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WHEN LINCOLN DIED AND OTHER 
 POEMS 
 
WHEN LINCOLN DIED 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 1909 
 
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LIBRARY DtCOiJGRESS 
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 Ooyvn«-m Entry 
 
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 COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 
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 Published March kjoq 
 
To S. M. S. 
 
 One Autumn, after early snow had sprinkled fields with white, 
 It seemed that quickening Spring returned to Earth with fresh 
 
 delight. 
 Grass greened again, pink blossoms pranked the twigs of orchard 
 
 trees. 
 Good children found ripe strawberries, new roses puzzled bees, 
 Bold robins that had flocked afar flew back by ones and twos, 
 The girls resumed their summer frocks, the boys their canvas shoes. 
 And people thanked, as I thank you, the life-renewing Sun 
 The more because such things were so unseasonably done. 
 
 E. W. T. 
 
NOTE 
 
 Here I express my gratitude to the Editors and Publishers 
 of "The Atlantic Monthly," "The University Magazine" 
 (Montreal), "Collier's Weekly," and "The Youth's Com- 
 panion," for liberal encouragement given me by their serial 
 publication of sundry of the follow^ing poems. 
 
 E. W. T. 
 
WE TALKED OF LINCOLN 
 
 We talked of Abraham Lincoln in the night, 
 Ten fur-coat men on North Saskatchewan's plain — 
 Pure zero cold, and all the prairie white — 
 Englishman, Scotchman, Scandinavian, Dane, 
 Two Irish, four Canadians — all for gain 
 Of food and raiment, children, parents, wives, 
 Living the hardest life that Man survives, 
 And secret proud because it was so hard 
 Exploring, camping, axeing, faring lean. — 
 Month in and out no creature had we seen 
 Except our burdened dogs, gaunt foxes gray. 
 Hard-feathered grouse that shot would seldom slay. 
 Slinking coyotes, plumy-trailing owls. 
 Stark Indians warm in rabbit-blanket cowls, 
 And, still as shadows in their deep-tracked yard, 
 The dun vague moose we startled from our way. 
 
 We talked of Abraham Lincoln in the night 
 Around our fire of tamarac crackling fierce, 
 Yet dim, like moon and stars, in that vast light 
 Boreal, bannery, shifting quick to pierce 
 Ethereal blanks of Space with falchion streams 
 Transfigured wondrous into quivering beams 
 From Forms enormous-marching through the sky 
 To dissolution and new majesty. 
 And speech was low around our bivouac fire. 
 Since in our inmost heart of hearts there grew 
 The sense of mortal feebleness, to see 
 Those silent miracles of Might on high 
 Seemingly done for only such as we 
 In sign how nearer Death and Doom we drew. 
 While in the ancient tribal-soul we knew 
 
WE TALKED OF LINCOLN 
 
 Our old, hardfaring father-Vikings' dreams 
 Of Odin at Valhalla's open door, 
 Where they might see the Battle-father's face 
 Glowing at last, when Life and Toil were o'er, 
 Were they but staunch-enduring in their place. 
 
 We talked of Abraham Lincoln in the night. — 
 
 Oh sweet and strange to hear the hard-hand men 
 
 Old-Abeing him, like half the world of yore 
 
 In years when Grant's and Lee's young soldiers bore 
 
 Rifle and steel, and proved that heroes live 
 
 Where folk their lives to Labor mostly give. 
 
 And strange and sweet to hear their voices call 
 
 Him " Father Abraham," though no man of all 
 
 Was born within the Nation of his birth. 
 
 It was as if they felt that all on Earth 
 
 Possess of right Earth's greatest Common Man, 
 
 Her sanest, wisest, simplest, steadiest son. 
 
 To whom The Father's children all were one, 
 
 And Pomps and Vanities as motes that danced 
 
 In the clear sunshine where his humor glanced. 
 
 We talked of Abraham Lincoln in the night 
 Until one spoke, " We yet may see his face" 
 Whereon the fire crackled loud through space 
 Of human silence, while eyes reverent 
 Toward the auroral miracle were bent 
 Till from that trancing Glory spirits came 
 Within our semi-circle round the flame. 
 And drew us closer-ringed, until we could 
 Feel the kind touch of vital brotherhood 
 Which Father Abraham Lincoln thought so good. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 We Talked of Lincoln ix 
 
 Poems of Lincoln and the Great War 
 
 Father Abraham Lincoln 3 
 
 Mary Armistead 10 
 
 When Lincoln Died 24 
 
 The Vision at Shiloh 31 
 
 Parables 37 
 
 Poems of the World-Wide Brotherhood 
 
 The Many-Mansioned House 41 
 
 Peter Ottawa 47 
 
 Parliament of the Ages 62 
 
 King Volsung and the Skald 68 
 
 Ballads, Lyrics, Meditations 
 
 Thunderchild's Lament 77 
 
 The Mandan Priest 80 
 
 Chief Nepoquan's Lament 83 
 
 Ridgeway Fight 87 
 
 Day Dream 93 
 
 The Canadian Rossignol (In May) 94 
 
 The Canadian Rossignol (In June) 95 
 
 Sweetest Whistle Ever Blew 98 
 
 Our Kindergartner lOO 
 
 Elegy for "the Doctor" loi 
 
 Hail to the Chief 103 
 
 A Canadian Reply (To one who would refuse Liberty 
 
 to the Boers) 105 
 
 xi 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 To the Princess Louise, on the Death of Princess Alice 107 
 
 Environment 108 
 
 Resurrection no 
 
 Judgment Hour 1 1 1 
 
 Happyheart "S 
 
 Our Town's Comforter 115 
 
 Brethren of the Boat n? 
 
 Cupid in the Office "9 
 
 Prelude "9 
 
 I. Reverie 1 19 
 
 11. The Christmas Walk 120 
 
 III. Cul-de-Sac 121 
 
 IV. April Holiday I2i 
 
 V. Consolation 123 
 
 VI. The Puritan 123 
 
 VII. Kismet 124 
 
 VIII. Hepaticas 124 
 
 IX. Flown 125 
 
 X. Enshrined 126 
 
 The Bad Year 128 
 
 To Theodore Roosevelt 129 
 
 Translations 
 
 Gastibelzah. From the French of Victor Hugo . . 133 
 O Canada, mon Pays, mes Amours. From the 
 
 French of Sir George EtienneCartier 136 
 
 To Brittany. From the French of W. Chapman . . 138 
 Mother and Child (Old France and New). From the 
 
 French of W. Chapman I39 
 
 To my two Mothers. From the French of W. Chap- 
 man 142 
 
 Autumn Song. From the French of Achille Frechette 145 
 To Canada. From the Sclavonic 146 
 
POEMS OF LINCOLN AND THE GREAT 
 WAR 
 
FATHER ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 My private shrine. The Gettysburg Address 
 Framed in with all authentic photographs 
 Of him from whom the New Religion flows. 
 
 Homely f That's it. A perfect homeliness. 
 Homely as Home itself that countenance 
 Benign, immortal sweet, his very soul. 
 The steadfast, common, great American. 
 
 It is a gladness in my aging heart 
 These eyes three times beheld himself alive, 
 Ungainly, jointed loose, rail-fence-like, queer 
 In garb that hung with scarecrow shapelessness 
 Absolute figure of The States half-made. 
 Turning from toil and joke to sacred war. 
 
 My heart has smiles and tears, remembering how 
 
 The boy, fourteen, round-cheeked and downy-Hpped, 
 
 With Philadelphia cheese-cake freshly bit. 
 
 Halted to stare on marbled Chestnut Street; 
 
 He could not gulp the richness in his maw, 
 
 Because that black-frock-coated countryman 
 
 Of bulged umbrella, rusty stovepipe hat, 
 
 Five yards ahead, and coming rapidly. 
 
 Could be none other than the President, 
 
 From caricatures familiar as the day. 
 
 A sudden twinkle lit his downcast eyes, 
 Marking the cheese-cake and the staring boy; 
 Tickled to note the checked gastronomy, 
 3 
 
FATHER ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 Passing, he asked, "Good, sonny?" in a tone 
 Applausive more than questioning, full of fun, 
 Yet half-embracive, as your mother's voice, 
 And smiled so comrade-like the wondering lad 
 Glowed with a sense of being chosen chum 
 To Father Abraham Lincoln, President. 
 
 Such was the miracle his spirit wrought 
 
 In millions while he Hved. And still it lives. 
 
 He stalked along, unguarded, all alone, 
 
 That central soul of unremitting war, 
 
 A common man level with common Man. 
 
 The heart-warmed, wondering boy stared after him, 
 
 And wonders yet to-day on how it chanced 
 
 The mighty, well-loved, martyr President 
 
 Went rambling on unknown in broadest day 
 
 On crowded street, as if by nimbus hid 
 
 From all except the cheese-caked worshipper 
 
 He sonnied, smiled on, joked at fatherly. 
 
 II 
 
 That night the streets of Philadelphia thronged; 
 No end of faces; one great human cross. 
 As far each way as lamp-post boys could see. 
 Packed Ninth and Chestnut, waiting Father Abe; 
 The Continental's balcony on high 
 Glowed Stars and Stripes, with crape for all the dead 
 "We cannot dedicate, nor consecrate." 
 
 On chime of eight precise, gaunt, bare of head, 
 They saw his tallness in the balcony-flare. 
 And straightway all the murmurous street grew still, 
 Till silence absolute as death befell. 
 
 And in that perfect silence one clear voice 
 Inspired began, from out the multitude, 
 4 
 
FATHER ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 The song of all the songs of all the war, 
 Simple, ecstatic, sacrificial, strong — 
 "We're coming. Father Abraham, three hundred thousand 
 more " — 
 And neighboring voices took the long refrain 
 While some more distant raised the opening words, 
 Till to and fro and far and near at once. 
 Never in chorus, chanting as by groups, 
 Here ending, there beginning, some halfway, 
 All sang at once, and all renewing all 
 In pledge and passion of the mighty song. 
 Their different words and clashing cadences 
 Wondrously merging in a sound supreme, 
 As if the inmost meaning of the hymn 
 Harmonious rolled in one unending vow 
 While all the singers gazed on Lincoln's face. 
 
 Hands gripping balcony-rail, he stooped and saw 
 And listened motionless, with such a look 
 The boy upon the lamp-post clearly knew 
 "The heavens were opened unto him," 
 "The spirit of God descending like a dove" — 
 Until the mystery of the general soul 
 Wrought to unwonted sense of unison 
 Moved all to silence for the homely words 
 Of Father Abraham Lincoln to hjs kind — 
 Words clear as Light itself, so plain — so plain 
 None deemed him other than their fellow man. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Once more. A boy in blue at sixteen years, 
 Mid groups of blue along the crazy road 
 Of corduroy astretch from City Point, 
 Toward yonder spire in fatal Petersburg, 
 Beyond what trenches, rifle-pits, and forts, 
 What woeful far-front grave-mounds sunken down 
 To puddles over pickets shot on post — 
 
 5 
 
FATHER ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 What cemeteries shingle-marked with names 
 Of companies and regiments and corps, 
 Of mouldering bones and rags of blue and gray, 
 And belts and buttons, rain and wind exposed — 
 Mired army wagons — forms of swollen mules — 
 Springfields and Enfields, broken-stocked, stuck up 
 Or strown, all rusting — parked artillery — 
 Brush shelter stables — lines and lines of huts, 
 Tent-covered winter quarters, sticks and mud 
 For chimneys to the many thousand smokes 
 Whose dropping cinders black-rimmed million holes 
 Through veteran canvas ludicrously patched — 
 Squares of parade all mud — and mud, and mud. 
 With mingled grass and chips and refuse cans 
 Strown myriad far about the plain of war, 
 Whose scrub-oak roots for scanty fires were grubbed. 
 And one sole house, and never fence remained 
 Where fifty leagues of corn-land smiled before. 
 
 Belated March — a lowering, rainless day 
 With glints of shine; the veteran tents of Meade 
 Gave forth their veteran boys in crowds of blue, 
 Infantry, cavalry, gunners, engineers. 
 Easterner, Westerner, Yankee, Irish, "Dutch," 
 Canuck, all sorts and sizes, frowsed, unkempt, 
 Unwashed, half-smoked, profane exceedingly, 
 Moody or jokeful, formidable, free 
 From fear of colonels as of corporals. 
 Each volunteer the child of his own whim, 
 And every man heart-sworn American 
 Trudging the mud to view the cavalcade 
 Of Father Abraham Lincoln to The Front. 
 
 He, Chief Commander of all Union hosts. 
 Of more than thrice three hundred thousand more, 
 Rode half a horseneck first, since Grant on right 
 And Meade on left kept reining back their bays; 
 Full uniformed were they and all their train, 
 6 
 
FATHER ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 Sheridan, Humphreys, Warren, Hazen, Kautz, 
 Barlow, McLaughlen, Ord, and thirty more, 
 Blazing for once in feathers and in gold. 
 Old Abe, all black, bestrode the famous steed, 
 Grant's pacing black — and sure since war began 
 No host of war had such Commander seen! 
 
 Loose-reined he let the steady pacer walk ; 
 
 Those rail-like legs, that forked the saddle, thrust 
 
 Prodigious spattered boots anear the mud, 
 
 Preposterous his parted coat-tails hung. 
 
 In negligence his lounging body stooped. 
 
 Tipping the antic-solemn stovepipe hat; 
 
 It seemed some old-time circuit preacher turned 
 
 From Grant to Meade and back again to Grant, 
 
 Attentive, questioning, pondering, deep concerned — 
 
 The common Civil Power directing War. 
 
 He, travesty of every point of horsemanship, 
 They, so bedizened, riding soldier stern — 
 The contrast past all telling comical — 
 And Father Abraham wholly unaware! 
 
 Too much by far for soldier gravity — 
 
 A breeze of laughter travelling as he passed, 
 
 Rose sudden to a gale that stormed his ear. 
 
 The President turned and gazed and understood 
 All in one moment, slightly shook his head. 
 Not warningly, but with a cheerful glee, 
 And sympathy and love, as if he spoke : 
 You scalawags, you scamps, but have your fun!" 
 Pushed up the stovepipe hat, and all around 
 Bestowed his warming, right paternal smile, 
 As if his soul embraced us all at once. 
 
 Then strangely fell all laughter. Some men choked. 
 And some grew inarticulate with tears; 
 7 
 
FATHER ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 A thousand veteran children thrilled as one, 
 And not a man of all the throng knew why; 
 Some called his name, some blessed his holy heart, 
 And then, inspired with pentecostal tongues, 
 We cheered so wildly for Old Father Abe 
 That all the bearded generals flamed in joy! 
 
 What was the miracle ? His miracle. 
 Was Father Abraham just a son of Man, 
 As Jesus seemed to common Nazarenes ? 
 
 Shall Father Abraham Lincoln yet prevail, 
 And his Republic come to stay at last ? 
 Kind Age, unenvious Youth, democracy, 
 None lower than the first in comradeship. 
 However differing in mental force. 
 The higher intellect set free to Serve, 
 All undistracted by the woeful need 
 To grab or pander lest its children want; 
 Old trivial gewgaws of the peacock past 
 Smiled to the nothingness of desuetude. 
 With strutful Rank, with pinchbeck Pageantry, 
 With apish separative-cant of Class, 
 With inhumane conventions, all designed 
 To sanctify the immemorial robbery 
 Of Man by men; with mockful mummeries. 
 Called Law, to save the one perennial Wrong — 
 That fundamental social crime which fates 
 All babes alike to Inequality, 
 And so condemns the many million minds 
 (That might, with happier nurture, finely serve) 
 To share, through life, the harmful hates or scorns 
 The accursed System breeds, which still most hurts 
 The few who fancy it their benefit. 
 Shutting them lifelong from the happiness 
 Of such close sympathy with all their kind 
 As feels the universal God, or Soul, 
 Alive to love in every human heart. 
 8 
 
FATHER ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 Was it for this our Mother's sons were slain ? 
 Shall Father Abraham not prevail again ? 
 
 We who are marching to the small-flagged graves 
 We earned by fight to free our fathers' slaves, 
 We who by Lincoln's hero soul were sworn, 
 We go more sadly toward our earthly bourne 
 To join our comrade host of long ago, 
 Since, oh so clearly, do our old hearts know 
 We shall not witness what we longed to see — 
 Our own dear children minded to be free. 
 
 Why let democracy be flouted down ? 
 Why let your money-mongers more renown 
 Their golden idol than the Common Weal, 
 Flaunting the gains of liberty-to-steal. 
 Fouling the promise of the heights we trod 
 With Freedom's sacrifice to Lincoln's God ? 
 
 Was it for this he wept his children slain ? 
 Or shall our Father's spirit rise again ? 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 April, 1865 
 
 A VETERAN CAVALRYMAn's TALE 
 
 Low in the fertile vale by Tunstall's Run 
 A rainy rifle skirmish closed the day. 
 
 Beyond the April-swollen, narrow stream, 
 Lee's stubborn rearguard veteran raggedies 
 Lay prone amid last year's tobacco stalks, 
 Shooting hot Enfields straight from red-mud pools, 
 While from their rear four angry howitzers. 
 High set on Armistead's Plantation Hill, 
 Flamed shrieking shell o'erhead across the bridge 
 That Custer raged to seize before black night 
 Should close his daylong toil in mud and rain. 
 
 Thrice did we gallop vainly at the planks. 
 Then vainly strove on foot the pass to win. 
 Till through the drizzling dark but flashes showed 
 The points where sullen rifles opposite rang, 
 And back we straggled, stumbling up the slope 
 Where Union buglers shrilled the bivouac. 
 
 Ninety unanswering voices told our loss. 
 While silence ruled so deep we heard the rain's 
 Small rataplan on ponchos and on hats, 
 Until the crackling rail-fence Company fires 
 Lighted the piney length of Custer's Ridge. 
 
 That night John Woolston served as orderly, 
 The John who strokes to-day his white old beard 
 
 10 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 And sees himself, scarce downy of the lips, 
 Eyeing young long-haired Custer through the smoke 
 Across a flaming pyre, that steaming slaves 
 Of Tunstall fed afresh with Tunstall rails. 
 
 Down in the shrouded vale about the Run 
 Three score of boys John Woolston knew in life 
 Lay scattered round an old-hoed, red-mud field, 
 Peaceful with scores of veteran boys in gray. 
 Whose bodily particles were resurrect 
 As corn for bread, and leaf for smokers' pipes, 
 Before the Americans of now were born 
 To share, through common-soldier sacrifice, 
 The comrade Union of the States to-day. 
 
 A rail-heap seated Custer with his aide, 
 
 Their drowsing bugler opposite leaned on John, 
 
 While overhead the swaying boughs of pine 
 
 Creaked in an upward-rushing draught of warmth, 
 
 And from our solitary surgeons' tent 
 
 Came smothered ecstasies of mortal pain, 
 
 And in the outer darkness horses stamped 
 
 And bit and squealed and enviously eyed 
 
 The huddling regiments about the fires. 
 
 Pipes ht, hats slouched to fend the rain and glare. 
 
 As Woolston watched lean Custer's martial face. 
 It seemed the hero heard not flame nor bough. 
 Nor marked the groans, nor knew at what he stared, 
 So deep intent his mind ranged o'er the Run 
 And up the opposite-sloping Arm'stead hill. 
 As questioning if the murderous howitzers 
 Would hold the bridge at dawn, or march by night, 
 And so, perchance, next eve, afar repeat 
 The dusky fight, and cost him ninety more 
 He would fain range about the field of fields 
 Where lion Lee, enringed, must stand at bay, 
 Choosing to greatly die, or greatlier yield. 
 
 II 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 At last he shook his aide. "Get up! Go bring 
 A prisoner here." And when the head-hurt man 
 In butternut stood boldly to his eyes, 
 He asked one word alone: "Your general's name?" 
 
 'My general's name!" stared Butternut, then proud, 
 As 't were a cubit added to his height, 
 He spoke, — "My general's name is R. E. Lee!" 
 
 'I mean who fights Lee's rearguard ?" Custer said, 
 'Who held the bridge to-night? His name alone." 
 
 And then the bitter man in butternut 
 Smiled ghastly grim, and smacked as tasting blood; 
 'It's General Henry Tunstall, his own self. 
 And if you find our 'Fighting Tunce' alive 
 When daylight comes, there'll be red hell to pay 
 For every plank that spans that trifling bridge." 
 
 'Good man!" said Custer. "Spoke right soldierly! 
 Here — take this cloak — to save your wound from 
 
 rain": 
 And gave the brave the poncho that he wore. 
 
 Then up flamed Butternut: "Say, General, 
 
 You 're Yank, and yet, by God, you 're white clean through. 
 
 And so I kind of feel to tell you why 
 
 Them planks will cost you so almighty dear. 
 
 You 're camped to-night on ' Fighting Tunce's ' land ; 
 
 Cross yonder, on the hill his guns defend, 
 
 Is where his lady lives, his promised wife, — 
 
 God bless her heart! — Miss Mary Armistead. 
 
 She 's there herself to-night — she 'd never run. 
 
 Her widowed father fell at Fredericksburg, 
 
 Three brothers died in arms, one limps with Lee. 
 
 Herself has worked their darkies right along 
 
 Four years, to raise our army pork and pone, 
 
 And she herself not twenty-four to-day ! 
 
 12 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 Will Tunstall fight for her ? Say, General, 
 
 Your heart can guess what hell you '11 face at day." 
 
 "You're right, my man," said Custer. "That will do." 
 And off they marched the ponchoed prisoner. 
 
 " By heaven ! " spoke Custer then, and faced his aide, 
 "I know why Tunstall's gunners spared the bridge. 
 
 It's ten to one he means to swarm across, 
 
 After his hungry Johnnies get some rest. 
 
 To strike us here and hard before the dawn. 
 
 His heart was forged in fire and enterprise! 
 
 His bully-boys will back his wildest dare! 
 
 Lieutenant — pick me out two first-rate men — 
 
 Morton for one, if 'Praying Mort' 's alive — 
 
 Tell them I go myself to post vedettes. 
 
 Now — mind — I want a pair of wideawakes. — 
 
 You, Orderly, go saddle up my bay." 
 
 "I want to go with Morton," blurted John. 
 
 "You! Call yourself a wideawake, my lad ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir" said Woolston. — 
 
 "But you're just a boy." 
 
 "Well, General, Uncle Sam enlisted me 
 
 For man, all right." Then Custer smiled, and mused. 
 "Farm boy?" he asked. — 
 
 "Exactly what I am." 
 "All right," he said. "If once I see he's keen, 
 
 A likely farm boy's just the man for me." 
 
 When back his aide returned the General spoke: 
 "It's barely possible we march to-night. 
 You '11 see that every man about the fires 
 Splits torch stuff plenty from the pitchy rails." 
 And with the words he reined toward Arm'stead's Hill. 
 
