Chapter 3

TO THE HEROIC SOULINurture thyself, O Soul, from the clear springThat wells beneath the secret inner shrine;Commune with its deep murmur,—'tis divine;Be faithful to the ebb and flow that bringThe outer tide of Spirit to trouble and swingThe inlet of thy being. Learn to knowThese powers, and life with all its venom and showShall have no force to dazzle thee or sting:And when Grief comes thou shalt have suffered moreThan all the deepest woes of all the world;Joy, dancing in, shall find thee nourished with mirth;Wisdom shall find her Master at thy door;And Love shall find thee crowned with love empearled;And death shall touch thee not but a new birth.IIBe strong, O warring soul! For very soothKings are but wraiths, republics fade like rain,Peoples are reaped and garnered as the grain,And that alone prevails which is the truth:Be strong when all the days of life bear ruthAnd fury, and are hot with toil and strain:Hold thy large faith and quell thy mighty pain:Dream the great dream that buoys thine age with youth.Thou art an eagle mewed in a sea-stopped cave:He, poised in darkness with victorious wings,Keeps night between the granite and the sea,Until the tide has drawn the warder-wave:Then from the portal where the ripple rings,He bursts into the boundless morning,—free!

TO THE HEROIC SOUL

Nurture thyself, O Soul, from the clear springThat wells beneath the secret inner shrine;Commune with its deep murmur,—'tis divine;Be faithful to the ebb and flow that bringThe outer tide of Spirit to trouble and swingThe inlet of thy being. Learn to knowThese powers, and life with all its venom and showShall have no force to dazzle thee or sting:

Nurture thyself, O Soul, from the clear spring

That wells beneath the secret inner shrine;

Commune with its deep murmur,—'tis divine;

Be faithful to the ebb and flow that bring

The outer tide of Spirit to trouble and swing

The inlet of thy being. Learn to know

These powers, and life with all its venom and show

Shall have no force to dazzle thee or sting:

And when Grief comes thou shalt have suffered moreThan all the deepest woes of all the world;Joy, dancing in, shall find thee nourished with mirth;Wisdom shall find her Master at thy door;And Love shall find thee crowned with love empearled;And death shall touch thee not but a new birth.

And when Grief comes thou shalt have suffered more

Than all the deepest woes of all the world;

Joy, dancing in, shall find thee nourished with mirth;

Wisdom shall find her Master at thy door;

And Love shall find thee crowned with love empearled;

And death shall touch thee not but a new birth.

Be strong, O warring soul! For very soothKings are but wraiths, republics fade like rain,Peoples are reaped and garnered as the grain,And that alone prevails which is the truth:Be strong when all the days of life bear ruthAnd fury, and are hot with toil and strain:Hold thy large faith and quell thy mighty pain:Dream the great dream that buoys thine age with youth.

Be strong, O warring soul! For very sooth

Kings are but wraiths, republics fade like rain,

Peoples are reaped and garnered as the grain,

And that alone prevails which is the truth:

Be strong when all the days of life bear ruth

And fury, and are hot with toil and strain:

Hold thy large faith and quell thy mighty pain:

Dream the great dream that buoys thine age with youth.

Thou art an eagle mewed in a sea-stopped cave:He, poised in darkness with victorious wings,Keeps night between the granite and the sea,Until the tide has drawn the warder-wave:Then from the portal where the ripple rings,He bursts into the boundless morning,—free!

Thou art an eagle mewed in a sea-stopped cave:

He, poised in darkness with victorious wings,

Keeps night between the granite and the sea,

Until the tide has drawn the warder-wave:

Then from the portal where the ripple rings,

He bursts into the boundless morning,—free!

RETROSPECTThis is the mockery of the moving years;Youth's colour dies, the fervid morning glowIs gone from off the foreland; slow, slow,Even slower than the fount of human tearsTo empty, the consuming shadow nearsThat Time is casting on the worldly showOf pomp and glory. But falter not;—belowThat thought is based a deeper thought that cheers.Glean thou thy past; that will alone inureTo catch thy heart up from a dark distress;It were enough to find one deed mature,Deep-rooted, mighty 'mid the toil and press;To save one memory of the sweet and pure,From out life's failure and its bitterness.

RETROSPECT

This is the mockery of the moving years;Youth's colour dies, the fervid morning glowIs gone from off the foreland; slow, slow,Even slower than the fount of human tearsTo empty, the consuming shadow nearsThat Time is casting on the worldly showOf pomp and glory. But falter not;—belowThat thought is based a deeper thought that cheers.

This is the mockery of the moving years;

Youth's colour dies, the fervid morning glow

Is gone from off the foreland; slow, slow,

Even slower than the fount of human tears

To empty, the consuming shadow nears

That Time is casting on the worldly show

Of pomp and glory. But falter not;—below

That thought is based a deeper thought that cheers.

Glean thou thy past; that will alone inureTo catch thy heart up from a dark distress;It were enough to find one deed mature,Deep-rooted, mighty 'mid the toil and press;To save one memory of the sweet and pure,From out life's failure and its bitterness.

Glean thou thy past; that will alone inure

To catch thy heart up from a dark distress;

It were enough to find one deed mature,

Deep-rooted, mighty 'mid the toil and press;

To save one memory of the sweet and pure,

From out life's failure and its bitterness.

FROST MAGICINow, in the moonrise, from a wintry sky,The frost has come to charm with elfin mightThis quiet room; to draw with symbols brightFaces and forms in fairest characteryUpon the casement; all the thoughts that lieDeep hidden in my heart's core he would tell,How the red shoots of fancy strike and swell,How they are watered, what soil nourished by.With eerie power he piles his atomies,Incrusted gems, star-glances overborneWith lids of sleep pulled from the moth's bright eyes,And forests of frail ferns, blanched and forlorn,Where Oberon of unimagined sizeMight in the silver silence wind his horn.IIWith these alone he draws in magic lines,Faces that people dreams, and chiefly oneHappy and brilliant as the northern sun,And by its darling side there gleams and shinesOne of God's children with the laughing signsOf dimples, and glad accents, and sweet cries,That angels are and heaven's memories:The wizard thus my soul's estate divines;All it holds dear he sets alone apart,Etches the past in likeness of dim grovesSilvered in quiet rime and with rare art,In crystal spoils and fairy treasure-troves,He draws the picture of the happy heart,By those who love it most, whom most it loves.

FROST MAGIC

Now, in the moonrise, from a wintry sky,The frost has come to charm with elfin mightThis quiet room; to draw with symbols brightFaces and forms in fairest characteryUpon the casement; all the thoughts that lieDeep hidden in my heart's core he would tell,How the red shoots of fancy strike and swell,How they are watered, what soil nourished by.

Now, in the moonrise, from a wintry sky,

The frost has come to charm with elfin might

This quiet room; to draw with symbols bright

Faces and forms in fairest charactery

Upon the casement; all the thoughts that lie

Deep hidden in my heart's core he would tell,

How the red shoots of fancy strike and swell,

How they are watered, what soil nourished by.

With eerie power he piles his atomies,Incrusted gems, star-glances overborneWith lids of sleep pulled from the moth's bright eyes,And forests of frail ferns, blanched and forlorn,Where Oberon of unimagined sizeMight in the silver silence wind his horn.

With eerie power he piles his atomies,

Incrusted gems, star-glances overborne

With lids of sleep pulled from the moth's bright eyes,

And forests of frail ferns, blanched and forlorn,

Where Oberon of unimagined size

Might in the silver silence wind his horn.

With these alone he draws in magic lines,Faces that people dreams, and chiefly oneHappy and brilliant as the northern sun,And by its darling side there gleams and shinesOne of God's children with the laughing signsOf dimples, and glad accents, and sweet cries,That angels are and heaven's memories:The wizard thus my soul's estate divines;

With these alone he draws in magic lines,

Faces that people dreams, and chiefly one

Happy and brilliant as the northern sun,

And by its darling side there gleams and shines

One of God's children with the laughing signs

Of dimples, and glad accents, and sweet cries,

That angels are and heaven's memories:

The wizard thus my soul's estate divines;

All it holds dear he sets alone apart,Etches the past in likeness of dim grovesSilvered in quiet rime and with rare art,In crystal spoils and fairy treasure-troves,He draws the picture of the happy heart,By those who love it most, whom most it loves.

All it holds dear he sets alone apart,

Etches the past in likeness of dim groves

Silvered in quiet rime and with rare art,

In crystal spoils and fairy treasure-troves,

He draws the picture of the happy heart,

By those who love it most, whom most it loves.

IN SNOW-TIMEI have seen things that charmed the heart to rest:Faint moonlight on the towers of ancient towns,Flattering the soul to dream of old renowns;The first clear silver on the mountain crestWhere the lone eagle by his chilly nestCalled the lone soul to brood serenely free;Still pools of sunlight shimmering in the sea,Calm after storm, wherein the storm seemed blest.But here a peace deeper than peace is furled,Enshrined and chaliced from the changeful hour;The snow is still, yet lives in its own light.Here is the peace which brooded day and night,Before the heart of man with its wild powerHad ever spurned or trampled the great world.

IN SNOW-TIME

I have seen things that charmed the heart to rest:Faint moonlight on the towers of ancient towns,Flattering the soul to dream of old renowns;The first clear silver on the mountain crestWhere the lone eagle by his chilly nestCalled the lone soul to brood serenely free;Still pools of sunlight shimmering in the sea,Calm after storm, wherein the storm seemed blest.

I have seen things that charmed the heart to rest:

Faint moonlight on the towers of ancient towns,

Flattering the soul to dream of old renowns;

The first clear silver on the mountain crest

Where the lone eagle by his chilly nest

Called the lone soul to brood serenely free;

Still pools of sunlight shimmering in the sea,

Calm after storm, wherein the storm seemed blest.

But here a peace deeper than peace is furled,Enshrined and chaliced from the changeful hour;The snow is still, yet lives in its own light.Here is the peace which brooded day and night,Before the heart of man with its wild powerHad ever spurned or trampled the great world.

But here a peace deeper than peace is furled,

Enshrined and chaliced from the changeful hour;

The snow is still, yet lives in its own light.

Here is the peace which brooded day and night,

Before the heart of man with its wild power

Had ever spurned or trampled the great world.

