The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: D. M. MathesonRelease date: March 25, 2016 [eBook #51554]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: PoemsAuthor: D. M. MathesonRelease date: March 25, 2016 [eBook #51554]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

Title: Poems

Author: D. M. Matheson

Release date: March 25, 2016 [eBook #51554]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

POEMSBYD. M. MATHESONEX-PRINCIPALALEXANDER MCKAY SCHOOLcolophon not availableHALIFAX, N. S.

BYD. M. MATHESONEX-PRINCIPALALEXANDER MCKAY SCHOOLcolophon not availableHALIFAX, N. S.

Fair are fleets of white winged prowsSwiftly sailing o’er the sea;Fair are herds of homing cows,Winding slowly o’er the lea;Fair are orchards, when repleteWith rich blossoms pink and white;Fair are fields of ripening wheatShining in the morning light;Fair is any mountain sheetBurnishing in colors bright;Fair are all Acadia’s lands;All its streams and wooded lakes,Headlands high and pebbly strands,When the early morning breaks,Fair its scented flowers and trees,And its many landlocked bays,Rippling in the summer breeze;Themes for minstrel muses’ lays—But far fairer than all theseAre Acadia’s autumn days.Made from heavenly designBy some unseen Artisan;Gift of Architect divine,To Acadia’s Weather man.Fairest season of the year,When boon Nature’s at her heightRobed in all her beauty sere,And fair Luna sheds her lightWith a more bewitching cheerThrough the watches of the night.And God’s lowly creatures all,Who the freeman’s burden bore,Having heeded labor’s callNow have plentitude in store,And from every household hearthNightly offered up the “word”.As a sacrifice of worthTo a kind and gracious LordFor the riches of the earth,Filling thus the family board.And a thrill of peaceful joyPermeates the human breastAnd the starry vaulted skySeemingly is at its best,For old Sol in all his prideScorpion doth then adorn,Midway in his yearly ride’Twixt the Line and Capricorn.In this lovely AutumntideWas Waegwoltic’s wedding morn.

Fair are all Acadia’s lands;All its streams and wooded lakes,Headlands high and pebbly strands,When the early morning breaks,Fair its scented flowers and trees,And its many landlocked bays,Rippling in the summer breeze;Themes for minstrel muses’ lays—But far fairer than all theseAre Acadia’s autumn days.

Made from heavenly designBy some unseen Artisan;Gift of Architect divine,To Acadia’s Weather man.Fairest season of the year,When boon Nature’s at her heightRobed in all her beauty sere,And fair Luna sheds her lightWith a more bewitching cheerThrough the watches of the night.

And God’s lowly creatures all,Who the freeman’s burden bore,Having heeded labor’s callNow have plentitude in store,And from every household hearthNightly offered up the “word”.As a sacrifice of worthTo a kind and gracious LordFor the riches of the earth,Filling thus the family board.

And a thrill of peaceful joyPermeates the human breastAnd the starry vaulted skySeemingly is at its best,For old Sol in all his prideScorpion doth then adorn,Midway in his yearly ride’Twixt the Line and Capricorn.In this lovely AutumntideWas Waegwoltic’s wedding morn.

decoration of text

Mother! All that’s blest and good,Centres round that treasured word,Mother-love and motherhood!Sweetest sounds man ever heard,Mother! blest and sweetest name,Spoken by the human tongue,Age and youth do thee acclaim,Angels have thy praises sung,And the greatness of thy fame,Hath through all the ages rung.Mother-love! whose fountain flow,Feedeth man the living breath,And which burns with tenser glow,Even when he’s cold in death;Blest and wondrous gift divineOf the master ArtisanIn fair Eden’s holy shrineTo the fallen creature man,When fell Satan did designTo destroy Creation’s plan.