 13 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 II 
 
 Down hill, beyond the flares, beyond the pines, 
 Beyond his foothill pickets, through the rain. 
 He led as if his eyes beheld the way; 
 Yet they, who followed close his bay's fast walk 
 By sound alone, saw not their horses' heads, 
 Saw not the hand held up to blotch the gloom. 
 No breath of wind. The ear heard only hoofs 
 Splashing and squattering in the puddled field, 
 Or heard the saddle-leathers scarcely creak, 
 Or little clanks of curbing bit and chain. 
 
 Scattered about whatever way they trod 
 Must be the clay that marched but yesterday, 
 And nervously John listened, lest some soul 
 Faint lingering in the dark immensity 
 Might call its longing not to die alone. 
 
 Sudden a crash, a plunge, a kicking horse, 
 Then " Praying Morton " whispering cautiously : 
 "A post-hole. General! My horse is done. 
 His off fore-leg is broke, as sure as faith ! 
 Oh, what a dispensation of the Lord — " 
 
 "Hish-sh. Save the rest!" said Custer. "Broke is broke! 
 Get back to camp whatever way you can." 
 
 "Me, General! What use to post the boy? 
 You, Woolston, you get back. I'll take your horse." 
 
 "Not much, you won't," said Woolston angrily. 
 
 And Custer chuckled crisply in the dark. 
 "Enough," he ordered. "Morton, get you back! 
 
 Be cautious when you near my picket post, 
 
 Or else they'll whang to hit your pious voice, 
 
 And I may lose a first-rate soldier man." 
 
 14 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 Then Morton, prayerful, mild, and mollified : 
 'The merciful man would end a beast in pain — 
 One shot." 
 
 "No, too much noise. You get right back! 
 Horses, like men, must bear the luck of war." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Again the plashing hoofs through endless drip, 
 
 Until the solid footing of their beasts 
 
 Bespoke them trampling in a turnpike road. 
 
 And Custer reined with : "Hish-sh, my man — come here. 
 
 Now listen." Then John's ears became aware 
 
 Of small articulations in the dark, 
 
 Queer laughters, as of countless impish glee, 
 
 And one pervasive, low, incessant hum, 
 
 All strange till Custer spoke: "You hear the Run ? 
 
 All right ! Now, mind exactly what I say. 
 
 But no. First hold my horse. I '11 feel the bridge. 
 
 Maybe I'll draw their fire; but stay right here." 
 
 On foot he went, and came, so stealthily 
 John could not hear the steps ten feet away. 
 
 *All right!" He mounted. "Not one plank removed." 
 Then, communing rather with himself than John : 
 
 'No picket there! It's strange! But surely Tunce 
 Would smash the bridge unless he meant to cross 
 And rip right back at me in dark or dawn. 
 Now, private — mind exactly what I say; 
 You '11 listen here for trampers on the bridge, 
 And if you hear them reach the mud this side. 
 With others following on the planks behind. 
 You '11 get right back — stick to the turnpike, mind — 
 And tell my challenging road-guard picket post 
 They 're coming strong. That 's all you 've got to do 
 Unless — " he paused — "unless some negro comes 
 Bringing the news they're falling back on Lee; 
 Then — if he 's sure — you '11 fire four carbine shots 
 
 15 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 Right quick — and stay until you see me come. 
 You understand ? " 
 
 " I do. I 'm not to shoot 
 In case they're coming on. But if they're off, 
 I '11 fire four shots as fast as I can pull." 
 
 "That's right. Be sure you keep your wits awake. 
 Listen for prowlers — both your ears well skinned." 
 
 John heard the spattering bay's fast-walking hoofs 
 Fainter and fainter through the steady pour, 
 And then no sound, except the beating rain's 
 Small pit-a-pat on poncho, and the Run 
 Drifting its babbling through the blinding mirk. 
 
 IV 
 
 How long he sat, no guessing in the slow 
 Monotony of night, that never changed 
 Save when the burdened horse replaced his hoofs, 
 Or seemed to raise or droop his weary head. 
 Or when some shiver shook the weary boy. 
 Though sheltered dry from aching neck to spurs: 
 
 A shiver at the dream of dead men nigh. 
 Beaten with rain, and merging with the mud, 
 And staring up with open, sightless eyes 
 That served as little cups for tiny pools 
 That trickled in and out incessantly; 
 
 A shiver at the thought of home and bed. 
 
 And mother tucking in her boy at night. 
 
 And how she 'd shiver could she see him there — 
 
 Longing more sore than John to wrap him warm ; 
 
 A shiver from the tense expectancy 
 Of warning sounds, while yet no sound he heard 
 Save springtime water lapping on the pier, 
 
 i6 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 Or stumbling often from the clayey banks 
 Lumps that splashed lifelike in the turbid flood. 
 
 His aching ears were strained for other sounds. 
 
 And still toward Arm'stead's Hill they ached and strained, 
 
 While, in the evening fight of memory, 
 
 Again he saw the broad Plantation House 
 
 Whene'er a brassy howitzer spouted flame, 
 
 Suddenly lighting up its firing men. 
 
 Who vanished dim again in streaking rain; 
 
 And then, once more, the Enfields in the vale 
 
 Thrust cores of fire, until some lightning piece 
 
 Again Ht all the Arm'stead buildings clear. 
 
 From visioning swift that wide Plantation House 
 John's mind went peering through its fancied rooms. 
 And who were there ? And did they sleep, or wake ? 
 Until he found Miss Mary Armistead 
 And General Henry Tunstall in the dream. 
 
 It seemed those lovers could not, could not part, 
 But murmured low of parting in the dawn. 
 Since he must march and fight, and she must stay 
 To hold the home, whatever war might send — 
 And they might never, never meet again. 
 
 So good she looked, described by Butternut's 
 'God bless her heart," and he so soldier bold 
 In "fire and enterprise," by Custer's words, — 
 So true and sorrowful they talked in dream, 
 Of Love and Life that walk the ways of Death, — 
 The dreamer's under Hp went quivering. 
 
 Until the startled horse put up his head 
 And stood, John knew, stark stiff with listening 
 To that kalatta-klank beyond the Run, 
 As if some cowbell clattered far away 
 Once, twice, and thrice, to cease as suddenly. 
 
 17 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 Then John, once more keen Yankee soldier boy, 
 Gathered his rein, half threw his carbine breech, 
 Made sure again of cartridge ready there, 
 Felt for the flap of holster at his thigh, 
 Listened alert for that most dubious bell, — 
 Thinking of bushwhackers in campfire tales 
 Impressively related to recruits; 
 
 How, in deep night, some lone vedette might hear 
 
 An innocent-seeming klatta-klatta-klank. 
 
 And never dream but that some roaming cow 
 
 Ranged through the covering woodland nigh his post, 
 
 Till — suddenly — a bullet laid him low! 
 
 Or, perhaps, guerillas crept before the bell. 
 
 Their footsteps deadened by its klaita-klank. 
 
 Till, rushing in, they clubbed the youngster down. 
 
 So "gobbling" him unheard, a prisoner, 
 
 Then, sneaking through the gap, on sleeping posts, 
 
 They killed, and killed, and killed — so horridly 
 
 That green recruities' hairs would stand on end. 
 
 John, shrewdly discounting the veteran yarns, 
 Yet knew full well that klatta-klatta-klank. 
 Which came again, might mean the enemy 
 Intent on stratagem to search the dark. 
 Tempting some shot or challenge to reveal 
 If any Union picket held the bridge. 
 Or else the steady-coming, clanging knell 
 Might signify some party far advanced. 
 Creeping all noiselessly, and listening keen 
 For any sound of Custer, horse or man. 
 
 Even it might be that the ridgy road 
 Ten yards, or five, or three from where he sat. 
 Concealed some foeman hungry for a move 
 That might betray precisely where their rush 
 Should be, to seize his tightened bridle-rein. 
 Or grasp the poncho's skirt to pull him down. 
 
 i8 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 John half inclined to lift the neck-yoke off 
 And lay the armless cloak on saddle-bow, 
 Lest it encumber him in sudden fight, 
 Or give the foremost foe a strangling hold. 
 Yet sat he motionless, since such a sound 
 As slicking glaze might guide an enemy. 
 And still the klatta-klatta-klank came on. 
 
 It surely neared the bridge! Yet John sat still, 
 With Custer's orders clearly in his brain, 
 Waiting to learn the meaning of the thing. 
 It trod the planks. It moved with solid hoofs, 
 Hoofs that declared to farm-bred Woolston's ear 
 Most unmistakably an actual cow! 
 But then! Oh, mystery! For rolling wheels 
 Rumbled upon the planking of the Run! 
 
 As up went Woolston's horse's head asnort, 
 Upon the bridge the other beast stood still. 
 The clanking ceased. Again no mortal sound 
 Blent with the tittering tumult of the stream. 
 Until a clear young voice of lady tone 
 Inquired in startled accents, — "Who goes there.?" 
 Yet John, in utter wonder, spoke no word. 
 "If there's a Yankee cavalry picket there," 
 The voice proclaimed, " I wish to pass the line." 
 And still the Yankee knew not what to say. 
 Since Custer's orders covered not the case, 
 And since, alas, the wondrous lady voice 
 Might possibly denote some stratagem. 
 And yet — suppose 't was only just a girl! 
 John sickened with a sense of foolishness. 
 
 "Go on," she cried, and seemed to slap her beast. 
 Which moved some doubtful steps, and stopped again. 
 Then calmly scornful came the lady tones : — 
 
 "Oh, Mister Yankee picket, have no fear 
 To speak right up. No dangerous man am I. 
 
 19 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 Only a woman. And she's got no gun, 
 
 No pistol, bayonet, knife, or anything. 
 
 And all she asks is just to pass your line, 
 
 A prisoner if you like." But there she broke. 
 
 Or choked, and wailed, "O God, it's life or death! 
 
 Oh, soldier, soldier, let me pass the hne." 
 
 So John, half desperate, called, "Young lady, come. 
 I don't care what the orders are. Come on." 
 
 "Get up," she slapped again. But then she called: — 
 "My cow won't move! She sees you, I suppose, 
 
 All armed and threatening in the middle road. 
 
 Please go away. Or ride a bit aside; 
 
 Perhaps then she'll come. Yes, now she moves along. 
 
 You '11 pass me through ? — But are there surgeons there 
 
 Where, hours ago, I saw your campfires glow ? 
 
 If not, I may as well turn back again." 
 
 "No need," said John. "We've got a surgeon there. 
 But what 's the trouble, Miss .? Yourself been hurt ? " 
 
 "The trouble is I've got a soldier here 
 With desperate wounds — if still alive he be. 
 Oh, help me save him." And she broke again. 
 
 "Why, Miss," said Woolston, melting at the heart, 
 "Was there no surgeon on the Arm'stead Hill 
 
 To help your wounded live ? " 
 
 "No, none," she said, 
 "No man remained. At eve the negroes fled, 
 
 Or followed close behind the wagon train 
 
 He urged, with every soldier, back toward Lee. 
 
 We two were left alone. I thought you 'd come. 
 
 For hours and hours I waited, all in vain. 
 
 His life was flowing fast. One chance remained. 
 
 We women placed him in our best barouche, 
 
 The only vehicle our rearguard spared. 
 
 20 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 Alone I hitched this cow, the only beast 
 
 I kept from rations for our starving men. 
 
 I led her here. Oh, soldier, help me soon 
 
 To pass your lines, and reach a surgeon's care." 
 
 Then Custer's orders flashed again to John; — 
 'Hold hard one moment. Miss, I've got to shoot." 
 
 The carbine rang. "Thank God, that's done," said John. 
 'We'll wait right here. A surgeon's sure to come 
 
 With Custer's march, for march I guess he will. 
 
 He '11 turn you round, I think, and see you home. 
 
 I s'pose your name 's Miss Mary Armistead ^ 
 
 I hope that 's not your General wounded there." 
 
 She could but choke, or weep, and spoke no word. 
 
 It seemed long hours they waited silently. 
 Save once John heard the hidden carriage creak, 
 And guessed she rose beside the dying man 
 Beneath the drumlike pattering, sheltering hood. 
 
 At last, the bugles blared on Custer's Ridge. 
 Then, far away, a lengthening stream of flare 
 Came round the distant, curtaining screen of pines, 
 And down the hill the torches, borne on high 
 By fifteen hundred horsemen, formed a slope 
 Of flame that moved behind the bugles' call, 
 Till on the level road a fiery front 
 Tossing, yet solid-seeming, walked along. 
 And in the van rode Custer, beardless, tall, 
 His long hair dabbled in the streaming rain. 
 
 John rode to meet him. There he called the halt, 
 And came, with twenty torches, round the chaise. 
 
 Then first they saw Miss Mary Armistead, 
 Her honorable, fearless, lifted eyes 
 Gazing on Custer's bare and bended head. 
 While General Henry Tunstall's countenance, 
 
 21 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 Supported close within her sheltering arm, 
 Leaned unto hers in pallid soldier death, 
 'Madam," said Custer, "would that I had known 
 The bravest of the brave lay needing aid. 
 Lady, the great heroic name he won 
 Held me from marching onward to your hill, 
 Held me expecting from him night attack. 
 Till now in vain we bring a surgeon's help, — 
 And words are useless. Yet again I say — 
 Because a soldier's heart compels the due — 
 He lived the bravest of the bravest brave 
 That ever faced the odds of mighty war. 
 May God sustain yourself for years and years 
 The living shrine of Tunstall's memory." 
 
 She bowed her noble head, but answered naught. 
 
 Then past the chariot streamed our wondering men 
 
 Behind tall Custer in the foremost front, 
 
 Trampling as thunder on the bridging planks, 
 
 Their torches gleaming on the swirling Run; 
 
 A tossing, swaying column o'er the flat, 
 
 A fiery slope of fours abreast the hill, 
 
 And on, unresting on, through night and rain, 
 
 Remorseless, urgent, yet most merciful. 
 
 Because the Nation's life demanded war. 
 
 Relentless, hurrying swift to force an end. 
 
 And banish night, and bring a peaceful dawn. 
 
 But old John Woolston sees across the years, 
 Beneath the black, cavernous carriage hood. 
 Flaring in torchlight, Tunstall's face of death 
 Beside a lovely, living, haloed face, 
 Heroic, calm, ineffably composed 
 With pride unconquerable in valiant deeds. 
 With trust in God our Lord unspeakable — ■ 
 The sainted Woman of the Perished Cause, 
 The chastened soul of that Confederacy 
 22 
 
MARY ARMISTEAD 
 
 Which marches on, no less than John Brown's soul, 
 Inspiring, calling on the Nation's heart. 
 Urging it dauntlessly to front stark death 
 For what ideals the Nation's heart holds true. 
 
 Straight rain streaks downward through the torches' flare, 
 And solemn through the ancient darkness sound 
 The small, bewildered, lingering, million tones 
 Of atoms streaming to the eternal sea. 
 
 23 
 
WHEN LINCOLN DIED 
 
 WHEN LINCOLN DIED 
 
 Already Appomattox day 
 Seemed to our hearts an age away. 
 Although the April-blossomed trees 
 Were droning with the very bees 
 That bumbled round the conference 
 Where Lee resigned his long defence, 
 And Grant's new gentleness subdued 
 The iron Southern fortitude. 
 
 From smouldering leaves the smoky smell 
 
 Wreathed round Virginian fields a spell 
 
 Of homely aromatic haze, 
 
 So like New Hampshire springtime days 
 
 About the slopes of Moosilauke 
 
 It numbed my homesick heart to talk, 
 
 And when the bobolinks trilled "Rejoice!" 
 
 My comrade could not trust his voice. 
 
 We were two cavalrymen assigned 
 To safeguard Pinckney womankind, 
 Whose darkies rambled Lord knows where 
 In some persuasion that they were 
 Thenceforth, in ease, at public charge 
 To live as gentlemen at large — 
 A purpose which, they 'd heard, the war 
 Was made by "Massa Linkum" for. 
 
 The pillared mansion, battle-wrecked, 
 Yet stood with ivied front erect. 
 Its mossy gables, shell-fire-torn, 
 Were still in lordliness upborne 
 Above the neighboring barns, well stored 
 With war-time's rich tobacco hoard; 
 But on the place, for food, was naught 
 Save what our commissary brought 
 24 
 
WHEN LINCOLN DIED 
 
 To keep the planter's folk alive 
 Till Colonel Pinckney might arrive 
 Paroled from northw^ard, if his head 
 Lay not among the prisoner dead. 
 
 We'd captured him ten days before, 
 When Richard Ewell's veteran corps, 
 Half-naked, starving, fought amain 
 To save their dwindling w^agon-train. 
 Since they were weak and we were strong, 
 The battle was not overlong. 
 Again I see the prisoners stare 
 Exultant at the orange glare 
 Of sunlit flame they saw aspire 
 Up from the train they gave to fire. 
 They'd shred apart their hero flags 
 To share the silk as heart-worn rags. 
 The trampled field was strewn about 
 With wreckage of the closing rout — 
 Their dead, their wounded, rifles broke, 
 Their mules and horses slain in yoke; 
 Their torn-up records, widely spread. 
 Fluttered around the muddy dead — 
 So bitter did their hearts condemn 
 To ruin all we took with them. 
 
 Ten days before ! The war was past, 
 The Union saved. Peace come at last, 
 And Father Abraham's words of balm 
 Gentling the war-worn States to calm. 
 Of all the miracles he wrought 
 That was the sweetest. Men who 'd fought 
 So long they'd learned to think in hate, 
 And savor blood when bread they ate, 
 And hear their buried comrades wail. 
 How long, Lord, doth wrong prevail ? 
 List'ning alike, in blue or gray, 
 Felt war's wild passions soothed away. 
 25 
 
WHEN LINCOLN DIED 
 
 By homely touches in the air 
 
 That morning was so sweet and rare 
 
 That Father Abraham's soul serene 
 
 Seemed brooding over all the scene; 
 
 And when we found the plough, I guess 
 
 We were so tired of idleness 
 
 Our farmer fingers yearned to hold 
 
 The handles, and to sense the mould 
 
 Turning the earth behind the knife, 
 
 Jim gladdened as with freshened life; — 
 "Say, John," said he, "I'm feeling beat 
 To know what these good folks will eat 
 When you and I are gone. Next fall 
 They're sure to have no crop at all. 
 All their tobacco 's confiscate 
 By Washington — and what a state 
 Of poverty they 're bound to see ! 
 Say, buddy, what if you and me 
 Just hitch our cavalry horses now 
 Up to this blamed Virginia plough, 
 And run some furrows through the field ? 
 With commissary seed they'd yield 
 A reasonable crop of corn." 
 "They will," said I, "as sure's you're born!" 
 
 Quickly we rigged, with rope and straps 
 And saddle leathers — well, perhaps 
 The Yankiest harness ever planned 
 To haul a plough through farming land. 
 It made us kind of happy, too. 
 Feeling like Father Abraham knew. 
 
 The Pinckney place stood on a rise. 
 And when we 'd turned an end, our eyes 
 Would see the mansion war had wrecked, — 
 Such desolation! I suspect 
 The women's hearts were mourning sore; 
 26 
 
WHEN LINCOLN DIED 
 
 But not one tear we saw — they bore 
 Composed the fortune fate had sent — 
 But, O dear Lord, how still they went! 
 I've seen such quiet in a shroud, 
 Inscrutably resigned and proud. 
 
 Yet, when we 'd worked an hour or two. 
 And plain was what we meant to do, 
 Mother and daughters came kind-eyed, — 
 'Soldiers — my soldier husband's pride 
 Will be to thank you well — till then 
 We call you friendly, helpful men — " 
 It seemed she stopped for fear of tears. 
 She turned — they went — Oh, long the years 
 Gone by since that brave lady spoke — 
 And yet I hear the voice that broke. 
 
 We watched them climb the lilac hill. 
 Again the spring grew strangely still 
 Ere, far upon the turnpike road. 
 Across a clattering bridge, where flowed 
 Through sand the stream of Pinckney Run, 
 We heard the galloping of one 
 Who, hidden by the higher ground, 
 Pounded as fast as horse could pound. 
 Then — all again was still as death — 
 Till up the slope, with laboring breath, 
 A white steed rose — his rider gray 
 Spurring like mad his staggering way. 
 
 The man was old and tall and white, 
 His glooming eyes looked dead to light, 
 He rode with such a fateful air 
 I felt a coldness thrill my hair. 
 He rode as one hard hit rides out 
 In horror from some battle rout, 
 Bearing a cry for instant aid — 
 That aspect made my heart afraid. 
 27 
 
WHEN LINCOLN DIED 
 
 The death-like rider drew no rein, 
 Nor seemed to note us on the plain, 
 Nor seemed to know how weak in stride 
 His horse strove up the long hillside; 
 When down it lurched, on foot the man 
 Up through the fringing lilacs ran, 
 His left hand clutching empty air 
 As if his sabre still hung there. 
 
 'Twas plain as day that human blast 
 
 Was Colonel Pinckney home at last. 
 
 And we were free, since ordered so 
 
 That with his coming we might go; 
 
 Yet on we ploughed — the sun swung high, 
 
 Quiet the earth and blue the sky — 
 
 Silent we wrought, as men who wait 
 
 Some half-imagined stroke of fate, 
 
 While through the trembling shine came knells 
 
 Tolling from far-off Lynchburg bells. 
 
 The solemn, thrilling sounds of gloom 
 Bore portents of tremendous doom, 
 On smoky zephyrs drifted by 
 Shadows of hosts in charging cry. 
 In fields where silence ruled profound 
 Growling musketry echoed round. 
 Pale phantom ranks did starkly pass 
 Invisible across the grass, 
 Flags ghosted wild in powder fume 
 Till, miracled in memory's room. 
 Rang the old regiment's rousing cheer 
 For Father Abraham, smiling queer. 
 
 'T was when we turned a furrow's end 
 We saw a martial form descend 
 From Mansion Hill the lilac way. 
 Till in our field the veteran gray 
 Stood tall and straight as at parade, 
 28 
 
WHEN LINCOLN DIED 
 
 And yet as one with soul dismayed. 
 That Hving emblem of the South 
 Faced us unblenching, though his mouth 
 So quivered with the spoken word 
 It seemed a tortured heart we heard ; — 
 'Soldiers" — he eyed us nobly when 
 We stood to "attention " — "Soldiers — men, 
 For this good work my thanks are due — 
 But — men — O God — men, if you knew, 
 Your kindly hands had shunned the plough — 
 For hell comes up between us now ! — 
 Oh, sweet was peace — but gone is peace — 
 Murder and hate have fresh release ! — 
 The deed be on the assassin's head! — 
 Men — Abraham Lincoln 'j- lying dead ! " 
 
 He steadied then — he told us through 
 All of the tale that Lynchburg knew. 
 While dumbly raged my anguished heart 
 With woe from pity wrenched apart. 
 For, in the fresh red furrow, bled 
 'Twixt us and him the martyred dead. 
 