TO A CANADIAN LAD KILLED IN THE WARO noble youth that held our honour in keeping,And bore it sacred through the battle flame,How shall we give full measure of acclaimTo thy sharp labour, thy immortal reaping?For though we sowed with doubtful hands, half sleeping,Thou in thy vivid pride hast reaped a nation,And brought it in with shouts and exultation,With drums and trumpets, with flags flashing and leaping.Let us bring pungent wreaths of balsam, and tenderTendrils of wild-flowers, lovelier for thy daring,And deck a sylvan shrine, where the maple partsThe moonlight, with lilac bloom, and the splendourOf suns unwearied; all unwithered, wearingThy valor stainless in our heart of hearts.

TO A CANADIAN LAD KILLED IN THE WAR

O noble youth that held our honour in keeping,And bore it sacred through the battle flame,How shall we give full measure of acclaimTo thy sharp labour, thy immortal reaping?For though we sowed with doubtful hands, half sleeping,Thou in thy vivid pride hast reaped a nation,And brought it in with shouts and exultation,With drums and trumpets, with flags flashing and leaping.

O noble youth that held our honour in keeping,

And bore it sacred through the battle flame,

How shall we give full measure of acclaim

To thy sharp labour, thy immortal reaping?

For though we sowed with doubtful hands, half sleeping,

Thou in thy vivid pride hast reaped a nation,

And brought it in with shouts and exultation,

With drums and trumpets, with flags flashing and leaping.

Let us bring pungent wreaths of balsam, and tenderTendrils of wild-flowers, lovelier for thy daring,And deck a sylvan shrine, where the maple partsThe moonlight, with lilac bloom, and the splendourOf suns unwearied; all unwithered, wearingThy valor stainless in our heart of hearts.

Let us bring pungent wreaths of balsam, and tender

Tendrils of wild-flowers, lovelier for thy daring,

And deck a sylvan shrine, where the maple parts

The moonlight, with lilac bloom, and the splendour

Of suns unwearied; all unwithered, wearing

Thy valor stainless in our heart of hearts.

THE CLOSED DOOR

The dew falls and the stars fall,The sun falls in the west,But never moreThrough the closed door,Shall the one that I loved bestReturn to me:A salt tear is the sea,All earth's air is a sigh,But they never can mourn for meWith my heart's cry,For the one that I loved bestWho caressed me with her eyes,And every morning came to me,With the beauty of sunrise,Who was health and wealth and all,Who never shall answer my call,While the sun falls in the west,The dew falls and the stars fall.

The dew falls and the stars fall,

The sun falls in the west,

But never more

Through the closed door,

Shall the one that I loved best

Return to me:

A salt tear is the sea,

All earth's air is a sigh,

But they never can mourn for me

With my heart's cry,

For the one that I loved best

Who caressed me with her eyes,

And every morning came to me,

With the beauty of sunrise,

Who was health and wealth and all,

Who never shall answer my call,

While the sun falls in the west,

The dew falls and the stars fall.

BY A CHILD'S BEDShe breathèd deep,And stepped from out life's streamUpon the shore of sleep;And parted from the earthly noise,Leaving her world of toys,To dwell a little in a dell of dream.Then brooding on the love I hold so free,My fond possessions come to beClouded with grief;These fairy kisses,This archness innocent,Sting me with sorrow and disturbed content:I think of what my portion might have been;A dearth of blisses,A famine of delights,If I had never had what now I value most;Till all I have seems something I have lost;A desert underneath the garden shows,And in a mound of cinders roots the rose.Here then I linger by the little bed,Till all my spirit's sphere,Grows one half brightness and the other dead,One half all joy, the other vague alarms;And, holding each the other half in fee,Floats like the growing moonThat bears implicitlyHer lessening pearl of shadowClasped in the crescent silver of her arms.

BY A CHILD'S BED

She breathèd deep,And stepped from out life's streamUpon the shore of sleep;And parted from the earthly noise,Leaving her world of toys,To dwell a little in a dell of dream.

She breathèd deep,

And stepped from out life's stream

Upon the shore of sleep;

And parted from the earthly noise,

Leaving her world of toys,

To dwell a little in a dell of dream.

Then brooding on the love I hold so free,My fond possessions come to beClouded with grief;These fairy kisses,This archness innocent,Sting me with sorrow and disturbed content:I think of what my portion might have been;A dearth of blisses,A famine of delights,If I had never had what now I value most;Till all I have seems something I have lost;A desert underneath the garden shows,And in a mound of cinders roots the rose.

Then brooding on the love I hold so free,

My fond possessions come to be

Clouded with grief;

These fairy kisses,

This archness innocent,

Sting me with sorrow and disturbed content:

I think of what my portion might have been;

A dearth of blisses,

A famine of delights,

If I had never had what now I value most;

Till all I have seems something I have lost;

A desert underneath the garden shows,

And in a mound of cinders roots the rose.

Here then I linger by the little bed,Till all my spirit's sphere,Grows one half brightness and the other dead,One half all joy, the other vague alarms;And, holding each the other half in fee,Floats like the growing moonThat bears implicitlyHer lessening pearl of shadowClasped in the crescent silver of her arms.

Here then I linger by the little bed,

Till all my spirit's sphere,

Grows one half brightness and the other dead,

One half all joy, the other vague alarms;

And, holding each the other half in fee,

Floats like the growing moon

That bears implicitly

Her lessening pearl of shadow

Clasped in the crescent silver of her arms.

ELIZABETH SPEAKS(Aetat Six)Now every night we light the grateAnd I sit up tillreallylate;My Father sits upon the right,My Mother on the left, and IBetween them on an ancient chair,That once belonged to my Great-Gran,Before my Father was a man.We sit without another light;I really, truly never tireWatching that space, as black as night,That hangs behind the fire;For there sometimes, you know,The dearest, queerest little sparks,Without a sound creep to and fro;Sometimes they form in ringsOr lines that look like many things,Like skipping ropes, or hoops, or swings:Before you know what you're about,They all go out!My Father says that they are gnomes,Beyond the grate they have their homes,In a tall, black, and windy town,Behind a door we cannot see.Often when it's time for bedThe children run away instead,Out through the door to see our fire,Then their angry parents comeWith every candle in the town,The beadle with his lantern too,And search and rummage up and down,To catch the children as they play,Between the rows of new-mown hay,And bring them home;(They must be, O, so very small,How do they capture them at all?But then they must be verydear);When they can find no moreThey blow a horn we cannot hear,And march with the beadle at their head,Right through the little open door,Then close it tight and go to bed.My Mother says that may be so;(They both agree they'regnomes, you know).She says, she thinks that every night,The gnomes have had a fearful fight;Their valiant General has been slain,And all the soldiers leave the campTo dig his grave upon the plain;They drag the General on a gun;Every bandsman has a lampAnd there's a torch for every one,They dig his grave with bayonetsAnd wrap him grandly in his flag,Then they gather in a ring,The band plays very soft and low,And all the soldiers sing.(Of course we cannot hear, you know,)Then some one calls "The enemy comes!"They muffle up their pipes and drums;Every soldier in a frightPuts out his light.Then hand in hand, and very still,They clamber up the dark, dark hillAnd hold their breath tight—tight.(I'd like to know which tale is right.)O! there is something I forgot!Sometimes one little spark burns onLong after the rest have gone.My Father says that lamp is leftBy a little crooked, crotchety man,Who cannot find his wayward son;When the horn begins to blow,He has to drop his light and run.Of course he limps so slowHe squeezes through the very last,When he is gone the naughty scampJumps up and puff! out goes the lamp.My Mother says that is the light,Borne by the very bravest knight;He is so very, very brave,He would not leave his General's grave,And when the Enemy General triesTo make him tell where his General lies,He answers boldly, "I—will—not!"Then they shoot him on the spot,And give a horrid, dreadful shout,And then of course his light goes out.I sit and think when they are through,Which tale I like best of the two.Sometimes I like theFatherone;It is such fun!But then I love theMotherone,That dear brave soldier and the rest:—Now which one do you like the best?

ELIZABETH SPEAKS

(Aetat Six)

Now every night we light the grateAnd I sit up tillreallylate;My Father sits upon the right,My Mother on the left, and IBetween them on an ancient chair,That once belonged to my Great-Gran,Before my Father was a man.We sit without another light;I really, truly never tireWatching that space, as black as night,That hangs behind the fire;For there sometimes, you know,The dearest, queerest little sparks,Without a sound creep to and fro;Sometimes they form in ringsOr lines that look like many things,Like skipping ropes, or hoops, or swings:Before you know what you're about,They all go out!

Now every night we light the grate

And I sit up tillreallylate;

My Father sits upon the right,

My Mother on the left, and I

Between them on an ancient chair,

That once belonged to my Great-Gran,

Before my Father was a man.

We sit without another light;

I really, truly never tire

Watching that space, as black as night,

That hangs behind the fire;

For there sometimes, you know,

The dearest, queerest little sparks,

Without a sound creep to and fro;

Sometimes they form in rings

Or lines that look like many things,

Like skipping ropes, or hoops, or swings:

Before you know what you're about,

They all go out!

My Father says that they are gnomes,Beyond the grate they have their homes,In a tall, black, and windy town,Behind a door we cannot see.Often when it's time for bedThe children run away instead,Out through the door to see our fire,Then their angry parents comeWith every candle in the town,The beadle with his lantern too,And search and rummage up and down,To catch the children as they play,Between the rows of new-mown hay,And bring them home;(They must be, O, so very small,How do they capture them at all?But then they must be verydear);When they can find no moreThey blow a horn we cannot hear,And march with the beadle at their head,Right through the little open door,Then close it tight and go to bed.

My Father says that they are gnomes,

Beyond the grate they have their homes,

In a tall, black, and windy town,

Behind a door we cannot see.

Often when it's time for bed

The children run away instead,

Out through the door to see our fire,

Then their angry parents come

With every candle in the town,

The beadle with his lantern too,

And search and rummage up and down,

To catch the children as they play,

Between the rows of new-mown hay,

And bring them home;

(They must be, O, so very small,

How do they capture them at all?

But then they must be verydear);

When they can find no more

They blow a horn we cannot hear,

And march with the beadle at their head,

Right through the little open door,

Then close it tight and go to bed.

My Mother says that may be so;(They both agree they'regnomes, you know).She says, she thinks that every night,The gnomes have had a fearful fight;Their valiant General has been slain,And all the soldiers leave the campTo dig his grave upon the plain;They drag the General on a gun;Every bandsman has a lampAnd there's a torch for every one,They dig his grave with bayonetsAnd wrap him grandly in his flag,Then they gather in a ring,The band plays very soft and low,And all the soldiers sing.(Of course we cannot hear, you know,)Then some one calls "The enemy comes!"They muffle up their pipes and drums;Every soldier in a frightPuts out his light.Then hand in hand, and very still,They clamber up the dark, dark hillAnd hold their breath tight—tight.

