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Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
 DAWN

T HE immortal spirit hath no bars

To circumscribe its dwelling-place;
My soul hath pastured with the stars
Upon the meadow-lands of space.

My mind and ear at times have caught,

From realms beyond our mortal reach,
The utterance of Eternal Thought,
Of which all nature is the speech.

And high above the seas and lands,

On peaks just tipped with morning light,
My dauntless spirit mutely stands
With eagle wings outspread for flight.
 VAN ELSEN

G OD spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul;

He spake by sickness first, and made him whole;
Van Elsen heard Him not,
Or soon forgot.

God spake to him by wealth; the world outpoured

Its treasures at his feet, and called him lord;
Van Elsen's heart grew fat
And proud thereat.

God spake the third time when the great world smiled,
And in the sunshine slew his little child;
Van Elsen like a tree
Fell hopelessly.

Then in the darkness came a voice which said,

"As thy heart bleedeth, so My heart hath bled;
As I have need of thee,
Thou needest Me."

That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet,

And kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,
Praised Him with fervent breath
Who conquered death.
CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY

THE WALKER OF THE SNOW

S PEED on, speed on, good Master!
The camp lies far away;
We must cross the haunted valley
Before the close of day.

How the snow-blight came upon me

I will tell you as I go,—
The blight of the Shadow hunter,
Who walks the midnight snow.

To the cold December heaven

Came the pale moon and the stars,
As the yellow sun was sinking
Behind the purple bars.

The snow was deeply drifted

Upon the ridges drear,
That lay for miles around me
And the camps for which we steer.

'Twas silent on the hill-side,

And by the solemn wood,
No sound of life or motion
To break the solitude,

Save the wailing of the moose-bird

With a plaintive note and low,
And the skating of the red leaf
Upon the frozen snow.

And said I, "Though dark is falling,

And far the camp must be,
Yet my heart it would be lightsome
If I had but company "
 If I had but company.

And then I sang and shouted,

Keeping measure, as I sped,
To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe
As it sprang beneath my tread.

Nor far into the valley

Had I dipped upon my way,
When a dusky figure joined me,
In a capuchon of grey,

Bending upon the snow-shoes,

With a long and limber stride;
And I hailed the dusky stranger
As we travelled side by side.

But no token of communion

Gave he by word or look,
And the fear-chill fell upon me
At the crossing of the brook.

For I saw by the sickly moonlight

As I followed, bending low,
That the walking of the stranger
Left no footmarks on the snow.

Then the fear-chill gathered o'er me,

Like a shroud around me cast,
As I sank upon the snow-drift
Where the Shadow-hunter passed.

And the other-trappers found me,

Before the break of day,
With my dark hair blanched and whitened
 As the snow in which I lay.

But they spoke not as they raised me;

For they knew that in the night
I had seen the Shadow-hunter,
And had withered in his blight.

Sancta Maria speed us!

The sun is falling low,—
Before us lies the valley
Of the Walker of the Snow!
FRANCIS SHERMAN

THE BUILDER
C OME and let me make thee glad
In this house that I have made!
Nowhere (I am unafraid!)
Canst thou find its like on Earth:
Come, and learn the perfect worth
Of the labor I have had.

I have fashioned it for thee,

Every room and pictured wall;
Every marble pillar tall,
Every door and window-place;
All were done that thy fair face
Might look kindlier on me.

Here, moreover, thou shalt find

Strange, delightful, far-brought things:
Dulcimers, whose tightened strings
Once dead women loved to touch;
(Deeming they could mimic much
Of the music of the wind!)

Heavy candlesticks of brass;

Chess-men carved of ivory;
Mass-books written perfectly
By some patient monk of old;
Flagons wrought of thick, red gold,
Set with gems and colored glass;

Burnished armor, once some knight

(Dead, I deem, long years ago!)
Its great strength was glad to know
When his lady needed him:
(Now that both his eyes are dim
( o t at bot s eyes a e d
Both his sword and shield are bright!)

