book," the novels of Jane Austen, and continued a constant reading of Greek by a reperusal of Pindar, the Odyssey, and the tragedies of Sophocles. Matthew Arnold was his favorite modern poet and he read his works oftener than those of any other; but Keats was the only poet whose method he carefully studied. Of his own sonnets he said: "Here after all is my best work." His last poem, written on the evenings of the 29th and 30th of January, 1899, was the winter sonnet beginning "The frost that stings like fire upon my cheek." When he had finished its last line his work was done, and his final words are lovingly directed to an asi)cct of nature, "To silence, frost and beauty everywhere." He rests in Beechwood Cemetery, part of the wild wood through which he was accustomed to wander speering about the chilly margin of snow-water pools for the first spring Mowers. He said it was a good spot in which to lie when all MEMOIR XXV was over with life. Even if there be no sense in these houses of shade, it is a pleasant foreknowledge to be aware that above one's unrealizing head the snow will sift, the small terns rise and the birds come back in nesting-time. And though he be forever rapt from such things, careless of them and unaware, the sternest wind from under the pole star will blow unconfined over his grave, about it the first hepaticas will gather in fragile companies, the vesper sparrow will return to nest in the grass, and from a branch of maple to sing in the cool dusk. DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT. _ ■lilll 1 li ,!ll|i. I Vi hr' III I AMONG THE MILLET TO MY WIFE Though fancy and the might of rhyme, That turneth like the tide, Have borne me many a musing time, Beloved, from thy side, Ah yet, I pray thee, deem not. Sweet, Those hours were given in vain ; Within these covers to thy feet I bring them back again. aiiiiii J l..,.„ ,„ Th r An Ye 1 Itl 1 Th( A The T m IHIIII!! ml"! Yot T In s A Wh( T] For Tl Ji in AMONG THE MILLET The dew is gleaming in the grass, The morning hours are seven, And I am fain to watch you i>ass, Ye soft white clouds of heaven. Ye stray and gather, part and fold ; The wind alone can tame you ; I think of what in time of old The poets loved to name you. They called you sheep, the sky your sward, A field without a reaper ; They called the shining sun your lord. The shepherd wind your keeper. Your sweetest poets I will ieem The men of old for moulding In simple beauty such a dream. And I could lie beholding, Where daisies in the meadow toss. The wind from morn till even. For ever shepherd you across The shining field of heaven, 4 AMONG THE MILLET APRIL Pale season, watcher in unvexed suspense, Still priestess of the patient middle day, Betwixt wild March's humored petulence And the warm wooing of green kirtled May, Maid month of sunny peace and sober gray, Weaver of flowers in sunward glades that ring With murmur of libation to the spring; As memory of pain, all past, is peace, And joy, dream-tasted, hath the deepest cheer, So art thou sweetest of all months that lease The twelve short spaces of die flying year. The bloomless days are dead, and frozen fear No more for many moons shall vex the earth. Dreaming of summer and fruit-laden mirth. The gray song-sparrows full of spring have sung Their clear thin silvery tunes in leafless trees ; The robin hops, and whistles, and among The silver-tasseled poplars the brown bees Murmur faint dreams of summer harvestries ; The creamy sun at even scatters down A gold-green mist across the murmuring town. By the slow streams the frogs all day and night Dream without thought of pain or heed of ill, Watching the long warm silent hours take flight,. And ever with soft throats that pulse and thrill, From the pale-weeded shallows trill and trill, Tremulous sweet voices, flute-like, answering One to another glorying in the spring. i. lilli APRIL 5 All day across the ever-cloven soil, Strong horses labour, steaming in the sun., Down the long furrows with slow straining toil. Turning the brown clean layers ; and one by one The crows gloom over them till daylight done Finds them asleep somewhere in dusked lines Beyond the wheatlands in the northern pines. The old year's cloaking of brown leaves, that bind The forest floor-ways, plated close and true — The last love's labour of the autumn wind — Is broken with curled flower buds white and blue In all the matted hollows, and speared through With thousand serpent-spotted blades up-sprung, Yet bloomless, of the slender adder-tongue. In the warm noon the south wind creeps and cools, Where the red-budded stems of maples throw Still tangled etchings on the amber pools. Quite silent now, forgetful of the slow Drip of the taps, the troughs, and trampled snow. The keen March mornings, and the silvering rime And mirthful labour of the sugar prime. Ah, I have wandered with unwearied feet, All the long sweetness of an April day. Lulled with cool murmurs and the drowsy beat Of partridge wings in secret thickets gray, The marriage hymns of all the birds at play. The faces of sweet flowers, and easeful dreams Beside slow reaches of frog-haunted streams ; AMONG THK MILLET H I Wan red with happy feet, and quite forgot The shallow toil, the strife against the grain, Near souls, that hear us call, but answer not, The loneliness, perplexity and pain. And high thoughts cankered with an earthly stain; And then, the long draught emptied to the lees, I turn me homeward in slow-pacing ease, Cleaving the cedar shadows and the thin Mist of gray gnats that cloud the river shore, Sweet even choruses, that dance and spin Soft tangles in the sunset ; and once more The city smites me with its dissonant roar. To its hot heart I pass, untroubled yet, Fed with calm hope, without desire or fret. So to the year's first altar step I bring Gifts of meek song, and make my spirit free With the blind working of unanxious spring, Careless with her, whether the days that flee Pale drouth or golden-fruited plenty see. So that we toil, brothers, without distress, In calm-eyed peace and godlike blamelessness. AN OCTOBER SUNSET One moment the slim cloudflakes seem to lean With their sad sunward faces aureoled, And longing lips set downward brightening To take the last sweet hand kiss of the king, Gone down beyond the closing west acold ; THE FROGS Paying no reverence to the slender queen, That like a curved olive leaf of gold Hangs low in heaven, rounded toward the sun, Or the small stars that one by one unfold Down the gray border of the nighi begun. THE FROGS Breathers of wisdom won without a quest, Quaint uncouth dreamers, voices high and strange; Flutists of lands where beauty hath no change, And wintry grief is a forgotten guest, Sweet murmurers of everlasting rest, For whom glad days have ever yet to run. And moments are as aeons, and the sun But ever sunken half-way toward the west. Often to me who heard you in your day, With close rapt ears, it could not choose but seem That earth, our mother, searching in what way Men's hearts might know her spirit's inmost dream; Ever at rest beneath life's change and stir, Made you her soul, and bade you pipe for her. II In those mute days when spring was in her glee. And hope was strong, we knew not why or how, 8 AMONG Tin<: MILLET ■il !