My Mother says that may be so;

(They both agree they'regnomes, you know).

She says, she thinks that every night,

The gnomes have had a fearful fight;

Their valiant General has been slain,

And all the soldiers leave the camp

To dig his grave upon the plain;

They drag the General on a gun;

Every bandsman has a lamp

And there's a torch for every one,

They dig his grave with bayonets

And wrap him grandly in his flag,

Then they gather in a ring,

The band plays very soft and low,

And all the soldiers sing.

(Of course we cannot hear, you know,)

Then some one calls "The enemy comes!"

They muffle up their pipes and drums;

Every soldier in a fright

Puts out his light.

Then hand in hand, and very still,

They clamber up the dark, dark hill

And hold their breath tight—tight.

(I'd like to know which tale is right.)

O! there is something I forgot!Sometimes one little spark burns onLong after the rest have gone.

O! there is something I forgot!

Sometimes one little spark burns on

Long after the rest have gone.

My Father says that lamp is leftBy a little crooked, crotchety man,Who cannot find his wayward son;When the horn begins to blow,He has to drop his light and run.Of course he limps so slowHe squeezes through the very last,When he is gone the naughty scampJumps up and puff! out goes the lamp.

My Father says that lamp is left

By a little crooked, crotchety man,

Who cannot find his wayward son;

When the horn begins to blow,

He has to drop his light and run.

Of course he limps so slow

He squeezes through the very last,

When he is gone the naughty scamp

Jumps up and puff! out goes the lamp.

My Mother says that is the light,Borne by the very bravest knight;He is so very, very brave,He would not leave his General's grave,And when the Enemy General triesTo make him tell where his General lies,He answers boldly, "I—will—not!"Then they shoot him on the spot,And give a horrid, dreadful shout,And then of course his light goes out.

My Mother says that is the light,

Borne by the very bravest knight;

He is so very, very brave,

He would not leave his General's grave,

And when the Enemy General tries

To make him tell where his General lies,

He answers boldly, "I—will—not!"

Then they shoot him on the spot,

And give a horrid, dreadful shout,

And then of course his light goes out.

I sit and think when they are through,Which tale I like best of the two.Sometimes I like theFatherone;It is such fun!But then I love theMotherone,That dear brave soldier and the rest:—Now which one do you like the best?

I sit and think when they are through,

Which tale I like best of the two.

Sometimes I like theFatherone;

It is such fun!

But then I love theMotherone,

That dear brave soldier and the rest:—

Now which one do you like the best?

A LEGEND OF CHRIST'S NATIVITYAt Bethlehem upon the hill,The day was done, the night was nigh,The dusk was deep and had its will,The stars were very small and still,Like unblown tapers, faint and high.The noises had begun to fall,And quiet stole upon the place,The howl of dogs along the wall,Voices that from the houstops callAnd answer, and the graceOf some low breath of even-songGrew faint apace: between the rocksIn misty pastures, and alongThe dim hillside with crook and thongThe lonely shepherds watched their flocks.The Inn-master within the InnCalled loudly out after this sort,"Draw no more water, cease the din,Pile the loose fodder, and beginTo turn the mules out of the court.The time has come to shut the gate,Make way," he cried, and then beganTo sweep and set the litter straight,And pile the saddle-bags and freightOf some belated caravan.The drivers whirled their beasts about,And beat them on with shoutings great;The nosebags slipped, the feed flew out,The water-buckets reeled, the routWent jostling onward to the gate.Came one unto the master then,Hasting to find him through the gloom,"Give us a place to rest;" and whenHe spake, the master cried again,"There is no room—there is no room.""But I have come from Nazareth,Full three days' toil to Bethlehem"—"What matters that," the master saith,"For here is hardly room for breath;The guests curse me for crowding them.""Hold, Sir! leave me not so, I pray"—He plucked him sudden by the sleeve,"My wife is with me and doth say,Her hour hath come, I beg you, stay,And make some plan for her relief.""Two hours ago you might have hadThe chamber wherein stands the loom;But then to drive me wholly mad,Came this great merchant from Baghdad,And thrust himself into the room."There is no other shelf to callA bed—But just beyond the gate,You may find shelter in a stall,If there be shelter left at all,You may be even now too late."Beyond the gate within the night,A figure rested on the ground,About her all the rout took flight,The dizzy noise, the flashing light,The mules were tramping all around.Leaning in mute expectancy,Beneath a stunted sycamore,She added darkness utterly,To the dim light, the shrouded tree,By her hands held her face before.And yet to mock her eye's desire,The cavern into which she stared,Was lit with disks and lines of fire;When triple darkness did conspire,The secret founts of light were bared.And all the wheeling fire was rifeWith haunting fears, her broken breathGrew short with this prophetic strife;What was for one the dawn of life,Would be for one the dawn of death.Meantime the stranger with a lamp,Which lit the darkness, small and wan,Searched where the mules did tramp and stamp,Amid the litter and the damp,For some small place to rest upon.And there against the furthest wall,Where the black shade was dense and deep,He found a mean and meager stall,But there when the weak light did fall,He found a little lad asleep.He lifted up his childish head,And smiled serenely at the light,"And have you found him, then," he said,"My brother who I thought was dead,I lost him in the crowd last night."His name is Ezra, and he isSo tall and strong that when I try,Standing on tiptoe for a kissI could not reach, except for this,He lifts me up so easily."I had two little doves to takeUp to the booths"—he held his breath,"Peace, child! and for your mother's sake,Yield me this place—nay, nay! awake!My weary wife is sick to death.""I will," the little lad replied"I promised never to forgetMy mother, years ago she died,I will lie out on the hillside,And I may find dear Ezra yet."And now she drooped her weary head,Within that comfortless manger,It might have been a palace bed,With canopy of gold instead,So little did she know or care.Gentle Jesus, slumber mild,Lullaby, lullaby;Succored by a little child,Lull, lullaby.You of children are the king,Lullaby, lullaby;Sovereign to all ministering,Lull, lullaby.Grace you bring them from above,Lullaby, lullaby;They give promise, lisping love,Lull, lullaby.And out upon the darkened hill,With all the quiet-pastured sheep,Charmed by the falling of a rill,Where in the pool it cadenced still,The little lad was fallen asleep.All his young dreams were robed with power.And glad were all his vision folk;He wandered on from hour to hour,With Ezra, happy as a flowerThat blooms safe-shadowed by the oak.But once before his dreams were told,He thought he saw within the deepVault of the sky a rose unfold,Made all of fire and lovely gold,Whose petals seemed to glow and leap,As if each dewy, crystal cellWere a great angel live with light,And trembling to the coronal,Merging in sheen of pearl and shell,With his great comrade, equal, bright,Until the petals flashed and sprang,And folded to the central heart:Music there was that showered and rang,As if each angel harped and sang,Controlled by some celestial art.The child saw splendor without name,And turned and smiled, and all the noiseOf strings and singing sank; it cameFaint and dream-altered, yet the same,Soft-tempered to his mother's voice.Slumber, slumber, gentle child,Lullaby, lullaby;Sweet as henna, dear and mild,Lull, lullaby.You the first of all the race,Lullaby, lullaby;Gave your master early grace,Lull, lullaby.Gave a shelter for his head,Lullaby, lullaby;Took the chilly earth instead,Lull, lullaby.Now take comfort infant earth,Lullaby, lullaby;Jesus Christ is come to birth,Lull, lullaby.For his principality,Lullaby, lullaby;Children cluster at his knee,Lull, lullaby.Hail the heaven-happy age,Lullaby, lullaby;Love begins his pilgrimage,Lull, lullaby.

A LEGEND OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY

At Bethlehem upon the hill,The day was done, the night was nigh,The dusk was deep and had its will,The stars were very small and still,Like unblown tapers, faint and high.

At Bethlehem upon the hill,

The day was done, the night was nigh,

The dusk was deep and had its will,

The stars were very small and still,

Like unblown tapers, faint and high.

The noises had begun to fall,And quiet stole upon the place,The howl of dogs along the wall,Voices that from the houstops callAnd answer, and the grace

The noises had begun to fall,

And quiet stole upon the place,

The howl of dogs along the wall,

Voices that from the houstops call

And answer, and the grace

Of some low breath of even-songGrew faint apace: between the rocksIn misty pastures, and alongThe dim hillside with crook and thongThe lonely shepherds watched their flocks.

Of some low breath of even-song

Grew faint apace: between the rocks

In misty pastures, and along

The dim hillside with crook and thong

The lonely shepherds watched their flocks.

The Inn-master within the InnCalled loudly out after this sort,"Draw no more water, cease the din,Pile the loose fodder, and beginTo turn the mules out of the court.

The Inn-master within the Inn

Called loudly out after this sort,

"Draw no more water, cease the din,

Pile the loose fodder, and begin

To turn the mules out of the court.

The time has come to shut the gate,Make way," he cried, and then beganTo sweep and set the litter straight,And pile the saddle-bags and freightOf some belated caravan.

The time has come to shut the gate,

Make way," he cried, and then began

To sweep and set the litter straight,

And pile the saddle-bags and freight

Of some belated caravan.

The drivers whirled their beasts about,And beat them on with shoutings great;The nosebags slipped, the feed flew out,The water-buckets reeled, the routWent jostling onward to the gate.

The drivers whirled their beasts about,

And beat them on with shoutings great;

The nosebags slipped, the feed flew out,

The water-buckets reeled, the rout

Went jostling onward to the gate.

Came one unto the master then,Hasting to find him through the gloom,"Give us a place to rest;" and whenHe spake, the master cried again,"There is no room—there is no room."

Came one unto the master then,

Hasting to find him through the gloom,

"Give us a place to rest;" and when

He spake, the master cried again,

"There is no room—there is no room."

"But I have come from Nazareth,Full three days' toil to Bethlehem"—"What matters that," the master saith,"For here is hardly room for breath;The guests curse me for crowding them."

"But I have come from Nazareth,

Full three days' toil to Bethlehem"—

"What matters that," the master saith,

"For here is hardly room for breath;

The guests curse me for crowding them."

"Hold, Sir! leave me not so, I pray"—He plucked him sudden by the sleeve,"My wife is with me and doth say,Her hour hath come, I beg you, stay,And make some plan for her relief."

"Hold, Sir! leave me not so, I pray"—

He plucked him sudden by the sleeve,

"My wife is with me and doth say,

Her hour hath come, I beg you, stay,

And make some plan for her relief."

"Two hours ago you might have hadThe chamber wherein stands the loom;But then to drive me wholly mad,Came this great merchant from Baghdad,And thrust himself into the room.