Mother-love! whose fountain flow,Feedeth man the living breath,And which burns with tenser glow,Even when he’s cold in death;Blest and wondrous gift divineOf the master ArtisanIn fair Eden’s holy shrineTo the fallen creature man,When fell Satan did designTo destroy Creation’s plan.

decoration of text

Of Petoobok and of its golden sea,The fairest gem of Nature’s fashioningThe beauty spot of beauteous Acadie,Its summer and its winter scenes I sing:Here in primeval days great Neptune wiseConspired with Fora, bounteous and free,To make a masterpiece, a paradise,Where Nymphs and Naiad’s might forever woo;And now by night and day it ever liesReflecting in its waters, deep and blueThe heavenly wonders of the vaulted skies.In splendour, wild and picturesque and grand,Beneath its sentinel hills like crystal setWith rarest taste by God and Nature’s hand.It mirrors in its depth the silhouetteOf mountains, which, like heroes of romance,Along its lovely shores forever stand,To guard the waters of its vast expanse,And holds to-day the same bewitching charmOf loveliness divine, you to entrance,As on the morn the cry of Golden Arm,Burst from the lips of sons of sunny France.Lake Petoobok, on summer afternoonLooks fair and lovely to the mortal gaze,And lovely too, what time the hunter’s moonIlluminates it with her bewitching rays,As it lies sleeping ’neath its guardian hillsBy Flora robed in beauty, rare and boon,With foliage of variegated frillsOn which the dancing beams like fairies glintAnd from Dame Nature’s ample store distilsThose dyes of one and thousand autumn tintsWrought by some magic hand in fairy mills.But Petoobok is fairest to beholdOn Autumn morn, when orient Sunlight breaksIn radiant glory on its arm of gold,And gentle noosuk[A]into the ripples shakes,The placid surface of its crystal sea,And to the eye a vista doth unfold,A wondrous scene of heavenly alchemy,Like that told us by John in Holy Writ,Which fills the soul with perfect ecstasy,And which once seen, though time be preteritIn after life in dreams you’ll ever see.[A]West wind.

In splendour, wild and picturesque and grand,Beneath its sentinel hills like crystal setWith rarest taste by God and Nature’s hand.It mirrors in its depth the silhouetteOf mountains, which, like heroes of romance,Along its lovely shores forever stand,To guard the waters of its vast expanse,And holds to-day the same bewitching charmOf loveliness divine, you to entrance,As on the morn the cry of Golden Arm,Burst from the lips of sons of sunny France.

Lake Petoobok, on summer afternoonLooks fair and lovely to the mortal gaze,And lovely too, what time the hunter’s moonIlluminates it with her bewitching rays,As it lies sleeping ’neath its guardian hillsBy Flora robed in beauty, rare and boon,With foliage of variegated frillsOn which the dancing beams like fairies glintAnd from Dame Nature’s ample store distilsThose dyes of one and thousand autumn tintsWrought by some magic hand in fairy mills.

But Petoobok is fairest to beholdOn Autumn morn, when orient Sunlight breaksIn radiant glory on its arm of gold,And gentle noosuk[A]into the ripples shakes,The placid surface of its crystal sea,And to the eye a vista doth unfold,A wondrous scene of heavenly alchemy,Like that told us by John in Holy Writ,Which fills the soul with perfect ecstasy,And which once seen, though time be preteritIn after life in dreams you’ll ever see.[A]West wind.

Sleep on ye brave Canadians,In Langemarc’s blood-stained mead,Your glorious act will ever rankA truly golden deed,Sleep on with France and BritonAnd Belgian, side by side,Sleep ye and they your last long sleep,The last roll call to bide.And mother nature, gentlest nurse,Will ever nightly laveYour lowly grave with kindly dewsWhile weeping willows wave;And kindly zephyrs every day,And every night will sigh,A sweet memoriam for aye,Your tomb to sanctify.And Belgian maids and matrons, tooWill often leave the loomTo gather wilding flowers,To beautify your tomb;And peasants when they pass your way,Oft to their sons will say:“ ’Twas here the brave CanadiansThe fierce Huns held at bay.”And when the Angel Gabriel,Shall sound the trumpet blast,Then you shall all awakenFrom your seeming death at last,And, standing at attention,While angel voices sing,In unison you will salute,The universal King.

And mother nature, gentlest nurse,Will ever nightly laveYour lowly grave with kindly dewsWhile weeping willows wave;And kindly zephyrs every day,And every night will sigh,A sweet memoriam for aye,Your tomb to sanctify.

And Belgian maids and matrons, tooWill often leave the loomTo gather wilding flowers,To beautify your tomb;And peasants when they pass your way,Oft to their sons will say:“ ’Twas here the brave CanadiansThe fierce Huns held at bay.”

And when the Angel Gabriel,Shall sound the trumpet blast,Then you shall all awakenFrom your seeming death at last,And, standing at attention,While angel voices sing,In unison you will salute,The universal King.