■ tf 111 And eartli, the mother, dreamed with brooding brow, Musing on Hfe, and what the hours mig^ht be, When love should ripen to maternity. Then like high flutes in silvery interchange Ye piped with voices still and sweet and strange, And ever as ye piped, on every tree The great buds swelled ; among the pensive woods The spirits of first flowers awoke and flung From buried faces the close-fitting hoods, And listened to your piping till they fell. The frail spring-beauty with her perfumed bell. The wind-flower, and the spotted adder-tongue. Ill All the day long, wherever pools might be Among the golden meadows, where the air Stood in a dream, as it were moored there For ever in a noon-tide reverie. Or where the birds made riot of their glee In the still woods, and the hot sun shone down. Crossed with warm lucent shadows on the brown Leaf-paven pools, that bubbled dreamily, Or far away in whispering river meads And watery marshes where the brooding noon. Full with the wonder of its own sweet boon. Nestled and slept among the noiseless reeds. Ye sat and murmured, motionless as they, With eyes that dreamed beyond the night and day, W mm tiiiiimiiijii THE FKOGS IV And wlien day passed and over heaven's height, Thin with the many stars and cool with dew, The fingers of the deep hours slowly drew The wonder of the ever-healing night, No grief or loneliness or rapt delight Or weight of silence ever brought to you Slumber or rest ; only your voices grew More high and solemn; slowly with hushed flight Ye saw the echoing hours go by, long-drawn. Nor ever stirred, watching with fathomless eyes. And with your countless clear antiphonies Filling the earth and heaven, even till dawn. Last-risen, found you with its first pale gleam, Still with soft throats unaltered in your dream. And slowly as we heard you, day by day. The stillness of enchanted reveries Bound brain and spirit and half-closed eyes, In some divine sweet wonder-dream astray ; To us no sorrow or uprer ?d dismay Nor any discord came, but evermore The voices of mankind, the outer roar, Grew strange and murmurous, faint and far away. Morning and noon and midnight exquisitely. Rapt with your voices, this alone we knew, illll 10 AMONG THE MILLET i Cities might change and fall, and men might die, Secure were we, content to dream with you That change and pain are shadows famt and fleet, And dreams are real, and life is only sweet. AN IMPRESSION I heard the city time-bells call Far off in hollow towers, And one by one with measured fall Count out the old dead hours ; I felt the march, the silent press Of time, and held my breath ; I "aw the haggard dreadfulness Of dim old age and death. SPRING ON THE RIVER O Sun, shine hot on the river ; For the ice is turning an ashen hue. And the still bright water is looking through. And the myriad streams are greeting you With a ballad of life to the giver. From forest and field and sunny town. Meeting and running and tripping dov»^n, With laughter and song to the river. Oh ! the din on the boats by the river ; The barges are ringing while day avails. SPRING ON THE RIVER II With sound of hewing and hammering nails, Planing and painting and swinging pails, All day in their shrill endeavour; For the waters brim over their wintry cup. And the grinding ice is breaking up, And we must away down the river. Oh ! the hum and the toil of the river ; The ridge of the rapid sprays and skips ; Loud and low by the water's lips, Tearing the wet pines into strips, The saw-mill is moaning ever. The little gray sparrow skips and calls On the rocks in the rain of the waterfalls, And the logs are adrift in the river. Oh ! restlessly whirls the river ; The rivulets run and the cataract drones ; The spiders are fiitting over the stones ; Summer winds float and the cedar moans ; And the eddies gleam and quiver. O Sun, shine hot, shine long and abide In the glory and po\ver of thy summer tide On the swift longing face of the river. WHY DO YE CALL THE POET LONELY Why do ye call the poet lonely, Because he dreams in lonely places? He is not desolate, but only Sees, where ye cannot, hidden faces. I Www 12 AMONG THE MILLET I li'iili I HEAT From plains that reel to southward, dim, The road runs by nie white and bare ; Up the steep hill it seems ^o swim Beyond, and melt into the glare. Upward half-way, or it may be Nearer the summit, slowly steals A hay-cart, moving dustily With idly clacking wheels. By his cart's side the wagoner Is slouching slowly at his ease, Half-hidden in the windless blur Of white dust puffing to his knees. This wagon on the height above, From sky to sky on either hand. Is the sole thing that seems to move In all the heat-held land. Beyond me in the fields the sun Soaks in the grass and hath his will ; I count the marguerites one by one ; Even the buttercups are still. On the brook yonder not a breath Disturbs the spider or the midge. The water-bugs draw close beneath The cool gloom of the bridge. Where the far elm-tree shadows flood Dark patches in the burning grass, The cows, each with her peaceful cud, AMONG THE TIMOTHY Lie waiting for the heat to pa'is. From somewhere on the slope near by Into the pale depth of the noon A wandering thrush slides leisurely His thin revolving tune. In intervals of dreams I hear The cricket from the droughty ground; The grasshoppers spin into mine ear A small innumerable sound. I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze : The burning sky-line blinds my sight : The woods far off are blue with haze : The hills are drenched in light. And yet to me not this or that Is always sharp or always sweet ; In the sloped shadow of my hat I lean at rest, and drain the heat ; Nay more, I think some blessed power Hath brought me wandering idly here : In the full furnace of this hour My thoughts grow keen and clear. IJ AMONG THE TIMOTHY Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe, Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew, A mower came, and swung his gleaming scythe Around this stump, and, shearing slowly, drew Far round among the clover, ripe for hay, A circle clean and gray; i 14 AMC:,G THE MILLET And here among the scented cwathes that gleam, Mixed with dead daisies, it is sweet to lie And watch the grass and the few-clouded sky, Nor think but only dream. For when the noon was turning, and the heat Fell down most heavily on field and wood, I too came hither, borne on restless feet, Seeking some comfort for an aching mood. Ah ! I was weary of the drifting hours, The echoing city towers, The blind gray streets, the jingle of the throng, Weary of hope that like a shape of stone Sat near at hand without a smile or moan, And weary most of song. IH ti And those high moods of mine that sometime made My heart a heaven, opening like a flower A sweeter world where I in wonder strayed, Begirt with shapes of beauty and the power Of dreams that moved through that enchanted clime With changing breaths of rhyme, Were all gone lifeless now, like those white leaves That hang all winter, shivering dead and blind Among the sinewy beeches in the wind. That vainly calls and grieves. Ah ! I will set no more mine overtasked brain To barren search and toil that beareth nought, For ever following with sore-footed pain The crossing pathways of unbourned thought; AMONG THE TIA' JTHY But let it go, as one that hath no skill, To take what shape it will, An ant slow-burrowing in the earthy gloom, A spider bathing in the dew at morn, Or a brown bee in wayward fancy borne From hidden bloom to bloom. Hither and thither o'er the rocking grass The little breezes, blithe as they are blind. Teasing the slender blossoms pass and pass, Soft-footed children of the gipsy wind, To taste of every purple-fringed head Before the bloom is dead; And scarcely heed the daisies that, endowed With stems so short they cannot see, up-bear Their innocent sweet eyes distressed, and stare Like children in a crowd. 