"Two hours ago you might have had

The chamber wherein stands the loom;

But then to drive me wholly mad,

Came this great merchant from Baghdad,

And thrust himself into the room.

"There is no other shelf to callA bed—But just beyond the gate,You may find shelter in a stall,If there be shelter left at all,You may be even now too late."

"There is no other shelf to call

A bed—But just beyond the gate,

You may find shelter in a stall,

If there be shelter left at all,

You may be even now too late."

Beyond the gate within the night,A figure rested on the ground,About her all the rout took flight,The dizzy noise, the flashing light,The mules were tramping all around.

Beyond the gate within the night,

A figure rested on the ground,

About her all the rout took flight,

The dizzy noise, the flashing light,

The mules were tramping all around.

Leaning in mute expectancy,Beneath a stunted sycamore,She added darkness utterly,To the dim light, the shrouded tree,By her hands held her face before.

Leaning in mute expectancy,

Beneath a stunted sycamore,

She added darkness utterly,

To the dim light, the shrouded tree,

By her hands held her face before.

And yet to mock her eye's desire,The cavern into which she stared,Was lit with disks and lines of fire;When triple darkness did conspire,The secret founts of light were bared.

And yet to mock her eye's desire,

The cavern into which she stared,

Was lit with disks and lines of fire;

When triple darkness did conspire,

The secret founts of light were bared.

And all the wheeling fire was rifeWith haunting fears, her broken breathGrew short with this prophetic strife;What was for one the dawn of life,Would be for one the dawn of death.

And all the wheeling fire was rife

With haunting fears, her broken breath

Grew short with this prophetic strife;

What was for one the dawn of life,

Would be for one the dawn of death.

Meantime the stranger with a lamp,Which lit the darkness, small and wan,Searched where the mules did tramp and stamp,Amid the litter and the damp,For some small place to rest upon.

Meantime the stranger with a lamp,

Which lit the darkness, small and wan,

Searched where the mules did tramp and stamp,

Amid the litter and the damp,

For some small place to rest upon.

And there against the furthest wall,Where the black shade was dense and deep,He found a mean and meager stall,But there when the weak light did fall,He found a little lad asleep.

And there against the furthest wall,

Where the black shade was dense and deep,

He found a mean and meager stall,

But there when the weak light did fall,

He found a little lad asleep.

He lifted up his childish head,And smiled serenely at the light,"And have you found him, then," he said,"My brother who I thought was dead,I lost him in the crowd last night.

He lifted up his childish head,

And smiled serenely at the light,

"And have you found him, then," he said,

"My brother who I thought was dead,

I lost him in the crowd last night.

"His name is Ezra, and he isSo tall and strong that when I try,Standing on tiptoe for a kissI could not reach, except for this,He lifts me up so easily.

"His name is Ezra, and he is

So tall and strong that when I try,

Standing on tiptoe for a kiss

I could not reach, except for this,

He lifts me up so easily.

"I had two little doves to takeUp to the booths"—he held his breath,"Peace, child! and for your mother's sake,Yield me this place—nay, nay! awake!My weary wife is sick to death."

"I had two little doves to take

Up to the booths"—he held his breath,

"Peace, child! and for your mother's sake,

Yield me this place—nay, nay! awake!

My weary wife is sick to death."

"I will," the little lad replied"I promised never to forgetMy mother, years ago she died,I will lie out on the hillside,And I may find dear Ezra yet."

"I will," the little lad replied

"I promised never to forget

My mother, years ago she died,

I will lie out on the hillside,

And I may find dear Ezra yet."

And now she drooped her weary head,Within that comfortless manger,It might have been a palace bed,With canopy of gold instead,So little did she know or care.

And now she drooped her weary head,

Within that comfortless manger,

It might have been a palace bed,

With canopy of gold instead,

So little did she know or care.

Gentle Jesus, slumber mild,Lullaby, lullaby;Succored by a little child,Lull, lullaby.

Gentle Jesus, slumber mild,

Lullaby, lullaby;

Succored by a little child,

Lull, lullaby.

You of children are the king,Lullaby, lullaby;Sovereign to all ministering,Lull, lullaby.

You of children are the king,

Lullaby, lullaby;

Sovereign to all ministering,

Lull, lullaby.

Grace you bring them from above,Lullaby, lullaby;They give promise, lisping love,Lull, lullaby.

Grace you bring them from above,

Lullaby, lullaby;

They give promise, lisping love,

Lull, lullaby.

And out upon the darkened hill,With all the quiet-pastured sheep,Charmed by the falling of a rill,Where in the pool it cadenced still,The little lad was fallen asleep.

And out upon the darkened hill,

With all the quiet-pastured sheep,

Charmed by the falling of a rill,

Where in the pool it cadenced still,

The little lad was fallen asleep.

All his young dreams were robed with power.And glad were all his vision folk;He wandered on from hour to hour,With Ezra, happy as a flowerThat blooms safe-shadowed by the oak.

All his young dreams were robed with power.

And glad were all his vision folk;

He wandered on from hour to hour,

With Ezra, happy as a flower

That blooms safe-shadowed by the oak.

But once before his dreams were told,He thought he saw within the deepVault of the sky a rose unfold,Made all of fire and lovely gold,Whose petals seemed to glow and leap,

But once before his dreams were told,

He thought he saw within the deep

Vault of the sky a rose unfold,

Made all of fire and lovely gold,

Whose petals seemed to glow and leap,

As if each dewy, crystal cellWere a great angel live with light,And trembling to the coronal,Merging in sheen of pearl and shell,With his great comrade, equal, bright,

As if each dewy, crystal cell

Were a great angel live with light,

And trembling to the coronal,

Merging in sheen of pearl and shell,

With his great comrade, equal, bright,

Until the petals flashed and sprang,And folded to the central heart:Music there was that showered and rang,As if each angel harped and sang,Controlled by some celestial art.

Until the petals flashed and sprang,

And folded to the central heart:

Music there was that showered and rang,

As if each angel harped and sang,

Controlled by some celestial art.

The child saw splendor without name,And turned and smiled, and all the noiseOf strings and singing sank; it cameFaint and dream-altered, yet the same,Soft-tempered to his mother's voice.

The child saw splendor without name,

And turned and smiled, and all the noise

Of strings and singing sank; it came

Faint and dream-altered, yet the same,

Soft-tempered to his mother's voice.

Slumber, slumber, gentle child,Lullaby, lullaby;Sweet as henna, dear and mild,Lull, lullaby.

Slumber, slumber, gentle child,

Lullaby, lullaby;

Sweet as henna, dear and mild,

Lull, lullaby.

You the first of all the race,Lullaby, lullaby;Gave your master early grace,Lull, lullaby.

You the first of all the race,

Lullaby, lullaby;

Gave your master early grace,

Lull, lullaby.

Gave a shelter for his head,Lullaby, lullaby;Took the chilly earth instead,Lull, lullaby.

Gave a shelter for his head,

Lullaby, lullaby;

Took the chilly earth instead,

Lull, lullaby.

Now take comfort infant earth,Lullaby, lullaby;Jesus Christ is come to birth,Lull, lullaby.

Now take comfort infant earth,

Lullaby, lullaby;

Jesus Christ is come to birth,

Lull, lullaby.

For his principality,Lullaby, lullaby;Children cluster at his knee,Lull, lullaby.

For his principality,

Lullaby, lullaby;

Children cluster at his knee,

Lull, lullaby.

Hail the heaven-happy age,Lullaby, lullaby;Love begins his pilgrimage,Lull, lullaby.

Hail the heaven-happy age,

Lullaby, lullaby;

Love begins his pilgrimage,

Lull, lullaby.

WILLOW-PIPESSo in the shadow by the nimble floodHe made her whistles of the willow wood,Flutes of one note with mellow slender tone;(A robin piping in the dusk alone).Lively the pleasure was the wand to bruise,And notch the light rod for its lyric use,Until the stem gave up its tender sheath,And showed the white and glistening wood beneath.And when the ground was covered with light chips,Grey leaves and green, and twigs and tender slips,They placed the well-made whistles in a rowAnd left them for the careless wind to blow.

WILLOW-PIPES

So in the shadow by the nimble floodHe made her whistles of the willow wood,Flutes of one note with mellow slender tone;(A robin piping in the dusk alone).Lively the pleasure was the wand to bruise,And notch the light rod for its lyric use,Until the stem gave up its tender sheath,And showed the white and glistening wood beneath.And when the ground was covered with light chips,Grey leaves and green, and twigs and tender slips,They placed the well-made whistles in a rowAnd left them for the careless wind to blow.

So in the shadow by the nimble flood

He made her whistles of the willow wood,

Flutes of one note with mellow slender tone;

(A robin piping in the dusk alone).

Lively the pleasure was the wand to bruise,

And notch the light rod for its lyric use,

Until the stem gave up its tender sheath,

And showed the white and glistening wood beneath.

And when the ground was covered with light chips,

Grey leaves and green, and twigs and tender slips,

They placed the well-made whistles in a row

And left them for the careless wind to blow.

ANGELCome to me when grief is over,When the tired eyes,Seek thy cloudy wings to coverClose their burning skies.Come to me when tears have dwindledInto drops of dew,When the sighs like sobs re-kindledAre but deep and few.Hold me like a crooning mother,Heal me of the smart;All mine anguish let me smotherIn thy brooding heart.

ANGEL

Come to me when grief is over,When the tired eyes,Seek thy cloudy wings to coverClose their burning skies.

Come to me when grief is over,

When the tired eyes,

Seek thy cloudy wings to cover

Close their burning skies.

Come to me when tears have dwindledInto drops of dew,When the sighs like sobs re-kindledAre but deep and few.

Come to me when tears have dwindled

Into drops of dew,

When the sighs like sobs re-kindled

Are but deep and few.

Hold me like a crooning mother,Heal me of the smart;All mine anguish let me smotherIn thy brooding heart.

Hold me like a crooning mother,

Heal me of the smart;

All mine anguish let me smother

In thy brooding heart.

CHRISTMAS FOLK-SONGThose who die on Christmas Day(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)Will be remembered, for they diedUpon the Holy Christmastide;When they attain to Paradise,The Angels with the tranquil EyesWill ask if Jesus rules on EarthThe Anniversary of His Birth;This Question do they ask alwayOf those who die on Christmas Day.Those who are born on Christmas Day(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)Will bring again the Peace on EarthThat came with gentle Christ His Birth;They may be lowly Folk and poorLiving about the Manger Door,They may be Kings of Mighty Line,Their Lives alike will be benign;To them belongeth Peace alway,Those who are born on Christmas Day.