Dear martyred maid, thy cruel death hath thrilledWith loathing deep the whole of human kindAgainst the Hun who thy death sentence signed;Thy barb’rous death all manly hearts hath filledWith feelings such as never can be stilled;In every home thy name is hence enshrined,Thy death scene pictured clear in every mindIn thy life’s blood, the murd’rous Hun hath spilledAngelic maid, could we but lift the veilWhich hides from mortal eyes God’s holy landWith Joan of Arc and Florence Nightingale,Thy wounded temple with a filet bound,With harp in hand, thy head with glory crowned,Amidst the heavenly choir we’d see thee stand.

decoration of text

Illustrious shepherd of the Prince of Peace,With priestly zeal you watched thy Belgian fold,Any aye performed its duties manifold,That love and virtue did therein increase,And want and sorrow all the while surcease,While Christian culture her rich page enrolledHeroic men and women chaste to mould;The cross, thy sceptre, and the crook, thy creese:But when the robber Hun assailed thy flock,Then stood you forth, the patriot and priest,With clarion call to champion the right,And met the onset of the Prussian beastAnd all the hosts of his embattled might,Firm and immovable, as Zion’s Rock.

Oh come sweet muse, with well tuned lyre,On this our Robbie’s natal day,A rustic poet’s mind inspireThat he may sing a homely lay.Of all the warblers ever born,I dearly love the bard of Ayr,Whose lovely songs both night and morn,Have freed my wearied mind from care.If fault he had, ’twas Nature’s fault,And man, beware that you have none,Before you do yourself exalt,To cast at Robbie Burns a stone.I wish he was with us tonight,To pass a pleasant hour or two,And fill all hearts with rare delight,As he was ever wont to do.Methinks e’en now I see him sitThe centre of an eager throng,And hear his ceaseless flow of wit,Or words of some soul stirring song.His lovely songs will e’er be sung,And greener grow his memory,’Mong people whether old or young,Till father Time has ceased to be.

Oh come sweet muse, with well tuned lyre,On this our Robbie’s natal day,A rustic poet’s mind inspireThat he may sing a homely lay.

Of all the warblers ever born,I dearly love the bard of Ayr,Whose lovely songs both night and morn,Have freed my wearied mind from care.

If fault he had, ’twas Nature’s fault,And man, beware that you have none,Before you do yourself exalt,To cast at Robbie Burns a stone.

I wish he was with us tonight,To pass a pleasant hour or two,And fill all hearts with rare delight,As he was ever wont to do.

Methinks e’en now I see him sitThe centre of an eager throng,And hear his ceaseless flow of wit,Or words of some soul stirring song.

His lovely songs will e’er be sung,And greener grow his memory,’Mong people whether old or young,Till father Time has ceased to be.

The chimes that oft from old Malines,Rang out their sacred strain,At morning, noon and eventide,Shall never ring again;That voice that called the living,Or sadly mourned the dead,Is still and silent now for aye:The soul of Flanders’ fled.The peasant at his daily toil,Shall listen now in vain,From early morn till evening,To hear those chimes again;But never shall such silver soundsBy harmony inbred,Fall on his ever listening ears;The soul of Flanders’ fled.Those lovely chimes, which e’er were wontTo sound with morn’s first beams,And ’wake the tourist from his sleep,Will haunt his waking dreams;But never more those dulcet soundsWill rouse him from his bed,And fill his soul with ecstasy:The soul of Flanders’ fled.’Tis strangely sad such chimes as those,Which seemed a heavenly dow’r,Should fall a prey to tyranny,And war’s barbaric pow’r,A city new will rise againUp from its ashen bed,But those old chimes shall ring no more:The soul of Flanders’ fled.

The peasant at his daily toil,Shall listen now in vain,From early morn till evening,To hear those chimes again;But never shall such silver soundsBy harmony inbred,Fall on his ever listening ears;The soul of Flanders’ fled.

Those lovely chimes, which e’er were wontTo sound with morn’s first beams,And ’wake the tourist from his sleep,Will haunt his waking dreams;But never more those dulcet soundsWill rouse him from his bed,And fill his soul with ecstasy:The soul of Flanders’ fled.

’Tis strangely sad such chimes as those,Which seemed a heavenly dow’r,Should fall a prey to tyranny,And war’s barbaric pow’r,A city new will rise againUp from its ashen bed,But those old chimes shall ring no more:The soul of Flanders’ fled.

