Enter the temple beautiful! The house not made with hands!Rain-washed and green, wind-swept and clean,Beneath the blue it stands,And no cathedral anywhereSeemeth so holy or so fair.
It hath no heavy gabled roof, no door with lock and key,No window-bars shut out the stars,The aisles are wide and free—Here through the night each altar-lightIs but a moon-beam, silver-white.
Silently as the temple grew at Solomon's command,Still as things seem within a dreamThis rose from out the land:And all the pillars, grey and high,Lifted their arches to the sky.
Here is the perfume of the leaves, the incense of the pines—The magic scent that hath been pentWithin the tangled vines:No censor filled with spices rareE'er swung such sweetness on the air.
And all the golden gloom of it holdeth no haunting fear,For it is blessed, and giveth restTo those who enter here—Here in the evening—who can knowBut God Himself walks to and fro!
And music past all mastering within the chancel rings;None could desire a sweeter choirThan this—that soars and sings,Till far the scented shadows creep—And quiet darkness bringeth sleep.
(To E. M.)
Sing me a song—a song to ease old sorrows,And dull the edge of care—A song of Hope to ring through all the morrowsThat be my share.
Unlock the doors where joy hath been in hiding,Though barred they be and strong,And send black grief far down the wind a-riding—Sing me a song.
Sing thou thy sky-lark song of sweetest daring,And April ecstasy,That I may follow it and go a-faringTo Arcady.
Charm sleep from out the shadows with thy singing,And when the light turns grey,Leave me bright dreams until the dawn comes bringingThe rose-edged day.
The wind of March taught thee his springtime madness,And then in undertoneWhispered the wonder-secret of his gladnessTo thee alone.
And thou hast learned from little brook and riverTheir tender melody—The notes that set the thrush's throat a-quiverAre known to thee.
Sing me a song—a song to ease old sorrows,And dull the edge of care—A song of Hope, to ring through all the morrowsThat be my share.
0 heart of mine—if I were but a swallow—A thing so fearless, swift of flight, and free—On wings unwearied I would find and followSome path that led to thee!
Were I a rose out in the garden growingMy sweetness I would give the vagrant breezeFor he, perchance, might meet thee all unknowing—Yet bring thee memories.
A toast to thee, 0 dear old year,While the last moments fly,A toast to thy sweet memory—We'll lift the glasses high,And bid to thee a fond farewellAs thou art passing by!
A toast to those who reaped successIn this good year of grace;A toast to every one of them—Come! Give the victors place!Come, wish them well with right good will—The winners in the race!
And one toast more! To those who failedWherever they may be;—With faces white they fought the fight,But missed the victory;So here's to them—the ones who strove—On land and on the sea!
Fair dreams to thee, 0 grey old year,Thy working time is done,And gone for thee the silver moon,And golden noon-day sun;Yet sad old year—and glad old year—We'll know no better one.
Oh, fairy palace of pink and pearlFrescoed with filigree silver-white,Down in the silence beneath the seaGod by Himself must have fashioned theeJust for His own delight!
But no!—For a dumb and shapeless thingStirring in darkness its little hour,Thy walls were built with infinite care,Thou sea-scented home, so fine and fair,Perfect—and like a flower!
Turn to thy window in the silver hourThat day comes stepping down the hills of night,Infolded as the leaves infold a flowerBy all her rose-leaf robes of misty light.
Then, like a joy born out of blackest sorrow,The miracle of morning seems to say,"There is no night without its dear to-morrow,No lonely dark that does not find the day."
Throughout the sunny day he whistled on his way—Oh high and low, and gay and sweet,The melody rang down the street,Till all the weary, old, and grey,Smiled at their work, or stopped to say,"Now God be thanked that youth is fair,And light of heart, and free from care."
What time the wind blew high, he whistled and went by—Then clarion clear on every sideThe song was scattered far and wide;Like birds above a storm that flyThe silver notes soared to the sky,"O soul, whose courage does not failBut with a song can meet the gale."