15 Not far to lieldward in the central heat, Shadowing the clover, a pale poplar stands With glimmering leaves that, when the wind comes, beat Together like innumerable small hands. And with the calm, as in vague dreams astray, Hang wan and silver-gray; Like sleepy maenads, who in pale surprise, Half-wakened by a prowling beast, have crept Out of the hidden covert, where they slept, At noon with languid eyes. The crickets creak, and through the noonday glow, That crazy fiddler of the hot mir-year, i6 AMONG THE MILLET The dry cicada plies his wiry bow In long-spun cadence, thin and dusty sere ; From the green grass the small grasshoppers' din Spreads soft and silvery thin ; And ever and anon a murmur steals Into mine ears of toil that moves alway, The crackling rustle of the pitch-forked hay And lazy jerk of wheels. As so I lie and feel the soft hours wane, To wind and sun and peaceful sound laid bare, That aching dim discomfort of the brain Fades off unseen, and shadowy-footed care Into some hidden corner creeps at last To slumber deep and fast ; And gliding on, quite fashioned to forget. From dream to dream I bid my spirit pass Out into the pale green ever-swaying grass To brood, but no more fret. And hour by hour among all shapes that grow Of purple mints and daisies gemmed with gold In sweet unrest my visions come and go ; I feel and hear and with quiet eyes behold ; And hour by hour, the ever-journeying sun, In gold and shadow spun. Into mine eyes and blood, and through the dim Green glimmering forest of the grass shines down, Till flower and blade, and every cranny brown. And I are soaked with him. FREEDOM 17 ers' din bare, 5 iW rold in, dim les down, own, FREEDOM Out of the heart of the city begotten Of the labour of men and their manifold hands, Whose souls, that were sprung from the earth in her morning, No longer regard or remember her warning, Whose hearts in the furnace of care have forgotten For ever the scent and the hue of her lands ; Out of the heat of the usurer's hold, From the horrible crash of the strong man's feet ; Out of the shadow where pity is dying ; Out of the clamour where beauty is lying, Dead in the depth of the struggle for gold ; Out of the din and the glare of the street ; Into the arms of our mother we come, Our broad strong mother, the innocent earth. Mother of all thing - beautiful, blameless. Mother of hopes that her strength makes tameless. Where the voices of grief and of battle are dumb, And the whole world laughs with the light of her mirth. Over the fields, where the cool winds sweep, Black with the mould and brown with the loam. Where the thin green spears of the wheat ^re appearing, And the high-ho shouts from the smoky clearing ; Over the widths where the cloud shadows creep : Over the fields and the fallows we come; P i8 AMONG THE MILLET ,; .:;! Ml OA'cr the swamps with their pensive noises, Where the burnished cup of the marigold gleams ; Skirting the reeds, where the quick winds shiver On the swelling breast of the dimpled river. And the blue of the kingfisher hangs and poises. Watching a spot by the edge of the streams ; By the miles of the fences warped and dyed With the white-hot noons and their withering fires. Where the rough bees trample the creamy bosoms Of the hanging tufts of the elder blossoms, And the spiders weave, and the gray snakes hide, In the crannied gloom of the stones and the briers ; Over the meadow lands sprouting with thistle, Where the humming wings of the blackbirds pass. Where the hollows are banked with the violets flowering. And the long-limbed pendulous elms are towering. Where the robins are loud with their voluble whistle^ AriKl the ground-sparrow scurries away through the grass, Where the restless bobolink loiters and woos Down, in the hollows and over the swells, Dropping in and out of the sliadows, Sprinkling his music about the meadows, Men, Only Full '!! i li MORNING ON THE LIEVRE 19 Whistles and little checks and coos, And the tinkle of glassy bells , Into the dim woods full of the tombs Of the dead trees soft in their sepulchres, Where the pensive throats of the shy birds hidden, Pipe to us strangely entering unbidden, And tenderly still in the tremulous glooms The trilliums scatter their white-winged stars; Up to the hills where our tired hearts rest, Loosen, and halt, and regather their dreams ; Up to the hills, where the winds restore us. Clearing our eyes to the beauty before us. Earth with the glory of life on her breast, Earth with the gleam of her cities and streams. Here we shall commune with her and no other ; Care and the battle of life shall cease ; ]\Ien, her degenerate children, behind us, Only the might of her beauty shall bind us. Full of rest, as we gaze on the face of our mother. Earth in the health and the strength of her peace. MORNING ON THE LIEVRE Far above us where a jay Screams his matins to the day. Capped with gold and amethyst. Like a vapour from the forge 20 AMONG THE MILLET Of a giant somewhere hid, Out of hearing of the clang Of his hammer, skirts of mist Slowly up the woody gorge Lift and hang. Softly as a cloud we go, Sky above and sky below, Down the river; and the dip Of the paddles scarcely breaks, With the little silvery drip Of the water as it shakes From the blades, the crystal deep Of the silence of the morn, Of the forest yet asleep ; And the river reaches borne In a mirror, purple gray, Sheer away To the misty line of light, Where the forest and the stream In the shadow meet and plight. Like a dream. From amid a stretch of reeds, Where the lazy river sucks All the water as it bleeds From a little curling creek, And the muskrats peer and sneak In around the sunken wrecks Of a tree that swept the skies Long ago. On a sudden seven ducks IN OCTOBER 21 With a splashy rustle rise, Stretching out their seven necks, One before, and two behind. And the others all arow, And as steady as the wind With a swivelling whistle go, Through the purple shadow led, Till we only hear their whir In behind a rocky spur, Just ahead. IN OCTOBER Along the waste, a great way oflf, the pines Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar The low long strip of dolorous red that lines The under west, where wet winds moan afar. The cornfields all are brown, and brown the meadows With the blown leaves' wind-heaped traceries. And the brown thistle stems that cast no shadows, And bear no bloom for bees. As slowly earthward leaf by red leaf slips. The sad trees rustle in chill misery, A soft strange inner sound of pain-crazed lips, That move and murmur incoherently; As if all leaves, that yet have breath, were sighing, With pale hushed throats, for death is at the door. So many low soft masses for the dying Sweet leaves that live no more. 22 AMONG Tllli MILLET '! j! lllii Here I will sit upon this naked stone, Draw my coat closer with my numbed hands, And hear the ferns sigh, and the wet woods moan, And send my heart out to the ashen lands ; And I will ask myself what golden madness, What balmed breaths of dreamland spicery, What visions oft laughter and light sadness Were sweei .at month to me. The dry dead leaves flit by with thin weird tunes. Like failing murmurs of some conquered creed, Graven in mystic markings with strange runes. That none but stars and biting winds may read ; Here I will wait a little ; I am weary. Not torn with pain of any lurid hue, But only still and very gray and dreary. Sweet sombre lands, like you. LAiV^^NT OF THE WINDS We in sorrow coldly witting, In the bleak world sitting, sitting, By the forest, near the mould, Heard the summer calling, calling. Through the dead leaves falling, falling. That her life grew faint and old. And we took her up, and bore her, With the leaves that moaned before her. To the holy forest bowers. Where the trees were dense and serried, BALLADE OF SUMMER'S SLEEP And her corpse we buried, buried, In the graveyard of the flowers. Now the leaves, as death grows vaster, Yellowing deeper, dropping faster, All the grave wherein she lies With their bodies cover, cover, With their hearts that love her. love her, For they live not when she dies. 23 BALLADE OF SUMMER'S SLEEP Sweet summer is gone ; they have laid her away — The last sad hours that were touched with her grace — In the hush where the ghosts of the dead flov/ers play ; The sleep that is sweet of her slumbering space Let not a sight nor a sound erase Of the woe that hath fallen on all the lands : Gather ye. Dreams, to her sunny face. Shadow her head with your golden hands. The woods that are golden and red for a day Girdle the hills in a jewelled case. Like a girl's strange mirth, ere the quick death slay The beautiful life that he hath in chase. Darker and darker the shadows pace Out of the north to the southern sands. Ushers bearing the winter's mace : Keep them away with your woven hands. 