 That precious crimson ran so fast 
 It merged in tinge with battles past, — 
 Hatcher's, Five Forks, The Wilderness, 
 The Bloody Angle's maddened stress; 
 Down Cemetery Hill there poured 
 Torrents that stormed to Kelly's Ford, 
 And twice Manassas flung its flood 
 To swell the four years' tide of blood. 
 And Sumter blazed, and Ellsworth fell. 
 While memory flashed its gleams of hell. 
 
 The colonel's staring eyes declared 
 In visions wild as ours he shared, 
 Until — dear Christ — with Thine was blent 
 The death-transfigured President. 
 29 
 
WHEN LINCOLN DIED 
 
 Strange — strange — the crown of thorns he wore, 
 
 His outspread hands were pierced sore, 
 
 And down his old black coat a tide 
 
 Flowed from the javelin-wounded side; 
 
 Yet 't was his homely self there stood, 
 
 And gently smiled across the blood, 
 
 And changed the mystic stream to tears 
 
 That swept afar the angry years. 
 
 And flung me down as falls a child 
 
 Whose heart breaks out in weeping wild. 
 
 Yet in that field we ploughed no more, 
 We shunned the open Southern door. 
 We saddled up, we rode away, — 
 It's that that troubles me to-day. 
 
 Full thirty years to dust were turned 
 Before my pondering soul had learned 
 The blended vision there was sent 
 In sign that our Beloved meant; — 
 
 Children who wrought so mild my willy 
 Plough the long furrow kindly still, 
 'T IS sweet the Father s work to see 
 Done for the memory of me. 
 
 30 
 
THE VISION AT SHILOH 
 
 THE VISION AT SHILOH 
 
 (a veteran's death-bed story) 
 
 Shrouded on Shiloh field in night and rain, 
 This body rested from the first's day's fight; 
 Fallen face down, both hands on rifle clutched, 
 A Shape of sprawling members, blank of thought 
 As was the April mud in which it lay. 
 
 Comrade, you deem that I shall surely lie 
 Torpid, forgetful, nevermore to march 
 After the flush of morning pales in day; 
 But I remember how I rose again 
 From Shiloh field to march three mighty years, 
 Until mine eyes beheld in Richmond streets 
 Our Father Abraham, homely conqueror. 
 So Son-of-Manlike, fashioned mild and meek, 
 Averse from triumph, close to common men, 
 Chief of a Nation mercifully strong. 
 
 In boyhood many a time I 'd seen his face, 
 Knew well the accents of his voice serene. 
 Loved the kind twinkle of his sad-eyed smile, 
 Yet never once beheld him save with awe, 
 For that mysterious sense of unity 
 With the Eternal Fortitude, which flowed 
 As from his gaze into my yearning heart. 
 
 The peace our Father's four years' Calvaiy wrought 
 Has bustled through his huge two-oceaned land 
 How busily since Shiloh's blood-drenched field 
 Gave up from death this body men called me. — 
 Oh, paths of peace were, truly, pleasant ways ! 
 The kindliest Nation earth has ever known 
 Gave to their veterans grateful preference 
 In every labor, mart, and council hall, 
 31 
 
THE VISION AT SHILOH 
 
 Which nobleness shall a thousand fold be paid 
 By soldier hearts in every future Age. 
 
 Myself was one whom Fortune favored much, 
 
 Children and children's children, troops of friends 
 
 Have cheered this firelit chamber silken hung 
 
 Where now I rest me easy at the last. 
 
 In confidence that Shiloh's miracle 
 
 Of Vision and of Song did true forecast 
 
 Repose in bliss surpassing mortal dream. 
 
 The night outside is black as Shiloh's night, 
 
 Save for electric-litten streaks of rain ; 
 
 My dripping eaves declare November's shower 
 
 Falling as fast as early April's did 
 
 When first this time-worn body grew aware 
 
 Of Death's reluctant yielding to the Soul. 
 
 Utter oblivion could not be from Sleep 
 While battle roared, and dreaded evening fell. 
 And sullen foemen kept the plain unsearched. 
 And rain tempestuous stormed to midnight's gloom. 
 
 Oh, let me talk ! I 've seldom told the tale, 
 And I care nothing if my strength be strained. 
 Our generation ever held that Strength 
 Was given only that it might be tried. 
 What matters it if so my term of hours 
 Ere second resurrection be forestalled .'' 
 
 First did this body dimly sense its form 
 As something vaguely unified in Space; 
 Powerless, motionless, unaware of aught 
 Save merely numbness, while a smothering nose 
 And mumbling lips and tongue mechanical 
 Strove for they knew not what, which was to breathe 
 Strove as by instinct uncontrolled of Mind, 
 Which nowise ordered hands enormous-like 
 
 32 
 
THE VISION AT SHILOH 
 
 To fumble baffled till they slowly learned 
 The fast-clutched rifle which bewildered them 
 Was such a thing as fingers could let go. 
 
 Then, to restore the breath, the forearms come 
 Beneath the brow, and raised the face from mud; 
 Yet all was numbness, but for tiny blows 
 Patting behind the neck, and prankily 
 Creeping at random down the cheeks and hair. 
 I did not guess them pellets of cold rain 
 Until a stab came up as from the ground 
 Into my wounded breast. Then Mind awoke 
 To wetness, night, and all the agonies 
 That dogged resolution rose to bear. 
 
 Shocked Memory cried. That stroke one instant past 
 Was shrapnel shell ! The reasoning power replied, 
 It laid the body dead on Shiloh field. 
 Then staunch the Soul, / live — and God is here. 
 
 Visions came lightning-quick, clear, unconfused, — 
 
 The City tumult in my childish ears, 
 
 Our tremulous Church at Sumter's bulletin, 
 
 Me naked in the cold recruiting room 
 
 Stripped to the hurrying Doctor's callous test; — 
 
 All the innumerable recollections flashed 
 
 On to that battle-moment when my chum 
 
 Charging beside me on red Shiloh field 
 
 Gasped out, "Oh, John'' clutched horribly his throat, 
 
 Frowned on his bloodied hands, stared wild at me 
 
 Who, in that moment, felt the stroke, and fell. 
 
 Was Harry nigh ? I groped in puddled grass 
 Seeking his comrade corpse, and sought in vain. 
 The wound might not have killed him ! Could I turn, 
 And so gain ground to search a little more ? 
 Yes — but the agony! Yet turn I did. 
 And, groping farther, felt a little bush. 
 
 33 
 
THE VISION AT SHILOH 
 
 It seemed more friendly to the finger hold 
 Than emptiness, or muddy earth, or grass; 
 So there I lay, face up, in absolute night 
 Whose stillness deepened with the lessening rain. 
 
 How long, O Lord, how long the darkness held ! 
 Despite the feverish wound my body chilled, 
 And oft my desperate fingers strove to loose 
 The soaking blanket roll which trenched my back 
 As if it lay diagonal on a ridge. 
 
 It may be true that slight delirium touched 
 My brain that night, for when a little wind 
 Came rustling through the bushes of the plain, 
 And drizzling ceased, how clearly my closed eyes 
 Could see within the house where I was born! 
 
 There sister voices conned their lesson books, 
 And Mother's dress was trailing on the stair 
 As she were coming up to comfort me, 
 While in my heart an expectation flowed 
 Of some inexplicable joy anear, 
 Angelic, shining-robed, austerely fair. 
 
 With that I opened wondering eyes — and Lo 
 The heavenly host of stars o'er Shiloh field ! 
 
 And oh the glory of them, and the peace, 
 The promise, the ethereal hope renewed! 
 Up rose my soul, supreme past bodily grief, 
 To rest enraptured as of Heaven assured. 
 
 In that blest trance my gaze became intent 
 On beams I deemed at first a rising moon. 
 Until mine eyes conceived the luminous space 
 Haloed a tall and human-seeming Form, 
 Of countenance uplifted unto God, 
 And palms breast-clasped as if entreating Him. 
 34 
 
THE VISION AT SHILOH 
 
 In vain my straining sight sought certainty 
 Whose was the sorrowing figure which I dreamed 
 To wear a visage as if Christ were come 
 In pity for the carnage of that plain. 
 
 It seemed that nigh that Presence rose a voice 
 Most heavenly pure of note, and manhke strong; 
 " When I can read my title clear," it sang 
 Triumphantly, "To mansions in the skies" 
 Lifting the hymn in exultation high 
 Till other voices took it — wounded men 
 Lying, like me, in pain and close to death; 
 Myself chimed in, while all about me rang 
 The soldier chanting of that prostrate host, 
 Northern and Southern, one united choir 
 Solemnly glad in Man's supernal dream. ^ 
 
 Comrade, when that high service of great song 
 Died down, there was no semblance of a moon! 
 And if indeed one rode the April sky 
 That wonder-night, I never yet have learned. 
 
 But I do know most surely this strange thing, — 
 That when, in Richmond, Father Abraham, 
 After three years grassed newly Shiloh plain, 
 Beheld my veteran men relieve his guard, 
 I saw the triumph in my countenance 
 Did grieve afresh his sad and infinite eyes 
 Which gazed with gentle meaning into mine 
 The while his silent lips seemed fashioning 
 For me alone, "Remember Shiloh Choir." 
 
 Then clear I knew his brooding tenderness 
 Bewailed our vanquished brethren, waked from years 
 Of dreadful dream he was their enemy; 
 
 * The singing of " When I can read my title clear " by the wounded of Shiloh, 
 at night, is perfectly authenticated. 
 
 35 
 
THE VISION AT SHILOH 
 
 The exultation vanished from my heart, 
 
 A choking pity took me in the throat, 
 
 And forth I rushed to join the ranks of Blue 
 
 Fighting, as saviours, flames in Richmond Town, 
 
 The while his kindly look seemed blessing me. 
 
 Now in the contemplation of his eyes 
 I lie content as stretched on Shiloh field, 
 Dreaming triumphant, waiting for the dawn. 
 
 There it broke fair, till shattering musketry 
 
 And cheers of charging Blue right onward swept 
 
 So far, it seemed that utter silence fell. 
 
 And I lay waiting very peacefully. 
 
 As now, for friendly hands to bear me home. 
 
 36 
 
PARABLES 
 PARABLES 
 
 GRANDFATHER TO GRANDSON 
 
 And did you think the war was past 
 When the long cannonade was done, 
 And all we homebound soldiers cast 
 Hope's glances on the blessing sun ? 
 
 I tell you that the war shall last 
 
 Till every citadel be won. 
 
 And did you think was Lincoln dead 
 Because his mouldering length of clay 
 Lifts nevermore the brooding head 
 To eye the slowly brightening day ? 
 I tell you that his blood was shed 
 That he might, living, lead the way. 
 
 And did you think he does not lead 
 Because the chains he broke of yore 
 Maddened scarce less than those that Need 
 Clanks terribly nigh Dives' door .'' 
 
 I tell you Dives shall be freed 
 
 From dread when Lincoln leads no more. 
 
 And did you think that this is Peace, 
 When every rose in Pleasure's hair 
 Shakes direful as some blood-red piece 
 Torn from the heart of hot despair .'' 
 I tell you Pleasure's just release 
 Comes when her roses all shall share. 
 
 And did you think Columbians see 
 As nothing but a sounding phrase 
 
 The "All men were created free 
 And equal " of the Fathers' days ? 
 37 
 
PARABLES 
 
 I tell you their sincerest glee 
 Laughs over all whom that dismays. 
 
 And did you think you could desist 
 From service in the changeful fight, 
 Or that your weapons need assist 
 Neither the arms of Wrong nor Right ? 
 I tell you All must here enlist, 
 There is no neutral and no flight. 
 
 38 
 
POEMS OF THE WORLD-WIDE 
 BROTHERHOOD 
 
THE MANY-MANSIONED HOUSE 
 
 There looms, upon the enormous round 
 
 Where nations come and nations go, 
 A many-mansioned house, whose bound 
 
 Ranges so wide that none may know 
 Its temperate lands of corn and vine, 
 
 Its solitudes of Arctic gloom. 
 Its wealth of forest, plain, and mine, 
 
 Its jungle world of tropic bloom. 
 Yet so its architects devise 
 
 That still its boundary walls extend, 
 And still its guardian forts arise. 
 
 And still its builders see no end 
 Of plan, or labor, or the call 
 
 By which the Master of their Fate 
 Urges to lay the advancing wall 
 
 Of Law beyond the farthest gate. 
 
 The mortar oft is red with blood 
 
 Of men within and men without. 
 For hate's incessant storm and flood 
 
 Rage round each uttermost redoubt, 
 And bullets sing, and shrieks are loud. 
 
 And bordering voices curse the hour 
 That sees the builders onward crowd. 
 
 True to the Master Mind, whose power 
 Impels them build by plumb and line 
 
 To give the blood-stained wall increase, 
 And forward push the huge design 
 
 Within whose mansions dwelleth peace. 
 
 The Master Mind is in no place. 
 It hath no settled rank nor name, 
 41 
 
THE MANY-MANSIONED HOUSE 
 
 Its mood, as moulded by the race, 
 
 Shifts often, yet remains the same 
 To meditate what millions think, 
 
 And shape the deed to fit their thought. 
 Now raising high who seemed to sink. 
 
 Now flinging down their choice as naught. 
 It lauds what sons obey its calls 
 
 When time has come for hands to smite. 
 And when the hour to cease befalls 
 
 It chastens them it did requite; 
 Yet still so chooses that the change 
 
 From war to peace and peace to war 
 Confirms the mansions in their range, 
 
 And builds the far-built wall more far. 
 
 Within the many mansions dwell 
 
 Nations diverse of tongue and blood, — 
 Races whose primal anthems tell 
 
 How Ganges grew a sacred flood, 
 Tribes long fore-fathered when the birds 
 
 Of Egypt saw Osiris pass, 
 They that were ancient when the herds 
 
 Of Abraham cropped Chaldean grass. 
 People whose shepherd-priesthoods saw 
 
 The might of Nineveh begin. 
 And folk whose slaves baked mud and straw 
 
 Mid Babylon's revelling fume of sin ; 
 Blacks that have served in every age 
 
 Since first the yoke of Ham they wore. 
 Yellows who set the printed page 
 
 Ere Homer sang from shore to shore. 
 Swart Browns whose glittering kreeses held 
 
 In dread the far-isled Asian seas. 
 Fierce Reds who waged from primal eld 
 
 Their stealthy warfare of the trees; 
 Men of the jaguar-haunted swamp 
 
 Whose mountain masters dwelt in pride 
 Of golden-citied Aztec pomp 
 42 
 
THE MANY-MANSIONED HOUSE 
 
 Ages ere Montezuma died; 
 Builders whose blood was in the hands 
 
 That propped the circled Druid stones, 
 And Odin-fathered men, whose bands 
 
 Storming all winds, laid warrior bones 
 Round all the Roman mid-world sea. 
 
 And held the Caesars' might in scorn. 
 And kept the Viking liberty 
 
 That fairer freedom might be born. 
 
 The wall defendeth all alike, 
 
 The Master Mind on all ordains : — 
 
 Within my bound no sword shall strike. 
 
 Nor fetter bind, save law arraigns ; 
 No prisoner here shall feel the rack, 
 
 No infant be to slavery born. 
 The wage shall labor s sweat not lack. 
 
 Nor skill of just reward be shorn. 
 The king and hind alike shall stand 
 
 Within the peril of my law. 
 And though it change at time's demand 
 
 Shall every change be held in awe. 
 Here every voice may freely speak 
 
 Wisdom or folly as it choose. 
 And though the strong must lead the weak. 
 
 The weak may yet the strong refuse ; 
 Thus shall no change be wrought before 
 
 The wise who seek a better way 
 Can win, to share their vision, more 
 
 Than praise the wise who wish delay, — 
 That so the Master Mind be strong 
 
 Through every drift of time and change. 
 To fashion either right or wrong 
 
 At will, within the mansions' range. 
 
 Of what is wrong and what is right 
 
 The Master Mind doth ceaseless hear, 
 Listens intent to counselling might, 
 43 
 
THE MANY-MANSIONED HOUSE 
 
 Pity or fury, hope or fear, 
 Sways to the evil, yet repents, 
 
 Sways to the good, yet half denies, 
 Follows revenge, but quick relents. 
 
 And makes its wondering foes allies; 
 In memory sees its frenzied hours, 
 
 And holds those fury-fits in scorn; 
 In gentlest aspiration towers. 
 
 Or grovels as of faith forlorn, 
 Yet never, never loses quite 
 
 The thought, the hope, the glory-dream, 
 That beacon of supernal light. 
 
 The shining, holy Grail-like beam, 
 The Ideal — in which alone it dares 
 
 Advance the circuit of the wall — 
 The faith that yet shall happy shares 
 
 Of circumstance be won for all, — 
 This is the vision of its law. 
 
 This is the Asgard of its dream — 
 That what the world yet never saw 
 
 Of justice shall arise supreme. 
 
 The Master Mind proclaims as free 
 
 Alike, all creeds that men may name, 
 All worships they devise to be 
 
 Their help in hope, or ease in shame; 
 In Buddha, Mahmoud, Moses, Christ, 
 
 Outspokenly may any trust. 
 Or he whom no belief enticed 
 
 May hold the soul a dream of dust, 
 Yet all alike be free to teach. 
 
 And all alike be free to shun. 
 Because the law of freeman's speech 
 
 Impartial guardeth every one; 
 If but all rites of blood be banned, 
 
 Then may each life select its God, 
 And every congregation stand 
 
 Past dread of persecution's rod, — 
 44 
 
THE MANY-MANSIONED HOUSE 
 
 Lo now! Is thus not Jesus set 
 
 Transcendent o'er the broad domain — 
 The gentle Christ whose anguished sweat 
 
 Bled for a world-wide mercy's reign ? 
 
 Yet in the many Mansions flaunt, 
 
 As if they deem their place secure, 
 Legion, whose Christ-defying vaunt 
 
 How long, O Lord, dost Thou endure! 
 Belshazzar's Feast is multiplied, 
 
 Mammon holds fabulous parade, 
 Thousands of Minotaurs divide 
 
 The procurers' tribute of the maid, 
 Circe enchants her votary swine, 
 
 Moloch, though veiled his fire, consumes, 
 And all the man-made Gods assign 
 
 Their victims self-elected dooms. 
 
 In large, the suffering and the sin 
 
 (Full well the Master Mind doth know). 
 From luxury and want begin. 
 
 And through unequal portions flow. 
 This ancient wrong doth worst defeat 
 
 The immortal yearning of His plea 
 To save the little, wandering feet, — 
 
 "Suffer the children come to me "; 
 
 Wherefore, on streets that Mammon makes 
 
 The Master Mind bends ruthless eye, 
 Yet calm withholds the blow that breaks, 
 
 And leaves that stroke to by and by. 
 Since faithful memory, backward cast. 
 
 Beholds how much hath freedom won, 
 And lest a pomp-destroying blast 
 
 Might shrivel many a guiltless one, 
 And since it knows that freedom's plan 
 
 To build secure alone is skilled, 
 And that firm-grounded gain for man 
 45 
 
THE MANY-MANSIONED HOUSE 
 
 Is only by what man hath willed. — 
 Hence waits the Master Mind, in trust 
 
 That yet the hour shall Mammon rue, 
 Since, as the mansions grow, so must 
 
 Freedom upraise The Christ anew. 
 
 But whether He prevail at last, 
 
 Or whether all shall pass away. 
 Even as Rome's great Empire passed 
 
 When wrought the purpose of its day. 
 Still must the builders heed the call 
 
 By which the Master of all Fate 
 Ordains they lay the advancing wall 
 
 Of peace beyond the farthest gate. 
 
 And, oh ! the Master Mind may well 
 
 In pride of gentleness rejoice 
 That in the Mansions none may quell 
 
 The lilt of any nation's voice; 
 But every race may sing their joy, 
 
 May hymn their pride, their glories boast 
 To listeners glad without alloy — 
 
 The primal, wall-extending host, 
 The founding, freedom-loving race 
 
 Whose generous-visioning mind doth see 
 No worth in holding foremost place, 
 
 Save in an Empire of the Free. 
 
 46 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 PETER OTTAWA 
 
 (CANADIAN NATIVISt) 
 
 He was a mighty rover in his prime, 
 And still, though bearded white as Father Time, 
 Content and restless, strong and curious, he 
 Roams over Canada from sea to sea. 
 
 To gaze on all his native love possest — 
 That impulse urged, for years, his wandering quest; 
 To achieve some truthful vision of the whole 
 From Welland's orchards to the circumpole; 
 To know all tribes and races of the land. 
 Such was the joy his youthful ardor planned. 
 And still the yearning holds him, while he smiles 
 To think of how the Impossible beguiles. 
 
 Oft as he turns to share his wealthy home, 
 So oft, insatiate, hastes he forth to roam; 
 And in the region round about Quesnel 
 His ever-wondering farmer-neighbors tell; — 
 "He's off again! God knows by what he's led! 
 Old Peter Ottawa '11 never die in bed!" 
 
 That pseudonym he took in youth, they deem 
 Perchance in pride to boast his native stream. 
 Or p'r'aps to signify, so some declare, 
 Himself too nativist to wish to wear 
 His patronymic of one Old-World race. 
 Since he four glorious ancestries can trace. 
 
 " I roam by right of Scottish blood," he '11 say, 
 "My father's grandsire roved till his last day, — 
 Roderick the Red, who strode with kilted thighs, 
 The highland light of battle in his eyes, 
 
 47 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 Where many a stream of spirting life was spilt 
 Before, with Wolfe, a claymore's basket hilt 
 Gript in his iron fist, he climbed with frown 
 More dour than high Quebec could darkle down." 
 
 'Roving is in my blood from Gerald Foy 
 Who charged the English line at Fontenoy 
 With wild-heart memories of the home he fled; 
 Tradition tells that while he thrust and bled 
 My visioning Irish ancestor could see 
 His emerald hills, his boyhood's 'fairy tree,' 
 His native glen, with family roofs aglow, 
 His stacks red-lit, his mother's wailing woe, 
 His children staring vengeful on the groups 
 Of half-ashamed, half-stolid English troops, 
 Whose ranks of oak ne'er learned a foe to rue 
 Till Ireland's banished bayonets charged them through." 
 
 'And yet, praise God, the English heart I share, 
 The steadfast blood that held the steely square 
 That broke the cuirassiers at Waterloo, 
 Firm, for the Iron Duke, as at review; 
 The blood that bided cool that dread advance — 
 The veteran, Old, immortal Guard of France 
 Who charged, yet knowing well they charged in vain — 
 If vain be death-contemptuous Glory's gain — 
 Charged to end there th' emblazoned valor scroll 
 That Fame can never utterly uproll; — 
 Or so my Grandsire, Pierre Deschamps, would say. 
 Old Pierre, who charged at Hougomont with Ney." 
 
 In filial love he boasts his Gallic part. 
 