CHRISTMAS FOLK-SONG

Those who die on Christmas Day(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)Will be remembered, for they diedUpon the Holy Christmastide;When they attain to Paradise,The Angels with the tranquil EyesWill ask if Jesus rules on EarthThe Anniversary of His Birth;This Question do they ask alwayOf those who die on Christmas Day.

Those who die on Christmas Day

(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)

Will be remembered, for they died

Upon the Holy Christmastide;

When they attain to Paradise,

The Angels with the tranquil Eyes

Will ask if Jesus rules on Earth

The Anniversary of His Birth;

This Question do they ask alway

Of those who die on Christmas Day.

Those who are born on Christmas Day(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)Will bring again the Peace on EarthThat came with gentle Christ His Birth;They may be lowly Folk and poorLiving about the Manger Door,They may be Kings of Mighty Line,Their Lives alike will be benign;To them belongeth Peace alway,Those who are born on Christmas Day.

Those who are born on Christmas Day

(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)

Will bring again the Peace on Earth

That came with gentle Christ His Birth;

They may be lowly Folk and poor

Living about the Manger Door,

They may be Kings of Mighty Line,

Their Lives alike will be benign;

To them belongeth Peace alway,

Those who are born on Christmas Day.

FROM BEYONDHere there is balm for every tender heartWounded by life;Rest for each one who bore a valiant partCrushed in the strife.I suffered there and held a losing fightEven to the grave;And now I know that it was very rightTo suffer and be brave.

FROM BEYOND

Here there is balm for every tender heartWounded by life;Rest for each one who bore a valiant partCrushed in the strife.

Here there is balm for every tender heart

Wounded by life;

Rest for each one who bore a valiant part

Crushed in the strife.

I suffered there and held a losing fightEven to the grave;And now I know that it was very rightTo suffer and be brave.

I suffered there and held a losing fight

Even to the grave;

And now I know that it was very right

To suffer and be brave.

THE LEAFThis silver-edged geranium leafIs one sign of a bitter griefWhose symbols are a myriad more;They cluster round a carven stoneWhere she who sleeps is never aloneFor two hearts at the core,Bound with her heart make one of three,A trinity in unity,One sentient heart that grieves;And myriad dark-leaved memories keepVigil above the triune sleep,—Edged all with silver are the leaves.

THE LEAF

This silver-edged geranium leafIs one sign of a bitter griefWhose symbols are a myriad more;They cluster round a carven stoneWhere she who sleeps is never aloneFor two hearts at the core,

This silver-edged geranium leaf

Is one sign of a bitter grief

Whose symbols are a myriad more;

They cluster round a carven stone

Where she who sleeps is never alone

For two hearts at the core,

Bound with her heart make one of three,A trinity in unity,One sentient heart that grieves;And myriad dark-leaved memories keepVigil above the triune sleep,—Edged all with silver are the leaves.

Bound with her heart make one of three,

A trinity in unity,

One sentient heart that grieves;

And myriad dark-leaved memories keep

Vigil above the triune sleep,—

Edged all with silver are the leaves.

A MYSTERY PLAYCHARACTERSThe Father. The Child. Death. Angels.Two Travellers.The even settles still and deep,In the cold sky the last gold burns,Across the colour snow flakes creep.Each one from grey to glory turnsThen flutters into nothingness;The frost down falls with mighty stressThrough the swift cloud that parts on high;The great stars shrivel into lessIn the hard depth of the iron sky.The Child:What is that light, dear father,That light in the dark, dark sky?The Father:Those are the lights of the cityAnd the villages thereby.The Child:There must be fire in the cityTo throw that yellow glare;And fire in the little villagesOn all the hearthstones there.The Father, musing:Yea, flames are on the hearthstones;The ovens are full of bread,But here the coals are dyingAnd the flames are dead.The Child:What is the cold, dear father?It stings like an angry bee.Wherever it stings my hand turns white,See!The Father:The cold is a beast, my dear one,With his paws he tears at the thatch,His breath is a curse and a warning,You can see it creep on the latch.The Child:If 'tis a wolf, dear father,That lies with his paw on the floor,Let us heat the spade in the embersAnd drive him away from the door.Angels:God is the power of growth,In the snail and the tree,God is the power of growthIn the heart of the man.The Child:Did you not hear the singing,Voices overhead?Mother's voice and Ruth's voice,Voices of the dead.The Father, musing:Our Ruth died in the springtime,With the spade I turned the sod,We buried her by the brier rose,Her life is hid with God.The Child:All summer long in the gardenNo roses came to the tree.Father, was it for sorrow,Sorrow for thee and me?The Father:Roses grew in the garden,I saw them at morning and even,Shadows of earthly rosesThey bloomed for fingers in heaven.The air is very clear and still,The moonlight falls from half the sphere;The shadow from the silver hillFills half the vale, and half is clearAs the moon's self with cloudless snow;By the dead stream the alders throwTheir shadows, shot with tingling spars;On the sheer height the elm trees glow:Their tops are tangled with the stars.The Child:Father, the coals are dying,See! I have heated the spade,Let me throw the door wide open,I will not be afraid.The Father:Let me kiss you once on the forehead,And once on your darling eyes;We may see them both at the dawning,In the dales of Paradise.The Child:And if I only see them,I will tell them how you smiled;For the wolf, you know, is angry,And I am a little child.Death:Undaunted spirits,I give thee peace,For a world of dread—Calm.For desperate toil—Rest.Thou who didst say,When the waters of povertyWaxed deep, deep,What we bear is best;Just ones,I give thee sleep.First Traveller:Keep up your spirits, I knowThere's a cabin under the hill,The fellow will make a roaring fire;We'll heat our hands and drink our fillAnd go warm to our heart's desire!Second Traveller:The door is open,—Heigho!This pair will claim neither crown nor groat,The man has gripped his garden spadeAs if he would dig his grave in the snow;The boy has the face of a saint, I trow;His brow says, "I was not afraid!"First Traveller:Ah well, these things must be, you know!Gather your sables around your throat;Give us that story about the monk,His niece, and the wandering conjurer,Just to keep our blood astir.The Angels:The heart of God,The worlds and man,Are fashioned and moulded,In a subtle plan;Passion outsurges,Sweeps far but converges:Nothing is lost,Sod or stone,But comes to its own;Bear well thy joy,'Tis mixed with alloy,Bear well thy grief,'Tis a rich full sheaf:Gather the souls that have passed in the night,Theirs is the peace and the light.The moon is gone, the dawning bringsA deeper dark with silver blent,Above the wells where, myriad, springsLight from the crimson orient;The elms are born, the shadows creep,Tremble and melt away—one sweepThe great soft color floods and flows,Where under snow the roses sleep;The morn has turned the snow to rose.

A MYSTERY PLAY

CHARACTERS

The Father. The Child. Death. Angels.Two Travellers.

The Father. The Child. Death. Angels.

Two Travellers.

The even settles still and deep,In the cold sky the last gold burns,Across the colour snow flakes creep.Each one from grey to glory turnsThen flutters into nothingness;The frost down falls with mighty stressThrough the swift cloud that parts on high;The great stars shrivel into lessIn the hard depth of the iron sky.

The even settles still and deep,

In the cold sky the last gold burns,

Across the colour snow flakes creep.

Each one from grey to glory turns

Then flutters into nothingness;

The frost down falls with mighty stress

Through the swift cloud that parts on high;

The great stars shrivel into less

In the hard depth of the iron sky.

The Child:

What is that light, dear father,That light in the dark, dark sky?

What is that light, dear father,

That light in the dark, dark sky?

The Father:

Those are the lights of the cityAnd the villages thereby.

Those are the lights of the city

And the villages thereby.

The Child:

There must be fire in the cityTo throw that yellow glare;And fire in the little villagesOn all the hearthstones there.

There must be fire in the city

To throw that yellow glare;

And fire in the little villages

On all the hearthstones there.

The Father, musing:

Yea, flames are on the hearthstones;The ovens are full of bread,But here the coals are dyingAnd the flames are dead.

Yea, flames are on the hearthstones;

The ovens are full of bread,

But here the coals are dying

And the flames are dead.

The Child:

What is the cold, dear father?It stings like an angry bee.Wherever it stings my hand turns white,See!

What is the cold, dear father?

It stings like an angry bee.

Wherever it stings my hand turns white,

See!

The Father:

The cold is a beast, my dear one,With his paws he tears at the thatch,His breath is a curse and a warning,You can see it creep on the latch.

The cold is a beast, my dear one,

With his paws he tears at the thatch,

His breath is a curse and a warning,

You can see it creep on the latch.

The Child:

If 'tis a wolf, dear father,That lies with his paw on the floor,Let us heat the spade in the embersAnd drive him away from the door.

If 'tis a wolf, dear father,

That lies with his paw on the floor,

Let us heat the spade in the embers

And drive him away from the door.

Angels:

God is the power of growth,In the snail and the tree,God is the power of growthIn the heart of the man.

God is the power of growth,

In the snail and the tree,

God is the power of growth

In the heart of the man.

The Child:

Did you not hear the singing,Voices overhead?Mother's voice and Ruth's voice,Voices of the dead.

Did you not hear the singing,

Voices overhead?

Mother's voice and Ruth's voice,

Voices of the dead.

The Father, musing:

Our Ruth died in the springtime,With the spade I turned the sod,We buried her by the brier rose,Her life is hid with God.

Our Ruth died in the springtime,

With the spade I turned the sod,

We buried her by the brier rose,

Her life is hid with God.

The Child:

All summer long in the gardenNo roses came to the tree.Father, was it for sorrow,Sorrow for thee and me?

All summer long in the garden

No roses came to the tree.

Father, was it for sorrow,

Sorrow for thee and me?

The Father:

Roses grew in the garden,I saw them at morning and even,Shadows of earthly rosesThey bloomed for fingers in heaven.

Roses grew in the garden,

I saw them at morning and even,

Shadows of earthly roses

They bloomed for fingers in heaven.

The air is very clear and still,The moonlight falls from half the sphere;The shadow from the silver hillFills half the vale, and half is clearAs the moon's self with cloudless snow;By the dead stream the alders throwTheir shadows, shot with tingling spars;On the sheer height the elm trees glow:Their tops are tangled with the stars.

The air is very clear and still,

The moonlight falls from half the sphere;

The shadow from the silver hill

Fills half the vale, and half is clear

As the moon's self with cloudless snow;

By the dead stream the alders throw

Their shadows, shot with tingling spars;

On the sheer height the elm trees glow:

Their tops are tangled with the stars.