And when the rain fell fast, he whistled as he passed—A little tune the whole world knew,A song of love, of love most true;On through the mist it came at lastTo one by sorrow overcast,"Dear Christ," she said, "by night and dayThey serve who praise, as well as pray."
Though the great world was white, he whistled in the night—The sky was spangled all with gold,The bitter wind was keen and cold,Yet, gay musician, out of sight,You still put wintry thoughts to flight,For summer follows where you fare,0 Whistler, so debonair.
And when the fog hung grey, he whistled on his way—The little children in his trainWith rosy lips caught up the strain.Then I, to hear what he might say,Followed with them, that sombre day."Is it for joy of life," quoth I,"Good sir, you go awhistling by?"He smiled, and sighed, and shook his head,"I cheer my own sad heart," he said.
Give thanks, my soul, for the things that are free!The blue of the sky, the shade of a tree,And the unowned leagues of the shining sea.
Be grateful, my heart, for everyman's gold;By road-way and river and hill unfoldSun-coloured blossoms that never are sold.
For the little joys sometimes say a grace;The scent of a rose, the frost's fairy lace,Or the sound of the rain in a quiet place.
Be glad of what cannot be bought or beguiled;The trust of the tameless, the fearless, the wild,The song of a bird and the faith of a child.
For prairie and mountain, windswept and high,For betiding beauty of earth and sky—Say a benediction e'er you pass by.
Give thanks, my soul, for the things that are free!The joy of life and the spring's ecstasy,The dreams that have been and the dreams that will be.
Oh! little pink and white god of love,With your tender smiling mouth,And eyes as blue as the blue above,Afar in the sunny south.
No army e'er laid so many lowOr wounded so many hearts,No mighty gunner e'er wrought such woeAs you with your feathered darts.
Not with the haloed saints would Heaven beFor such as I;Who have not reached to their serenitySo sweet and high.
Not with the martyrs washed by holy flameCould I find place,For they are victors who through glory cameTo see God's face.
Not with the perfect souls that enter thereCould mine abide,For clouded eyes from eyes all cloudless fair'Twere best to hide.
And not for me the wondrous streets of goldOr crystal sea—I only know the brown earth, worn and old,Where sinners be.
Unless I found those who to me belong,My dear and own,I, in the vastness of that shining throng,Would be alone.
God guide us to some sun-blessed little star,We ask not where,Nor whether it be near or it be far,So Love is there.
"Thou trumpet made for Shakespeare's lips to blow!"
No more for thee the music and the lights,Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown;For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,The curtain hath rung down.
No more the sea of faces, turned to thine,Swayed by impassioned word and breathless pause;No more the triumph of thine art—no moreThe thunder of applause.
No more for thee the maddening, mystic bells,The haunting horror—and the falling snow;No more of Shylock's fury, and no moreThe Prince of Denmark's woe.
Not once again the fret of heart and soul,The loneliness and passion of King Lear;No more bewilderment and broken wordsOf wild despair and fear.
And never wilt thou conjure from the pastThe dread and bitter field of Waterloo;Thy trembling hands will never pluck againIts roses or its rue.
Thou art no longer player to the court;No longer red-robed cardinal or king;To-day thou art thyself—the Well-Beloved—Bereft of crown and ring.
Thy feet have found the path that Shakespeare found,Life's lonely exit of such far renown;For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,The curtain hath rung down.
October, 1905.
Jean de Breboeuf, a priest of the Jesuit Order, came to Canada as a missionary to the Indians about the year 1625. He belonged to an old and honourable French family that had given many sons to the army, and was a man of great physical strength, one who possessed an iron will, that was yet combined with sweetness and gentleness of temper.
He lived with the Indians for many years, and spoke the dialects of different tribes, though his mission was chiefly to the Hurons. By them he was much beloved.
At the time of the uprising of the Iroquois in 1649, there was a massacre of the Hurons at the little mission village of St. Louis upon the shores of Georgian Bay. There Jean de Breboeuf, refusing to leave his people, met death by torture at the hands of the conquering Iroquois. Lalement, his friend, a priest of the same order, was also martyred by these Indians upon the same day, March 16th, 1649.