 His half-French mother gave him half his heart; 
 
 But Pierre of Waterloo is less his pride 
 
 Than Pierre's Canadian grandsire, Jean, who died 
 
 In seventeen-sixty, hard by Fort Levis, 
 
 Where Pouchot's braves renewed Thermopylae. 
 
 48 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 There he, with scarce four hundred, held at stand. 
 For nineteen days, stout Amherst's whole command, 
 Eleven thousand, balked on ship and shore, 
 Till Pouchot's muster fell to thirteen score. 
 
 "Militiamen remember," Peter says, 
 
 "Just habitants, like ours of later days. 
 Farming their little clearings by the stream 
 That floated Amherst down its August dream. — 
 And who dare say the least among them all 
 Was not a very Paladin of Gaul ? 
 Go to — our Canada from France retains 
 A strain as staunch as pulses British veins!" 
 
 French, English, Irish, Scotch he reconciles, 
 Boasts them alike, and with his boasting smiles; — 
 "That's me — that's Canada — a fourfold flame 
 Of mighty origins surrounds the name. — 
 Lives there a man in all the land to-day 
 Can wish one pioneering race away ? 
 His heart's an immigrant. — I say no more; 
 We chide no stranger entering at our door. 
 But bid him welcome, bid him share the meal, — 
 His children yet the native sense shall feel; 
 And what care we if twenty races blend 
 In blood that flows Canadian at the end ? " 
 
 Our painted Autumn sets him roaming wide, 
 As if his lifelong yearning could not bide 
 To watch his own Laurentian mapled range 
 From pomp to pomp magnificently change. 
 But he must up and forth with every dawn. 
 Through aisles of glamorous color following on, 
 Mid golden-showering leaves, a viewless trail, 
 Through rustling corridors a voiceless hail. 
 Over what vista-mirroring lakes a guide 
 Whose beckonings misty distance scarce can hide, 
 Beyond yet one more rapid's murmurous song 
 49 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 The enchanting call of follow, follow long, 
 
 Which ever sang, and ever sped before, 
 
 And ever led his Fathers one day more. 
 
 Until at last, beyond the enormous plain, 
 
 And past the eternal snow-peaks' ranging chain, 
 
 The imperious western surges ordered Stand, 
 
 And turned them back to claim the traversed land. 
 
 And turned them back to axe, and scythe, and plough, 
 Toil, thrift, long patience, and the thoughtful brow 
 Inspired to rear on Earth what He commands — 
 The House that is not builded up of Hands. 
 
 "Which is," says Peter, "ancient England's dream, 
 Though oft she be distracted from the theme 
 By Viking children, and by threatening voice; 
 'T is still the dream in which she doth rejoice, 
 (Even as any whirling human soul 
 Is glad when toiling toward the heaven-goal), 
 She doth rejoice to rear for Man's behoof, 
 Her hospitable, many-mansioned roof, 
 Wherein the immemorial Laborer yet 
 Freely shall eat the bread of his own sweat. 
 It's when we muse on English greathearts' aim, 
 And muse how true our laws pursue the same. 
 Then, then we exult about our Mother's throne. 
 And love her ideal Empire as our own." 
 
 Dreaming a better Britain rising here 
 Mid winter forests lovely and austere, 
 His creaking snowshoes track what vaulted miles 
 Where towering pines uprange converging aisles. 
 When neither shrub nor shadow checks the gaze. 
 But one white undulation floors the maze 
 Of colonnades so tall they seem to lean 
 Inward before they branch the roof of green 
 Whose rifts, at times asway, disclose the blue. 
 At times let aimless snowflakes wander through 
 
 50 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 To waver down, as if they hesitate 
 
 Lest merest motion be to desecrate 
 
 That subtle stillness, where the high-head grouse 
 
 Treads three-toed, wondering, and the forest mouse 
 
 Meandering timid, dots a tiny track 
 
 Whose every swerve denotes a fear Attack 
 
 Were hovering in the Mystery all around — 
 
 So much more threatening Silence is than Sound. 
 
 The reverent rover, chancing to intrude 
 Within the borders of such Solitude, 
 Worships in natural piety sincere 
 A holy spirit quiet brooding here, 
 Within a fane whose ministrants are none 
 Except the chanting Winds, the wheeling Sun, 
 The patient Seasons' alternating train, 
 Their potent servitors of Shine and Rain, 
 Ordained by Something, kin to Time and Space, 
 Regnant and immanent throughout the place, 
 Which urges apprehension on the soul 
 That its own being merges with the Whole. 
 
 No less he worships where some Western throng 
 Of pioneers moves sturdily along 
 The hurrying, half-built streets of plains he knew 
 When buffalo ranged round all the circling blue. 
 There every face declares some inward tune 
 Of Hope and Happiness at plenilune. 
 The eyes shine keen, on Enterprise intent. 
 As if that every west-Canadian meant 
 To realize some visionary State 
 Surpassing good, and glorious, and great. 
 So strode, be sure, the Viking race of old. 
 Elate though arduous, kind and shrewd and bold, 
 Scanning the future, as they faced the gale, 
 With no misgivings lest their strength should fail. 
 Assured the World was made for them who DO, 
 And God would see his active children through. 
 51 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 He did, by Heaven, and still our kin fare forth 
 
 Beneath all galaxies of South and North, 
 
 Degenerate only where, by vested Wrong, 
 
 The money-mongers crowd, and rot, the throng. 
 
 Give them but land and air, then not the best 
 
 Of all the broods that flew the ancient nest 
 
 More pleased the All-father by their works and ways 
 
 Than His adventurers of the latter days. 
 
 In treble ribbons see the prairie run 
 Black from their ploughshares in the westering sun, 
 Whose shine the yearning sod-hut settler sees 
 Gild children's wealthy roofs through future trees. 
 And, patient joyful, deems the vision fair. 
 Which his own eyes may never witness there. 
 
 Behold rude hamlets, every one with School, 
 
 With Church, with Council-hall for lawful rule. 
 
 The wind-bronzed, hard-hand Fathers giving free 
 
 Their little leisure, that the New Land be 
 
 So set for Order in its early years 
 
 That Time's long talk shall bless the pioneers. 
 
 Or, clearly vision some September plain 
 Where one sole Reaper shrills in harvest grain 
 Before the whirring grouse takes morning flight 
 Till the long gloaming deepens into night 
 That lets the Stalwart, freed from labor's dues, 
 Plod shackward, blessing God that sleep renews 
 His power to lift the morrow's heavy gage, 
 And day by day the lonely battle wage. 
 Until at last, with all his wheat well saved, 
 A haggard victor from the strife he braved. 
 He eyes the stacks that prove his manhood sound 
 For her who shall emparadise his ground. 
 And sternly knows, within his secret heart, 
 That never Warrior acted higher part. 
 
 52 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 It seems to me a blasphemy immense 
 To imagine God the foe of common sense, 
 And not a Power of sanity complete, 
 Who surely holds an arduous useful feat 
 Of resolute labor something over par, 
 Compared with deeds of War, which ever are. 
 At best, but just a fate-defying stand 
 Made, since the World began, in every land. 
 For hate, or hope, or pay, or love, or lust. 
 But mostly just because the soldier must 
 Obey the officer, who must obey 
 In turn the ordered orderer of the day. 
 Himself a sort of slave to slaves whose trade 
 Is just to get Stupidity obeyed; — 
 The cruel, dense stupidity of Pride, 
 Callous to wholesale murder on each side, 
 And loathe to arbitrate, lest Judges wise 
 Settle some trivial point by compromise. 
 
 Poor World, insensate bred, and deep possest 
 By febrile Fear pretending warlike zest! 
 Could your bedevilled peoples see arise 
 The kindly Sun of west-Canadian skies 
 Over the solitudes of perfect Peace, 
 Surely might blustering forever cease; 
 Then all your unencited multitudes, 
 Calmed into love of calm, might still the broods 
 Who rave, persuasive in the Music Hall, 
 That Man must arm and kill lest worse befall; 
 Would trust the common wisdom of the heart, 
 Which purely whispers that all combats start 
 From that Yahoo suspicion which insists 
 Peace cannot be, even while peace exists; 
 Would resolutely reason — God's fair world 
 Was given all kindly, and by Hate is whirled 
 Into those horrors which shall henceforth end — 
 So vast the earth, wnth room for all to wend 
 In labor's honest ways, their fellows' friend. 
 53 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 To share the western work, to smack its taste, 
 
 Old Peter hies him often to the waste; 
 
 One year, with thirty wagons in his train, 
 
 He took the Athabasca trail again, 
 
 Adventurer, trader, settler all in one, — 
 
 Reapers, provisions, disc-ploughs, cartridge, gun, — 
 
 Sure, as of old, his proper gain to find 
 
 Though every market-place were far behind. 
 
 It chanced he saw six hundred acres spread 
 Golden and ripe, where one sole reaper sped. 
 
 "Alone?" called Peter. 
 
 "Quite," the settler cried. 
 Halting his horses in their sweating stride. 
 
 "This wheat all yours ?" — 
 
 "Well, that I hardly know. 
 Although I paid its planting months ago, 
 The blackbird swarms may get the larger share," 
 The youth was blue-eyed, ruddy, Saxon fair; — 
 
 "My name is Brown — I 'm English — green as grass — 
 And no one warned me what a thundering ass 
 I was to buy, at Home, a section here. 
 Pay cash to have it broke and sowed this year; 
 It was n't till I came across in May 
 I learned my 'farm' is two long days away 
 From railways, neighbors, markets, help from man. — 
 But greenhorns just must do the best they can. — 
 Go on!" — He chirruped gayly to his pair, 
 Once more the reaper's whirring held the air. 
 
 Old Peter laughed and swore; — "Absurd young fool! 
 English as English! Eight-year-olds at school 
 About Quesnel would be too sharp for that ! 
 And yet, tort dieu, he smiles beneath his hat 
 Good-humored, game! — I like the fellow fine! 
 What 's more, the lad 's an Ancestor of mine ! " 
 Turning he faced his plodding wagons then; — 
 "Halt! Halt! Arrke ! Pull up! Unhitch, my men! 
 
 54 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 Unload the reaper-binders — rig 'em quick! 
 Pitch all the tents — right here a week we '11 stick. 
 Who ever saw a prettier spread of wheat ? 
 Dashed if my English blood shall taste defeat!" 
 
 Ten days went by — the grateful settler saw 
 Great stacks enroofed — his acres stubble straw — 
 His fourteen thousand bushels safely stored, 
 And Peter's wagons winding past the ford. 
 
 "Talk me no pay," the oldster laughed him down, 
 "Call it a wedding gift for Mistress Brown, — 
 Scotch, Irish, French, her strains of blood must be — 
 Mixed with your English, Lord the brood we'll see! 
 Fathered and mothered on the surest plan 
 To make 'em through and through Canadian!" 
 So Brown reports Old Peter's joke to-day. 
 Roared as he whipt his team, and raced away. 
 
 Ten days of thirty men and thirty teams ! 
 Well — Peter 's often shrewder than he seems. 
 The veteran's thirty teamsters settled down 
 On homestead blocks about the land of Brown, 
 While Peter bought the Railway Lands between. — 
 Two years — a branch line hastened to the scene! 
 He saw that finish clearly from the start; 
 He 'd picked out settlers that he knew by heart. 
 Furnished them all supplies till next year's Fall, 
 Horses, machinery, wagons, shacks, and all; 
 No note, no mortgage, not a scratch of pen 
 'Twixt him and them — old Peter knew his men. 
 To-day they farm his boughten tracts on shares, 
 And half the township 's his, and half is theirs. 
 
 "It's square," he says. "But fair? I have my doubt. 
 Yet, when old Peter Ottawa peters out, 
 The lads will find him at the latter end, 
 As at the first, a pretty steady friend ; — 
 
 55 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 Thank God my children are not money-mad! 
 
 Meantime, I hold the Landlord system bad. 
 
 Oh yes, it 's been my profit many a year, 
 
 And owning property is a kind of cheer. 
 
 It's handy, too; for if your fellow man 
 
 Is needing help, it 's good to know you can. 
 
 Of course it grits my Irish many a night 
 
 To know a Landlord 's just a parasite; 
 
 But take the world the way it's made we must. 
 
 Meantime I'll hold myself a Landlord-Trust; 
 
 Two hundred tenants get one fourth my ground 
 
 When Peter Ottawa 's finished out his round. 
 
 That kind of saves my Irish fourth from shame, — 
 
 The rest — my Scotch-French-English — stand the blame 
 
 For landed property they cant let go. 
 
 It's God Almighty makes Canadians so!" 
 
 Easy in dogma, Peter holds all creeds 
 Sufficient unto true religion's needs; — 
 "Do unto others as you would they should 
 To you," he says, "sets out the whole of good. 
 The life that 's guided so, its Lord is He 
 Who savored anguish in Gethsemane; 
 No matter if such Christian be a Turk, 
 He'll get what's justly coming for his work. 
 Methodist, Catholic, Shaker, Theist, Jew, 
 Buddhist, it's all according as they DO. 
 No need to name the seven score creeds enrolled 
 Equal in Canada, and each extolled 
 By true-believing seekers after God 
 To be preeminent as Aaron's rod; 
 In what they hold alike is surely found 
 The essential elemental Truth profound. 
 And that 's — there 's something heavenly in the plan 
 Of dealing gently with your fellow man. 
 And something hellish in the heart that sates 
 Its cruel greed and domineering hates." 
 
 56 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 For worship Peter's never in the lurch 
 In any place, or any kind of church, 
 Cathedral glorious built, or chapel rude, 
 He finds in each his spiritual food; 
 Ever he enters reverent, with one prayer : — 
 "Oh! Father, grant thy wandring child to share 
 The blessing sought by them who built this shrine — 
 A sense of nearness to the Soul divine"; — 
 And from no congregation could he part 
 Without a benediction in his heart. 
 
 "Good will," he says, "is true Canadian growth, 
 And Toleration is a word I loathe, — 
 It comes from times when every theolog 
 Hankered to persecute, as some fierce dog 
 Chained to a staple, winks with wicked eyes, 
 Shows snarling teeth, and still quiescent lies. 
 Angry and devilish from tail to jaws, 
 Because he 's clamped — as bigots by our laws. 
 To hearken brag of 'Toleration' here. 
 Where all are equal, makes me kind of rear. 
 And, if I swore, I 'd launch my biggest curse 
 Against such insolence. Can one be worse ? 
 Except, perhaps, that brawling arrogance 
 Which roars opinion that our strain from France 
 Should dumbly bear to have its mother tongue, 
 Creed, laws, and customs trampled into dung, 
 Because one set of soldiers long ago 
 Climbing a hill by night, surprised their foe! 
 Be hanged to conquerors' right! Our monarch's claim 
 Is broadly founded on fair Freedom's name. 
 And half the liberties which we entrench 
 Came from the patient struggle of our French." 
 
 As Scots hold Scottish customs unco sound, 
 
 As Erin is by Erin's sons renowned. 
 
 As France's children celebrate her praise. 
 
 As English folk are staunch for English ways, 
 
 57 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 So Peter guides him by his native Hght; — 
 "Whatever is Canadian, that is right! 
 And if we change it of our ow^n free will, 
 It's right again, because Canadian still! 
 By this great dogma, and by this alone 
 Can native-born Canadians hold their own 
 Against the meddling, not ill-meaning crew 
 Of immigrant advisers What to do; 
 By this alone the sound Canadian stands, 
 Like all his forbears in their native lands." 
 
 Squared to this dogma he 'II philosophize 
 Smilingly contra to the imported Wise, 
 Or Wiseacres, who rail at Separate Schools, 
 Two tongues official, all the liberal rules 
 Our Fathers made, by compromise benign, 
 To ease the creeds, the races, and incline 
 All native hearts one patriot sense to share 
 That here mankind is freer than elsewhere. 
 
 "Homo-gen-e-ity," he drawls. "Absurd 
 To make a fetich of the long-tailed word! 
 And then proceed to allege that its command 
 Is Christian creed from public schools be banned ; 
 A plan in puritanic zeal evoked 
 Mainly to keep one Christian creed provoked, 
 And force its children to a double tax 
 For schooling, lest their children's faith relax. 
 
 "A sillier tyranny no country shows — 
 It 's somewhat as if every youngster's nose 
 To be snipt off were by an edict doomed. 
 Because some few small noses were presumed 
 Likely to relish incense if they grew 
 To know its scent as parent noses do — 
 Then every youthful nose were snipt — save those 
 That went apart for incense when they chose I " 
 
 58 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 "To teach the children reverence for a creed. 
 No matter what, which duly taketh heed 
 Of God's perennial miracle, the World 
 And all the lives about its orbit whirled, — 
 To teach them conscience, duty, love, and awe, 
 Respect for righteous ethics and for Law, 
 But one sure way the Wise have ever found 
 Since our first Fathers spaded up the ground, — 
 And that's to impart, in childhood's earliest schools, 
 A sense for guidance by religious rules. 
 
 "Give me a Methodist that's methodist, 
 A true-blue Lutheran, true-blue Calvinist, 
 An Anglican who is all anglican. 
 Or catholic Catholic, — then I 've got a man 
 Who '11 stand for genuine Right through thick and thin, 
 And help guard Canada from rotten sin. 
 Even a Chinaman who fears his Joss 
 And burns a stick before his moral Boss, 
 Is fitter far to help us run the State 
 Than those greed-sodden empty-hearts who prate 
 That plants, and beasts, and men must share one fate, 
 Material atoms all, enlivened clod, 
 Dust unto Dust, and nothing raised to God. 
 
 "A greedy public victimized by greed. 
 Women who wed determined not to breed, 
 Virtue defined as wishy-washy cant 
 Where long-haired men and short-haired women rant, 
 That 's what they get, and get it more and more, 
 Who oust all creeds from Education's door; 
 That's what they get, a populace dead at heart 
 To Him who still performs His chastening part, 
 Whose mills still grind exceeding small, if slow; — 
 Look at the grist our neighbors have to show; — 
 
 "A Nation which, like Hope's bright star, arose 
 To flash long fear on Man's oppressive foes, 
 
 59 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 Now seeming destined to be ruled at last, 
 
 Controlled, directed contra to its past, 
 
 By them whose teachers ever hold on high, 
 
 "T is Heaven's command, Increase and Multiply. 
 
 "Homo-gen-e-ity! And why should we 
 Ignore the blessings of Diversity ? 
 Where several tongues and many creeds prevail, 
 Though equal all alike in Freedom's pale. 
 No sudden general madness strikes the throng 
 And sweeps the whole to foolishness or wrong. 
 
 "We saw the solidarity of France 
 For war, betray her to the devil's dance; 
 We saw the solid States rise up in rage, 
 An inconsistent, tyrant war to wage 
 For domination over brown allies 
 Who'd served them faithfully, for Freedom's prize; 
 We saw the solid English slowly worked 
 Against their nature, to a war that irked 
 Their inward, temperate sense that, largely, right 
 Lay with the freemen whom they wrought to fight ; 
 And many and many a woeful slaughter more 
 Must Truth lay at the Homogeneous door. 
 
 "Count up the dead by fever, shot, and shell. 
 Count up the cripples, count all tears that fell, 
 Count up the orphan children of the strife. 
 Count the long-yearning heart of parent, wife. 
 Count the vast treasure, count the labor's waste, 
 Count all the cost of passion's headlong haste. 
 And then you '11 know what solid Nations pay 
 When common impulse sweeps good sense away. 
 Flushing the millions madly all at once 
 With Wisdom down, and up the truculent Dunce ! 
 
 "Give me to live where public matters wait 
 The careful issue of the long debate, 
 60 
 
PETER OTTAWA 
 
 Where steady champions of divergent creeds 
 And differing races urge their various needs, 
 Where naught of serious consequence is done 
 Unless approved as fraught with wrong to none, 
 Where every honest man of every kind 
 (Though momentary party passion blind) 
 Shall know full well, within his secret heart, 
 The adopted course is common-sense's part. 
 Expedient in its time, and therefore sound 
 For all alike within the Nation's bound. 
 
 'In such a land, though many a year we go 
 So patient-cautious, neighbors call us slow. 
 We shun the abyss, we move by Reason's light, 
 We march as brothers, and we climb the height 
 Where yet our flag shall gently be unfurled 
 Symbolic of a federated World, 
 Whose problem do we daily solve while we 
 Climb upward, peaceful in Diversity." 
 
 So Peter Ottawa lives, full well content 
 
 To bide the lot he deems as Heaven-sent; 
 
 Keeping his glorious ancestries in mind, 
 
 To all traditions piously inclined; 
 
 He'll plod, and laugh, and hope, and boast, and roam 
 
 About the enormous tracts he calls his Home, 
 
 And thank the Lord that things are as they are. 
 
 And glad his soul with dreams of futures far, — 
 
 Whereby, perchance, full many a time he stands 
 
 Within The House not builded up of Hands. 
 
 6i 
 
PARLIAMENT OF THE AGES 
 PARLIAMENT OF THE AGES 
 
 (an OTTAWA vision) 
 
 Of all who 'd thronged the Commons' galleries 
 For early April evening's main debate, 
 One student visionary sole remained. 
 
 Down on the floor the members argued yet, 
 Though midnight long had passed, and rosy dawn 
 Came streaming in through eastward glory-panes 
 To tint the lofty ashlared westward wall 
 With shining jewel-colored phantasies. 
 
 The Dreamer watched the brilliancies of morn 
 Descending on that opposite westward wall 
 From panelled ceiling down to pointed arch, 
 From arch to shadowy alcoves' ruby panes, 
 Where luminous beamed the storied English Kings, 
 The Crown, the ramping Pards, the Unicorn, 
 With ancient mottoes of the Ancient Realm, 
 And new-made Arms of modern provinces 
 Emblazoned on the young Dominion's shield. 
 
 Now in the watcher's dream the sunrise merged 
 The Fish, the Maple Leaves, the Buffalo 
 With Rose and Thistle, Shamrock, Fleur-de-lys, 
 The Crown, the Kings, the emblem Viking-ships, 
 With some great banner, glorious, indistinct. 
 The Flag of mighty, English-speaking kin, 
 All beaming benison ineffable. 
 Such promise as no mortal ever saw 
 On Land or Sea, save o'er the mystic shores 
 And waters of a halcyon Future dreamed. 
 
 The desks, the Speaker's Chair seemed rapt away, 
 
 No stony walls inclosed the Commons' House, 
 62 
 
PARLIAMENT OF THE AGES 
 
 But in the wonder-light a woodland spread 
 About one venerable northland Oak 
 Silent, except for distant-droning bees, 
 And one tall, blue-eyed, sworded, yellow-haired, 
 Hard-panting Viking, kirtled gray, who stood 
 Beneath the trysting-oak, and strove to quell 
 His gasps, deep-laboring from a lengthy run, 
 While, listening keen, he heard the bees in drone, 
 And watched to hail his second to the tryst 
 Of freemen signalled for a moot of War. 
 