Come, and share these things with me,

Men have died to leave to us!
We shall find life glorious
In this splendid house of love;
Come, and claim thy part thereof,—
I have fashioned it for thee!
 BETWEEN THE BATTLES

L ET us bury him here,

Where the maples are red!
He is dead,
And he died thanking God that he fell with the fall of the leaf and
the year.

Where the hillside is sheer,

Let it echo our tread
Whom he led;
Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who never knew fear.

Ere he died they had fled;

Yet they heard his last cheer
Ringing clear,—
When we lifted him up, he would fain have pursued, but grew dizzy
instead.

Break his sword and his spear!

Let this last prayer be said
By the bed
We have made underneath the wet wind in the maple trees moaning
so drear:

"O Lord God, by the red

Sullen end of the year
That is here,
We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our swords till his
slayers be dead!"
 From "A PRELUDE"

O COVERING grasses! O unchanging trees!

Is it not good to feel the odorous wind
Come down upon you with such harmonies

Only the giant hills can ever find?

O little leaves, are ye not glad to be?
Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,

That falls at noontide over you and me?

O gleam of birches lost among the firs,
Let your high treble chime in silverly

Across the half-imagined wind that stirs

A muffled organ-music from the pines!
Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers

Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines

Till the young maples are no longer gray,
And stronger grows their faint, uncertain lines;

Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day,

And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,
Until the sound of their far feet who stray

About the wood, fades from me; and, instead,

I hear a robin singing—not as one
That calls unto his mate, uncomforted—
But as one sings a welcome to the sun.
A LITTLE WHILE BEFORE THE FALL WAS DONE

A LITTLE while before the fall was done

A day came when the frail year paused and said:
"Behold! a little while and I am dead;
Wilt thou not choose, of all the old dreams, one?"
Then dwelt I in a garden, where the sun
Shone always, and the roses all were red;
Far off the great sea slept, and overhead
Among the robins matins had begun.
And I knew not at all it was a dream
Only, and that the year was near its close;
Garden and sunshine, robin-song and rose,
The half-heard murmur and the distant gleam
Of all the unvext sea, a little space
Were as a mist above the Autumn's face.
 GOLDWIN SMITH

FLOSSY (WITH HER OWN PORTRAIT) TO HER

MISTRESS

ON HER WEDDING DAY

O F all the tiny race of Skye,
The prettiest, so friends say, am I;
My name is Flossy, well-bestowed,
A silkier coat Skye never shewed!
With sable back, and silver head,
Blue bow, and feathery paws outspread,
As on my crimson rug I lie,
What fairer sight for painter's eye?
Short are my legs, yet mark my pace
Whene'er I cats or postmen chase!
In human language if I fail,
What so expressive as my tail?
See how it wags, as if to say,
"Dear mistress, a glad wedding day!"
Though bounded is my being's range,
And knows no world beyond The Grange—
A universe by half-a-span
Less than the universe of man—
Yet am I Queen of all I see,
The household are but slaves to me.
Let others toil the livelong day,
I play and sleep, and sleep and play;
Or in my carriage proudly ride
With two fair ladies at my side.
Gaily I live, by all caressed,
And in a doting mistress blessed!
Affection's happiness I prove,
And see no fault in those I love;
Nor when my little bones are laid
Beneath the turf on which I played,
Nor when the rug which now I press
E h i t ' i Fl i l
Each winter's eve is Flossieless,
Shall Flossy die; but pictured here
To her loved mistress still be dear.
 LYMAN C. SMITH

CANADA TO COLUMBIA
O ELDER sister, though thou didst of yore
Forsake thy mother's ancient hall and flee
To be the chosen bride of Liberty,
She cherishes her grief and wrath no more,
Nor seeks her broken circle to restore,
Yet fain would clasp thee to her breast again,
But thou aloof uncertain dost remain.