Lovely Gardens, Eden’s bower,Lovely in sunshine and shower.Winding walks and shaded seats,Babbling streams and cool retreats,Flowing fountains throwing spray,O’er the fishes at their play,Geese and ducklings in the pond,By the white swan chaperoned,Grassy plots well trimmed and neat,Decked with flowers, gay and sweet,Trees and shrubs so sweetly blendingAll its beauties never ending;Fit place for the aged to talkAnd for babes to learn to walk;Wandering swains and straying madams,Modern Eves and modern Adams;Place where friend a friend may meet;Lovers here each other greet,And a groom and summer brideOn their honeymoon abide.

We were summoned from the play-ground,We were called in from the wood,And our country found us readyAt the stirring call for food.Do not add unto our burden,If you hap to pass along,For, although our backs are breaking,You can hear us sing this song:—CHORUSKeep the gardens growing,Digging, planting, hoeing;If you plant and weed arightThe crop will grow.Do not stand repiningWhile the sun is shining,Turn the good soil inside out,And fertilize and sow.Mother Britain sent a message,To her daughter in the West,“We need every kind of food-stuffs,”So we’re bound to do our best;For the soldiers in the trenchesAnd the homeland we must feed,And no worthy son will fail her,When his mother is in need.

CHORUS

Keep the gardens growing,Digging, planting, hoeing;If you plant and weed arightThe crop will grow.Do not stand repiningWhile the sun is shining,Turn the good soil inside out,And fertilize and sow.

Mother Britain sent a message,To her daughter in the West,“We need every kind of food-stuffs,”So we’re bound to do our best;For the soldiers in the trenchesAnd the homeland we must feed,And no worthy son will fail her,When his mother is in need.

Low in the eastern sky the breaking lightPales in the vault of heaven the morning star,Presaging me the dying hour of night,And that the twilight gray is not afar;

For night is slowly changing into morn,And through the gloom the forms of ships appear.Across the Arm below, the bugle hornReveille’s call brings to my listening ear.

No other sound is on the morning airTo echo back from hills and dales around;No home has man; no beast has here lair,And desolation seems to own the ground;

Save me who sit beneath an aged elmWhich some one’s home at Richmond once did grace,Ere fell misfortune did it overwhelmAnd left this tree alone to mark the place.

Yet here I am beneath this hoary treeAnd ruminate upon the recent past—If such events again should hap to be—The ruins round their gloomy bodings cast.

But still I sit amidst these scenes of deathWhich call to mind that dire December day,When Fate unkindly blew his blighting breath,Reducing homes to dust, and men to clay.

And question thus: “Was there no law amiss?Had no officials power to preventA devastation, dark and drear, as this?Was Richmond’s loss naught but an accident?”

And in my breast a rising hate I feelFor man-made Laws which oft protect the HighAnd leave the Low their grievous wounds to healAnd bear their load of sorrow till they die.

A sense of sadness passes through my soul,An earthly grief akin to human-kind,But ere this sorrow sad doth reach its goalCelestial musings fill my troubled mind.

The hatred lately felt within my breastAnd which I vainly thought naught could allayUntil my spirit passed to its last rest;I surely find is speeding fast away.

Some Spirit sweet seems near to me abideWho doth from me remove all earthly dread,And in most soothing ways my senses chideThat I hold counsel with the living dead.

I look around to see whose is the voiceWhose cadence falls so sweetly on my earAs thus to make my hating heart rejoice,But vain my quest, no living soul is near.

A spirit voice I know, it needs must beThat sounds upon the air with silv’ry toneAnd yet, withal, no fears arise in me,Though midst the ruins here I am alone.

The voice now cautions me to listen well,And in harmonious tones with lightning speedThis story he narrates for me to tell,And thus I write it down that all may read.

“That fatal morn, when Richmond felt secure,With many more I ran to yonder hillTo watch the burning ship, all feeling sureThat nothing round could do us harm or ill.

“And why should aught around fill us with fearsDid we not know: The flag that braves the breezeOn land and sea for full one thousand years,Flew o’er our city still and o’er our seas?

“The scene was bright and beautiful and grand,With florid streamers shooting far on high,And none who viewed the scene from sea or landWere cognizant they were so soon to die.