 Then, far around, the forest sounded live 
 With crackling twigs and scores of emulous feet 
 From every quarter of the glooming shade. 
 And wonder-shouts, half vexed and half of praise. 
 Roared at the Champion who to tree of Moot 
 Had speeded foremost of the valorous band. 
 
 Hard-breathing all, they ranged about the Oak 
 
 Equal alike, save one they lifted high 
 
 On shield, and named him for their Council Earl. 
 
 Then there they fell to talk of march and plan, 
 
 Of meat and meal and beer and dragon-ships. 
 
 And Ways and Means, — contentious, passionate, 
 
 Yet one man only speaking up at once. 
 
 Heard silently, approved, or laughed to scorn, 
 
 Yet hearkened closely, since th' elected Earl 
 
 Full briskly stopt each interrupting voice 
 
 By one clear word, quite mystic, quite unknown 
 
 Unto the Dreamer in the gallery, 
 
 For whom no more the banners of the morn 
 
 In wholly visionary colors flared. 
 
 Because imperious from the Speaker's Chair 
 
 A voice called "Order" stoutly, in a tone 
 
 So like the ancient Viking Earl's, the two 
 
 Seemed blent as one within the Dreamer's brain. 
 
 63 
 
PARLIAMENT OF THE AGES 
 
 Scarcely awake, the Student's roaming thought — 
 
 ObHvious to the actual place, the dawn, 
 
 The visioned tryst of Father Odin's men — 
 
 Pondered a Deity who shaped His world 
 
 In such a wise that they must most prevail 
 
 Who choose one Will to rule by Order's call, 
 
 That every Manliness may freely tell 
 
 Its thought upon the public thing in hand, 
 
 And so the general common sense have sway, 
 
 Instead of Policy conceived alone 
 
 By any one hereditary Will, 
 
 Or, worse, take course tumultuous, scarce resolved 
 
 By gabblers chattering unamenable. 
 
 In whose Assemblages prehensile tails, 
 
 Inscrutable to eyesight, swing the Ape 
 
 In futile men through dizzy fooleries. 
 
 And still the talkers on the Commons' floor 
 Contended voluble; while he who heard 
 Their drone, forgot once more, and dreamed a scene 
 More wondrous than the primal Viking moot. 
 
 For one came frowning in, with sword in hand 
 And blazoned armor, and an eye more stern 
 Than gleamed beneath the brow of England's king: — 
 "I call," he spoke, "The Realms to Parliament! 
 Present and Past, by mine, the Founder's right, 
 Simon de Montfort, I, proclaim the call ! " 
 
 It clanged as sounding through The Ages' tombs 
 So loud that lofty-opening doors of Time 
 Revealed in earthly garb a Statesman throng 
 From every Parliament since Montfort breathed, 
 Majestic, turbulent, guileful, eloquent. 
 Profound, laborious, witty, whimsical. 
 Reverend in age, or beardless chinned as boys; 
 Knight, Admiral, Merchant, Lawyer, Pedagogue, 
 Yeoman, Adventurer, Soldier, Minister, 
 64 
 
 \ 
 
PARLIAMENT OF THE AGES 
 
 Poet, Philosopher, Roundhead, Cavalier, 
 Mechanic, Theologue, Philanthropist; 
 Exploring wights whose bones the jackals pawed 
 On Lybian arid sands, and they whose forms 
 Lie, white as marble, stiff nigh either Pole; 
 Spirits whose mortal vestures braved all fates 
 That daring hearts or martyr hopes conceived. 
 
 It seemed not strange to view the Shapes of Eld 
 In formal-friendly conference of talk 
 With some who perished as of yesterday, 
 With some who founded New World congresses, 
 With some who wielded outland Parliaments 
 Which strove so English-like for Liberty 
 That England reeled to win against their few. 
 With some whose mien and accents now control 
 The rising younger Nations of The Race; 
 It seemed not strange, so clear they all alike, 
 Musing the ordered methods of their rule, 
 Blessed dear the Mother of all Parliaments, 
 The Many-mansioned Mother of The Free. 
 
 There prudent Cecil leaned to Laurier 
 While John Macdonald held them both in talk, 
 His "brother," Cartier, nodding to the tale; 
 There Richard Seddon's burly honest ghost 
 With Wilberforce and Hampden close conferred; 
 There Edmund Burke warned Deakin cautiously 
 Of tempting Innovation's bright mirage; 
 There Pitt, the younger, spoke with Cecil Rhodes 
 And stout Oom Paul, of Empire building themes, 
 While Grattan unto icy Parnell sighed 
 Of angry Ireland's immemorial wrong; 
 There Chatham, eagle-faced, with Washington 
 And Franklin nigh, declared, — 'T praise again 
 Your English-minded fight for Liberty — 
 America's victory secured it firm 
 For all the outland broods of England's swarm." 
 65 
 
PARLIAMENT OF THE AGES 
 
 There Strafford gloomed to Russell's lofty gaze, 
 The Stuart circle round each stately neck; 
 There honest-meaning, muddle-headed Cade, 
 Who lingered nigh the portal as of right, 
 Because he called a shirtless Parliament, 
 Received a courteous nod of compliment 
 From mighty Gladstone's comprehensive love; 
 There Peel, considerate still, eyed D'Israeli 
 As if in wonder that the Great Jew's heart 
 Should yet be counted one of England's pride; 
 There Canning, of the soul-revealing face. 
 And bull-dog Cobbett, passionately wroth. 
 And Palmerston and Bright and thousands more 
 All moved at home within the visioned space 
 Until, it seemed, a Puritan Statesman stern, 
 With Puritan Troopers ringed, eyed Harry Vane 
 With "Take away that bauble." Then the Mace 
 Seemed borne afar incredibly, by force, 
 From that great Chamber of the freeman Race, 
 Old Englandish, New Englandish, Canadian, 
 Newfoundlandish, Australian, African, 
 Who hold, or held, the emblem sacrosanct. 
 
 With that great sacrilege the dream dissolved, 
 And clear again the radiancies high 
 Shone o 'er the Ottawa floor of Parliament, 
 While, down below, a high-pitched Loyalist 
 Declared, convinced, with querulous energy, — 
 "The Empire's tottering down ! It cant be saved 
 Unless we get the Preference all around." 
 
 Touched sudden by the Sun's imperial beams, 
 A gargoyle grinned upon the western wall 
 As if it heard the Preferentialist, 
 While gales of laughter echoed far below. 
 Whereat the dreamer, wide awake with glee. 
 Gazed on the golden, crown-surmounted Mace 
 Pillowed serene before the Speaker's Chair; 
 66 
 
PARLIAMENT OF THE AGES 
 
 Then marked, in high-built panes, the Kings gleam clear, 
 
 The Lion-shield, the mystic Unicorn, 
 
 The scrolls, the mottoes, ''For my God and Right," 
 
 And "Evil be to him who evil thinks," 
 
 All seemed the racial Soul transfigured there. 
 
 Ages and Ages old, yet scarcely born. 
 
 So future-glorious, past all dreaming, looms 
 
 The Voluntary Empire of The Blood, 
 
 Monarchical, Republican, all 's one. 
 
 With Vikings rushing to the beacon's flare 
 
 As long as winds shall blow and waters run. 
 
 67 
 
KING VOLSUNG AND THE SKALD 
 
 KING VOLSUNG AND THE SKALD 
 
 He sang on the Heath of the Volsungs, 
 Mid Volsung common men, 
 Shepherds, chafFerers, delvers, 
 And fowlers of the fen, 
 The beaters of the anvil, 
 Wights who mined the ore, 
 Tamers of the horsekind, 
 And fishers from the shore. 
 
 Tall through the press strode Sigmund, 
 
 Lord-warden of the Peace, 
 
 While, shrilling fierce, the blood song 
 
 Rang to the throng's increase. 
 
 And some lips smiled the pleasure 
 
 Of Lynxes scenting prey. 
 
 And some brows frowned the anger 
 
 That holds the wolf at bay. 
 
 "Be dumb, O Skald!" spoke Sigmund, 
 "Thou singst a troublous song, — 
 The King of the kindly Volsungs 
 Shall judge thee right or wrong." 
 Then slow to the Hall of The Mighty, 
 And silently under its roof. 
 Flowed the host of the mid-world people 
 To hear the thing at proof. 
 
 On the High-seat shone King Volsung, 
 His Champions gleamed anear. 
 And the voice of lordly Sigmund 
 Came welcome to his ear: — 
 "Father, King and Judger, 
 Now tell me what to do. 
 This Skald divides thy people — 
 Is praise or death his due ? " 
 68 
 
KING VOLSUNG AND THE SKALD 
 
 "Son Sigmund, tell thy story, 
 And whence the stranger came"; 
 
 "I found him chanting on the Heath, 
 And no man knows his name. 
 Some think him even as Baldur 
 Come back to bless the Earth, 
 And some hear in his blood song 
 The Dwarf-kind's cruel mirth." 
 
 Then softly laughed King Volsung, 
 Yet pierced so keen his eyes 
 Men deemed he saw the stranger 
 As naked from disguise. 
 "O Skald!" he spoke, "fear nothing; 
 Though thou be Dwarf or Elf 
 Come back to trouble mankind, 
 Sing up, and be thyself." 
 
 The stranger eyed the Father 
 As one who works a spell. 
 And from the board his fingers 
 Seized a sounding shell; 
 His touches thrilled its edges. 
 He sang, to words all changed, 
 A strain the brown seafarers 
 Oft chanted where they ranged. 
 
 Then round about the High-seat, 
 And through the huge-built Hall, 
 Did all men deem they listened 
 To waves whelm up and fall; 
 They heard the clash and clatter 
 Of shield-hung longships' sides. 
 Straining sails gale-bellied, 
 The snarl of racing tides. 
 
 While, foul in seamen's nostrils 
 Wallowing bilges stank 
 69 
 
KING VOLSUNG AND THE SKALD 
 
 Of ale and meal long sea-borne, 
 Musty, wormy, rank; 
 Yet, half a-rot with scurvy, 
 They toppled up once more 
 To hail the enchanted looming 
 Of some unheard-of shore. 
 
 Out spoke the gracious Volsung, — 
 "The chant is good to me 
 That draws my shoremen closer 
 To their brothers of the sea. 
 And now, O Skald, I charge thee 
 To voice what song most brings 
 Joy to the hearts of heroes. 
 And men of worth and Kings." 
 
 The stranger pondered, staring 
 So long on Volsung's Pride 
 That soft-hand chafferers clamored: — 
 "Sing what thou sangst outside — 
 The song that stirred our pulses 
 As if through war-horn blown, 
 Thy chant of swords and corpses, 
 And blood on grass bestrown. 
 Hearing, we felt as Champions, 
 Our foes seemed beaten sore. 
 And fierce in exultation 
 We saw them free no more." 
 
 Then, nearing close to Volsung, 
 The singer whispered, "King, 
 Thou knowst how wild the feeble 
 Relish a deathful thing; 
 Here came I hungry, seeking 
 The means for rest and meat — 
 They love to dream them heroes, 
 And praise to Skalds is sweet. 
 But now, O Volsung Father, 
 70 
 
KING VOLSUNG AND THE SKALD 
 
 I read thy kingly heart, 
 
 And I know the battle-mighty 
 
 From war-lust dwell apart." 
 
 Frowned dark the lordly Volsung, — 
 "Shame drowneth as a flood 
 The fame of every singer 
 Who urgeth men to blood. 
 The scorn of sworded heroes 
 Is on the swordless wight 
 Who stirs the weak to clamor 
 That sends the strong to fight; 
 Behold, all blades of battle 
 Around my shield-hung wall 
 Are hid in sheath, lest baleful 
 Their deadly gleams should fall; 
 And yet thy plea shall save thee 
 If now thou singst what brings 
 Most joy to hearts of heroes. 
 And men of worth, and Kings." 
 
 Then beamed so kind the stranger, 
 It seemed that Baldur there 
 Had rose from Niflheim's torpor 
 To bless the shining air; 
 He grasped an iron hammer, 
 He tinkled on the steel, 
 And he sang the ancient stithy 
 Laboring mankind's weal. 
 
 Spike and chain and crowbar, 
 Axes, bolts, and ploughs. 
 Mallet, wedge, and hammer. 
 Bonds to stiffen prows, 
 Every shape of iron 
 Listeners saw anew. 
 For the splendor of the labor 
 Rang the song-craft through. 
 71 
 
KING VOLSUNG AND THE SKALD 
 
 So changed the tinkled measure 
 That looms rocked in the Hall, 
 Spindles twirled, and shuttles 
 Flew 'twixt wall and wall, — 
 Cloth for street and temple, 
 Cloth for sea and wold, 
 And the weavers' patient pleasure 
 Wove in every fold. 
 
 Through all Man's craft and labor 
 The runic rhythm changed, 
 As Valorous Endeavor 
 All useful works it ranged; 
 And the Idler was the Dastard, 
 And the Pleasure-seeker's joy 
 More weak, and far more witless 
 Than the pastime of a boy. 
 
 "O Skald," spoke gladdened Volsung, 
 "Thou sangst the truest song! 
 
 It endeth and amendeth 
 
 Labor's ancient wrong; 
 
 Its glory none had chanted, 
 
 Its pride no ear had heard. 
 
 For the toiling held the toiler 
 
 From the finding of the Word. 
 
 Yet none, save to that throbbing 
 
 My harp hath in its strings. 
 
 Can sing what most joys heroes. 
 
 And men of worth, and Kings." 
 
 He took the harp of Volsung, 
 His fingers lingered slow. 
 He sang of Love commingled 
 With Work, and Joy, and Woe, — 
 The lover's love for lover. 
 The bridegroom and the bride, 
 The father love for children, 
 72 
 
 11 
 
KING VOLSUNG AND THE SKALD 
 
 The wifely true-heart's pride, 
 Brother's love for brother, 
 Love of friend for friend. 
 The yearning, patient mother love 
 That hath no stint nor end; 
 And, even as all World-things 
 Forth from the World-tree start, 
 He sang all love forever flows 
 Back to All-father's heart. 
 
 King Volsung and his heroes. 
 
 All people round the Hall, 
 
 Yearned and flushed and joyed and wept 
 
 As if one soul swayed all. 
 
 None saw the singer vanish. 
 
 So blinding was his spell; — 
 
 And was he of the Gods, or Dwarfs, 
 
 King Volsung would not tell. 
 
 73 
 
BALLADS, LYRICS, MEDITATIONS 
 
THUNDERCHILD'S LAMENT 
 
 When the years grew worse, and the tribe longed sore 
 For a kinsman bred to the white man's lore, 
 To the Mission School they sent forth me 
 From the hunting life and the skin tepee. 
 
 In the Mission School eight years I wrought 
 Till my heart grew strange to its boyhood's thought. 
 Then the white men sent me forth from their ways 
 To the Blackfoot lodge and the roving days. 
 
 "He tells of their God," said the Chiefs when I spake, 
 "But naught of the magic our foemen make, 
 T is a Blackfoot heart with a white man's fear, 
 And all skill forgot that could help him here." 
 
 For the Mission Priest had bent my will 
 From the art to steal and the mind to kill. 
 Then out from the life I had learned sent me 
 To the hungry plain and the dim tepee. 
 
 When the moon of March was great and round. 
 No meat for my father's teeth I found; 
 When the moon of March was curved and thin, 
 No meat for his life could my hunting win. 
 
 Wide went the tracks of my snowshoe mesh, 
 
 Deep was the white, and it still fell fresh 
 
 Far in the foothills, far on the plain, 
 
 Where I searched for the elk and the grouse in vain. 
 
 In the Lodge lay my father, grim in the smoke, 
 His eyes pierced mine as the gray dawn broke, 
 
 11 
 
THUNDERCHILD'S LAMENT 
 
 He gnawed on the edge of the buffalo hide, 
 And I must be accurst if my father died. 
 
 He spoke with wail: "In the famine year 
 
 When my father starved as I starve here, 
 
 Was my heart Hke the squaw's who has fear to slay 
 
 'Mongst the herds of the white man far away ? " 
 
 From the Mission School they sent forth me 
 To the gaunt, wild life of the dark tepee ; 
 With the fear to steal, and the dread to kill, 
 And the love of Christ they had bent my will. 
 
 But my father gnawed on the buffalo hide; — 
 Toward the sunrise trod my snowshoe stride, 
 Straight to the white man's herd it led, 
 Till the sun sank down at my back in red. 
 
 Next dawn was bleak when I slew the steer, 
 I ate of the raw, and it gave me cheer; 
 So I set my feet in the track once more, 
 With my father's life in the meat I bore. 
 
 Far strode the herder, fast on my trail; 
 Noon was high when I heard his hail; 
 I fled in fear, but my feet moved slow. 
 For the load I shouldered sank them low. 
 
 Then I heard no sound but the creak and clack 
 Of his snowshoes treading my snowshoe track, 
 And I saw never help in plain or sky 
 Save that he should die or my father die. 
 
 The Mission Priest had broke my will 
 With the curse on him who blood would spill, 
 But my father starved in the black tepee. 
 And the cry of his starving shrieked to me. 
 
 78 
 
THUNDERCHILD'S LAMENT 
 
 The white world reeled to its cloudy rim, 
 
 The plain reeled red as I knelt by him, — 
 
 Oh, the spot in the snow, how it pulsed and grew, 
 
 How it cried from the mid-white up to the blue! 
 
 For the Mission Priest had sent forth me 
 To the wants and deeds of the wild tepee. 
 Yet the fear of God's strong curse fulfilled. 
 Cried with the blood that would not be stilled. 
 
 They found me not while the year was green 
 And the rose blew sweet where the stain had been, 
 They found me not when the fall-flowers flare, 
 But the red in the snow was ever there. 
 
 To the Jail I fled from the safe tepee. 
 And the Mission Priest will send forth me, 
 A Blackfoot soul cleansed white from stain — 
 Yet never the red spot fades from the plain. 
 
 It glares in my eyes when sunbeams fall 
 Through the iron grate of my stone-gray wall. 
 And I see, through starlight, foxes go 
 To track and to taste of the ruddy snow. 
 
 79 
 
THE MANDAN PRIEST 
 
 THE MANDAN PRIEST 
 
 They call me now the Indian Priest, 
 Their fathers' fathers did not so, 
 The very Mandan name hath ceased 
 From speech since fifty years ago; 
 I am so old my fingers fail 
 My trembling rosary beads to tell, 
 Yet all my years do not avail 
 My Mandan memories to quell. 
 
 The whole flat world I 've seen how changed 
 Within my lifetime's hundred years; 
 O'er plains where herding buffalo ranged 
 Came strange new grass with white men's steers, 
 The lowing cattle passed as dreams, 
 Their pastures reared a farmer race, 
 Now city windows flash their gleams 
 Nigh our old Monastery's place. 
 
 The Prior gives to me no more 
 
 Even a task of inward praise, 
 
 The Brethren bear me through our door 
 
 To bask me here on summer days; 
 
 I am so old I cannot kneel, 
 
 I cannot hear, I cannot see, 
 
 Often I wonder if I feel 
 
 The very sunbeams warming me. 
 
 Yet do I watch the Mandan dogs 
 And Mandan ponies slain for meat 
 That year the squaws chewed snakes and frogs 
 That babes might tug a living teat. 
 And Mandan braves, in daylight dance. 
 Gashed side and arm and painted breast. 
 Praying The Manitou might trance 
 No more the buffalo from their quest. 
 80 
 
THE MANDAN PRIEST 
 
 A circled plain all horse-high grassed 
 
 Our mounting scouts beheld at dawn, 
 
 They saw naught else though far they passed 
 
 Apart before the sun was gone; 
 
 Each night's ride back through starlit lanes 
 
 They saw the Tepee sparks ascend, 
 
 And hoped, and sniffed, and knew their pains 
 
 Of famine had not yet an end. 
 
 Alone within his magic tent 
 The new-made Midi wrought the spell 
 That soothed Life's Master to relent 
 In years the Old remembered well. 
 He cried, — "The Mission Priests have wreaked 
 Some curse that balks the Ancient Art!" — 
 "Thou useless Fool," the war-chief shrieked, 
 And sped the knife-thrust to his heart. 
 
 With that, " What comes ? " my mother screamed 
 How quick the squatted braves arose! 
 Far in the south the tallest deemed 
 He saw the flight of up-scared crows; 
 Above the horse-high grass came slow 
 A lifted Cross, a tonsured head, — 
 And what the meaning none could know 
 Until the black-robed rider said : — 
 
 "Mandans, I bear our Mission's word, — 
 Your children, brought to us, shall eat." 
 Scarce had the fierce young War-chief heard 
 Ere fell the Blackrobe from his seat; 
 The Chief held high the reeking knife, 
 He frowned about the Woman's Ring, 
 And yet my mother's face took life 
 Anew in pondering the thing. 
 
 She stole at night the dead Priest's scrip. 
 His meagre wallet's hard-baked food, 
 8i 
 
THE MANDAN PRIEST 
 
 His Crucifix, his waist-rope strip 
 All blackened with his martyr blood; 
 Through dark, day-hidden, hand in hand, 
 We traced his trail for ninety mile. 
 She starved herself that I might stand, 
 She spoke me comfort all the while : — 
 'So shah thou live, my little son, 
 The white men's magic shalt thou learn. 
 And when the hungry moons are run, 
 Be sure thy mother shall return ; 
 Oh, sweet my joy when, come again, 
 I find thy Mandan heart untamed. 
 As fits a warrior of the plain. 
 That I, thy mother, be not shamed." 
 
 She left me while the black-robed men 
 Blest and beseeched her sore to stay; 
 No voice hath told my heart since then 
 How fared my mother's backward way. 
 Years, years within the Mission School, 
 By love, by prayer they gained my heart; 
 It held me to Our Order's rule, 
 From all the Mandan life apart. 
 
 From tribe to tribe, through sixty years, 
 The Mandan Priest for Christ he wrought, 
 And many an Indian heart to tears. 
 And many a soul to God he brought; 
 Yet do I hear my mother's voice 
 Soft lingering round her little son. 
 And, O dear Lord, dost Thou rejoice 
 In all my mother's child hath done .'' 
 
 82 
 
CHIEF NEPOQUAN'S LAMENT 
 
 CHIEF NEPOQUAN'S LAMENT 
 
 (salteaux-cree) 
 
 The Judge doomed me, — "At Friday noon — hanged by 
 
 the neck till dead "; 
 But can he catch the diving loon or hang the spirit fled ? 
 
 When young I thought the white man just, a white Chief's 
 
 heart most wise; 
 It was where snow lay dry as dust beneath the far north 
 
 skies. 
 The way was hungry, cold, and long, yet we could hunt no 
 
 more. 
 Since madness came on one so strong he must be held by 
 
 four; 
 Three days with him we camped in fast, his blood we would 
 
 not shed. 
 It seemed the Fiend in him would last until we all were 
 
 dead. 
 