As Jean de Breboeuf told his rosaryAt sundown in his cell, there came a call!—Clear as a bell rung on a ship at sea,Breaking the beauty of tranquillity—Down from the heart of Heaven it seemed to fall:
"Hail, Jean de Breboeuf! Lift thee to thy feet!Not, for thy sins, by prayer shalt thou atone;Thou wert not made for peace so deeply sweet,Thine be the midnight cold, the noonday heat,The journey through the wilderness, alone.
"Too well thou lovest France—her very airIs wine against thy lips—and all her weedsAre in thine eyes as flowers. She is fairIn all her moods to thee—and even there,See! thou dost dream of her above thy beads.
"Rouse thee from out thy dreams! Awake! Awake!Thou priest who cometh of a martial line!—Thou hast its strength, thy will no man can break:Go forth unarmed, the law of love to takeInto a lonely land, that yet is Mine."
Then straightway fell the monk upon his faceTrembling with awe throughout his mighty frame."I hear Thee, Lord!" he cried. "Give me Thy grace,That I may follow thee to any place,And speak to any people—in Thy name."
The vine-leaf shadows darkened in the cell—And barefoot friars passed the close-shut door;At vespers rang the monastery bell,Yet still he lay, unheeding, where he fell,Cross of black outstretched upon the floor.
* * * * *
Northward into the silence, night and day,Through the unknown, with faith that did not fail,Into the lands beneath the redman's sway,The priest called Jean de Breboeuf took his way,Led by the Polestar and the far-blazed trail.
He bore the sacred wine cups, and a bellOf beaten bronze, whose tongue should warn or bless;As had been done in France, so he as wellWould ring a marriage chime or funeral knellFor his lone flock, out in the wilderness.
And like a phantom ever at his sidePointing each hour to paths he scarce could see,By wood and waterway, went one still guide,Who drifted with the shades, when daylight died,Into the deep of night, and mystery.
But when they reached the place of many pines,God's country, that no white man yet had named—They beached their birch canoe 'neath swinging vines,For here, the Indian read by many signs,Lay the wild land the tribe of Huron claimed.
Then like down-dropping pearls the rounded years,One after one, slipped off the thread of Time,And Jean de Breboeuf laboured—oft with fearsSafe-hidden, oftener still with smiles and tears,Among the people of this northern clime.
The forest children had become a partOf his own life—always he spoke their tongue,He dwelt within their tents—with all his heartHe learned their ancient woodcraft, and each artTheir race had practised when the world was young.
He gave a simple truth and faithfulnessTo men of silence and of subtle ways;He shared with them long hunger and distress—When they had little, he himself had less,Through all the dark and lonely winter days.
High in the vast cathedral of the treesHe hung the bell of bronze; there in God's nameHe taught the law of Love; there on his kneesIn the sun-dappled gloom, midst birds and bees,He lifted up the cross, with words of name.
But evil days were come. The arrowheadWas dipped in poison, and de Breboeuf sawThe painted faces and the swift-slain dead,—The deep, unhealing wound—the rent of redMade by the weapon of the Iroquois.
Closed in the village with its palisade,Guarded by many a mighty Huron brave,The women and the little children stayed,Lest forest fire or sweeping midnight raidMake all their hunting ground a common grave.
It was at daybreak that they heard the cry:"The Iroquois!—The Iroquois! They come!Fly to the hidden forest places! Fly!—To linger in the village is to die—Steal through the river grasses—and be dumb!"
Swiftly the women and the children fled,But with the braves de Breboeuf stayed behind."Go!" cried the chief, "good father—we be dead!"Yet soft he answered as he shook his head:"I stay with thee—and with thy old and blind."
When the red sun came creeping up the skyGrey death had reaped the harvest hate had sown;The Jesuit heard no longer curse or sigh—His prayers were said for those about to die—He faced the living Iroquois alone.