“Whose was the fault is not for me to tell.—The Judge of All shall surely justice meteTo those who prematurely rang our knellWhen they are come to His just judgement seat.

“You wonder why I wander ’neath the vaultOf heaven here and fain would ask—’Tis but to beg forgiveness of a faultAnd do again another ill-done task.

“Though young in life, in wisdom now I’m old,For I’ve passed through the chast’ning purge of fire;My harp, though silver now, will soon be gold,When time has passed and I have mounted higher.

“Along the path with slow increasing paceInto the realms of peace where all is light;’Till I have reached my time allotted seat,There, to enjoy the beatific sight.

“Of God for aye and His hosannas sing,Amidst the saints of His twice chosen few,Before the treble throne of God, our King,The vision of whose glory’s ever new.

“The path is long, yet shorter may be madeBy alms and prayers and other deeds of worth;The happy day may, too, long be delayedBy thoughtless unforgiving hearts on earth.

“Then do good deeds while in the flesh, my friendAnd trespassers forgive, lest you forgetSuch charity, till you have reached the endOf life with some one unforgiven yet.

“Take heed that you will e’er remember this,Lest you, as others did so oft before,May cross that cold and ever dark abyssWhich separates earth from the spirit shore.

“Which lieth far beyond the farthest sun,And trembling stand before high Heaven’s courtWith unforgiven thought and task undone;No camouflage to which you can resort.

“Be ye a man of lore, unlearned or youth,Will there, as here on earth, avail you aught;Nor will forensic speech conceal the truthIn your account of deed and word and thought.

“In stilly night I’ve often wandered hereFar from those realms beyond the starry sky,O’er that long way, so lonely, dark and drear,But now the hour of bliss for me draws nigh.

“For soon the pearly gates, which now bar me,Through which the sainted souls have ever trodWill open wide and I shall ever seeThe pristine glory of the throne of God.”

Summer time was in the waning,Vesper Sun was wending low,And reminiscences brought meBack to school days long agoThere the school-house stood before me,And I was on hallowed ground,Where each old associationInspiration breathed around.

Full in view the school was standingNear the road and yet aloof,Four square walls in ochre painted,Topped off with a cottage roof.In the distance old AtlanticGlistened as in days of yore,While upon his glimmering bosom,White caps rolled towards the shore.

On the diamond boys were playingBase-ball, with eclat and shout;Saw the batter three times fanning,Heard the umpire’s “Batter’s out.”Saw some other hit a grounder,Speed away like a winged bird;Heard the rooters merry shouting,As he landed safe on third.

Heard the maidens merry laughter,As they played upon the green,And the rythm of their footfalls,Skipping o’er the hard terrene,Saw the little boys and maidensDrinking at the nearby well:And upon the air vibratingHeard again the master’s bell.

Plainly heard the foot-step soundingOn the floor with measured beats,While the boys and girls were filingThrough the aisles towards their seats.Saw the whole class sitting upright,In position, one and all;Heard distinctly “Here” and “Absent,”Answered to the master’s call.

I could see the master’s visage,With its look of learned lore,While Sol’s summer shadows lengthenedSlowly o’er the school house floor;O’er his head there hung a mottoWith the words, “God Bless Our School”Standing in the left-hand cornerWas the oft-used Dunces’ stool.

Heard him from the Holy BibleRead from some New Testament,And to each and every passage,Young and old, attention lent.Heard once more the school repeatingEarnestly the Saviour’s prayer,While around a holy stillnessFloated on the ev’ning air.

Saw the school take first positionAt the sound of warning gong,Heard the master’s voice intoningSome old school or college song;Saw all in position standingWith demeanour calm and still;Saw them going through the movementsOf the military drill.

On the walls the maps were hanging,Colored in blue, red and gold,Ornamented with the picturesOf the noted men of old.Moral maxims, plainly writtenOn the board in plain relief,“Order Is First Law of Heaven,”With some others terse and brief.

Summaries of all the home-workBy to-morrow to be learned;Saw, too, some make interchangesWhen the master’s back was turned.On their slates the younger pupilsStrove to make their cranes and hooks,While the older ones were busyWriting in their copy books.

Heard them spell and give the meaning,And pronounce in unison;Heard them too, in concert reading,Reading also, one by one.Saw them, on the Black-board, parsingWith and without formal line;Use of “a” and “n” explaining“These” and “those” and “thy” and “thine.”

Back to Index Next