V

The clear stream glimmers before them;The faint night falters o’er them;Lashed lightly bark to bark,They glide the windless dark.Late grows the night. No fearWhile the skilful captives steer!Sleeps the tired warrior, sleepsThe chief; and the river creeps.

The clear stream glimmers before them;The faint night falters o’er them;Lashed lightly bark to bark,They glide the windless dark.

Late grows the night. No fearWhile the skilful captives steer!Sleeps the tired warrior, sleepsThe chief; and the river creeps.

In the town of the MeliciteThe unjarred peace is sweet,Green grows the corn and great,And the hunt is fortunate.This many a heedless yearThe Mohawks come not near.The lodge-gate stands unbarred;Scarce even a dog keeps guard.No mother shrieks from a dreamOf blood on the threshold stream,—But the thought of those mute guidesIs where the sleeper bides!

In the town of the MeliciteThe unjarred peace is sweet,Green grows the corn and great,And the hunt is fortunate.

This many a heedless yearThe Mohawks come not near.The lodge-gate stands unbarred;Scarce even a dog keeps guard.

No mother shrieks from a dreamOf blood on the threshold stream,—But the thought of those mute guidesIs where the sleeper bides!

Gets forth those caverned wallsNo roar from the giant Falls,Whose mountainous foam treads underThe abyss of awful thunder.But—the river’s sudden speed!How the ghost-grey shores recede!And the tearless pilots hearA muttering voice creep near.A tremor! The blanched waves leap.The warriors start from sleep.Faints in the sudden blareThe cry of their swift despair,And the captives’ death-chant shrills ...But afar, remote from ills,Quiet under the quiet skiesThe Melicite village lies.

Gets forth those caverned wallsNo roar from the giant Falls,Whose mountainous foam treads underThe abyss of awful thunder.

But—the river’s sudden speed!How the ghost-grey shores recede!And the tearless pilots hearA muttering voice creep near.

A tremor! The blanched waves leap.The warriors start from sleep.Faints in the sudden blareThe cry of their swift despair,

And the captives’ death-chant shrills ...But afar, remote from ills,Quiet under the quiet skiesThe Melicite village lies.

TheMorning Star was bitter bright, the morning sky was grey;And we hitched our teams and started for the woods at break of day.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!Along the white and winding road the sled-bells jangled keenBetween the buried fences, the billowy drifts between.Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!So crisp sang the runners, and so swift the horses sped,That the woods were all about us ere the sky grew red.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!The bark hung ragged on the birch, the lichen on the fir,The lungwort fringed the maple, and grey moss the juniper.Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!So still the air and chill the air the branches seemed asleep,But we broke their ancient visions as the axe bit deep.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!With the shouts of the choppers and the barking of their blades,How rang the startled valleys and the rabbit-haunted glades!Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!The hard wood and the soft wood, we felled them for our use;And chiefly, for its scented gum, we loved the scaly spruce;Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!And here and there, with solemn roar, some hoary tree came down,And we heard the rolling of the years in the thunder of its crown.Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!So, many a sled was loaded up above the stake-tops soon;And many a load was at the farm before the horn of noon;Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!And ere we saw the sundown all yellow through the trees,The farmyard stood as thick with wood as a buckwheat patch with bees;Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!And with the last-returning teams, and axes burnished bright,We left the woods to slumber in the frosty shadowed night.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!And then the wide, warm kitchen, with beams across the ceiling,Thick hung with red-skinned onions, and homely herbs of healing!Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!The dishes on the dresser-shelves were shining blue and white,And o’er the loaded table the lamps beamed bright.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!Then, how the ham and turkey and the apple-sauce did fly,The heights of boiled potatoes and the flats of pumpkin-pie!Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!With bread-and-cheese and doughnuts fit to feed a farm a year!And we washed them down with tides of tea and oceans of spruce beer.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!At last the pipes were lighted and the chairs pushed back,And Bill struck up a sea-song on a rather risky tack;Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!And the girls all thought it funny—but they never knew ’twas worse,For we gagged him with a doughnut at the famous second verse.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!Then someone fetched a fiddle, and we shoved away the table,And ’twas jig and reel and polka just as long as we were able,Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!Till at last the girls grew sleepy, and we got our coats to go.We started off with racing-teams and moonlight on the snow;Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!And soon again the winter world was voiceless as of old,Alone with all the wheeling stars, and the great white cold.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

TheMorning Star was bitter bright, the morning sky was grey;And we hitched our teams and started for the woods at break of day.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

Along the white and winding road the sled-bells jangled keenBetween the buried fences, the billowy drifts between.Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!