They bound him fast beneath the forest green,And when was come the shadowy edge of night—Nay—ask not what the horned owl hath seen,Nor what the moon doth know—white and sereneThe soul of Jean de Breboeuf took its flight.
It was the Angel Azrael the Lord God sent belowAt midnight, into every house in Egypt, long ago—0 long, and long ago.
All day the wife of Pharaoh had paced the palace hallOr the long white pillared court that was open to the sky;A passion of wild restlessness ensnared her in its thrallWhile she fought a fear within her—a thing that would not die.
She had sent away her maidens—their weeping vexed her ears—Their pallid faces filled her with impatient pitying scorn;—But she kept one time-worn woman, who long had outgrown fears,The old brown nurse who held her son the day that he was born.
The mighty gods had failed her—the river-gods and the sun,And the little gods of brass and stone—who stared but made no sign,So she pled with them no longer, her prayers were said and done,And now she neither bowed her head, or knelt at any shrine.
Her hair was blown upon the wind like wreathes of golden flame,And the sea-blue of her eyes cast blue shadows on her face,For she was not of Egypt—but unto the king she cameA captive—yet a princess—from a northern sea-bound place.
She watched the fiery wheel roll down behind the level land,One small hand curled above her eyes, and one above her heart,But when the ruby afterglow crept up and stained the sandShe turned and gazed toward Goshen, where Israel dwelt apart.
* * * * *
Nine plagues had wasted Egypt with their tortures grim and slow;The earth was desolated, and scarred by hail and fire;Still even yet her Lord refused to let his bondsmen goTo worship in the wilderness, the God of their desire.
The yellow Nile had turned to blood before her watching eyes—It was branded into memory—a haunting death-strewn sight;—The very dust upon the street the rod had made to riseIn a living moving horror, of atoms, leprous-white.
The frogs had come as things bewitched; an army without fearThey had broken through the rushes their upward way to take;And each one followed steadily a voice no man could hear—While poisoned wind and pestilence came swiftly in their wake.
Then oh, the little flies that swarmed from out the earth and air!And the murrain of the camels, and cattle in the field!She prayed the king for love of her to hear the people's prayerAnd send the slaves far hither;—but for love he would not yield.
His face was like the carven face upon the basalt door;—Her beauty could not charm him, her voice had lost its power;So she wrapped a veil about her and entreated him no moreBut sat alone and watched, from out her window in the tower.
She saw the Hebrew leader with uncovered silvery hairCome with the priest at daybreak to the outer palace gate,And the rod of woe and wonder they carried with them there,—Yet Pharaoh bid them enter—for he dared not bid them wait.
But naught prevailed, for sore disease had scourged the low and high,And the hail of God had fallen and crushed the growing grain,And a fire no hand had kindled in searing wrath swept by—Such fire as none had seen before—as none would see again.
Then came the pirate locusts, with a sea-song free and bold;—The spent and broken people lacked the strength to force them back,But watched them take the last green blades that never would be gold—And shut their doors against the foe that turned the meadows black.
Then Pharaoh wavered—more—he called the Hebrews in his hasteImploring respite—pleading his repentance bitterly—For there was death on every side, and all the land was waste;—So the western wind of God blew the locusts out to sea.
Yet not enough. Once more the king denied his given word;He dared the wrath of Heaven, and he made his heart as steel;Then all the lights of God went out, and no man even stirred—But stayed companioned by his fear, in darkness he could feel.
So had each dreadful day gone by, each slow departing night,And the queen stood now at sunset alone with grief and shame,When one came running towards her through the failing crimson light,A little lad, with Egypt's eyes—but hair like golden flame.
"Thou has been long, Beloved!" she cried, and frowned all tenderly,"Indeed I have not seen thee since the burning noon took wing.""Mother of mine," he answered, "I have been where I should beThese burdened times of Egypt—beside my Lord the King.