24 AMONG THE MILLET The yellow light lies on the wide wastes gray, More bitter and cold than the winds that race From the skirts of the autumn, tearing away, This way and that way, the woodland lace. In the autumn's cheek is a hectic trace; Behind her the ghost of the winter stands ; Sweet summer will moan in her soft gray place ; Mantle her head with your glowing hands. Envoi. Till the slayer be slain and the spring displace The might of his arms with her rose-crowned bands, Let her heart not gather a dream that is base: Shadow her head with your golden hands. WINTER The long days came and went ; the riotous bees Tore the warm ipes in many a dusty vine. And men grew faint and thin with too much ease. And Winter gave no sign ; But all the while beyond the northmost woods He sat and smiled and watched his spirits play In elfish dance and eerie roundelay, Tripping in many moods With snowy curve and fairy crystal shine. Bt:t now the time is come : with southward speed The elfin spirits pass : a secret sting Hath fallen and smitten flower and fruit and weed, And every leafy thing. ^\™Sj^>^^ Z:.- h.w ■isa, nt^iBi WINTER 25 The wet woods moan : the dead leaves break and fall ; In still night-watches wakeful men have heard The muffled pipe of many a passing bird, High over hut and hall, Straining to southward with unresting wing. And then they come with colder feet, and fret The winds with snow, and tuck the streams to sleep With icy sheet and gleaming coverlet. And fill the valleys deep With curved drifts, and a strange music raves Among the pines, sometimes in wails, and then In whistled laughter, till affrighted men Draw close, and into caves And earthy holes the blind beasts curl and creep. And so all day above the toiling heads Of men's poor chimneys, full of impish freaks, Tearing and twisting in tight-curled shreds The vain unnumbered reeks, The Winter speeds his fairies forth and mocks Poor bitten men with laughter icy cold. Turning the brown of youth to white and old With hoary-woven locks. And gray men young with roses in their cheeks. And after thaws, when liberal water swells The bursting eaves, he biddcth drip and grow The curly horns of ribbed icicles In many a be, vi '-like row. 26 AMONG THE MILLET In secret moods of mercy and soft dole, Old warped wrecks and things of mouldering deatli That summer scorns and man abandoneth His careful hands console With lawny robes and draperies of snow. And when night comes, his spirits with chill feet, Winged with white mirth and noiseless mockery, Across men's pallid windows peer and fleet. And smiling silverly Draw with mute fingers on the frosted glass Quaint faiiy shapes of iced witcheries, Pale flowers and glinting ferns and frigid trees And meads of mystic grass. Graven in many an austere phantasy. But far away the Winter dreams alone. Rustling among his snow-drifts, and resigns Cold fondling ears to hear the cedars moan In dusky-skirted lines Strange answers of an incient runic call ; Oi somewhere watches with his antique eyes, Gray-chill with frosty-lidded reveries, The silvery moonshine fall In misty wedges through his girth of pines. Poor mortals haste and hide away: creep soon Into your icy beds : the embers die ; And on your frosted panes the pallid moon Is glimmering brokenly. Ii jiflimiiJii'iiiiiiii WINTER HUES RECALLED 27 Mutter faint prayers that spring will come e'erwhilc, Scarring with thaws and dripping days and nights The shining majesty of him that smites And slays you with a smile Upon his silvery lips, of glinting mockery. WINTER HUES RECALLED Life is not all for effort ; there are hours When fancy breaks from the exacting will, And rebel thought takes schoolboy's holiday, Rejoicing in its idle strength. 'Tis then, And only at such moments, that we know The treasure of hours gone — scenes once beheld. Sweet voices and words bright and beautiful, Impetuous deeds that woke the God within us. The loveliness of forms and thoughts and colours, A moment marked and then as soon forgotten. These things are ever near us, laid away. Hidden and waiting the appropriate times, In the quiet garner-house of memory. There in the silent unaccounted depth. Beneath the heated strainage and the rush. That teem the noisy surface of the hours, All things that ever touched us are stored up. Growing more mellow like sealed wine with age ; We thought them dead, and they are but asleep. In moments when the heart is most at rest And least expectant, from the luminous doors, 28 AMONG THE MILLKT And sacred dwelling-place of things unfeared, They issue forth, and we who never knew Till then how potent and how real they were, Tak** them, and wonder, and so bless the hour. Such gifts are sweetest when unsought. To me, As I was loitering lately in my dreams, Passing from one remembrance to another, Like him who reads upon an outstretched map, Content and idly happy, there rose up, Out of that magic well-stored picture house. No dream, rather a thing most keenly real. The memory of a moment, when with feet Arrested and spell-bound, and captured eyes, Made wide with joy and wonder, I beheld The spaces of a white and wintry land Swept with the fire of sunset, all its width. Vale, forest, town and misty eminence, A miracle of colour and of beauty. I had walked out, as I remember now, With covered ears, for the bright air was keen, To southward up the gleaming snow-packed fields, With the snov/shoer's long rejoicing stride, Marching at ease. It was a radiant day In February, the month of the great struggle 'Twixt sun and frost, when with advancing spears, The glittering golden vanguard of the spring Holds the broad winter's yet unbroken rear In long-closed wavering contest. Thin pale threads Like streaks of ash across the far-off blue Were drawn, nor seemed to move. A brooding silence 1 5 ,'" I" WINTER HUES RECALLED 29 Kept all the land, a stillness as of sleep ; But in the east the gray and motionless woods, Watching the great sun's fiery slow decline, Grew deep with gold. To westward all was silver. An hour had passed above me ; I had reached The loftiest level of the snow-piled fields. Clear-eyed, but unobservant, noting not That all the plain beneath me and the hills Took on a change of colour splendid, gradual, Leaving no spot the same ; nor that the sun Now like a fiery torrent overflamed The great line of the west. Ere yet I turned With long stride homeward, being heated With the loose swinging motion, weary too. Nor uninclined to rest, a buried fence. Whose topmost log just shouldered from the snow. Made me a seat, and thence with heated cheeks. Grazed by the northwind's edge of stinging ice, I looked far out upon the snow-bound waste, The lifting hills and intersecting forests, The scarce marked courses of the buried streams,. And as I looked lost memory of the frost, Transfixed with wonder, overborne with joy. I saw them in their silence and their beauty, Swept by the sunset's rapid hand of fire. Sudden, mysterious, every moment deepening To some new majesty of rose or flame. The whole broad west was like a molten sea Of crimson. In the north the light-lined hills Were veiled far ofT as with a mist of rose Wondrous and soft. Along the darkening east 30 AMONG THE MILLET The gold of all the forests slowly changed To purple. In the valley far before me, Low sunk in sapphire shadows, from its hills, Softer and lovelier than an opening flower, Uprose a city with its sun-touched towers. A bunch of amethysts. Like one speil-bound Caught in the presence of some god, I stood, Nor felt the keen wind and the deadly air, But watched the sun go down, ;and watched the gold Fade from the town and the withdrawing hills, Their westward shapes athwart the dusky red Freeze into sapphire, saw the arc of rose Rise ever higher in the violet east, Above the frore front of the uprearing night Remorsefully soft and sweet. Then I awoke As from a dream, and from my shoulders shook The warning chill, till then unfelt, unfeared. STORM Out of the gray northwest, where many a day gone by Ye tugged and howled in your tempestuous grot, And evermore the huge frost giants lie. Your wizard guards in vigilance unforgot. Out of the gray northwest, for now the bonds are riven, On wide white wings your thongless flight is driven, That lulls but resteth not. STORM 31 And all the gray day long, and all the dense wild night, Ye wheel and hurry with the sheeted snow, By cedared waste and