So crisp sang the runners, and so swift the horses sped,That the woods were all about us ere the sky grew red.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

The bark hung ragged on the birch, the lichen on the fir,The lungwort fringed the maple, and grey moss the juniper.Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!

So still the air and chill the air the branches seemed asleep,But we broke their ancient visions as the axe bit deep.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

With the shouts of the choppers and the barking of their blades,How rang the startled valleys and the rabbit-haunted glades!Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!

The hard wood and the soft wood, we felled them for our use;And chiefly, for its scented gum, we loved the scaly spruce;Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

And here and there, with solemn roar, some hoary tree came down,And we heard the rolling of the years in the thunder of its crown.Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!

So, many a sled was loaded up above the stake-tops soon;And many a load was at the farm before the horn of noon;Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

And ere we saw the sundown all yellow through the trees,The farmyard stood as thick with wood as a buckwheat patch with bees;Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!

And with the last-returning teams, and axes burnished bright,We left the woods to slumber in the frosty shadowed night.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

And then the wide, warm kitchen, with beams across the ceiling,Thick hung with red-skinned onions, and homely herbs of healing!Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!

The dishes on the dresser-shelves were shining blue and white,And o’er the loaded table the lamps beamed bright.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

Then, how the ham and turkey and the apple-sauce did fly,The heights of boiled potatoes and the flats of pumpkin-pie!Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!

With bread-and-cheese and doughnuts fit to feed a farm a year!And we washed them down with tides of tea and oceans of spruce beer.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

At last the pipes were lighted and the chairs pushed back,And Bill struck up a sea-song on a rather risky tack;Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!

And the girls all thought it funny—but they never knew ’twas worse,For we gagged him with a doughnut at the famous second verse.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

Then someone fetched a fiddle, and we shoved away the table,And ’twas jig and reel and polka just as long as we were able,Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!

Till at last the girls grew sleepy, and we got our coats to go.We started off with racing-teams and moonlight on the snow;Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

And soon again the winter world was voiceless as of old,Alone with all the wheeling stars, and the great white cold.Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!

O riversrolling to the seaFrom lands that bear the maple-tree,How swell your voices with the strainOf loyalty and liberty!A holy music, heard in vainBy coward heart and sordid brain,To whom this strenuous being seemsNaught but a greedy race for gain.O unsung streams—not splendid themesYe lack to fire your patriot dreams!Annals of glory gild your waves,Hope freights your tides, Canadian streams!St. Lawrence, whose wide water lavesThe shores that ne’er have nourished slaves!Swift Richelieu of lilied fame!Niagara of glorious graves!Thy rapids, Ottawa, proclaimWhere Daulac and his heroes came!Thy tides, St. John, declare La Tour,And, later, many a loyal name!Thou inland stream, whose vales, secureFrom storm, Tecumseh’s death made poor!And thou small water, red with war,’Twixt Beaubassin and Beauséjour!Dread Saguenay, where eagles soar,What voice shall from the bastioned shoreThe tale of Roberval reveal,Or his mysterious fate deplore?Annapolis, do thy floods yet feelFaint memories of Champlain’s keel,Thy pulses yet the deed repeatOf Poutrincourt and d’Iberville?And thou far tide, whose plains now beatWith march of myriad westering feet,Saskatchewan, whose virgin sodSo late Canadian blood made sweet?Your bulwark hills, your valleys broad,Streams where de Salaberry trod,Where Wolfe achieved, where Brock was slain,—Their voices are the voice of God!O sacred waters! not in vain,Across Canadian height and plain,Ye sound us in triumphant toneThe summons of your high refrain,

O riversrolling to the seaFrom lands that bear the maple-tree,How swell your voices with the strainOf loyalty and liberty!

A holy music, heard in vainBy coward heart and sordid brain,To whom this strenuous being seemsNaught but a greedy race for gain.

O unsung streams—not splendid themesYe lack to fire your patriot dreams!Annals of glory gild your waves,Hope freights your tides, Canadian streams!

St. Lawrence, whose wide water lavesThe shores that ne’er have nourished slaves!Swift Richelieu of lilied fame!Niagara of glorious graves!