O canst thou not the one mistake forget

Of her that bore thee, taught thy lips to frame
Thy early words, thy God in prayer to name;
That in the paths of right and justice set
Thy feet, where not infrequent walk they yet;
That stood devoted at thy youthful side,
Nor e'en her blood in thy defence denied?

But if thy younger sister yet abide

Content and happy in her mother's hall,
Nor feel the bond of blood a menial thrall,
But, leaning heart to heart, of choice confide
In mother yet as dearest guard and guide—
If thou wilt not thy mother's love regain,
Why must thy cradle sister plead in vain?

Yet all the best that bubbles in our veins

We sisters drew from that one Saxon breast.
Where oftentimes thy maiden cheek has pressed,
Mine resting still in loving trust remains.
Our bonds of blood should be unbroken chains!
Obey thy heart and grasp the proffered hand,
Then all the world our wills may not withstand.
 From "A DAY WITH HOMER"

M ETHOUGHT the stream of Time had backward rolled,

And I was standing on the fruitful plain
That lay between the sea and ancient Troy.
I saw one standing on the curving beach
Whose hoary locks were playthings for the wind
That freshening came across the swelling waves.
I listened to the mystic music of a voice
That chanted to their measured beat, in tones
Now whispering soft and low as rustling leaves,
Now rolling with the boom of tumbling waves,
Now clanging as the clash of brazen arms.

There sat the virgin queen whose buskined feet

Are swift to chase at early dawn, across
The breezy hills, the flying stag that falls
By wingëd shaft shot from her sounding bow;
And Venus, favored child of mighty Jove,
With perfect moulded arm and breast of snow,
Mirth-lighted eye and soft-caressing hand;—
Love, fairest form that ever found a home
On earth, or in the golden halls of heaven.
 WILLIAM WYE SMITH

THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE

O, THE East is but the West, with the sun a little hotter;
And the pine becomes a palm by the dark Egyptian water;
And the Nile's like many a stream we know that fills its brimming
cup;
We'll think it is the Ottawa as we track the batteaux up!
Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up!
It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top.

O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river;
But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sunbeams quiver;
And the mocking mirage spreads its view afar on either hand;
But strong we bend the sturdy oar towards the Southern land!
Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up!
It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top!

O, we've tracked the Rapids up, and o'er many a portage crossing;
And it's often such we've seen, though so loud the waves are
tossing!
Then it's homeward when the run is o'er! o'er stream and ocean
deep—
To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows sleep!
Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up!
It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top!

And it yet may come to pass that the hearts and hands so ready
May be sought again to help when some poise is off the steady!
And the Maple and the Pine be matched with British Oak the while,
As once beneath Egyptian suns the Canadians on the Nile!
Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up!
It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top!
 ALBERT E. S. SMYTHE

THE FORGOTTEN POET

W ITH fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud,

The little song I sing with so much care,
Sweet for a day, will swoon upon the flood
Of days that will forget my song was fair.
The master-song is mighty rushing wind
Mixed with all fragrance, strong with a great breath
From cloudland, and the climes that win the mind,
And full of pulses to awaken death.
Full well I know the storm will smite my flower,
My tiny short-stemmed blossom of the sod;
But when my flower and I have lived an hour
I'll bear it on the wind away to God:
And wind and flower and spirit may adorn
Some Eden-garden where new worlds are born.
 DEATH THE REVEALER

I KNOW that death is God's interpreter:

His quiet voice makes gracious meanings clear
In grievous things that vex us deeply here
Between the cradle and the sepulchre.
We, gazing into darkness, greatly err,
And fear the shrouded shadow of a fear
Till dawn reveals the vestments of a Seer
With gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh.
There is a mystery I cannot read
Around the mastery I no more dread;
For love is but a heart to brood and bleed,
And life is but a dream among the dead
Whose wisdom waits for us. God give me heed
Till the day break and shadows all be fled!
HIRAM LADD SPENCER

THE RIVER
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