"'Twill take the country many days to gain its old time peace,But thou shalt suffer nothing;—I, myself, will care for theeAnd see that naught doth harm thee—until all these troubles cease;—These sad and magic doings that no man can solve," said he.
"Ay! That thou wilt," she said. "But tell me, how doth fare the king?Doth he relent? Or is his face forbidding—dark and cold?—Or hath he sent thee hither but some word of me to bringAs he cannot leave the council, and now the day grows old?"
He shook his head. "I came because I longed to see thee so;—And Pharaoh reads the chart of stars while time goes creeping by,Or he sits in weary silence—or paceth to and fro.Since he banished the magicians, all fear him—all save I.
"Put on thy golden girdle with the mighty emerald claspAnd thy lotus broidered robe. Braid thy hair all cunningly,And wear the winged head-dress with the turquois jewelled asp—Then come and coax him from his gloom.—Thou only canst," said he.
"Wise counsellor!" she smiled; "Nay, but too wise for thy short years,I will unto the king;—and such great issues are at stakeThis time I dare not fail. I must go queenly—without tearsOr humble supplications—but as one no woe can break.
"Stay thou with thy old nurse, Beloved—she sitteth in the hall—And she will tell thee wondrous tales, to win from thee a smile,Then take thy supper by her side, and when deep night doth fall,Go to the tower, whence I'll come, but in a little while."
Arrayed in her most lovely robes she took her stately wayBy courtiers unattended, through the palace vast and still.Her beauty was a thing to hold all bitterness at bay,To move the hearts of men, and bend their spirits to her will!
She passed beneath the rose red lights that hung from roof and door,And by unseeing gods, where curled an incense, blue and sweet;As one who walks in sleep she crossed the cool mosaic floor,That echoed to the music of her little sandalled feet.
She reached the council chamber and there entered silently;—But though the bowing wise men had been reeds the wind could swayWould have noted them as little. She only seemed to seeOne face, inscrutable and dark, toward which she took her way.
The king sat still as Fate. "Most High," she said, "I come for truthOf this new threat of vengeance. There is horror in the air;—The Ethiopian runner hath brought word to me in soothBlood is sprinkled on the door-posts of the Hebrews everywhere!"
"There are rumours—so he sayeth—of an Angel who will slayThe first-born sons of Egypt—should these bondsmen not depart.Thy people weep in anguish—I myself must hear thee say—The Hebrew leader threatens no such danger to my heart—
"He is my heart—my inner heart;—0 straight he is and strong!To me he meaneth Egypt—Egypt meaneth but my son—So I would take him swiftly toward the land where I belongTo return to thee in safety when these troubles all are done."
"The streets are filled with mourners;—every day more tears are shed;The embalmers have grown weary—they will not work for gold—And everywhere the eye doth see processions of the dead,Till they seem but mocking phantoms, we watch unmoved and cold."
"Thou wilt not let the Hebrews go—I read it in thine eyes—There are no gods in Egypt—there is nothing but thy Will—That sets itself against some force that yet in Strength will riseBut to silence all thine answers and bid thy voice be still."
Then Pharaoh leaned down toward her: "0 most beautiful!" he said,"There is not a man who liveth dare say so to my face;And truly were there such a one 'twere better he were dead,For dead men suffer nothing.—Yet I pray thee of thy grace
"Have patience now to hear me. 'Tis as the Ethiope heard.They threatened all the first-born;—but the tower is brass and stone;There my son shall stay to-night, guarded well, I give thee word.—Where armies could not enter—can one angel pass alone?
"Thinkst thou that I am one to be affrighted by the dark?A weakling to be played upon—a coward or a fool?Nay!—I defy the Israelites!—Their weapons miss their mark,They have roused my utmost anger: it taketh long to cool.
"But thou!" he said; "but thou! Methinks had they but threatened theeI should perchance have known the very quality of fear;—Thou thing of perfect loveliness! Content mine eyes will beThough in the land of Egypt is no blossom for a year.
"But thou art queen, and thou art free;—free now to go or stay,I would not bind thee to my side—not by one golden hair.—Leave thou this land of peril e'er the breaking of the day,Or give thy life to my dark life—and bear what it doth bear."