many a pine-dark height, Across white rivers frozen fast below; Over the lonely forests, where the flowers yet sleeping Turn in their narrow beds with dreams of weeping In some remembered woe; Across the unfenced wide marsh levels, where the dry Brown ferns sigh out, and last year's sedges scold In some drear language, rustling haggardly Their thin dead leaves and dusky hoods of gold ; Across gray beechwoods where the pallid leaves unfailing In the blind gusts like homeless ghosts are calling With voices cracked and old ; Across the solitary clearings, where the low Fierce gusts howl through the blinded woods, and round The buried shanties all day long the snow Sifts and piles up in many a spectral mound ; Across lone villages in eerie wildernesses Whose hidden life no living shape confesses Nor any human sound ; Across the serried masses of dim cities, blown Full of the snow that ever shifts and swells, While far above them all their towers of stone Stand and beat back your fierce and tyrannous spells, 32 AMONG THE MILLET And hour by hour send out, Hke voices torn and broken Of battling- giants that have grandly spoken, The veering sound of bells ; So day and night, O Wind, with hiss and moan you fleet. Where once long gone on many a green-leafed day Your gentler brethren wandered with light feet And sang, with voices soft and sweet as they, The same blind thought that you with wilder might are speaking, Seeking the same strange thing that you are seeking In this your stormier way. O Wind, wild-voiced brother, in your northern cave, My spirit also being so beset With pride and pain, I heard you beat and rave, Grinding your chains with furious howl and fret. Knowing full well that all earth's moving things inherit The same chained might and madness of the spirit. That none may quite forget. You in your cave of snows, we in our narrow girth Of need and sense, for ever chafe and pine; Only in moods of some demonic birth Our souls take fire, our flashing wings untwine ; Even like you, mad Wind, above our broken prison, With streaming hair and maddened eyes uprisen, We dream ourselves divine ; STORM 33 Mad moods that come and go in some mysterious way, That flash and fall, ncne knoweth how or why, Wind, our brother, they are yours to-day, The stormy joy, the sweeping mastery ; Deep in our narrow cells, we hear you, we awaken, With hands afret and bosoms strangely shaken, We answer to your cry. 1 most that love you, Wind, when you are fierce and free. In these dull fetters cannot long remain ; Lo, I will rise and break my thongs and flee Forth to your drift and beating, till my brain Even for an hour grow wild in your divine embraces. And then creep back into mine earthly traces, And bind me with my chain. Nay, Wind, I hear you, desperate brother, in your might Whistle and howl ; I shall not tarry long. And though the day be blind and fierce, the night Be dense and wild, I still am glad and strong To meet you face to face ; through all your gust and drifting With brow held high, my joyous hands uplifting, I cry you song for song. ■■ lytL^i.tti y 34 AMONG THE MILLET MIDNIGHT From where I sit, I see the stars, And down the chilly floor The moon between the frozen bars Is glimmering dim and hoar. Without in many a peaked mound The glinting snowdrifts lie; There is no voice or living sound ; The embers slowly die. Yet some wild thing is in mine ear; I hold my breath and hark ; Out of the depth I seem to hear A crying in the dark ; No sound of man or wife or child. No sound of beast that groans, Or of the wind that whistles wild, Or of the tree that moans : iiiiii||| I know not what it is I hear ; I bend my head and hark : I cannot drive it from mine ear. That crying in the dark. SONG OF THE STREAM-DROPS 35 SONG OF THE STREAM-DROPS By silent forest and field and mossy stone, We come from the wooded hill, and we go to the sea. We labour, and sing sweet songs, but we never moan. For our mother, the sea, is calling us cheerily. We have heard her calling us many and many a day From the cool gray stones and the white saivds far away. The way is long, and winding and slow is the track, The sharp rocks fret us, the eddies bring us delay. But we sing sweet songs to our mother, and answer her back; Gladly we answer our mother, sweetly repay. Oh, we hear, we hear her singing wherever we roam, Far, far away in the silence, calling us home. Poor mortal, your ears are dull, and you cannot hear ; But we, we hear it, the breast of our mother abeat ; Low, far away, sweet and solemn and clear, Under the hush of the night, under the noontide heat; And we sing sweet songs to our mother, for so we shall please her best. Songs of beauty and peace, freedom and infinite rest. >!!!i!i 36 AMONG THE MILLET We sing, and sing, through the grass and the stones and the reeds, And we never grow tired, though we journey ever and aye, Dre?"ning, and dreaming, wherever the long way leads, Of the far cool rocks and the rush of the wind and the spray. Under the sun and the stars we murmur and dance and are free. And we dream and dream of our mother, the width of the sheltering sea. BETWEEN THE RAPIDS The point is turned ; the twilight shadow fills The wheeling stream, the soft receding shore, And on our ears from deep among the hills Breaks now the rapid's sudden quickening roar. Ah, yet the same, or have they changed their face. The fair green fields, and can it still be seen, The white log cottage ne.r the mountain's base, So bright and quiet, so home-like and serene? Ah, well I question, for as five years go. How many blessings fall, and how much woe. Aye there they are, nor have they changed their cheer. The fields, the hut, the leafy mountain brows; Across the lonely dusk again I hear The loitering bells, the lowing of the cows, BETWEEN THE RAPIOS 37 The bleat of many sheep, the stilly rush Of the low whispering river, and through all, Soft human tongues that break the deepening hush With faint-heard song or desultory call : comrades hold, the longest reach is past; The stream runs swift, and we are flying fast. The shore, the fields, the cottage just the same, But how with those whose memory makes them sweet? Oh if I called them, hailing name by name, Would the same lips the same old shouts repeat? Have the rough years, so big with death and ill, Gone lightly by and left them smiling yet? Wild black-eyed Jeanne whose tongue was never still, Old wrinkled Picaud, Pierre and pale Lisette, The homely hearts that never cared to range. While life's wide fields were fU'ed with rush and change. And where is Jacques, and where is Virginie? I cannot tell ; the fields are all a blur. The lowing cows whose shapes I scarcely see, Oh do they wait and do they call for her? And is she changed, or is her heart still clear As wind or morning, light as river foam? Or have life's changes borne her far from here. And far from rest, and far from help and home? Ah comrades, soft, and let us rest awhile. For arms grow tired with paddling many a mile. 38 AMONG THE MILLET The woods grow wild, and from the rising shore The cool wind creeps, the faint wood odours steal ; Like ghosts adown the river's blackening floor The misty fumes begin to creep and reel. Once more I leave you, wandering toward the night, Sweet home, sweet heart, that would have held me in; Whither I go I know not, and the light Is faint before, and rest is hard to win. Ah sweet ye were and near to heaven's gate ; But youth is blind and wisdom comes too late. Blacker and loftier grow the woods, and hark ! The freshening roar! The chute is near us now, And dim the canyon grows, and inky dark The water whispering from the birchen prow. One long last look, and many a sad adieu. While eyes can see and heart can feel you yet, I leave sweet home and sweeter hearts to you, A prayer for Picaud, one for pale Lisette, A kiss for Pierre and little Jacques f )r thee, A sigh for Jeanne, a sob for Virginie. Oh, does she still remember? Is the dream Now dead, or has she found another mate? So near, so dear ; and ah, so swift the stream ; Even now perhaps it were not yet too late. But oh, what