 John Franklin's doctor was our chief; when sure the man 
 
 was mad 
 He shot him for his men's relief, but first he spoke full 
 
 sad, 
 "My men, this man your Chief must kill, though hard the 
 
 duty be ; 
 Let God and ye judge if I spill this blood in cruelty." 
 
 It is long seventy years since then, for I am wondrous 
 
 old, 
 My wrinkled fingers tremble when they draw the noose they 
 
 hold. 
 Yet shall they twist it till I choke — and may my blood be 
 
 strong 
 Upon the red-coat Judge who spoke what crazed my heart 
 
 with wrong. 
 
CHIEF NEPOQUAN'S LAMENT 
 
 I told him truth ; — the squaw she craved no more of drink 
 
 or meat 
 After her first-born died, she raved forever on her feet 
 Till dow^n she fell; there dead she lay till dark came on with 
 
 snow; 
 Then rose the Shape to stalk away, because a Wendigo 
 Had entered in the corpse to take it far within the Wood 
 And use the woman Form to slake its endless thirst for blood, 
 Stealing on Man and Beast alike, scaring afar the game 
 In terror lest that Demon strike which bears the dreaded 
 
 name. 
 
 They seized the Thing; they knew our Law; it says "A 
 
 hunting band 
 Shall bring the crazy Brave or Squaw beneath the Chiefs own 
 
 hand." 
 
 That band was small, its wigwams three, the Spring began to 
 
 stir. 
 It was the moon when wild things be clad in their richest fur; 
 The Brave who leaves his traps that moon leaves there his 
 
 chance to thrive. 
 Yet did those law-abiders soon tie down that Shape alive 
 To sled it over forest floor, and over rocky hills. 
 And drag it to my wigwam door, that I might end their ills. 
 To me they spoke, — "Our part is done — we marched in 
 
 fear five days ; 
 Tou are our Chief, the chosen one to set the noose that slays." 
 
 The Squaw had been my daughter's child, it seemed a pass- 
 ing breeze 
 
 Since she a round-eyed babbler smiled in play about my 
 knees. 
 
 To hear the Demon howl her tones my heart of hearts was i 
 sore, * 
 
 At times I hoped that in the moans herself came back once 
 more. 
 
 I wrought for her three days; I laid good medicine all about 
 
 84 
 
CHIEF NEPOQUAN'S LAMENT 
 
 To make the Wendigo afraid, and fright that Devil out; 
 And oftentimes she lay as dead, and often rose my hope 
 That from her Shape the fiend had fled, to shun the stran- 
 gler's rope. 
 
 My Band had twenty-eight to feed, our hunters were but five 
 
 To chase the deer, that none might need of meat to keep 
 alive ; 
 
 Yet three by night and two by day must watch the seeming 
 squaw, 
 
 Whose form the Fiend would steal away — such is the 
 Salteaux law; 
 
 Our meat was gone the second night, no man could hunt- 
 ing go, 
 
 And, when my people starved, their fright grew wild with 
 hunger's woe. 
 
 " fVe starve, we die, Chief ! " they cried, " unless the Thing 
 
 shall choke "; 
 So round its neck the noose I plied within my wigwam smoke, 
 Of that the Stranglers' eyes saw naught while outside ends 
 
 they drew; 
 I fled before they pulled them taut — so none had blood to 
 
 rue. 
 Yet day or night I found no rest, for when I fell asleep 
 The round-eyed babbler's fingers prest my eyes to wake and 
 
 weep. 
 
 The talk about my justice went so far the red-coat band 
 Sledged for a moon, and reached my tent, and brought me 
 where I stand. 
 
 The red-coat Judge spoke, — "Friday noon — hanged by 
 
 the neck till dead " ; 
 But can he catch the diving loon or seize the spirit fled ? 
 
 I 've seen the Salteaux babes grow gray since first my years 
 were old, 
 
 85 
 
CHIEF NEPOQUAN'S LAMENT 
 
 My wrinkled fingers shake and sway to draw the noose they 
 
 hold, 
 Yet do they work the Salteaux rule, I die by Salteaux 
 
 thong, 
 And here defy the judging fool who crazed my heart with 
 
 wrong. 
 
 86 
 
RIDGEWAY FIGHT 
 
 RIDGEWAY FIGHT 
 
 (1866) 
 
 (iRISH-CANADIAN BALLAd) 
 
 This tale is told by one so old that all she loved are dead, 
 Tet faintly glows the Irish rose where once her cheeks were red. 
 
 My boy was born where fruit and corn, widespread by Wel- 
 
 land's shore, 
 Sway in the moaning monotone from far Niagara's roar. 
 His father's eyes on England's skies looked first when 
 
 brought to birth. 
 And strong the stride of manful pride he had from English 
 
 worth. 
 My own good name hath Irish fame, my heart is Erin's heart, 
 My boy soon learned how hot it burned to take Old Ireland's 
 
 part. 
 
 Yet his young life was free from strife 'twixt Saxon blood and 
 
 Celt, 
 Because so kind his father's mind leaned unto all I felt. 
 Whose generous way was oft to say, "I love my Irish rose; 
 That hearts must stand for native land the heart of England 
 
 knows." 
 And swift my voice would then rejoice, "Our Irish hearts 
 
 but crave 
 That England be as you to me, and not as Lord to Slave." 
 
 Our threefold cord the loving Lord strengthened each year 
 
 anew. 
 Till hope her time had come to prime once more in Ireland 
 
 grew; 
 'Twas in the year when Azrael's spear had smote the fighting 
 
 South 
 My yearning stirred to hear the word that passed from 
 
 mouth to mouth ; — 
 
 87 
 
RIDGEWAY FIGHT 
 
 "Our blood can boast in either host of the battle-weary 
 States, 
 
 Sons who have fought as heroes ought against and for the 
 Fates ; 
 
 Their hands and eyes in War are wise, their hearts to Ire- 
 land true, 
 
 And hath not God made them His rod to do what He would 
 do r 
 
 If once they stand on Irish land against her ancient 
 wrong, 
 
 Then sorrows sighed since freedom died shall end in Erin's 
 song." 
 
 In that strange year my son knew clear what longing swelled 
 
 my heart, 
 While yet the thought his father taught seemed scarce from 
 
 mine apart; 
 So his young mind to this inclined, "Freedom is Ireland's 
 
 right, 
 I wish her well though she rebel against free England's 
 
 might." 
 
 When so I heard him speak that word, how could my eyes 
 
 but shine ? 
 And if it brought his father aught of grief he made no 
 
 sign. 
 But uttered grave, "May Heaven save your mother's race 
 
 from pain, 
 And mine from blood spilt as a flood that England's law may 
 
 reign," 
 
 So strong they be who hold the sea that when that year was 
 
 past, 
 Erin no more could hope her shore might hear her bugle 
 
 blast; 
 Yet did her rage the strife to wage bring this strange thought 
 
 to birth, 
 "My sons, belike, may England strike upon Canadian earth." 
 
 88 
 
RIDGEWAY FIGHT 
 
 When first we heard that raving word my son laughed out in 
 
 scorn, — 
 "A Fool's parade 'twere to invade the soil where I was 
 
 born! 
 Here Irish folk have felt no yoke, our equal laws they share, 
 'T is madness starts in Irish hearts that give such talk to 
 
 air!" 
 
 Yet when next June the birds their tune through Welland 
 
 orchards poured, 
 Upon the land a Fenian band came seeking England's sword. 
 
 In student's gown Toronto town then held my darling son, 
 For Youth must roam afar from home lest learning be not 
 
 won. 
 Within his breast like fire prest the urging, "Take your 
 
 stand — 
 Haste to obey — no hour delay — defend your native land — 
 Your true-horn heart — your natural part — your Country's 
 
 cause maintain — 
 Were foemen come with England's drum your duty were as 
 
 plain " 
 
 Ere set of sun he shouldered gun with Rifles of the Queen, 
 Nor deemed it strange in green to range against the flag of 
 green. 
 
 "Near Ridgeway you shall rendezvous," those volunteers 
 
 were told, 
 "Where shall be sent a regiment of regulars famed of old; 
 Munitions they shall bring your way — march ye with 
 
 twenty rounds — 
 Your pouches full for trigger pull shall be when battle 
 
 sounds." 
 
 That regiment ? Oh, yes, 'twas sent, — but Irish was its soul, 
 Its veterans dragged their feet and lagged sullen beyond 
 control ; 
 
 89 
 
RIDGEWAY FIGHT 
 
 Though undismayed, pretence they laid that heat and sun- 
 stroke scared; 
 
 Who blames their heart to shun a part against the Blood 
 they shared ? 
 
 Three miles of march their Colonel's starch melted so soft 
 he lay 
 
 Quartered for night in broad daylight, — and Ridgeway 
 leagues away. 
 
 Oh, blossomed trees of Welland leas, how could ye bloom 
 
 so fair 
 With fragrant joy when on my boy lay such a load of care ? 
 For in his heart the Irish part dreamed / must suffer woe 
 Whene'er I learned my son had turned his hand against that 
 
 foe. 
 And one, far born o'er seas, that morn had called him 
 
 " Traitor foul " 
 Because he spoke of Ireland's yoke, and met the Cockney 
 
 scowl 
 With, "Oh, that earth which gave me birth should see 
 
 Canadians slain 
 As if in fight that England's might should trample Ireland's 
 
 pam! 
 
 Yet did his will set hard to kill when once the bullets flew, 
 And by his side the comrade died whom all his life he knew; 
 Then wroth he fought, taking no thought beyond that field 
 
 of strife 
 Where every lead his rifle sped searched for an Irish life. 
 
 Their twenty rounds were spent — no sounds of regulars 
 marching true 
 
 To keep the pledge by point and edge to reach the rendez- 
 vous. 
 
 With them not nigh a fresh supply of cartridge ours must 
 lack; 
 
 Though few men quailed when pouches failed they drew to 
 Ridgeway back. 
 
 90 
 
RIDGEWAY FIGHT 
 
 But had my son his battle done ? Not he ; but bitter swore, — 
 " Better to He beneath this sky with him who breathes no 
 
 more 
 Than native feet should here retreat." He fixed his bayonet 
 
 steel — 
 And By the Dead who there had bled, its point the foe should 
 
 feel! 
 
 "And now," said he, "you 'traitored' me. Come now and 
 
 play the game 
 Up to the end, my Cockney friend, who fights in England's 
 
 name! " 
 
 From South and North alike sprung forth to lift the Sun- 
 burst's light. 
 
 Those Fenians came from fields of fame, and knew all ways 
 of Fight; 
 
 So when alone his bayonet shone, there many a veteran 
 breath 
 
 Spoke, — "Here comes one who scorns the sun and volun- 
 teers for Death! 
 
 By Heaven, the pride that's in his stride! The lad's too 
 young to kill; 
 
 Now test him fair, yet try to spare his life against his 
 will." 
 
 For still the Brave will heroes save. God bless the Irish 
 voice. 
 
 Which never yet did once forget in valor to rejoice ! 
 
 As in he ran he chose his man with such a glint of eye 
 That all knew there how well the stare meant Tou or I shall 
 
 die ; 
 But when his steel with One would deal, five clashed to 
 
 check the thrust, 
 And yet his tierce delivered fierce brought down his man to 
 
 dust 
 Ere other five took him alive, — for live they must who 
 
 must. 
 
 91 
 
RIDGEWAY FIGHT 
 
 O'Neil he cried in warlike pride, — "Well done, you English 
 
 boy! 
 All soldiers here rouse up the cheer, — God give his mother 
 
 joy'" 
 
 But down he sank, and sore he drank of shame to be so 
 
 weak 
 That when he heard that Irish word the tears ran down his 
 
 cheek. 
 Yet why he wept the secret kept — so strong his nature's 
 
 pride, 
 And no man there guessed Erin's share in him who had 
 
 defied. 
 
 Their raid was past, they hurried fast to gain a friendly 
 
 shore. 
 They left him there as free as air — yet, from afar, once 
 
 more 
 They cheered the lad who 'd strode as glad to charge their 
 
 line alone. 
 Then long he stood in dream, he could hear who but me in 
 
 moan 
 That Ireland's day had passed away, and that my own 
 
 son's heart 
 Had chose the lot to fire the shot against sad Erin's part. 
 
 But when he came to take my blame I kissed him fond, and 
 
 cried, — 
 "Son of my love, 't is God above makes dear our Country's 
 
 side; 
 Child of this Land, no man can stand more true to parent's 
 
 worth 
 Than when his life is pledged in strife to guard his native 
 
 earth; 
 Let who might come with outland drum, your duty were as 
 
 plain." 
 Dear long-dead boy, thy -flush of joy delights my soul again 1 
 
 92 
 
DAY DREAM 
 
 DAY DREAM 
 
 When high above the busy street 
 Some hidden voice poured Mary's song, 
 Oh, then my soul forgot the beat 
 And tumult of the city's throng, 
 And bells and voices murmured low, 
 Blent to a dreamy monotone 
 That chimed and changed in mystic flow. 
 And wove a spell for me alone. 
 
 The towering blocks no more were there, 
 No longer pressed the crowd around, 
 All freely roamed a magic air 
 Within a vast horizon's bound; 
 Beneath a sky of lucent gray 
 Far stretched the circled northern plain. 
 Wild sunflowers decked a prairie gay, 
 And one dear autumn came again. 
 
 Before me went a winsome maid, 
 And oh the mien with which she stept 
 Her long brown hair without a braid 
 Concealed the shoulders that it swept; 
 And, glancing backward, me she gave 
 The smile so angel kind, so wise — 
 That look of love, those eyes so grave, 
 Once made my earthly Paradise. 
 
 Divinely on my darling went. 
 The wild flowers leaning from her tread, 
 Enrapt I followed on intent, 
 Till, ah, the gracious vision fled; 
 The plain gave place to blocks of gray. 
 The sunlit Heaven to murky cloud. 
 Staring I stood in common day, 
 And never knew the street so loud. 
 93 
 
THE CANADIAN ROSSIGNOL 
 
 THE CANADIAN ROSSIGNOL 
 
 (in may) 
 
 When furrowed fields of shaded brown, 
 
 And emerald meadows spread between, 
 And belfries towering from the town, 
 
 All blent in wavering mists are seen; 
 When quickening woods with freshening hue 
 
 Along Mount Royal rolling swell. 
 When winds caress and May is new. 
 
 Oh, then my shy bird sings so well! 
 
 Because the bloodroots flock so white, 
 
 And blossoms scent the wooing air, 
 And mounds with trillium flags are dight, 
 
 And dells with violets frail and rare; 
 Because such velvet leaves unclose. 
 
 And new-born rills all chiming ring, 
 And blue the sun-kissed river flows, 
 
 My timid bird is forced to sing. 
 
 A joyful flourish lilted clear, 
 
 Four notes, then fails the frolic song, 
 And memories of a sweeter year 
 
 The wistful cadences prolong; — 
 'A sweeter year — Oh, heart too sore ! — 
 
 / cannot sing I " — So ends the lay. 
 Long silence. Then awakes once more 
 
 His song, ecstatic with the May. 
 
 94 
 
THE CANADIAN ROSSIGNOL 
 
 THE CANADIAN ROSSIGNOL 
 
 (in June) 
 
 Prone where maples widely spread 
 I watch the far blue overhead, 
 Where little pillowy clouds arise 
 From naught to die before my eyes; 
 Within the shade a pleasant rout 
 Of dallying zephyrs steal about; 
 Lazily as moves the day 
 Odors float and faint away 
 From roses yellow, red, and white. 
 That prank yon garden with delight; 
 Round which the locust blossoms swing, 
 And some late lilacs droop for spring. 
 Anon swells up a dubious breeze, 
 Stirring the half-reluctant trees. 
 Then, rising to a mimic gale. 
 Ruffles the massy oaks to pale. 
 Till spent its sudden force, once more 
 The zephyrs come that went before; 
 Now silvery poplars shivering stand, 
 And languid lindens waver bland. 
 Hemlock traceries scarcely stir, 
 All the pines of summer purr. 
 Hovering butterflies I see. 
 Full of business shoots the bee, 
 Straight from the valley is his flight 
 Where crowding marbles solemn white 
 Show through the trees and mutely tell 
 How there the low-laid loved rest well. 
 Half hid in the grasses there 
 Red breast thrushes jump and stare, 
 Sparrows flutter up like leaves 
 Tossed upon the wind in sheaves, 
 Curve-winged swallows slant and slide 
 95 
 
THE CANADIAN ROSSIGNOL 
 
 O'er the graves that stretch so wide. 
 Steady crows go laboring by — 
 Ha! the Rossignol is nigh! 
 
 Rossignol, why will you sing, 
 Though lost the lovely world of spring ? 
 'T was well that then your roulades rang 
 Of joy, despite of every pang; 
 But now the sweet, the bliss is gone — 
 Nay, now the summer joy is on, 
 And lo, the foliage and the bloom, 
 The fuller life, the bluer room, 
 'T was this the sweet spring promised me. 
 Oh, bird, and can you sing so free, 
 Though never yet the roaming wind 
 Could leave earth's countless graves behind ? 
 And will you sing when summer goes 
 And leaves turn brown and dies the rose ? 
 Oh, then how brave shall Autumn dress 
 The maple out with gorgeousness ! 
 And red-cheeked apples deck the green. 
 And corn wave tall its yellow sheen. 
 But, bird, bethink you well, I pray, 
 Then marches winter on his way. 
 
 Ah, luinter — yes, ah yes — but still, 
 Hark ! sweetly chimes the summer rill, 
 And joy IS here and life is strong. 
 And love still calls upon my song. 
 No, Rossignol, sing not that strain. 
 Triumphant 'spite of all the pain, — 
 She cannot hear you, Rossignol, 
 She does not pause and flush, your thrall, 
 She does not raise that slender hand 
 And, poised, lips parted, understand 
 What you are telling of the years. 
 Her brown eyes soft with happy tears. 
 She does not hear a note of all, 
 Ah, Rossignol, ah, Rossignol! 
 96 
 
THE CANADIAN ROSSIGNOL 
 
 But skies are blue, and flowers bloom, 
 And roses breathe the old perfume, 
 And here the murmuring of the trees 
 In all of lovelier mysteries — 
 And maybe now she hears thy song 
 Pouring the summer rills along, 
 Listens with joy that still to me 
 Remain the summer time and thee. 
 
 97 
 
SWEETEST WHISTLE EVER BLEW 
 
 SWEETEST WHISTLE EVER BLEW 
 
 A DAY when April willows fringed the pool 
 
 Of fifty years ago with freshening gold, 
 Myself came trudging from the country school 
 
 With my tall grandsire of the wars of old; 
 His peaceful jack-knife trimmed a ravished shoot, 
 
 Nicked deep the green and hollowed out the white, 
 To fashion for the child a willow flute. 
 His age exulting in the shrill delight; 
 
 "For so," he said, "my grandsire made 
 The sweetest whistles ever blew, 
 When I and he were you and me. 
 And all the world was new." 
 
 To-day in mine a grandchild's balmy hand 
 Eagerly thrills as toward the pool we go. 
 He confident that never sea nor land 
 
 Wotted of wonders more than grandsires know; 
 They sail all seas, explore all giants' caves. 
 
 Play wolves and bears, and panthers worse by far, 
 Are scalped complacently as Indian braves. 
 And little boys their favored comrades are; 
 By grandpa's lore, well learned of yore, 
 
 I hold the rank I most esteem 
 
 Of dear and wise in Billy's eyes, 
 
 And boast the pomp supreme. 
 
 Now, blade unclasped, I skirt the marge to choose 
 
 One withe from all the willow's greening throng, 
 The imperfect branches tacitly refuse, 
 
 To clip at last the wand without a prong; 
 Its knots I scan, the smoothest reach to find, 
 
 Cut true around the tender bark a ring. 
 Bevel the end, and artful tip the rind. 
 
 Draw out the pith, and shape the chambered thing 
 
 98 
 
SWEETEST WHISTLE EVER BLEW 
 
 Exactly so as long ago, 
 
 In April weather sweet as this, 
 
 My grandsire did when he would bid 
 A whistle for a kiss. 
 
 Now Billy snuggles palm again in mine, 
 
 "Over the hills," he blows, "and far away." 
 O pipe of Arcady, how clear and fine 
 
 Thy single note salutes the yearning day! 
 The breeze in branches bare, the whistling wing. 
 The subtle-bubbling frogs, the bluebird's call. 
 The quivering sounds of ever-piercing spring, 
 That one thin willow note attunes them all; 
 And, far and near at once, I hear 
 The sweetest whistle ever blew, 
 Lilting again the olden strain, 
 And all the world is new. 
 
 99 
 
OUR KINDERGARTNER 
 
 OUR KINDERGARTNER 
 
 When April's tinge was on the fringe 
 
 Of willows near the pool, 
 
 She dipt their shoots to fashion flutes 
 
 For children of her school; 
 
 She sloped the tips to suit the lips 
 
 Of rosiness around, 
 
 Drew forth the pith and shaped it with 
 
 The chambers of the sound. 
 
 His fancy said : " That way was made 
 
 The magic pipe of Pan, 
 
 Which crept so rare upon the air 
 
 It crazed a listening man." 
 
 She took a flute and shrilled salute 
 
 Of Arcady so clear, 
 
 He felt the ring and chime of spring 
 
 Thrilling through his ear; 
 
 A mystic sense of rapt suspense 
 
 Mingled strange with all 
 
 The bubbling frogs, the echoing dogs, 
 
 The bluebirds' mating call. 
 
 So sweet the charm, he felt no harm, 
 
 Tet there his craze began, 
 
 With every note her pulsing throat 
 
 Blew on the pipe of Pan. 
 
 lOO 
 
ELEGY FOR "THE DOCTOR" 
 ELEGY FOR "THE DOCTOR" 
 
 On the Death of Dr. W. H. Drummond 
 
 Landlord, take a double fee, and let the banquet slide, 
 Send the viands, send the wine to cheer the poor outside. 
 Turn the glasses upside down, leave the room alight. 
 Let the flower-strown tables stand glittering all the night. 
 
 Everybody's friend is gone, hushed his gentle mirth. 
 Sweeter-hearted comrade soul none shall know on earth, 
 Burly body, manly mind, upright lifted head. 
 Viking eyes and smiling lips — Dr. Drummond 'j- dead ! 
 
 For the Club, for the feast, and for the busy street 
 Primal natural airs he brought, oh, so fresh and sweet. 
 Brattling rivers, gleaming lakes, wild-flower forest floors. 
 To heal the City's weary heart with balms of out-of-doors. 
 
 But where the campfire-litten boughs swing swaying over- 
 head. 
 
 And wondering wolf and lynx shrill wild the boding of their 
 dread. 
 
 And strangely through the moony night the hooting owlets 
 roam. 
 
 His tones would yearn in gladsome talk about the doors of 
 Home. 
 
 In sympathy with every pain of all who bear the yoke, 
 
 There was a natural piety in all he wrote and spoke, 
 
 He warmed with Irish pride in deeds defying Might's strong 
 
 host. 
 Yet ever shared the Saxon sense for ruling at the roast. 
 