The Child:

Father, the coals are dying,See! I have heated the spade,Let me throw the door wide open,I will not be afraid.

Father, the coals are dying,

See! I have heated the spade,

Let me throw the door wide open,

I will not be afraid.

The Father:

Let me kiss you once on the forehead,And once on your darling eyes;We may see them both at the dawning,In the dales of Paradise.

Let me kiss you once on the forehead,

And once on your darling eyes;

We may see them both at the dawning,

In the dales of Paradise.

The Child:

And if I only see them,I will tell them how you smiled;For the wolf, you know, is angry,And I am a little child.

And if I only see them,

I will tell them how you smiled;

For the wolf, you know, is angry,

And I am a little child.

Death:

Undaunted spirits,I give thee peace,For a world of dread—Calm.For desperate toil—Rest.Thou who didst say,When the waters of povertyWaxed deep, deep,What we bear is best;Just ones,I give thee sleep.

Undaunted spirits,

I give thee peace,

For a world of dread—

Calm.

For desperate toil—

Rest.

Thou who didst say,

When the waters of poverty

Waxed deep, deep,

What we bear is best;

Just ones,

I give thee sleep.

First Traveller:

Keep up your spirits, I knowThere's a cabin under the hill,The fellow will make a roaring fire;We'll heat our hands and drink our fillAnd go warm to our heart's desire!

Keep up your spirits, I know

There's a cabin under the hill,

The fellow will make a roaring fire;

We'll heat our hands and drink our fill

And go warm to our heart's desire!

Second Traveller:

The door is open,—Heigho!This pair will claim neither crown nor groat,The man has gripped his garden spadeAs if he would dig his grave in the snow;The boy has the face of a saint, I trow;His brow says, "I was not afraid!"

The door is open,—Heigho!

This pair will claim neither crown nor groat,

The man has gripped his garden spade

As if he would dig his grave in the snow;

The boy has the face of a saint, I trow;

His brow says, "I was not afraid!"

First Traveller:

Ah well, these things must be, you know!Gather your sables around your throat;Give us that story about the monk,His niece, and the wandering conjurer,Just to keep our blood astir.

Ah well, these things must be, you know!

Gather your sables around your throat;

Give us that story about the monk,

His niece, and the wandering conjurer,

Just to keep our blood astir.

The Angels:

The heart of God,The worlds and man,Are fashioned and moulded,In a subtle plan;Passion outsurges,Sweeps far but converges:Nothing is lost,Sod or stone,But comes to its own;Bear well thy joy,'Tis mixed with alloy,Bear well thy grief,'Tis a rich full sheaf:Gather the souls that have passed in the night,Theirs is the peace and the light.

The heart of God,

The worlds and man,

Are fashioned and moulded,

In a subtle plan;

Passion outsurges,

Sweeps far but converges:

Nothing is lost,

Sod or stone,

But comes to its own;

Bear well thy joy,

'Tis mixed with alloy,

Bear well thy grief,

'Tis a rich full sheaf:

Gather the souls that have passed in the night,

Theirs is the peace and the light.

The moon is gone, the dawning bringsA deeper dark with silver blent,Above the wells where, myriad, springsLight from the crimson orient;The elms are born, the shadows creep,Tremble and melt away—one sweepThe great soft color floods and flows,Where under snow the roses sleep;The morn has turned the snow to rose.

The moon is gone, the dawning brings

A deeper dark with silver blent,

Above the wells where, myriad, springs

Light from the crimson orient;

The elms are born, the shadows creep,

Tremble and melt away—one sweep

The great soft color floods and flows,

Where under snow the roses sleep;

The morn has turned the snow to rose.

LINES IN MEMORY OF EDMUND MORRISDear Morris—here is your letter—Can my answer reach you now?Fate has left me your debtor,You will remember how;For I went away to Nantucket,And you to the Isle of Orleans,And when I was dawdling and dreamingOver the ways and meansOf answering, the power was denied me,Fate frowned and took her stand;I have your unanswered letterHere in my hand.This—in your famous scribble,It was ever a cryptic fist,Cuneiform or ChaldaicMeanings held in a mist.Dear Morris, (now I'm inditingAnd poring over your script)I gather from the writing,The coin that you had flipt,Turned tails; and so you compel meTo meet you at Touchwood Hills:Or, mayhap, you are trying to tell meThe sum of a painter's ills:Is that Phimister ProctorOr something about a doctor?Well, nobody knows, but Eddie,Whatever it is I'm ready.For our friendship was always fortunateIn its greetings and adieux,Nothing flat or importunate,Nothing of the misuseThat comes of the constant grindingOf one mind on another.So memory has nothing to smother,But only a few things capturedOn the wing, as it were, and enraptured.Yes, Morris, I am inditing—Answering at last it seems,How can you read the writingIn the vacancy of dreams?I would have you look over my shoulderEre the long, dark year is colder,And mark that as memory grows older,The brighter it pulses and gleams.And if I should try to renderThe tissues of fugitive splendourThat fled down the wind of living,Will they read it some day in the future,And be conscious of an awarenessIn our old lives, and the barenessOf theirs, with the newest passionsIn the last fad of the fashions?How often have we risen without daylightWhen the day star was hidden in mist,When the dragon-fly was heavy with dew and sleep,And viewed the miracle pre-eminent, matchless,The prelusive light that quickens the morning.O crystal dawn, how shall we distill your virginal freshnessWhen you steal upon a land that man has not sullied with his intrusion,When the aboriginal shy dwellers in the broad solitudesAre asleep in their innumerable dens and night hauntsAmid the dry ferns, in the tender nestsPressed into shape by the breasts of the Mother birds?How shall we simulate the thrill of announcementWhen lake after lake lingering in the starlightTurn their faces towards you,And are caressed with the salutation of colour?How shall we transmit in tendril-like images,The tenuous tremor in the tissues of ether,Before the round of colour buds like the dome of a shrine,The preconscious moment when love has fluttered in the bosom,Before it begins to ache?How often have we seen the evenMelt into the liquidity of twilight,With passages of Titian splendour,Pellucid preludes, exquisitely tender,Where vanish and revive, thro' veils of the ashes of roses,The crystal forms the breathless sky discloses.The new moon a slender thing,In a snood of virgin light,She seemed all shy on venturingInto the vast night.Her own land and folk were afar,She must have gone astray,But the gods had given a silver star,To be with her on the way.I can feel the wind on the prairieAnd see the bunch-grass wave,And the sunlights ripple and varyThe hill with Crowfoot's grave,Where he "pitched off" for the last timeIn sight of the Blackfoot Crossing,Where in the sun for a pastimeYou marked the site of his tepeeWith a circle of stones. Old NapiwGave you credit for that day.And well I recall the weirdnessOf that evening at Qu'Appelle,In the wigwam with old Sakimay,The keen, acrid smell,As the kinnikinick was burning;The planets outside were turning,And the little splints of poplarFlared with a thin, gold flame.He showed us his painted robeWhere in primitive pigmentsHe had drawn his feats and his forays,And told us the legendOf the man without a name,The hated Blackfoot,How he lured the warriors,The young men, to the forayAnd they never returned.Only their ghostsGoaded by the BlackfootMounted on stallions:In the night timeHe drove the stallionsReeking into the camp;The women gasped and whispered,The children cowered and crept,And the old men shudderedWhere they slept.When Sakimay looked forthHe saw the Blackfoot,And the ghosts of the warriors,And the black stallionsCovered by the night windAs by a mantle.I remember well a day,When the sunlight had free play,When you worked in happy stress,While grave Ne-Pah-Pee-NessSat for his portrait there,In his beaded coat and his bareHead, with his mottled fanOf hawk's feathers, A Man!Ah Morris, those were the timesWhen you sang your inconsequent rhymesSprung from a careless fountain:"He met her on the mountain,He gave her a horn to blow,And the very last words he said to herWere, 'Go 'long, Eliza, go.'"Foolish,—but life was all,And under the skilful fingersContours came at your call—Art grows and time lingers;—But now the song has a changeInto something wistful and strange.And one asks with a touch of ruthWhat became of the youthAnd where did Eliza go?He met her on the mountain,He gave her a horn to blow,The horn was a silver whorlWith a mouthpiece of pure pearl,And the mountain was all one glow,With gulfs of blue and summits of rosy snow.The cadence she blew on the silver hornWas the meaning of life in one phrase caught,And as soon as the magic notes were born,She repeated them once in an afterthought.They heard in the crystal passes,The cadence, calling, calling,And faint in the deep crevasses,The echoes falling, falling.They stood apart and wondered;Her lips with a wound were aquiver,His heart with a sword was sundered,For life was changed foreverWhen he gave her the horn to blow:But a shadow arose from the valley,Desolate, slow and tender,It hid the herdsmen's chalet,Where it hung in the emerald meadow,(Was death driving the shadow?)It quenched the tranquil splendourOf the colour of life on the glow-peaks,Till at the end of the even,The last shell-tint on the snow-peaksHad passed away from the heaven.And yet, when it passed, victorious,The stars came out on the mountains,And the torrents gusty and glorious,Clamoured in a thousand fountains,And even far down in the valley,A light re-discovered the chalet.The scene that was veiled had a meaning,So deep that none might know;Was it here in the morn on the mountain,That he gave her the horn to blow?Tears are the crushed essence of this world,The wine of life, and he who treads the pressIs lofty with imperious disregardOf the burst grapes, the red tears and the murk.But nay! that is a thought of the old poets,Who sullied life with the passional bitternessOf their world-weary hearts. We of the sunrise,Joined in the breast of God, feel deep the powerThat urges all things onward, not to an end,But in an endless flow, mounting and mounting,Claiming not overmuch for human life,Sharing with our brothers of nerve and leafThe urgence of the one creative breath,—All in the dim twilight—say of morning,Where the florescence of the light and dewHaloes and hallows with a crown adorningThe brows of life with love; herein the clue,The love of life—yea, and the peerless loveOf things not seen, that leads the least of thingsTo cherish the green sprout, the hardening seed;Here leans all nature with vast Mother-love,Above the cradled future with a smile.Why are there tears for failure, or sighs for weakness,While life's rhythm beats on? Where is the ruleTo measure the distance we have circled and clomb?Catch up the sands of the sea and count and countThe failures hidden in our sum of conquest.Persistence is the master of this life;The master of these little lives of ours;To the end—effort—even beyond the end.Here, Morris, on the plains that we have loved,Think of the death of Akoose, fleet of foot,Who, in his prime, a herd of antelopeFrom sunrise, without rest, a hundred milesDrove through rank prairie, loping like a wolf,Tired them and slew them, ere the sun went down.Akoose, in his old age, blind from the smokeOf tepees and the sharp snow light, aloneWith his great grandchildren, withered and spent,Crept in the warm sun along a ropeStretched for his guidance. Once when sharp autumnMade membranes of thin ice upon the sloughs,He caught a pony on a quick returnOf prowess and, all his instincts cleared and quickened,He mounted, sensed the north and bore awayTo the Last Mountain Lake where in his youthHe shot the sand-hill-cranes with his flint arrows.And for these hours in all the varied pompOf pagan fancy and free dreams of forayAnd crude adventure, he ranged on entranced,Until the sun blazed level with the prairie,Then paused, faltered and slid from off his pony.In a little bluff of poplars, hid in the bracken,He lay down; the populace of leavesIn the lithe poplars whispered together and trembled,Fluttered before a sunset of gold smoke,With interspaces, green as sea water,And calm as the deep water of the sea.There Akoose lay, silent amid the bracken,Gathered at last with the Algonquin Chieftains.Then the tenebrous sunset was blown out,And all the smoky gold turned into cloud wrack.Akoose slept forever amid the poplars,Swathed by the wind from the far-off Red DeerWhere dinosaurs sleep, clamped in their rocky tombs.Who shall count the time that lies betweenThe sleep of Akoose and the dinosaurs?Innumerable time, that yet is like the breathOf the long wind that creeps upon the prairieAnd dies away with the shadows at sundown.What we may think, who brood upon the theme,Is, when the old world, tired of spinning, has fallenAsleep, and all the forms, that carried the fireOf life, are cold upon her marble heart—Like ashes on the altar—just as she stops,That something will escape of soul or essence,—The sum of life, to kindle otherwhere:Just as the fruit of a high sunny garden,Grown mellow with autumnal sun and rain,Shrivelled with ripeness, splits to the rich heart,And looses a gold kernel to the mould,So the old world, hanging long in the sun,And deep enriched with effort and with love,Shall, in the motions of maturity,Wither and part, and the kernel of it allEscape, a lovely wraith of spirit, to latitudesWhere the appearance, throated like a bird,Winged with fire and bodied all with passion,Shall flame with presage, not of tears, but joy.