matter ; for before the night Has reached its middle, we have far to go : Bend to your paddles, comrades : see, the light Ebbs oflf apace ; we must not linger so. Aye thus it is ! Heaven gleams and then is gone : Once, twice, it smiles, and still we wander on. NEW year's eve 39 NEW YEAR'S EVE Once on the year's last eve in my mind's might Sitting in dreams, not sad, nor quite elysian, Balancing all 'twixt wonder and derision, Methought my body and all this world took flight, And vanished from me, as a dream, outright ; Leaning out thus in sudden strange decision, I saw as in the flashing of a vision. Far down between the tall towers of the night. Borne by great winds in a vful unison. The teeming masses of mankind sweep by, Even as a glittering river with deep sound And innumerable banners, rolling on, Over the starry border-glooms that bound The last gray space in dim eternity. And all that strange unearthly multitude Seemed twisted in vast seething companies, That evermore, with hoarse and terrible cries And desperate en'counter at mad feud. Plunged onward, each in its implacable mood Borne down over the trampled blazonries Of other faiths and other phantasies, Each following furiously, and each pursued; So sped they on with tumult vast and grim, But ever meseemed beyond them I could see White-haloed groups that sought perpetually The figure of one crowned and sacrificed ; And faint, far forward, floating tall and dim, The banner of our Lord and Master, Christ. 40 AMONG THE MILLET UNREST All day upon the garden bright The sun shines strong, But in my heart there is no light, Nor any song. Voices of merry life go by, Adown the street; But I am weary of the cry And drift of feet. With all dear things that ought to please The hours are blessed. And yet my soul is ill at ease. And cannot rest. Strange Spirit, leave me not too long, Nor stint to give, For if my soul have no sweet song, It cannot live. SONG Songs that could span the earth. When leaping thought had stirred them, In many an hour since birth. We heard or dreamed we heard them. Sometimes to all their sway We yield ourselves half fearing, Sometimes with hearts grown gray We curse ourselves for hearing. ONE DAY 41 We toil and but begin ; In vain our spirits fret them, We strive, and cannot win, Nor evermore forget them. A light that will not stand, That comes and goes in flashes, Fair fruits that in the hand Are turned to dust and ashes. Yet still the deep thoughts ring Around and through and through us. Sweet mights that make us sing, But bring no resting to us. ONE DAY The trees rustle ; the wind blows Merrily out of the town ; The shadows creep, the sun goes Steadily over and down. In a brown gloom the moats gleam ; Slender the sweet wife stands ; Her lips are red ; her eyes dream ; Kisses are warm on her hands. The child moans ; the hours slip Bitterly over her head ; In a gray dusk, the tears drip ; Mother is up there — dead. 42 AMONG THE MILLET The hermit hears the strange bright Murm r of life at play; In the waste day and the waste night Times to rebel and to pray. The labourer toils in gray wise, Godlike and patient and calm ; The beggar moans ; his bleared eyes Measure the dust in his palm. The wise man marks the flow and ebb Hidden and held aloof: (n his deep mind is laid the web, Shuttles are driving the woof. mwi SLEEP If any man, with sleepless care oppressed, On many a night had risen, and addressed His hand to make him out of joy and moan An image of sweet sleep in carven stone. Light touch by touch, in weary moments planned. He would have wrought her with a patient hand, Not like her brother death, with massive limb And dreamless brow, unstartled, changeless, dim. But very fair, though fitful and afraid, More sweet and slight than any mortal maid. Her hair he would have carved a mantle smooth Down to her tender feet to wrap and soothe All fevers in, yet barbed here and there With manv a hidden sting of restless care ; Her brow most quiet, thick with opiate rest, THREE FLOWER PETALS 43 Yet watchfully lined, as if some hovering guest Of noiseless doubt were there ; so too her eyes His light hand would have carved in cunning wise Broad with all languor of the drowsy South, Most beautiful, but held askance ; her mouth More soft and round than any rose half-spread, Yet ever twisted with some nervous dread. He would have made her with one marble foot, Frail as a snow-white feather, forward put. Bearing sweet medicine for all distress, Smooth languor and unstrung forgetfulness ; The other held a little back for dread ; One slender moon-pale hand held forth to shed Soft slumber dripping from its pearly tip Into wide eyes ; the other on her lip. So in the watches of his sleepless care The cunnning artist would have wrought her fair ; Shy goddess, at keen seeking most afraid, Yet often coming when we least have prayed. THREE FLOWER PETALS What saw I yesterday walking apart In a leafy place where the cattle wait? Something to keep for a charm in my heart- A little sweet girl in a garden gate. Laughing she lay in the gold sun's might, And held for a target to shelter her, In her little soft fingers, round and white, The gold-rimmed face of a sunflower. ^^^^^K'^ amm 44 AMONG THE MILLET Laughing she lay on the stone that stands For a rough-hewn step in that sunny place, And her yellow hair hung down to her hands, Shadowing over her dimpled face. Her eyes like the blue of the sky, made dim With the might of the sun that looked at her. Shone laughing over the serried rim, Golden set, of the sunflower. Laughing, for token she gave to me Three petals out of the sunflower. When the petals are withered and gone, shall be Three verses of mine for praise of her. That a tender dream of her face may rise. And lighten me yet in another hour. Of her sunny hair and her beautiful eyes. Laughing over the gold sunflower. PASSION As a weed beneath the ocean. As a pool beneath a tree Answers with each breath or motion An imperious mastery; So my spirit swift with passion Finds in every look a sign. Catching in some wondrous fashion Every mood that governs thine. A BALLADE OF WAITING In a moment it will borrow, Flashing in a gusty train, Laughter and desire and sorrow Anger and delight and pain. 4S A BALLADE OF WAITING No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought So rich as the arms of my love can be ; No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught Than her eyes, when they answer me liquidly. Dear Lady of Love, be kind to me In days when the waters of hope abate, And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught No glitter of wile or traitorie, More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught, Or the heart of a crimson peony ; O turn not its beauty away from me; To kiss it and cling to it early and late Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee. In the year yet. Lady, to dream and wait. Rich hair, that a painter of old had sought For the weaving of some soft phantasy, Most fair when the streams of it run distraught On the firm sweet shoulders yellowly ; 46 AMONG THE MILLET Dear Lady, gather it close to me, Weaving a nest for the double freight Of cheeks and lips that are one and free, For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. Etwoi So time shall be swift till thou mate with me, For love. is mightiest next to fate, And none shall be happier, Love, than we, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. BEFORE SLEEP Now the creeping nets of sleep Stretch about and gather nigh, And the midnight dim and deep Like a spirit passes by. Trailing from her crystal dress Dreams and silent frostiness. Yet a moment, ere I be Tangled in the snares of night, All the dreamy heart of me To my Lady takes its fliglii, To her chamber where she lies. Wrapt in midnight phantasies. Over many a glinting street And the snow-capped roofs of men, Towers that tremble with the beat Of the midnight bells, and then. ^tfWkiau BEFORE SLEEP 47 Where my body may not be, Stands my spirit holily. Wake not, Lady, wake not soon : Through the frosty windows fall Broken glimmers of the moon Dimly