Thy rapids, Ottawa, proclaimWhere Daulac and his heroes came!Thy tides, St. John, declare La Tour,And, later, many a loyal name!

Thou inland stream, whose vales, secureFrom storm, Tecumseh’s death made poor!And thou small water, red with war,’Twixt Beaubassin and Beauséjour!

Dread Saguenay, where eagles soar,What voice shall from the bastioned shoreThe tale of Roberval reveal,Or his mysterious fate deplore?

Annapolis, do thy floods yet feelFaint memories of Champlain’s keel,Thy pulses yet the deed repeatOf Poutrincourt and d’Iberville?

And thou far tide, whose plains now beatWith march of myriad westering feet,Saskatchewan, whose virgin sodSo late Canadian blood made sweet?

Your bulwark hills, your valleys broad,Streams where de Salaberry trod,Where Wolfe achieved, where Brock was slain,—Their voices are the voice of God!

O sacred waters! not in vain,Across Canadian height and plain,Ye sound us in triumphant toneThe summons of your high refrain,

AVE!

O tranquilmeadows, grassy Tantramar,Wide marshes ever washed in clearest air,Whether beneath the sole and spectral starThe dear severity of dawn you wear,Or whether in the joy of ample dayAnd speechless ecstasy of growing JuneYou lie and dream the long blue hours awayTill nightfall comes too soon,Or whether, naked to the unstarred night,You strike with wondering awe my inward sight,—

You know how I have loved you, how my dreamsGo forth to you with longing, though the yearsThat turn not back like your returning streamsAnd fain would mist the memory with tears,Though the inexorable years denyMy feet the fellowship of your deep grass,O’er which, as o’er another, tenderer sky,Cloud phantoms drift and pass,—You know my confident love, since first, a child,Amid your wastes of green I wandered wild.

Inconstant, eager, curious, I roamed;And ever your long reaches lured me on;And ever o’er my feet your grasses foamed,And in my eyes your far horizons shone.But sometimes would you (as a stillness fellAnd on my pulse you laid a soothing palm),Instruct my ears in your most secret spell;And sometimes in the calmInitiate my young and wondering eyesUntil my spirit grew more still and wise.

Purged with high thoughts and infinite desireI entered fearless the most holy place,Received between my lips the secret fire,The breath of inspiration on my face.But not for long these rare illumined hours,The deep surprise and rapture not for long.Again I saw the common, kindly flowers,Again I heard the songOf the glad bobolink, whose lyric throatPealed like a tangle of small bells afloat.

The pounce of mottled marsh-hawk on his prey;The flicker of sand-pipers in from seaIn gusty flocks that puffed and fled; the playOf field-mice in the vetches;—these to meWere memorable events. But most availedYour strange unquiet waters to engageMy kindred heart’s companionship; nor failedTo grant this heritage,—That in my veins for ever must abideThe urge and fluctuation of the tide.

The mystic river whence you take your name,River of hubbub, raucous Tantramar,Untamable and changeable as flame,It called me and compelled me from afar,Shaping my soul with its impetuous stress.When in its gaping channel deep withdrawnIts waves ran crying of the wildernessAnd winds and stars and dawn,How I companioned them in speed sublime,Led out a vagrant on the hills of Time!

And when the orange flood came roaring inFrom Fundy’s tumbling troughs and tide-worn caves,While red Minudie’s flats were drowned with dinAnd rough Chignecto’s front oppugned the waves,How blithely with the refluent foam I racedInland along the radiant chasm, exploringThe green solemnity with boisterous haste;My pulse of joy outpouringTo visit all the creeks that twist and shineFrom Beauséjour to utmost Tormentine.

And after, when the tide was full, and stilledA little while the seething and the hiss,And every tributary channel filledTo the brim with rosy streams that swelled to kissThe grass-roots all a-wash and goose-tongue wildAnd salt-sap rosemary,—then how well contentI was to rest me like a breathless childWith play-time rapture spent,—To lapse and loiter till the change should comeAnd the great floods turn seaward, roaring home.

And now, O tranquil marshes, in your vastSerenity of vision and of dream,Wherethrough by every intricate vein have passedWith joy impetuous and pain supremeThe sharp fierce tides that chafe the shores of earthIn endless and controlless ebb and flow,Strangely akin you seem to him whose birthOne hundred years agoWith fiery succour to the ranks of songDefied the ancient gates of wrath and wrong.