LINES IN MEMORY OF EDMUND MORRIS

Dear Morris—here is your letter—Can my answer reach you now?Fate has left me your debtor,You will remember how;For I went away to Nantucket,And you to the Isle of Orleans,And when I was dawdling and dreamingOver the ways and meansOf answering, the power was denied me,Fate frowned and took her stand;I have your unanswered letterHere in my hand.This—in your famous scribble,It was ever a cryptic fist,Cuneiform or ChaldaicMeanings held in a mist.

Dear Morris—here is your letter—

Can my answer reach you now?

Fate has left me your debtor,

You will remember how;

For I went away to Nantucket,

And you to the Isle of Orleans,

And when I was dawdling and dreaming

Over the ways and means

Of answering, the power was denied me,

Fate frowned and took her stand;

I have your unanswered letter

Here in my hand.

This—in your famous scribble,

It was ever a cryptic fist,

Cuneiform or Chaldaic

Meanings held in a mist.

Dear Morris, (now I'm inditingAnd poring over your script)I gather from the writing,The coin that you had flipt,Turned tails; and so you compel meTo meet you at Touchwood Hills:Or, mayhap, you are trying to tell meThe sum of a painter's ills:Is that Phimister ProctorOr something about a doctor?Well, nobody knows, but Eddie,Whatever it is I'm ready.

Dear Morris, (now I'm inditing

And poring over your script)

I gather from the writing,

The coin that you had flipt,

Turned tails; and so you compel me

To meet you at Touchwood Hills:

Or, mayhap, you are trying to tell me

The sum of a painter's ills:

Is that Phimister Proctor

Or something about a doctor?

Well, nobody knows, but Eddie,

Whatever it is I'm ready.

For our friendship was always fortunateIn its greetings and adieux,Nothing flat or importunate,Nothing of the misuseThat comes of the constant grindingOf one mind on another.So memory has nothing to smother,But only a few things capturedOn the wing, as it were, and enraptured.Yes, Morris, I am inditing—Answering at last it seems,How can you read the writingIn the vacancy of dreams?

For our friendship was always fortunate

In its greetings and adieux,

Nothing flat or importunate,

Nothing of the misuse

That comes of the constant grinding

Of one mind on another.

So memory has nothing to smother,

But only a few things captured

On the wing, as it were, and enraptured.

Yes, Morris, I am inditing—

Answering at last it seems,

How can you read the writing

In the vacancy of dreams?

I would have you look over my shoulderEre the long, dark year is colder,And mark that as memory grows older,The brighter it pulses and gleams.And if I should try to renderThe tissues of fugitive splendourThat fled down the wind of living,Will they read it some day in the future,And be conscious of an awarenessIn our old lives, and the barenessOf theirs, with the newest passionsIn the last fad of the fashions?

I would have you look over my shoulder

Ere the long, dark year is colder,

And mark that as memory grows older,

The brighter it pulses and gleams.

And if I should try to render

The tissues of fugitive splendour

That fled down the wind of living,

Will they read it some day in the future,

And be conscious of an awareness

In our old lives, and the bareness

Of theirs, with the newest passions

In the last fad of the fashions?

How often have we risen without daylightWhen the day star was hidden in mist,When the dragon-fly was heavy with dew and sleep,And viewed the miracle pre-eminent, matchless,The prelusive light that quickens the morning.O crystal dawn, how shall we distill your virginal freshnessWhen you steal upon a land that man has not sullied with his intrusion,When the aboriginal shy dwellers in the broad solitudesAre asleep in their innumerable dens and night hauntsAmid the dry ferns, in the tender nestsPressed into shape by the breasts of the Mother birds?How shall we simulate the thrill of announcementWhen lake after lake lingering in the starlightTurn their faces towards you,And are caressed with the salutation of colour?

How often have we risen without daylight

When the day star was hidden in mist,

When the dragon-fly was heavy with dew and sleep,

And viewed the miracle pre-eminent, matchless,

The prelusive light that quickens the morning.

O crystal dawn, how shall we distill your virginal freshness

When you steal upon a land that man has not sullied with his intrusion,

When the aboriginal shy dwellers in the broad solitudes

Are asleep in their innumerable dens and night haunts

Amid the dry ferns, in the tender nests

Pressed into shape by the breasts of the Mother birds?

How shall we simulate the thrill of announcement

When lake after lake lingering in the starlight

Turn their faces towards you,

And are caressed with the salutation of colour?

How shall we transmit in tendril-like images,The tenuous tremor in the tissues of ether,Before the round of colour buds like the dome of a shrine,The preconscious moment when love has fluttered in the bosom,Before it begins to ache?

How shall we transmit in tendril-like images,

The tenuous tremor in the tissues of ether,

Before the round of colour buds like the dome of a shrine,

The preconscious moment when love has fluttered in the bosom,

Before it begins to ache?

How often have we seen the evenMelt into the liquidity of twilight,With passages of Titian splendour,Pellucid preludes, exquisitely tender,Where vanish and revive, thro' veils of the ashes of roses,The crystal forms the breathless sky discloses.

How often have we seen the even

Melt into the liquidity of twilight,

With passages of Titian splendour,

Pellucid preludes, exquisitely tender,

Where vanish and revive, thro' veils of the ashes of roses,

The crystal forms the breathless sky discloses.

The new moon a slender thing,In a snood of virgin light,She seemed all shy on venturingInto the vast night.

The new moon a slender thing,

In a snood of virgin light,

She seemed all shy on venturing

Into the vast night.

Her own land and folk were afar,She must have gone astray,But the gods had given a silver star,To be with her on the way.

Her own land and folk were afar,

She must have gone astray,

But the gods had given a silver star,

To be with her on the way.

I can feel the wind on the prairieAnd see the bunch-grass wave,And the sunlights ripple and varyThe hill with Crowfoot's grave,Where he "pitched off" for the last timeIn sight of the Blackfoot Crossing,Where in the sun for a pastimeYou marked the site of his tepeeWith a circle of stones. Old NapiwGave you credit for that day.And well I recall the weirdnessOf that evening at Qu'Appelle,In the wigwam with old Sakimay,The keen, acrid smell,As the kinnikinick was burning;The planets outside were turning,And the little splints of poplarFlared with a thin, gold flame.He showed us his painted robeWhere in primitive pigmentsHe had drawn his feats and his forays,And told us the legendOf the man without a name,The hated Blackfoot,How he lured the warriors,The young men, to the forayAnd they never returned.Only their ghostsGoaded by the BlackfootMounted on stallions:In the night timeHe drove the stallionsReeking into the camp;The women gasped and whispered,The children cowered and crept,And the old men shudderedWhere they slept.When Sakimay looked forthHe saw the Blackfoot,And the ghosts of the warriors,And the black stallionsCovered by the night windAs by a mantle.

I can feel the wind on the prairie

And see the bunch-grass wave,

And the sunlights ripple and vary

The hill with Crowfoot's grave,

Where he "pitched off" for the last time

In sight of the Blackfoot Crossing,

Where in the sun for a pastime

You marked the site of his tepee

With a circle of stones. Old Napiw

Gave you credit for that day.

And well I recall the weirdness

Of that evening at Qu'Appelle,

In the wigwam with old Sakimay,

The keen, acrid smell,

As the kinnikinick was burning;

The planets outside were turning,

And the little splints of poplar

Flared with a thin, gold flame.

He showed us his painted robe

Where in primitive pigments

He had drawn his feats and his forays,

And told us the legend

Of the man without a name,

The hated Blackfoot,

How he lured the warriors,

The young men, to the foray

And they never returned.

Only their ghosts

Goaded by the Blackfoot

Mounted on stallions:

In the night time

He drove the stallions

Reeking into the camp;

The women gasped and whispered,

The children cowered and crept,

And the old men shuddered

Where they slept.

When Sakimay looked forth

He saw the Blackfoot,

And the ghosts of the warriors,

And the black stallions

Covered by the night wind

As by a mantle.

I remember well a day,When the sunlight had free play,When you worked in happy stress,While grave Ne-Pah-Pee-NessSat for his portrait there,In his beaded coat and his bareHead, with his mottled fanOf hawk's feathers, A Man!Ah Morris, those were the timesWhen you sang your inconsequent rhymesSprung from a careless fountain:

I remember well a day,

When the sunlight had free play,

When you worked in happy stress,

While grave Ne-Pah-Pee-Ness

Sat for his portrait there,

In his beaded coat and his bare

Head, with his mottled fan

Of hawk's feathers, A Man!