Then blanched her face to whiteness of the lilies on her gown,And low she bowed as lilies bow in drift of wind and rain;"My Lord," she said, "I have no will except to lay it downAt thy desire. As I have done, so will I do again.
"Thou art my king; my son is thine. It is not mine to sayThat I will bear him hence.—Yet gropes my soul unto a light;The quarrel is 'twixt Heaven and thee alone—so I will stayWith him I love within the tower throughout this fateful night."
"And if the Angel cometh through the walls of stone and brass—And if he toucheth Egypt's son, to seal his gentle breath,Then will we know that God is God, He who hath right to passOur little doors, for He Himself is Lord of Life and Death."
O when the desert blossomed like a mystic silver rose,And the moon shone on the palace, deep guarded to the gate,And softly touched the lowly homes fast barred against their foes,And lit the faces hewn of stone, that seemed to watch and wait—
There came a cry—a rending cry—upon the quivering air,The sudden wild lamenting of a nation in its pain,For the first-born sons of Egypt, the young, the strong, the fair—Had fallen into dreamless sleep—and would not wake again.
And within the palace tower the little prince slept well,His head upon his mother's heart, that knew no more alarms;For at the midnight hour—0 most sweet and strange to tell—She too slept deeply as the child close folded in her arms.
Hard through the city rode the king, unarmed, unhelmeted,Toward the land he loaned his bondsmen, the country kept in peace;He swayed upon his saddle, and he looked as looked the dead—The people stared and wondered though their weeping did not cease.
On did he ride to Goshen, and he called "Arise! Arise!Thou leader of the Israelites, 'tis I who bid you go!Take thou these people hence, before the sun hath lit the skies;—Get thee beyond the border of this land of death and woe!"
Across the plains of Egypt through the shadows of the nightCame the sound as of an army moving onward steadily,And their leader read his way by the stars' eternal lightWhile all the legions followed on their journey to the sea.
The moon that shineth overhead once saw these mysteries—And then the world was young, that hath these many years been old;If Egypt drank her bitter cup down even to the leesWho careth now? 'Tis but an ancient tale that hath been told.
Yet still we hear the footsteps—as he goeth to and fro—Of Azrael, the Angel, that the Lord God sent below,To Egypt—long ago.
I love red poppies! Imperial red poppies!Sun-worshippers are they;Gladly as trees live through a hundred summersThey live one little day.
I love red poppies! Impassioned scarlet poppies!Ever their strange perfumeSeems like an essence brewed by fairy peopleFrom an immortal bloom.
I love red poppies! Red, silken, swaying poppies!Deep in their hearts they keepA magic cure for woe—a draught of Lethe—A lotus-gift of sleep.
I love red poppies! Soft silver-stemmed, red poppies,That from the rain and sunGather a balm to heal some earth-born sorrow,When their glad day is done.
Lord of all Life! When my hours are done,Take me and make me anew—And give me back to the earth and the sun,And the sky's unlimited blue.
The nightingale sings in an ecstasyTo the moonlit April night,But my songs are locked in the heart of me,Like birds that may not take flight.
The little purple-winged swallows that flyThrough waves of the upper air,Have a sweeter liberty, Lord, than I,Who may not follow them there.
Pavilions of sunshine—tents of the rain,For these, the wild and the free;And for us walled garden and window-pane,And bolt and staple and key.
We are worn with wisdom that never bringsPeace to the world and its woe—For a space with Thy joyous lesser things,Teach me the faith I would know.
Oh haste, my Sweet! Impatient now I wait,The crescent moon swings low, it groweth late,A night bird sings, of Life, and Love, and Fate!
Oh haste, my Sweet! Youth and its gladness goes,Joy hath one summer time, like to the rose,Love only lives through all the winter snows.
Then haste, my Sweet! These hours are all our own,And see! A rose leaf on the night breeze blown!For thee I wait—for thee I wait alone!