Like yours, O marshes, his compassionate breast,Wherein abode all dreams of love and peace,Was tortured with perpetual unrest.Now loud with flood, now languid with release,Now poignant with the lonely ebb, the strifeOf tides from the salt sea of human painThat hiss along the perilous coasts of lifeBeat in his eager brain;But all about the tumult of his heartStretched the great calm of his celestial art.

Therefore with no far flight, from TantramarAnd my still world of ecstasy, to thee,Shelley, to thee I turn, the avatarOf Song, Love, Dream, Desire and Liberty;To thee I turn with reverent hands of prayerAnd lips that fain would ease my heart of praise,Whom chief of all whose brows prophetic wearThe pure and sacred baysI worship, and have worshipped since the hourWhen first I felt thy bright and chainless power.

About thy sheltered cradle, in the greenUntroubled groves of Sussex, brooded formsThat to the mother’s eye remained unseen,—Terrors and ardours, passionate hopes, and stormsOf fierce retributive fury, such as jarredAncient and sceptred creeds, and cast down kings,And oft the holy cause of Freedom marredWith lust of meaner things,With guiltless blood, and many a frenzied crimeDared in the face of unforgetful Time.

The star that burns on revolution smoteWild heats and change on thine ascendant sphere,Whose influence thereafter seemed to floatThrough many a strange eclipse of wrath and fear,Dimming awhile the radiance of thy love.But still supreme in thy nativity,All dark, invidious aspects far above,Beamed one clear orb for thee,—The star whose ministrations just and strongControlled the tireless flight of Dante’s song.

With how august contrition, and what tearsOf penitential unavailing shame,Thy venerable foster-mother hearsThe sons of song impeach her ancient name,Because in one rash hour of anger blindShe thrust thee forth in exile, and thy feetToo soon to earth’s wild outer ways consigned,—Far from her well-loved seat,Far from her studious halls and storied towersAnd weedy Isis winding through his flowers.

And thou, thenceforth the breathless child of change,Thine own Alastor, on an endless questOf unimagined loveliness, didst range,Urged ever by the soul’s divine unrest.Of that high quest and that unrest divineThy first immortal music thou didst make,Inwrought with fairy Alp, and Reuss, and Rhine,And phantom seas that breakIn soundless foam along the shores of Time,Prisoned in thine imperishable rhyme.

Thyself the lark melodious in mid-heaven;Thyself the Protean shape of chainless cloud,Pregnant with elemental fire, and drivenThrough deeps of quivering light, and darkness loudWith tempest, yet beneficent as prayer;Thyself the wild west wind, relentless strewingThe withered leaves of custom on the air,And through the wreck pursuingO’er lovelier Arnos, more imperial Romes,Thy radiant visions to their viewless homes.

And when thy mightiest creation thouWert fain to body forth,—the dauntless form,The all-enduring, all-forgiving browOf the great Titan, flinchless in the stormOf pangs unspeakable and nameless hates,Yet rent by all the wrongs and woes of men,And triumphing in his pain, that so their fatesMight be assuaged,—oh thenOut of that vast compassionate heart of thineThou wert constrained to shape the dream benign.

—O Baths of Caracalla, arches cladIn such transcendent rhapsodies of greenThat one might guess the sprites of spring were gladFor your majestic ruin, yours the scene,The illuminating air of sense and thought;And yours the enchanted light, O skies of Rome,Where the giant vision into form was wrought;Beneath your blazing domeThe intensest song our language ever knewBeat up exhaustless to the blinding blue!—

The domes of Pisa and her towers superb,The myrtles and the ilexes that sighO’er San Giuliano, where no jars disturbThe lonely aziola’s evening cry,The Serchio’s sun-kissed waters,—these conspiredWith Plato’s theme occult, with Dante’s calmRapture of mystic love, and so inspiredThy soul’s espousal psalm,A strain of such elect and pure intentIt breathes of a diviner element.