Ah Morris, those were the times

When you sang your inconsequent rhymes

Sprung from a careless fountain:

"He met her on the mountain,He gave her a horn to blow,And the very last words he said to herWere, 'Go 'long, Eliza, go.'"

"He met her on the mountain,

He gave her a horn to blow,

And the very last words he said to her

Were, 'Go 'long, Eliza, go.'"

Foolish,—but life was all,And under the skilful fingersContours came at your call—Art grows and time lingers;—But now the song has a changeInto something wistful and strange.And one asks with a touch of ruthWhat became of the youthAnd where did Eliza go?He met her on the mountain,He gave her a horn to blow,The horn was a silver whorlWith a mouthpiece of pure pearl,And the mountain was all one glow,With gulfs of blue and summits of rosy snow.The cadence she blew on the silver hornWas the meaning of life in one phrase caught,And as soon as the magic notes were born,She repeated them once in an afterthought.They heard in the crystal passes,The cadence, calling, calling,And faint in the deep crevasses,The echoes falling, falling.They stood apart and wondered;Her lips with a wound were aquiver,His heart with a sword was sundered,For life was changed foreverWhen he gave her the horn to blow:But a shadow arose from the valley,Desolate, slow and tender,It hid the herdsmen's chalet,Where it hung in the emerald meadow,(Was death driving the shadow?)It quenched the tranquil splendourOf the colour of life on the glow-peaks,Till at the end of the even,The last shell-tint on the snow-peaksHad passed away from the heaven.And yet, when it passed, victorious,The stars came out on the mountains,And the torrents gusty and glorious,Clamoured in a thousand fountains,And even far down in the valley,A light re-discovered the chalet.The scene that was veiled had a meaning,So deep that none might know;Was it here in the morn on the mountain,That he gave her the horn to blow?

Foolish,—but life was all,

And under the skilful fingers

Contours came at your call—

Art grows and time lingers;—

But now the song has a change

Into something wistful and strange.

And one asks with a touch of ruth

What became of the youth

And where did Eliza go?

He met her on the mountain,

He gave her a horn to blow,

The horn was a silver whorl

With a mouthpiece of pure pearl,

And the mountain was all one glow,

With gulfs of blue and summits of rosy snow.

The cadence she blew on the silver horn

Was the meaning of life in one phrase caught,

And as soon as the magic notes were born,

She repeated them once in an afterthought.

They heard in the crystal passes,

The cadence, calling, calling,

And faint in the deep crevasses,

The echoes falling, falling.

They stood apart and wondered;

Her lips with a wound were aquiver,

His heart with a sword was sundered,

For life was changed forever

When he gave her the horn to blow:

But a shadow arose from the valley,

Desolate, slow and tender,

It hid the herdsmen's chalet,

Where it hung in the emerald meadow,

(Was death driving the shadow?)

It quenched the tranquil splendour

Of the colour of life on the glow-peaks,

Till at the end of the even,

The last shell-tint on the snow-peaks

Had passed away from the heaven.

And yet, when it passed, victorious,

The stars came out on the mountains,

And the torrents gusty and glorious,

Clamoured in a thousand fountains,

And even far down in the valley,

A light re-discovered the chalet.

The scene that was veiled had a meaning,

So deep that none might know;

Was it here in the morn on the mountain,

That he gave her the horn to blow?

Tears are the crushed essence of this world,The wine of life, and he who treads the pressIs lofty with imperious disregardOf the burst grapes, the red tears and the murk.But nay! that is a thought of the old poets,Who sullied life with the passional bitternessOf their world-weary hearts. We of the sunrise,Joined in the breast of God, feel deep the powerThat urges all things onward, not to an end,But in an endless flow, mounting and mounting,Claiming not overmuch for human life,Sharing with our brothers of nerve and leafThe urgence of the one creative breath,—All in the dim twilight—say of morning,Where the florescence of the light and dewHaloes and hallows with a crown adorningThe brows of life with love; herein the clue,The love of life—yea, and the peerless loveOf things not seen, that leads the least of thingsTo cherish the green sprout, the hardening seed;Here leans all nature with vast Mother-love,Above the cradled future with a smile.Why are there tears for failure, or sighs for weakness,While life's rhythm beats on? Where is the ruleTo measure the distance we have circled and clomb?Catch up the sands of the sea and count and countThe failures hidden in our sum of conquest.Persistence is the master of this life;The master of these little lives of ours;To the end—effort—even beyond the end.

Tears are the crushed essence of this world,

The wine of life, and he who treads the press

Is lofty with imperious disregard

Of the burst grapes, the red tears and the murk.

But nay! that is a thought of the old poets,

Who sullied life with the passional bitterness

Of their world-weary hearts. We of the sunrise,

Joined in the breast of God, feel deep the power

That urges all things onward, not to an end,

But in an endless flow, mounting and mounting,

Claiming not overmuch for human life,

Sharing with our brothers of nerve and leaf

The urgence of the one creative breath,—

All in the dim twilight—say of morning,

Where the florescence of the light and dew

Haloes and hallows with a crown adorning

The brows of life with love; herein the clue,

The love of life—yea, and the peerless love

Of things not seen, that leads the least of things

To cherish the green sprout, the hardening seed;

Here leans all nature with vast Mother-love,

Above the cradled future with a smile.

Why are there tears for failure, or sighs for weakness,

While life's rhythm beats on? Where is the rule

To measure the distance we have circled and clomb?

Catch up the sands of the sea and count and count

The failures hidden in our sum of conquest.

Persistence is the master of this life;

The master of these little lives of ours;

To the end—effort—even beyond the end.

Here, Morris, on the plains that we have loved,Think of the death of Akoose, fleet of foot,Who, in his prime, a herd of antelopeFrom sunrise, without rest, a hundred milesDrove through rank prairie, loping like a wolf,Tired them and slew them, ere the sun went down.Akoose, in his old age, blind from the smokeOf tepees and the sharp snow light, aloneWith his great grandchildren, withered and spent,Crept in the warm sun along a ropeStretched for his guidance. Once when sharp autumnMade membranes of thin ice upon the sloughs,He caught a pony on a quick returnOf prowess and, all his instincts cleared and quickened,He mounted, sensed the north and bore awayTo the Last Mountain Lake where in his youthHe shot the sand-hill-cranes with his flint arrows.And for these hours in all the varied pompOf pagan fancy and free dreams of forayAnd crude adventure, he ranged on entranced,Until the sun blazed level with the prairie,Then paused, faltered and slid from off his pony.In a little bluff of poplars, hid in the bracken,He lay down; the populace of leavesIn the lithe poplars whispered together and trembled,Fluttered before a sunset of gold smoke,With interspaces, green as sea water,And calm as the deep water of the sea.

Here, Morris, on the plains that we have loved,

Think of the death of Akoose, fleet of foot,

Who, in his prime, a herd of antelope

From sunrise, without rest, a hundred miles

Drove through rank prairie, loping like a wolf,

Tired them and slew them, ere the sun went down.

Akoose, in his old age, blind from the smoke

Of tepees and the sharp snow light, alone

With his great grandchildren, withered and spent,

Crept in the warm sun along a rope

Stretched for his guidance. Once when sharp autumn

Made membranes of thin ice upon the sloughs,

He caught a pony on a quick return

Of prowess and, all his instincts cleared and quickened,

He mounted, sensed the north and bore away

To the Last Mountain Lake where in his youth

He shot the sand-hill-cranes with his flint arrows.

And for these hours in all the varied pomp

Of pagan fancy and free dreams of foray

And crude adventure, he ranged on entranced,

Until the sun blazed level with the prairie,

Then paused, faltered and slid from off his pony.

In a little bluff of poplars, hid in the bracken,

He lay down; the populace of leaves

In the lithe poplars whispered together and trembled,

Fluttered before a sunset of gold smoke,

With interspaces, green as sea water,

And calm as the deep water of the sea.

There Akoose lay, silent amid the bracken,Gathered at last with the Algonquin Chieftains.Then the tenebrous sunset was blown out,And all the smoky gold turned into cloud wrack.Akoose slept forever amid the poplars,Swathed by the wind from the far-off Red DeerWhere dinosaurs sleep, clamped in their rocky tombs.Who shall count the time that lies betweenThe sleep of Akoose and the dinosaurs?Innumerable time, that yet is like the breathOf the long wind that creeps upon the prairieAnd dies away with the shadows at sundown.

There Akoose lay, silent amid the bracken,

Gathered at last with the Algonquin Chieftains.

Then the tenebrous sunset was blown out,

And all the smoky gold turned into cloud wrack.

Akoose slept forever amid the poplars,

Swathed by the wind from the far-off Red Deer

Where dinosaurs sleep, clamped in their rocky tombs.

Who shall count the time that lies between

The sleep of Akoose and the dinosaurs?

Innumerable time, that yet is like the breath

Of the long wind that creeps upon the prairie

And dies away with the shadows at sundown.

What we may think, who brood upon the theme,Is, when the old world, tired of spinning, has fallenAsleep, and all the forms, that carried the fireOf life, are cold upon her marble heart—Like ashes on the altar—just as she stops,That something will escape of soul or essence,—The sum of life, to kindle otherwhere:Just as the fruit of a high sunny garden,Grown mellow with autumnal sun and rain,Shrivelled with ripeness, splits to the rich heart,And looses a gold kernel to the mould,So the old world, hanging long in the sun,And deep enriched with effort and with love,Shall, in the motions of maturity,Wither and part, and the kernel of it allEscape, a lovely wraith of spirit, to latitudesWhere the appearance, throated like a bird,Winged with fire and bodied all with passion,Shall flame with presage, not of tears, but joy.

What we may think, who brood upon the theme,

Is, when the old world, tired of spinning, has fallen

Asleep, and all the forms, that carried the fire

Of life, are cold upon her marble heart—

Like ashes on the altar—just as she stops,

That something will escape of soul or essence,—

The sum of life, to kindle otherwhere:

Just as the fruit of a high sunny garden,

Grown mellow with autumnal sun and rain,

Shrivelled with ripeness, splits to the rich heart,

And looses a gold kernel to the mould,

So the old world, hanging long in the sun,

And deep enriched with effort and with love,

Shall, in the motions of maturity,

Wither and part, and the kernel of it all

Escape, a lovely wraith of spirit, to latitudes

Where the appearance, throated like a bird,

Winged with fire and bodied all with passion,

Shall flame with presage, not of tears, but joy.

THE END

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