 He bore the poet's shifting heart that puts itself in place 
 Of every humble kindly soul it knows of every race, 
 
 lOI 
 
ELEGY FOR "THE DOCTOR" 
 
 He felt their sorrow as their joy, but chose the strain to cheer 
 And help the differing breeds to share one patriot feeUng here. 
 
 There was no better loyaHst than this whose humors played 
 In pleasant human wise to serve the State two races made — 
 O Landlord, turn the glasses down, and leave the room 
 
 alight. 
 And let the flower-sweet silence tell his shade our grief 
 
 to-night. 
 
 102 
 
HAIL TO THE CHIEF 
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF 
 
 On Sir Wilfrid Laurier's Return from the Imperial 
 Conference, 1907 
 
 Again we greet the patient heart, 
 
 The conference-guiding master-hand. 
 
 Who put illusive dreams apart. 
 
 And wrought as careful wisdom planned. 
 
 With welcoming hearts we strive in vain 
 
 To voice the unutterable cheers 
 
 That yearn for him whose works attain 
 
 For us the longing hopes of years. 
 
 For spirits twain possess the hearts 
 That hold our North from sea to sea; 
 The one a vigorous love imparts 
 Of self-dependent liberty, 
 The other, sweet with kinship's thought, 
 Forever strives to bridge the main; 
 And all our country's years were fraught 
 With hope to serve the spirits twain. 
 
 While cynics scorned the dual dream, 
 Proclaiming one must surely die. 
 Our lifted eyes beheld the gleam 
 Afar, of days now looming nigh ; 
 The Voluntary Empire's form 
 Of comrade commonwealths allied, 
 Stands fit, at last, to front the storm, 
 And thrust Time's hurricane aside. 
 
 With countries Old and countries New, 
 All willing champions round the Throne, 
 With each to separate freedom true. 
 Yet shaped in league to hold their own; 
 
 103 
 
HAIL TO THE CHIEF 
 
 We bless the Chief whose patriot soul 
 Held both our spirits reconciled, 
 And grasped the hour in firm control 
 When on our dreams Occasion smiled. 
 
 104 
 
A CANADIAN REPLY 
 
 A CANADIAN REPLY 
 (to one who would refuse liberty to the boers) 
 
 If ancient England nobly sing, 
 
 We hearken to the song. 
 Her words ten million echoes bring 
 
 To urge the strain along; 
 It rallies farm and market-square, 
 
 If so the note be true, — 
 But what if every verse declare 
 
 But one inspired Yahoo ? 
 
 Fifty thousand horse and foot 
 
 Trail back from Table Bay 
 In shame to recollect the toot 
 
 To which they sailed away; 
 Five times fifty thousand more 
 
 The fight could barely save, 
 With aid from every British shore 
 
 To quell the burgher brave. 
 
 Through forests dim, o'er myriad lakes. 
 
 Where sea-wide prairies swell, 
 It seemed our hearts were Hke to break; 
 
 What time the Shame befell 
 Of "I regret I must report 
 
 Surrendering the Nek," 
 And "Guns all captured," "No support," 
 
 Death dogging kop and trek. 
 
 From stroke of axe, from herded ranch, 
 From league-long furrows black. 
 
 We sent our children stark and staunch 
 To tread the battle track; 
 
 All bound by grace on England's part 
 To help her hoe the row, 
 105 
 
A CANADIAN REPLY 
 
 But never hatred in their heart 
 Against the hero foe. 
 
 Majuba Hill! Oh, yes, we grieve 
 
 Full sorely at the name, 
 But what hyena can conceive 
 
 We would revenge the blame ? 
 Ye braves who stormed a mountain crest 
 
 To fight with five to one. 
 By God, praise thunders in the breast 
 
 To think such deed was done! 
 
 And is it England's voice declares 
 
 That yielded men whose souls 
 Confronted all that valor dares 
 
 Must lack the freeman's polls ? 
 Must lack the balm that soothed away 
 
 Canadian memories sore. 
 And drew to England's battle day 
 
 As friends the foes of yore ? 
 
 Now bear the strain to London town, 
 
 Oh, winds of England's main, 
 And tell the heirs of old renown 
 
 We lilt their old refrain : 
 'Full measure heaped and running o'er 
 
 Of every freeman's right 
 Subdues the heart of heroes more 
 
 Than all the storms of fight." 
 
 io6 
 
TO THE PRINCESS LOUISE 
 TO THE PRINCESS LOUISE^ 
 
 On the Death of the Princess Alice, December, 1878 
 
 Princess but yesterday, to-day 
 You are to us so very near 
 By human sorrow, that away 
 All forms and titles disappear; 
 Your mourning glooms the winter day, 
 Sunshiny clear although it show. 
 And all its glittering white array 
 Seems for our grief a shroud of woe. 
 
 Our bells ring out, and in the air 
 So long vibrate with mournful tone 
 That English bells seem answering there. 
 The sound from far-off belfries blown ; 
 They toll together here as there. 
 For yours and you and theirs and ours, 
 And what if now her spirit were 
 Rejoiced by all the swooning towers ? 
 
 * The Princess Louise is the wife of the Duke of Argyle, in 1878 Governor- 
 General of Canada. 
 
 107 
 
ENVIRONMENT 
 
 ENVIRONMENT 
 
 Our prison house extends so wide 
 It walls the farthest Oceans' tide, 
 Enarches every Tropic's bloom, 
 And gives the opposing Arctics room. 
 
 Its vistas do all stars include 
 
 In one abysm of soHtude, 
 
 Whose hollow antres swoon where Thought 
 
 In vain imagines Aught or Naught. 
 
 At time, to ease the jail, we deem 
 Ourselves companioned in the dream, 
 Conceiving kindred Spirits share 
 The doom each soul alone must bear. 
 
 They seem to move and smile and moan 
 With sense of all the heart hath known, 
 Which helps the pent-up soul beguile 
 The tension of its domicile; 
 
 Till, doubtful of the fancied zest 
 It made to soothe its deep unrest. 
 Once more the solitary thrall 
 Ponders the illimitable Wall. 
 
 "Perchance another Thought supreme 
 Includes the Dreamer and the Dream ? 
 Or doth the soundless Prison zone 
 Confine One absolutely lone ? " 
 
 'T is only when Love's angel eyes 
 Gaze steadfast from a mortal guise, 
 Tranquil, sincere, divine, devout. 
 They still the tumult of the Doubt. 
 
 io8 
 
ENVIRONMENT 
 
 Then, prisoning Power, we do accept 
 The Mystery that Thou hast kept. 
 And cheerful in Thy bondage dwell, 
 Blest creatures of Thy miracle. 
 
 109 
 
RESURRECTION 
 
 RESURRECTION 
 
 When iron taskwork levelled low 
 My youthful dreams of pride, 
 'Twas "Oh to reach the end and go ' 
 Beyond all seas," I sighed; 
 'For freedom's songbirds pierce me sore, 
 I wince when lovers greet. 
 All blessed lives mock mine the more 
 In this long World's strange street." 
 
 Time wrought that envy to an end, 
 
 I could endure the day, 
 
 The looming sea I took for friend, 
 
 Its patient, solemn sway 
 
 Taught me acceptance of control, 
 
 Contempt for woe and joy. 
 
 And Life a dream wherein what soul 
 
 Scorns Fate, escapes annoy. 
 
 With this stern wisdom once acquaint 
 
 My spirit coldly braved. 
 
 It gave no thanks, it made no plaint, 
 
 Suffered, and nowise craved; 
 
 Thy life, O heart, seemed calmly dead, 
 
 Thy dirge the friendly Main, 
 
 Thy tomb and empty blueness spread 
 
 To dome a senseless plain. 
 
 At last, with one transfiguring sign 
 (Love wrought this wonder rare). 
 Lord God, what anthems intertwine 
 To thrill Thy shining air! 
 Our choral gladness wings above 
 The far resurging sea. 
 Whose diapason chants the Love 
 That wakes my soul to Thee, 
 no 
 
JUDGMENT HOUR 
 
 JUDGMENT HOUR 
 
 "Spirit," said God, "come up for Judgment now." 
 The words seemed spoke in such familiar tone 
 As if the accents of a natural voice 
 Close to the heart as its own beating pulse. 
 
 "Come up," it said, "for final judgment now 
 Before the absolute court of Me in Thee, 
 The court which hears no plea, allows no charge, 
 Abates no jot in estimating wrong. 
 Awards no punishment and grants no boon, 
 But weighs precise the actual quality 
 Of Spirit proven by the appointed tests, 
 And true decides if it recruit in Me 
 The Immortal Strength, or if the tempted one. 
 Too weak for toils eternal, sanely pass 
 To that which I am not, ObHvion." 
 
 Then Thee reviewed with Me, O God, the course, — 
 
 What bodily appetites indulged or quelled; 
 
 What hates and harms repaid with hurts and scorns. 
 
 Or with forgetfulness or benefits ; 
 
 The proper rest that merged to slothful ease, 
 
 Or was in pain enduringly ignored; 
 
 That laughing, wholesome impulse which, unchecked. 
 
 Became derision's cruelty of glee; 
 
 The righteous anger rushing headlong on. 
 
 What did, when calmly visioned, piteous seem; 
 
 That pity for the Weak, which blamed alike 
 
 The unjust heedless and the heedful Strong; 
 
 The passionate heart's excess in everything. 
 
 Its wild unsteadiness unto the Soul 
 
 Which yet persisted, sternly right, to chide 
 
 The insensate rebel part averse from Thee. 
 
 Ill 
 
JUDGMENT HOUR 
 
 The Thee and Me, O God, revised it all 
 Clearly, relentlessly, and grave declared, — 
 'Thou didst not ever fail the Heart, O Soul, 
 Nor doth it fail thee now. Nay, We elect 
 No Lethe, no Oblivion, but the strife 
 Eternal, toward we know not what, save Good." 
 
 Then some calm happiness known not before 
 Came to the Life whose Judgment hour was o'er. 
 
 112 
 
HAPPYHEART 
 
 HAPPYHEART 
 
 Amid a waste of worn-out apple trees, 
 
 In doorless ruin, nigh a grass-grown road 
 
 Set far from every tumult of to-day, 
 
 Stands yet the house where Happyheart was born. 
 
 That day, his mother told him once, she wept. 
 Boding what gusty fates must threat the babe 
 Who lay as musing all delightedly 
 To hear the strangest storm she ever knew. 
 
 For while a norther hammered on the walls. 
 Tore crusted snow, whirled orchard branches off, 
 Pelted the shuttered windows, wailed dismay, 
 Clear blue and sunshine held the winter sky. 
 
 And, happy in the southward lee, she saw 
 The earliest singing sparrow of the spring 
 Hop on her sill, chanting melodiously. 
 Full glad of shelter in the warming beams. 
 
 "The bird is his," — declared the Irish nurse, 
 "Great luck indeed! See, will he notice it?" 
 
 Speaking, she turned the new-born man-child's face 
 In such a wise his wondering mother saw 
 Within the steady eyes a tiny scene, — 
 The panes, the singing bird, the whirling world. 
 Trees madly thrashing, wracks of hurrying drift 
 Crossing the clear, eternal, sunlit sky. 
 
 "What? Crying? Troth, but this will never do! 
 Sure he takes notice of the bird, I '11 swear! 
 Cheer up! 'T is happy fortune will be his! 
 There's not a child in all the land so blest 
 113 
 
HAPPYHEART 
 
 As him the winter songbird hastens to!" 
 And still the mother wept, she knew not why. 
 
 Within the portals of his house of birth 
 
 Has Happyheart beheld the snow wraiths reel, 
 
 While in the azure height of clear divine 
 
 The sun swung lordly o 'er no loneliness 
 
 More chill than stared about the scene forlorn; 
 
 And yet the eyes his mother wept to see 
 
 Pictured fine gleams through every clouding wrack, 
 
 Infinite calm, and singers wonderful. 
 
 114 
 
OUR TOWN'S COMFORTER 
 
 OUR TOWN'S COMFORTER 
 
 It touches the heart of "Our Mother" 
 
 with happiness queerly regretful 
 To muse on all they who instinctively 
 
 bring her their innermost grief, 
 For reasons she never can fathom 
 
 they come, as if wholly forgetful 
 Of fear to repose their confessions 
 
 with Our Town's fount of relief. 
 
 What crucified faces of maidens 
 
 despairing in love's desolation 
 Have streamed with the weeping they 've hidden 
 
 from all, except Mother alone! 
 What stormy-heart fighters came wildly 
 
 lamenting their souls' tribulation 
 At hearing the weaklings they 'd vanquished 
 
 from terrible silences groan! 
 
 What saints who had failed of the halo, 
 
 because their stiff features retarded 
 The flow of affection from children 
 
 they loved, though with signals confused, 
 Would open, for Mother's eyes only, 
 
 mysterious portals that guarded 
 Their yearning for all the caresses 
 
 their hickory manners refused. 
 
 When parents, grown aged, and basking 
 
 long years in the Town's veneration, 
 Shrank bitter and dumb, at the blow of 
 
 an archangel son in disgrace. 
 How he knelt in despair with Our Mother, 
 
 and rose with the transfiguration 
 Of that which is God, or just mother, 
 
 that shines in her triumphing face. 
 115 
 
OUR TOWN'S COMFORTER 
 
 Yet Mother is given to blaming 
 
 her nature for cold-hearted dealing; — 
 "Dear souls, how they pour out their troubles 
 
 to me, whose responses are wood ! 
 Though I strive to console them, my sayings 
 
 seem void, to myself, of all feeling, 
 For I never can find an expression 
 
 to make my heart half understood." 
 
 'And I never can love them enough 
 
 in their sadness, however I'm trying 
 To soften the life in my heart 
 
 till it break with their anguishing tears, 
 For it's flooded with gladness to feel them 
 
 so helped by the balm of the crying, — 
 And, oh, what a shame I 'm made happy 
 
 through sorrows they'll carry for years." 
 
 ii6 
 
BRETHREN OF THE BOAT 
 
 BRETHREN OF THE BOAT 
 
 (union boat club, boston) 
 
 When some of ancient lineage prate 
 
 We brothers listen with a smile, 
 
 We do not boast ancestral state, 
 
 It really is n't worth our while. 
 
 Since all must know that we can trace 
 
 Our line to ages so remote 
 
 As when Pa Noah gave a place 
 
 To none but brethren of his boat. 
 
 In that old world where sin was rife, 
 How natural that the only man 
 Found worthy of continuing life 
 Was one who'd lived on such a plan 
 That when the earth was all submerged 
 He knew the way to go afloat 
 And save — the point is once more urged 
 Our Hne, the Brethren of the Boat. 
 
 Since then our long immortal scroll 
 
 Has blazed with names of Men of Might, 
 
 Jason, Ulysses, on the roll 
 
 With Caesar, and with Wallace wight; 
 
 From age to age, on every shore. 
 
 Who raised the strong triumphant note 
 
 If not the Vikings of the Oar, 
 
 We, tuggers, Brethren of the Boat ? 
 
 Who holds the keys of Heaven and Hell 
 
 And Purgatory in his hand ? 
 A boating man — and does it well — 
 St. Peter, so we understand ! 
 Where were the first Apostles found ? — 
 Sure, every child knows this by rote — 
 117 
 
BRETHREN OF THE BOAT 
 
 Amongst the men whose hearts be sound, 
 The virtuous Brethren of the Boat. 
 
 It may be false, yet some contend 
 That when to other spheres men go, 
 The judgment of their final end 
 Hangs on the question, Did he row? 
 But this is sure, — on us at last 
 Old Father Charon's eyes will doat, 
 As o'er the Styx he ferries fast 
 His comrade Brethren of the Boat. 
 
 ii8 
 
CUPID IN THE OFFICE 
 CUPID IN THE OFFICE 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 We buried in Mount Auburn last July 
 The gentle, clerkly, wan old bookkeeper. 
 Who left to me his sheaf of casual verse. 
 
 "You'll smile," he wrote, "to learn I poetized. 
 However little. Here are all my rhymes; 
 Too intime, surely, to be put in print 
 While we two lived, with whom the verses deal. 
 How curious that it really comforts me 
 To dream you'll give them vogue, and so prolong 
 In mortal memory a faint, fair wraith 
 Of her who, while I live, is clearly shrined, 
 Smiling, within my unforgetting heart." 
 
 They give the poignancy of Commonplace; 
 Accents of fondness, no more like the feigned 
 Which forms the stock of many a polished strain. 
 Than fields and woods enwreathed with moving mists 
 And changeful to the phase of hour and year 
 Are like a painted canvas of the scene. 
 
 REVERIE 
 
 Dove-tinted, urban-bred, secure, 
 Nowise self-centred, quite self-sure, 
 Priestess of Business, Office-nun, 
 And yet her girlhood scarcely done! 
 
 That balanced poise of confidence 
 Is yet young maiden Innocence, 
 119 
 
CUPID IN THE OFFICE 
 
 Whose deep, gray eyes undreaming wait 
 The woman's dearest boon from Fate. 
 
 My reverie, though it vision plain 
 Her lucency, can scarce retain 
 The radiant smile, with humor fraught, 
 But quick repressed, as if she thought 
 It wrong to let her seniors guess 
 That Mirth may visit business; 
 Yet flits it back in utter charm, 
 As if to smile were n't really harm. 
 
 It is that smile which brings surprise 
 Jumping to my delighted eyes. 
 And makes my heart so yearn she were 
 Absorbed in Woman's natural care. 
 
 Cupid, though growing gray I be, 
 Incline her heart, that I may free 
 Her life from ofiice drudgery. 
 
 II 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS WALK 
 
 How brisk in frost we stept together west! 
 The sky, as pearly as her lucent face, 
 Wore, too, the faint austere which gives her grace, 
 The sacredness that calms my heart to rest. 
 
 Up toward the Roxbury hill, whose builded crest 
 Outlined a rim serrate of flamelike sky, 
 Her virginal beauty flushed, — and oh, the shy 
 Gleam of her pleasure as her glove caressed. 
 Upon her heart abloom, my glowing rose! 
 
 And yet, before our Christmas walk was done, 
 Its scarlet loveliness of petals froze, 
 
 120 
 
CUPID IN THE OFFICE 
 
 Whereby upon the stalk it drooped and died; 
 So cruel shone the nightward slanting sun 
 This day of our first marching side by side. 
 
 Ill 
 
 CUL-DE-SAC 
 
 "Dear Dove, both Love and Life command we wed," 
 Spoke I. She smiled and shook her sage young head, 
 And mused, and gravely said: "Before we met, 
 Life had ruled straight our page, and rules it yet. 
 Though Love be come to light that even Way, 
 What else has changed ^ The filial tasks of day, 
 Your day and mine, cannot be put aside 
 That selfish Love alone be glorified. 
 Did daily duty done not keep us blest 
 Our infinite love were infinite unrest. 
 Our separate earnings still our Aged need — 
 Spare me, dear love, you shake me when you plead." 
 
 IV 
 
 APRIL HOLIDAY 
 
 An hour by rail, then up the hill 
 Where Talking Brook forever calls 
 In glee that never April rill 
 Could tinkle lovelier madrigals, 
 Where pussy-willows' silver spires 
 So bloomy that a touch might harm, 
 And frogs in monotoning choirs 
 Chirp their drowsed miracle of charm. 
 
 The World, for once, was ours alone; 
 Its freshening hazy hillsides high, 
 
 121 
 
CUPID IN THE OFFICE 
 
 Their billowy woodlands budding zone 
 Suspiring tops that merged in sky. 
 How fast our steps in crispy brown 
 Of last year's rustling foliage fled, 
 To kneel to fair Spring-beauty's crown 
 And dear hepatica's starry head ! 
 
 All was our Paradise, and we 
 
 Were Eve and Adam gathering flowers, 
 
 Wotting of no forbidden tree 
 
 Or bloom in Sussex County bowers. 
 
 Until the Man and Dog of Wrath 
 
 Came, at our trespass raging wild 
 
 Before they saw her in their path 
 
 Smiling as one who friendly smiled. 
 
 Amazed, disarmed, as if in shame. 
 How queer the embarrassed farmer stood! 
 ' 'T ain't my old dog you got to blame, 
 I larnt him chase folks out 'n this wood. 
 But, Laws, ye^e welcome any day! 
 Come when ye like — ye won't intrude." 
 While at her feet old Brindle lay 
 Fondled, fond squirming, quite subdued! 
 
 "Miss Tact!" when they were gone I laughed, 
 "Miss Nerve! O cool Miss Impudence!" 
 
 She beamed demurely while I chaffed. 
 
 Saying, "I am Miss Common-sense! 
 
 What earthly use to run away ? 
 
 What sense to look one bit dismayed ? 
 
 It 's gentleness that wins the day — 
 
 But, Oh, dear, was nt I afraid." 
 
 122 
 
CUPID IN THE OFFICE 
 
 CONSOLATION 
 
 A TENDER miracle so blends 
 The separate life which is our fate 
 With gentle joys, that it transcends 
 The bridals of the fortunate. 
 
 With beams too delicate for name — 
 So sunny warm, so frosty pure, 
 I tell her that our business-flame 
 Of love unfailing, glows secure. 
 
 "We have the Best," she says. We smile, 
 We sigh as if it were not so ; 
 Yet deep in either heart the while 
 We know The Best is what we know. 
 
 VI 
 
 THE PURITAN 
 
 "I SHUN the theatre. It's not the place" 
 She said, "that I dislike — no — all the sights 
 Of Orchestra and Audience and the space 
 Of brilliancy and life are my delights 
 When people talk at ease between the Acts. 
 But, oh, the Stage, the piteous puppets there 
 Posturing, ranting, and without a share 
 In the quick farce and tragedy of Facts ! — 
 Unless the essential horror of a Play 
 Is that bright beings in God's image made 
 Should fume their little spans of strength away 
 In simulating fancied joy and grief 
 W^hile really desperate that the mummers' trade 
 Holds them from useful Work, the soul's rehef." 
 123 
 
CUPID IN THE OFFICE 
 VII 
 
 KISMET 
 
 Quiet, my heart! My brain must be 
 
 Untroubled by your anxious pain. 
 
 I must be laboring patiently 
 
 To-day, to-morrow, oft again. 
 
 Quiet, my heart, by day, for night 
 Shakes me with all your wild affright. 
 
 Let Lois live, though crippled sore 
 For life. O God, incline, I pray, 
 Thy will to this which I implore! 
 And let me earn our bread each day! 
 
 Quiet, my heart, — thy terror lies! 
 
 It cannot be that Lois dies! 
 
 VIII 
 
 HEPATICAS 
 
 (The Next April) 
 
 Lois, alone I've walked the way 
 
 By Talking Brook to Fairy Falls 
 
 We trod a year ago to-day. 
 
 And did you hear such bluebird calls ? 
 And IS the April green as fresh ? 
 And sings our Brook its cheery tune? 
 