on the floor and wall; Wake not, Lady, never care, 'Tis my spirit kneeling there. Let him kneel a moment now, For the minutes fly apace ; Let him see the sleeping brow, And the sweetly rounded face : He shall tell me soon aright How my Lady looks to-night. How her tresses out and in Fold in many a curly freak, Round about the snowy chin And the softly tinted cheek, Where no sorrows now can weep. And the dimples lie asleep. How her eyelids meet and match. Gathered in two dusky seams, Each the little creamy thatch Of an azure house of dreams, Or two flowers that love the light Folded softly up at night. How her bosom, breathing low, Stirs the wav3' coverlet .M 48 AMONG THE MILLET With a motion soft and slow: O, my Lady, wake not yet; There without a thought of guile Let my spirit dream a while. Yet my spirit back to me, Hurry soon and have a care; Love will turn to agony, If you rashly linger there ; Bending low as spirits may, Touch her lips and come away. So, fond spirit, beauty-fed, Turning when your watch is o'er, Weave a cross above the bed And a sleep-rune on the floor, That no evil enter there, Ugly shapes and dreams beware. Then, ye looming nets of sleep. Ye may have me all your own, For the night is wearing deep And the ice-winds whisk and moan ; Come with all your drowsy stress. Dreams and silent frostiness. A SONG O night and sleep, Ye are so soft and deep, I am so weary, come ye soon to me. O hours that creep. A SONG With so much time to weep, I am so tired, can ye no swifter be? Come, night, anear; I'll whisper in thine ear What makes me so unhappy, full of care ; Dear night, I die For love, that all men buy With tears, and know not it is dark despair. 49 Dear night, I pray, How is it that men say- That love is sweet? It is not sweet to me. For one boy's sake A poor girl's heart must break ; So sweet, so true, and yet it could not be ! II Oh, I loved well, Such love as none can tell : It was so true, it could not make him know : For he was blind. All light and all unkind : Oh, had he known, would he have hurt me so? O night and sleep, Ye are so soft and deep, I am so weary, come ye soon to me. O hours that creep, With so much time to w^eep, I am so tired, can ye no swifter be? 4 s I 50 AMONG THE MILLKT WHAT DO POETS WAN V WITH GOLD? What do poets want with gold, Cringing slaves and cushioned ease; Are not crusts and garments old Better for their souls than these? Gold is but the juggling rod Of a false usurping god, Graven long ago in hell With a sombre stony spell, Working in the world for ever. Hate is not so strong to sever Beating human heart from heart. Soul from soul we shrink and part. And no longer hail each other With the ancient name of brother. Give the simple poet gold, And his song will die of cold. He must walk with men that reel On the rugged path, and feel Every sacred soul that is Beating very near to his. Simple, human, careless, free. As God made him, he must be : For the sv^^eetest song of bird Is the hidden tenor heard In the dusk, at even-flush, From the forest's inner hush, Of the simple hermit thrush. "tSlK TIIK KINGS SABBATH What do poets want with love? Flowers that shiver out of hand, And the fervid fruits that prove Only bitter broken sand? Poets speak of passion best, When their dreams are undistressed. And the sweetest songs are sung. E'er the inner heart is stung. Let them dream ; 'tis better so ; Ever dream, but never know. If their spirits once have drained All that goblet crimson-stained, Finding what they dreamed divine, Only earthly sluggish wine. Sooner will the warm lips pale. And the flawless voices fail. Sooner come the drooping wing, And the afterdays that bring No such songs as did the spring. 51 THE KING'S SABBATH Once idly in his hall King Olave sat Pondering, and with his dagger whittled chips ; And one drew near to him with austere lips, Saying, "To-morrow is Monday," and at that The king said nothing, but held forth his flat Broad palm, and bending on his mighty hips. Took up and mutely laid thereon the slips Of scattered wood, as on a hearth, and gat 52 AMONG THK MILLET From off the embers near, a burning brand. Kindling the, pile with this, the dreaming Dane Sat silent with his eyes set and his bland Proud mouth, tight-woven, smiling, drawn with pain, Watching the fierce fire flare, and wax, and wane, Hiss and burn down upon his shrivelled hand. THE LITTLE HANDMAIDEN The King's son walks in the garden fair — Oh, the maiden's heart is merry ! He little knows iOr his toil and care, That the bride is gone and the bower is bare. Put on garments of white, my mii>lens ! The sun shines briglit through the casement high- Oh, the maiden's heart is merry! The little handmaid, with a laughmg eye. Looks down on the King's son strolHng by. Put on garments of white, my maidens ! " He little knows tliat the bride is gone. And the Earl knows little as he ; She is fled with her lover afar last night, And the King's son is left to me." And back to her chamber with velvety step Tht little hand?:iaid did glide, And a gold key took from her bosom sweet. And Cj <;ned the great chests wide. She boi An And pu She clac Wi The glar As 1 And rou A n( On one ) Ash Tiien do\ She As an air; Migl- And mtci The Her beau Intl The King And Through Like Tile Kinsj '•Ar( " For, No A lov THE LITTLE HANDMAIDEN She bound her hair with a band of blue, And a garland of lilies 3weet ; And put on her delicate silken shoes, With roses on both her feet. She clad her body in spotless white, With a gfirdle as red as blood. The glad white raiment her beauty bound, As the sepals bind the bud. And round and round her white neck she flung A necklace of sapphires blue ; On one white finger of either hand A shining ring she drew. Then down the stairway and out the door She glided, as soft and light, As an airy tuft of a thistle seed Might glide through the grasses bright. And into the garden sweet she stole — The little birds carolled loud — Her beauty shone as a star might shine In the rift of a morning cloud. The King's son walked in the garden fair. And the little handmaiden came, Through the midst of a shimmer of roses red, Like a sunbeam through a flame. The King's son marvelled, his heart leaped up, " And art thou my bride?" said he, " For, North or South, I have never beheld A lovelier maid than thee." 53 It^ ^imimgSSr'SBSmBSBBSSrr, 54 AMONG THE MILLET " And dost thou love me?" the little maid cried, " A fine King's son, I wis !" The King's son took her with both his hands, And her ruddy lips did kiss. The little maid laughed till the beaded tears Ran down in a silver rain. " O foolish King's son!" and she clapped her hand?, Till the gold rings rang again. "O King's son foolish and fooled art thou. For a goodly game is played ; Thy bride is away with her lover last night, And I am her little handmaid." And the King's son sware a great oath : said he - Oh, the maiden's heart is merry ! " If the Earl's fair daughter a traitress be, The little handmaid is enough for me." Put on garments of white, my maidens ! The King's son walks in the garden fair — Oh, ti.e maiden's heart is merry! And the little handm.aiden walketh there. But the old Earl pulleth his beard for care. Put on garments of white, my maidens ! ABU MIDJAN Underneath a tree at noontide Abu Midjan sits distressed, Fetters on his wrists and ankles. And his chin upon his breast ; 1 ABU MIDJAN 55 For the Emir's guard had taken, As they passed from line to Hne, Reeling in the camp at midnight, Abu Midjan drunk with wine. Now he sits and rolls uneasy, Very fretful, for he hears. Near at hand, the shout of battle. And the din of driving spears. Both his heels in wrath are digging Trenches in the grassy soil, And his fingers clutch and loosen, Dreaming of the Persian spoil. To the garden, over-weary Of the sound of hoof and sword, Came the Emir's gentle lady, Anxious for her fighting lord. Very sadly, Abu Midjan, Hanging down his head for shame. Spake in words of soft appealing To the tender-hearted dame. " Lady, while the doubtful battle Ebbs and flo'vs upon the plains, Here in sorrow, meek and idle, Abu Midjan sits