Thou on whose lips the word of Love becameA rapt evangel to assuage all wrong,Not Love alone, but the austerer nameOf Death engaged the splendours of thy song.The luminous grief, the spacious consolationOf thy supreme lament, that mourned for himToo early haled to that still habitationBeneath the grass-roots dim,—Where his faint limbs and pain-o’erwearied heartOf all earth’s loveliness became a part,

But where, thou sayest, himself would not abide,—Thy solemn incommunicable joyAnnouncing Adonais has not died,Attesting death to free but not destroy,All this was as thy swan-song mystical.Even while the note serene was on thy tongueThin grew the veil of the Invisible,The white sword nearer swung,—And in the sudden wisdom of thy restThou knewest all thou hadst but dimly guessed.

—Lament, Lerici, mourn for the world’s loss!Mourn that pure light of song extinct at noon!Ye waves of Spezzia that shine and tossRepent that sacred flame you quenched too soon!Mourn, Mediterranean waters, mournIn affluent purple down your golden shore!Such strains as his, whose voice you stilled in scorn,Our ears may greet no more,Unless at last to that far sphere we climbWhere he completes the wonder of his rhyme!

How like a cloud she fled, thy fateful bark,From eyes that watched to hearts that waited, tillUp from the ocean roared the tempest dark—And the wild heart love waited for was still!Hither and thither in the slow, soft tide,Rolled seaward, shoreward, sands and wandering shellsAnd shifting weeds thy fellows, thou didst hideRemote from all farewells,Nor felt the sun, nor heard the fleeting rain,Nor heeded Casa Magni’s quenchless pain.

Thouheededst not? Nay, for it was not thou,That blind, mute clay relinquished by the wavesReluctantly at last, and slumbering nowIn one of kind earth’s most compassionate graves!Not thou, not thou,—for thou wert in the lightOf the Unspeakable, where time is not.Thou sawest those tears; but in thy perfect sightAnd thy eternal thoughtWere they not even now all wiped awayIn the reunion of the infinite day!

There face to face thou sawest the living GodAnd worshipedst, beholding Him the sameAdored on earth as Love, the same whose rodThou hadst endured as Life, whose secret nameThou now didst learn, the healing name of Death.In that unroutable profound of peace,Beyond experience of pulse and breath,Beyond the last releaseOf longing, rose to greet thee all the lordsOf Thought, with consummation in their words.

He of the seven cities claimed, whose eyes,Though blind, saw gods and heroes, and the fallOf Ilium, and many alien skies,And Circe’s Isle; and he whom mortals callThe Thunderous, who sang the Titan boundAs thou the Titan victor; the benignSpirit of Plato; Job; and Judah’s crownedSinger and seer divine;Omar; the Tuscan; Milton vast and strong;And Shakspeare, captain of the host of Song.

Back from the underworld of whelming changeTo the wide-glittering beach thy body came;And thou didst contemplate with wonder strangeAnd curious regard thy kindred flame,Fed sweet with frankincense and wine and salt,With fierce purgation search thee, soon resolvingThee to the elements of the airy vaultAnd the far spheres revolving,The common waters, the familiar woods,And the great hills’ inviolate solitudes.

Thy close companions there officiatedWith solemn mourning and with mindful tears;—The pained, imperious wanderer unmatedWho voiced the wrath of those rebellious years;Trelawney, lion limbed and high of heart;And he, that gentlest sage and friend most true,Whom Adonais loved. With these bore partOne grieving ghost, that flewHither and thither through the smoke unstirredIn wailing semblance of a wild white bird.

O heartof fire, that fire might not consume,For ever glad the world because of thee;Because of thee for ever eyes illumeA more enchanted earth, a lovelier sea!O poignant voice of the desire of life,Piercing our lethargy, because thy callAroused our spirits to a nobler strifeWhere base and sordid fall,For ever past the conflict and the painMore clearly beams the goal we shall attain!

And now once more, O marshes, back to youFrom whatsoever wanderings, near or far,To you I turn with joy for ever new,To you, O sovereign vasts of Tantramar!Your tides are at the full. Your wizard flood,With every tribute stream and brimming creek,Ponders, possessor of the utmost good,With no more left to seek;—But the hour wanes and passes; and once moreResounds the ebb with destiny in its roar.

So might some lord of men, whom force and fateAnd his great heart’s unvanquishable powerHave thrust with storm to his supreme estate,Ascend by night his solitary towerHigh o’er the city’s lights and cries uplift.Silent he ponders the scrolled heaven to readAnd the keen stars’ conflicting message sift,Till the slow signs recede,And ominously scarlet dawns afarThe day he leads his legions forth to war.

PRINTED BYSPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARELONDON

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