 Yes, Darling, and the frogs enmesh 
 
 Again such magic in their croon 
 
 That you seemed listening with me there. 
 And where the farmstead buildings stand 
 Dwell still the Man and Dog who were 
 So angry first, and then so bland? 
 
 Dear Dove, the Dog came barking wild, 
 124 
 
CUPID IN THE OFFICE 
 
 The greybeard roared him on in rage 
 Just as when you their wrath beguiled. 
 How fond you dream I did assuage 
 That angry pair, who perhaps advanced 
 Half joking at our trespassing. 
 To-day a thing more touching chanced; — 
 For when I cried, "This day last Spring 
 You bade Miss Lois 'come again'" — 
 Oh, did that man remember still. 
 And for my sake was once more fain 
 To let you search for flowers his hill? 
 Lois — he left his plough awhile 
 To pluck for you this bunch of bloom. — 
 'Tell her," he said, "I loved her smile." 
 
 The dear old man ! How rare my room 
 With fair hepaticas ! Dear you ! 
 you went so far to bring me these! 
 That gladsome voice I never knew 
 To flinch in all her agonies. 
 
 IX 
 
 FLOWN 
 
 To-day our Office friends declare, — 
 "Fate gave to her a hopeless part. 
 And wondous was her pluck to bear 
 So long that knowledge at her heart. 
 Stretched straining on the rack of pain 
 She dwelt, it seemed, as one in bliss. 
 Yet who that knew her lot is fain 
 To weep that she has peace like this ?" 
 
 But they, whose faithful hearts believed 
 They knew her lot, were never told 
 How strong her valorous soul conceived 
 That happy was her fate controlled. 
 125 
 
CUPID IN THE OFFICE 
 
 Last night she told me, — "Though I lay 
 Withdrawn by bodily pangs from mirth, 
 There could not be a lovelier way 
 To live than you made mine on earth. 
 Your love was summer's bloom and leaf, 
 It tranced my narrow strip of blue, 
 It touched my cheeks in zephyrs brief 
 That purely strengthened me anew; 
 It haloed City cloud and hill, 
 From clanging streets it fashioned song, 
 And when Night's pealing chimes fell still 
 Its murmuring music trembled long. 
 Oh, love, you were my halcyon calm, 
 You were my mystic chrism that blest. 
 And your dear arms the lulling balm 
 That soothes me now to thankful rest." 
 
 X 
 
 ENSHRINED 
 
 Since Lois died the tyrant Sun 
 Drags haggard in his orbit bound 
 This puppet Earth, whose seasons run 
 For me an aimless, wasted round. 
 
 Incessantly I think to die, 
 Nor ever doubt that Death is Peace, 
 And many an hour I ponder why 
 My soul desists from her release. 
 
 I do not dread the crash of pain 
 For one loud moment at the close, 
 Nor shrink to taste the slow, inane, 
 Pervasive opiate's repose. 
 
 126 
 
CUPID IN THE OFFICE 
 
 But in my saddest trances still 
 Her steadfast soul upholdeth mine 
 To endure till it be Nature's will 
 My heart shall cease to be her shrine. 
 
 127 
 
THE BAD YEAR 
 
 THE BAD YEAR 
 
 May, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June; 
 No blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves, 
 And arid Summer wilted these full soon. 
 And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves; 
 Plaintive October saddened for the year. 
 But wild November raged that hope was past. 
 Shrieking, "All days of life are made how drear — 
 Wild whirls of snow! and Death comes driving fast." 
 Yet sane December when the winds fell low. 
 And cold calm light with sunshine tinkled clear, 
 Harkened to bells more sweet than long ago. 
 And meditated in a mind sincere : — 
 
 'Beneath these snows shining from yon red west 
 How sleep the blooms of some delighted May, 
 And June shall riot, lovely as the best 
 
 That flung their odors forth on all their way; 
 Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath, 
 Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air. 
 Her gentle colors" — sane December saith 
 'They come, they come — O heart, sigh not 'They were." 
 
 128 
 
TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT 
 
 (on his departure for Africa) 
 
 Shall we to great Deliverers be blind 
 If they within our sight have daily wrought ? 
 Must we forever cast our gaze behind, 
 Praising the past immortals of our kind, 
 And to our present heroes grudging aught ? 
 Shall we lament that now no Hercules 
 Clubs down oppressors, and the people frees ? 
 We, who have seen one valiant soul alone 
 Fronting the banded pirates of the State, 
 Renewing millions in a hope long flown. 
 Rousing his Nation to a heart elate. 
 
 There was no man bent faithful to his work 
 In all the Land but deemed this man his friend; 
 No woman did her natural duties shirk 
 But felt his scorn within her conscience irk; 
 No losel knave but longed to see an end 
 
 Of him who, Samson strong, smote every foe 
 That, guileful, gathered gain from public woe. 
 This man gave such example in high seat 
 That nevermore a President dares gaze 
 Gently on those who shivered while his feet 
 Trod in the righteous ruthlessness which slays. 
 
 Sought ye the Lord's anointed mid the Kings 
 Enthroned in pomp barbaric and outworn, 
 Entinselled, millinered, bedizened things 
 Pranked out as butterflies of peacocked wings, 
 Or gaudy poppies in the useful corn ? 
 
 Go seek mid them who do, like him, oppose 
 129 
 
TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT 
 
 Their strength in equal fight with equal foes 
 Where Worth can summon Friendship to its side, 
 Can help the piteous Weak, can smite the Base, 
 Can spurn the flauntings of a gewgaw pride, 
 Effeminate Pleasure's cunning lures deride, 
 And, Godlike laboring, animate the Race. 
 
 Let cynic droUards fling the easy jeer 
 At him who by mysterious Fate's uplift 
 Received anointment true, when chose to steer. 
 Watchful, enduring, staunch from year to year. 
 The Ship of Freedom's Hope from anxious drift. 
 He is no paragon of virtues mild, 
 No meek Academy's precisian child; 
 Hot indignation gives him tones that ring 
 As steely mallet battering iron thing, — 
 But, oh, his strokes befit a Man of men! 
 And long may we desire his like again. 
 Go to the lions — safe thou shalt return — 
 No martyr soul in thee confronts their frown — 
 'T is for thy homebound ship that we shall yearn; 
 Ephesian beasts may then again discern 
 God's hammer smashing their defences down. 
 
 130 
 
TRANSLATIONS 
 
GASTIBELZAH 
 
 GASTIBELZAH 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO 
 (Guitars) 
 
 GASTIBELZAH who bore the carabine 
 
 Was wont to sing: 
 " Did any of you people know Sabine 
 
 Who are listening ? 
 Dance, villagers, and sing, dusk settles nigh 
 
 Phalou again. 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 
 Will craze my brain. 
 
 "Does any one remember fair Sabine, 
 
 My senora ^ 
 Her mother was the wrinkled maugrabine 
 
 Of Antigra, 
 Who from the tower screamed down her owlish cry 
 
 At evening's wane. 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 
 Will craze my brain. 
 
 "Dancing and singing! All such pleasant things 
 
 We ought to prize. 
 Sabine was young, and happiness had springs 
 
 In her clear eyes. 
 They'd make you think. [Old beggar, catch! I shy 
 
 You coppers twain.] 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 
 Will craze my brain. 
 
 "Truly, the Queen herself would beauty lack 
 Beside Sabine, 
 Crossing Toledo's bridge in bodice black 
 At fall of e'en; 
 
 133 
 
GASTIBELZAH 
 
 Beads of the time of Charlemagne supply 
 
 Her necklet skein. 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 
 Will craze my brain. 
 
 "The King, on seeing her so lovely, said — 
 
 *0 nephew dear, 
 To win one kiss, one ringlet of her head, 
 
 One smile — right here, 
 Don Ruiz, Prince, I'd put my kingdoms by, 
 
 Peru and Spain!' 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 
 Will craze my brain. 
 
 "I know not if I loved that lady, though 
 
 I know full well. 
 Poor dog, to gain one loving look, I'd go 
 
 And gladly dwell 
 Ten mortal years a galley slave to lie 
 
 With ball and chain. 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 
 Will craze my brain. 
 
 "One summer day, when all was life and gleam 
 
 And tenderness. 
 She and her sister played about the stream 
 
 In half undress — 
 The girlish foot, the knee — I could descry 
 
 Each tiny vein. 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 
 Will craze my brain. 
 
 "When I, of old the herdsman of this place, 
 Beheld the maid, 
 I deemed I saw sweet Cleopatra's grace, 
 
 Who once, 't is said. 
 Led Caesar, Emperor of Germany, 
 Her haltered swain. 
 134 
 
GASTIBELZAH 
 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 Will craze my brain. 
 
 "Dance, villagers, and sing — night glooms above — 
 
 Sabine, one day. 
 Sold all her spotless beauty of a dove, 
 
 Cast love away. 
 For golden rings, for gawds, she took the tie 
 
 Of Count Saldagne. 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 
 Will craze my brain. 
 
 "On this old bench I beg you let me lean, 
 
 I 'm tired sore ■ — 
 Well, then — she fled with Count Saldagne — I 've seen 
 
 Her nevermore. 
 She took the road I know not where, to fly 
 
 Beyond Cerdagne. 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 
 Will craze my brain. 
 
 "I saw her pass my hut, and that was all, 
 
 One moment brief. 
 But now I see her every hour, and fall 
 
 To wearier grief — 
 Idle, my dirk hung up, with dreaming eye, 
 
 I roam the plain. 
 The wind that blows across the mountain sky 
 
 Has crazed my brain." 
 
 135 
 
O CANADA, MON PAYS, MES AMOURS 
 O CANADA, MON PAYS, MES AMOURS 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF SIR GEORGE ETIENNE CARTIER 
 
 No Land so fair as one's own Land," 
 Is what the good old adage says; 
 By that and custom, too, I stand 
 To sing to-day my country's praise. 
 The stranger sees with envious eyes 
 St. Lawrence' tide majestic roll, 
 Gazing, the proud Canadian cries, 
 O Canada, my Land, my Soul! 
 
 What purling brooks by meadows wide 
 In myriads thrid our fertile plains; 
 How rise aloft the hills of pride 
 We see afar in ranging chains; 
 Chutes, rapids, valleys, forest brakes — 
 Where can more noble scenes unroll, 
 Who fail to love thy limpid lakes ? 
 O Canada, my Land, my Soul ! 
 
 Each country boasts its ladies fair 
 (I quite believe with reason, too). 
 But our Canadian girls, I swear, 
 In charm can be surpassed by few. 
 So cheerful they, and so sincere, 
 Yet, of the French coquettish role 
 They've just enough to make them dear, — 
 O Canada, my Land, my Soul! 
 
 Canadians, sons of merry sires, 
 They love the laugh, are gay and free, 
 Warm glow their hospitable fires. 
 Quick, brave and mild and mannerly; 
 136 
 
O CANADA, MON PAYS, MES AMOURS 
 
 To Country ever staunchly leal, 
 Due freedom is our patriot goal, 
 Our watchword still the peace, the weal 
 
 Of Canada, our Land, our Soul ! ^ 
 
 * Cartier's third and fourth verses have been here transposed. 
 
 137 
 
TO BRITTANY 
 TO BRITTANY* 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF W. CHAPMAN 
 
 I NEVER trod thy cliffs' aspiring height, 
 Nor saw thy pines their golden balsam store, 
 Nor watched thy balanced shallops winging white. 
 Yet, Breton land, I love thee evermore. 
 
 My love is strong as thy old oaks at core. 
 
 Toward them my heart is often taking flight, 
 
 Because we hold, throughout our land, a right 
 
 In that pure blood which through thy veins doth pour. 
 
 Yes, thee I love with ancient memories — 
 
 Thy reeds, thy heaths where Druid work endures, 
 
 Thy storied people and thy shore-beat seas. 
 
 And when returning May with balm allures, 
 
 I dream the murmurous evening's eastern breeze 
 
 Brings airs of perfume vaguely from thy moors. 
 
 ' Mr. W. Chapman, the French-Canadian poet, is son to an English father 
 and a French mother. He was crowned by the Academy of France for his noble 
 volume Les Aspirations. Mr. Chapman, to whom both English and French are 
 mother-tongues, has graciously approved this and the following translations from 
 his verses. 
 
 138 
 
MOTHER AND CHILD 
 MOTHER AND CHILD 
 
 (old FRANCE AND NEW) 
 W. CHAPMAN 
 
 From old America our fathers, wending 
 Over strange seas to solitudes unknown, 
 Wrought centuries Homeric ere the ending 
 On Abram's Plains beheld them overthrown. 
 
 By famine weakened and by numbers stricken, 
 Vainly they called to Louis' deafened ears; 
 Wantons alone could that base Wanton quicken. 
 And our last hope went down in blood and tears. 
 
 Conquered ? Oh, yes — the victors find us loyal 
 To oaths recorded, — but our hearts go free, 
 They yearn across the deep with love as royal 
 As ever heroes gave, O France, to thee. 
 
 Despite neglect the true-born child must cherish 
 Ever the mother, though she walked astray; 
 The duty of his soul can never perish, 
 Nor cease from hope to make her glad some day. 
 
 Never by force the filial bond is riven : — 
 Because thy bosom to our lips did thrill. 
 Because thy blood throughout our veins is driven, 
 Because that Thou art France we love thee still. 
 
 Little it matter if neglect or distance 
 Hide us from her, as ocean fogs immense; 
 Ever her forehead's glorious persistence 
 Sublimely lifts a radiance intense. 
 
 139 
 
MOTHER AND CHILD 
 
 It lightens round the World a beamy pleasure. 
 And, 'spite fierce thunderclaps that ominous roll 
 From dark events, we hear the racy measure 
 Of her fine humors freshening Man's soul. 
 
 More sweetly fall her accents than the murmur 
 Of wakening birds saluting morning clear. 
 Her charming tones could come to us no firmer 
 Were the beloved lips against our ear. 
 
 Ever she glowed aloft, a briUiant vision 
 Enchanting Europe, even when Fates unkind 
 And Teuton victors voiced a vain derision, 
 Deeming her star eternally declined. 
 
 Though then the blind and shame-forgetting neighbor 
 
 Spat on her brow, insulting all her woe, 
 
 We saw her rise portending over Tabor 
 
 In splendor clearer than her Past could show. 
 
 Thou art, O France, to us the fertile Mother, 
 From whom the World an endless thirst allays; 
 Thou art the eye, more piercing than all other. 
 Scanning through mists of Time Man's coming days; 
 
 The Head that guides The Future's ship to haven; 
 The Hand that turns the mighty volume's page. 
 Whereon The Ideal's characters are graven 
 To inspire the human soul from Age to Age. 
 
 Behold, an hundred years have long been ended 
 Since vanquished France her weeping child forsook; 
 To Manhood's strength the babe has far ascended, 
 His origin august beams in his look. 
 
 Wealthy and proud and free, by hardy training 
 In iron contests conquering adverse Fate, 
 
 140 
 
MOTHER AND CHILD 
 
 Fighting enormous forests, slowly gaining, 
 To Progress all his energies vibrate. 
 
 Superbly laboring, Founder and Creator, 
 
 Soldier, Apostle, valorous Pioneer, 
 
 From Arctic solitudes to thronged Equator 
 
 His furrowing keels plough down the arduous year. 
 
 Unsullied gleams his path when back he glances. 
 He eyes the morning, brave his youthful stride, 
 On trails of living light his course advances; 
 Henceforth the Child may claim the Mother's pride. 
 
 141 
 
TO MY TWO MOTHERS 
 TO MY TWO MOTHERS 
 
 W. CHAPMAN 
 
 On his First Visit to France 
 
 Mother, my book I carry, before 't is wholly done, 
 
 To the mound where thou dost tarry beneath the grass and 
 
 sun; 
 Mother, I bring devotion; a bird sings clear to-day; 
 Dost thou feel, in my step, emotion of the perfume of the 
 
 May? 
 
 Mother, dost thou in slumbers my accents comprehend ? 
 Before I give my numbers to the Heights I would ascend, 
 I come to thee, to render the verses that I wreathe, — 
 Surely you listen tender, surely you see me breathe. 
 
 Mother, remove a minute the shroud that hides thy face. 
 The beams that shone within it illumed my path with grace; 
 Unclose thine eyes ; thy finger may search my written sheaves, 
 Thy touch, where'er it linger, find naught that stains the 
 leaves. 
 
 Though strong with all my spirit my verse hath been out- 
 poured. 
 No Innocent need fear it, for I have feared the Lord; 
 My work was sometimes written with midnight tapers by, 
 But nearly all was litten from the great blue shining sky. 
 
 In solitude I labored a book austere and chaste. 
 
 For Christ I wrought unneighbored. His truth my spirit 
 
 braced, 
 Ever thy soul was ringing in mine a holy sound, 
 That fashioned all my singing in probity profound. 
 
 142 
 
TO MY TWO MOTHERS 
 
 I sing for Art all purely, I sing for holy fanes, 
 Though lost in deafness surely an evil time remains; 
 I sing the notes supernal our history awoke, 
 My chants of deeds eternal the ancestors evoke. 
 
 I boast with pride the glories that deck our native earth, — 
 Thou, artist soul, thy stories so taught me from my birth; 
 I boast th' imperial mazes where shadowy forests rise, 
 And sing what pureness gazes from Winter's sparkling eyes. 
 
 Vanquished and victors, fairly I deal to each their meed; 
 Smiles I profess but rarely, and many tears I plead. 
 To aid of souls in trouble my lyric music starts, 
 And often I knock double upon the doors of hearts. 
 
 If in my poems truly I set what pleaseth thee. 
 
 Then, mother, kiss them duly, — yea, stoop to blessing 
 
 me. 
 That they may live forever, and tell to future days 
 How I adore thee ever, Oh, mother of my praise ! 
 
 II 
 
 And thou, my mother nation, hear'st thou my accents bless, 
 Across the Sea's elation that springtime airs caress ? — 
 I come to tread the flowers of thy enchanting ways, 
 And quaff the sparkling showers of Art thy fountains raise. 
 
 France that I ever cherish, whose name my heart reveres, 
 Remote my voice might perish, failing to reach thine 
 
 ears; 
 I cross the barrier ocean, a thrall to thy renown. 
 Bearing my book's devotion, to lay the tribute down. 
 
 In worship have I striven to celebrate thy pride. 
 Exalt the triumphs given to spread thy fame world-wide, 
 The holy works enacted thy forceful zeal to prove, 
 For Jesus' sake exacted, and human nature's love. 
 
 143 
 
TO MY TWO MOTHERS 
 
 I lack the lute all golden thy bards, O France, possess, 
 Their speech sonorous, olden, of piercing tenderness; — 
 Indulge my rustic chaunting, upon my knees I crave. 
 Forgive me all that's wanting, and all that pleaseth save. 
 
 My singing is the singing that trembles all sincere 
 From artless worship ringing in holy places dear; 
 It is the singing river, it is the singing breeze. 
 It is the songbirds' quiver to the Maker of the trees. 
 
 If gold be gleaming surely within my mass of ore, 
 I might not work it purely though I wrought forevermore, 
 And the humble poet merits nothing, save that he has sung 
 With the passion he inherits for the glory of thy tongue. 
 
 In my pages, if thou readest, there is proof shall glad thy 
 
 heart, 
 That the children whom thou breedest, though by oceans set 
 
 apart. 
 While thy vital sap preserving in a world so far from thee, 
 O my France, are never swerving from thy sacred memory. 
 
 Despite the victors' ruling, and despite the blow of Fate, 
 Mother, we make no puling, and our patient hearts are great ; 
 By the green St. Lawrence River, with the English flag above. 
 Oh, forever and forever thy children give thee love. 
 
 144 
 
AUTUMN SONG 
 AUTUMN SONG 
 
 ACHILLE FRECHETTE 
 
 Away, ye vain numberless shadows, unsplendid, 
 Unperfumed, uncolored, mid which my Ufa wended! 
 Now the gloom of my dream is illumed by her beauty, 
 
 Her heart-stirring beauty. 
 
 'Neath murky gray skies trailed my heavy-foot hours 
 On into the bleakness where evening lowers; 
 To my travail she came with the cheer of her joyance, 
 
 Her spirit and joyance. 
 
 Fruits fallen, nests vacant, and meadows in stubble, 
 My path ever hardened by cold airs above; 
 Oh, the long arid days I went lonely in trouble. 
 Till the thirst of my heart was allayed by her love, 
 
 The wine of her love. 
 
 Late flowers, breathe fragrance! Oh, branches rejoicing 
 With birds that again come alighting in bliss. 
 Dear creatures, their anthems a thousand times voicing 
 My joy that she blesses my lips with her kiss. 
 
 Her lips and her kiss! 
 
 HS 
 
TO CANADA 
 TO CANADA^ 
 
 FROM THE SCLAVONIC 
 
 FREE and fresh-home Canada ! Can we, 
 Born far o'er-seas, call thee our country dear ? 
 
 1 know not whence nor how that right may be 
 Gained through but sharing blessings year by year. 
 
 We were not reared within thy broad domains, 
 Our parents' graves and corpses lie afar ; 
 They did not fall for Freedom on thy plains, 
 Nor we win Victory beneath thy star. 
 
 Yet have we Liberty from sea to sea ; 
 Frankly and true you gave us Manhood's share, 
 We who, like wandering birds, flew hopefully 
 To gather grain upon thy acres fair. 
 
 We swarmed from ancient worlds by wrong opprest. 
 Many as ants, to scatter on thy land. 
 Each to the place you gave, aided and blest 
 And freed from fear of Kings and Nobles grand. 
 
 And are you not, O Canada, our own ? 
 Nay, we are still but holders of thy soil, — 
 We have not earned by sacrifice and groan 
 The right to boast the country where we toil. 
 
 But, Canada, our hearts are thine till death. 
 Our children shall be free to call thee theirs, 
 Their own dear land where, gladly drawing breath, 
 Their parents found safe homes, and left strong heirs 
 
 * The original is by Michael Gowda, a Galician of Edmonton, Alberta, who 
 furnished an English prose translation here versified. " Fresh-home " is Mr. Gow- 
 da's own happy adjective. 
 
 146 
 
TO CANADA 
 
 Of homes, and native freedom, and the heart 
 To Hve and strive and die, if need there be, 
 In standing manfully by honor's part 
 To guard the country that has made us free. 
 
 They shall as brothers be to all the rest, 
 
 Yet proud to ov^n the blood from v^^hich they sprang, 
 
 True to their Fathers' creed, and His behest. 
 
 For whom the bells of yester Christmas rang. 
 
(Jibe Ritoet^tfitie pte0 
 
 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 U . S . A 
 
;^u^ 
 
 '^^ BO 190^ 
 
 I COPY, DEL. TO CAT. OIV. 
 
 MAR 20 1909 
 
 MAR n 1909 
 

 
 
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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 014 723 114 3 
 
 
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