in chains. " Surel}'' Saad would be safer For the strength of even me ; Give me then his armour. Lady, And his horse, and set me free. mm 1 1 , i< ill 56 AMONG THE MILLET " When the day of fight is over, With the spoil that he may earn, To his chains, if he is Hving, Abu Midjan will return." She, in wonder and compassion, Had not heart to say him nay ; So, with Saad's horse and armour, Abu Midjan rode away. Happy from the fight at even, Saad told his wife at meat, How the army had been succoured In the fiercest battle-heat, By a stranger horseman, coming When their hands were most in need, And he bore the arms of Saad, And was mounted on his steed ; How the faithful battled forward. Mighty where the stranger trod. Till they deemed him more than mortal, And an angel sent from God. Then the lady told her master How she gave the horse and mail To the drunkard, and had taken /\C)u Midjan's word for bail. To the garden went the Emir, Running to the tree, and found Torn with many wounds and bleeding, Abu Midjan meek and bound. ^^ THE WEAVER And the Emir loosed him, saying, As he gave his hand for sign, " Never more shall Saad's fetters Chafe thee for a draught of wine." Three times to the ground in silence Abu Midjan bent his head ; Then with glowing eyes uplifted. To the Emir spake and said : 57 " While an earthly lord controlled me, All things for the wine I bore ; Now since God alone doth judere me, Abu Midjan drinks no more." THE WEAVER All day. all day, round the clacking net The weaver's fingers Hy ; Gray dreams like frozen mists are set In the hush of the weaver's eye ; A voice from the dusk is calling yet, "O, come awav, or we die!" Without is a horror of hosts that fight, That rest not, and cease not to kill. The thunder of feet and the cry of flight, A slaughter weird and shrill ; Gray dreams are set in the weaver's sight, The weaver is weaving still. 58 AMONG THE MILLET " Come away, dear soul, come away, or we die ; Hear'st thou the rush ! Come away ; The people are slain at the gates, and they fly ; The kind God hath left them this day ; The battle-axe cleaves, and the foemen cry, And the red swords swing and slay." " Nay, wife, what boots it to fly from pain. When pain is wherever we fly? And death is a sweeter thing than a chain : 'Tis sweeter to sleep than to cry. The kind God giveth the days that wane ; If the kind God hath said it, I die." And the weaver wove, and the good wife fled, And the city was made a tomb, And a flame that shook from the rocks overhead Shone into that silent room, And touched like a wide red kiss on the dead Brown weaver slain at his loom. m Yet I think that in some dim shadowy land. Where no suns rise or set, Where the ghost of a whilom loom doth stand Round the dusk of its silken net. For ever flieth his slxadowy hand, And the weaver is weaving yet. THE THREE PILGRIMS THE THREE PILGRIMS 59 In days, when the fruit of men's labour was sparing, And hearts were weary and nigh to break, A sweet grave man with a beautiful bearing Came to us once in the fields and spake. He told us of Roma, the marvellous city. And of One that came from the living God, The Virgin's Son who, in heavenly pity, Bore for His people the rood and rod, And how at Roma the gods were broken, The new was strong, and the old nigh dead. And love was more than a bare word spoken, For the sick were healed and the poor were fed ; And we sat mute at his feet, and hearkened : The grave man came in an hour, and went, But a new light shone on a land long darkened. Where toil was weary, and hope was spent. So we came south, till we saw the city. Speeding three of us, hand in hand, Seeking peace and the bread of pity. Journeying out of the Umbrian land ; And we stood long in a dream and waited, Watching and praying and purified, A^nd came at last to the walls belated, Entering in at the e\ entide ; 6o AMONG THE MILLET And many met us with song and dancing, Mantled in skins and crowned with flowers, Waving goblets and torches glancing, Faces drunken, that grinned in ours; And one, that ran in the midst, came near us — " Crown yourselves for the feast/' he said; But we cried out, that the God might hear us, " Where is Jesus, the living bread?" And they took us each by the hand with laughter ; Their eyes v/ere haggard and red with wine : They haled us on, and we followed after, " We will show you the new god's shrine." Ah, woe to our tongues, that, for ever unsleeping. Must still uncover the old hot care, The soothing ash from the embers sweeping. Wherever the soles of our sad feet fare. Ah, we were simple of mind, not knowing How dreadful the heart of a man might be ; But the knowledge of evil is mighty of growing: Only the deaf and the blind are free. We came to a garden of beauty and pleasure — It was not the way that our own feet chose — Where a revel was whirling in many a measure, And the myriad roar of a great crowd rose ; And the midmost round of the garden was reddened With pillars of fire in a great high ring — THK THREE PILGRIMS 61 One look — and our souls for ever were deadened, Though our feet yet move, and our dreams yet sting ; For we saw that each was a live man flaming, Limbs that a human mother bore, And a thing of horror was done, past naming. And the crowd spun round, and we saw no more. And he that ran in the midst, descrying. Lifted his hand with a foul red sneer, And smote us each and the other, crying, " Thus we worship the new god here. '' The Ca?sar comes, and the people's pseans Hail his name for the new-made light. Pitch and the flesh of the Galileans, Torches fit for a Roman night." And we fell down to the earth, and sickened. Moaning, three of us, head by head, "Where is He whom the good God quickened? Where is Jesus, the living bread?" Yet ever we heard, in the foul mirth turning, Man and woman and child go by, And ever the yells of the charred men burning. Piercing heavenward, cry on cry ; And we lay there, till the frightful revel Died in the dawn with a few short moans Of some that knelt in the wan and level Shadows that fell from the blackened bones. 62 AMONG THK MILLET Numb with horror and sick with pity, The heart of each as an iron weight, We crept in the dawn from the awful city, Journeying out of the seaward gate. The great sun flamed on the sea before us ; A soft wind blew from the scented south ; But our eyes knew not of the steps that bore us Down to the ships at the Tiber's mouth ; Then we prayed, as we turned our faces Over the sea, to the living God, That our ways might be in the fierce bare places, Where never the foot of a live man trod. So we set sail in the noon, not caring Whither the prow of the dark ship came, No more over the old ways faring; For the sea was cold, but the land was flame : And the keen ship sped, and a deadly coma Blotted away from our eyes for ever. Tower on tower, the great city Roma, Palace and temple and winding river. THE COMING OF WINTER Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling; A shadow falleth southward day by day; Sad summer's arms grow cold ; his fire is falling; His feet draw back to give the stern one way. EASTER EVE 63 It is the voice and shadow of the slayer, Slayer of loves, sweet world, slayer of dreams ; Make sad thy voice with sober plaint and prayer ; Make gray thy woods, and darken all thy streams. Black grows the river, blacker drifts the eddy ; The sky is gray ; the woods ar : cold below : O make thy bosom and thy sad lips ready For the cold kisses of the folding snow. EASTER EVE Hear me, brother, gently met, Just a little, turn not yet, Thou slialt laugh, and soon forget : Now the midnight draweth near. I have little more to tell ; Soon with hollow stroke and knell, "^hou shalt count the palace bell. Calling that the hour is here. Burdens black and strange to bear, I must tell, and thou must share. Listening with that stony stare, Even as many a man before. Yeais have lightly come and gone In their jocund unison, But the tides of life roll on They remember now no more Once upon a night of glee, In an hour of revelry. IotSS??^^ ^Py ^%. 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