BIRCH AND PADDLE.

TO BLISS CARMAN.

Friend, those delights of ours Under the sun and showers,—

Athrough the noonday blue Sliding our light canoe,

Or floating, hushed, at eve, When the dim pine-tops grieve!

What tonic days were they Where shy streams dart and play,—

Where rivers brown and strong As caribou bound along,

Break into angry parle Where wildcat rapids snarl,

Subside, and like a snake Wind to the quiet lake!

We've paddled furtively, Where giant boughs hide the sky,—

Have stolen, and held our breath, Thro' coverts still as death,—

Have left with wing unstirred The brooding phoebe-bird,

And hardly caused a care In the water-spider's lair.

For love of his clear pipe We've flushed the zigzag snipe,—

Have chased in wilful mood The wood-duck's flapping brood,—

Have spied the antlered moose Cropping the young green spruce,

And watched him till betrayed By the kingfisher's sharp tirade.

Quitting the bodeful shades We've run thro' sunnier glades,

And dropping craft and heed Have bid our paddles speed.

Where the mad rapids chafe We've shouted, steering safe,—

With sinew tense, nerve keen, Shot thro' the roar, and seen,

With spirit wild as theirs, The white waves leap-like hares.

And then, with souls grown clear In that sweet atmosphere,

With influences serene Our blood and brain washed clean,

We've idled down the breast Of broadening tides at rest,

And marked the winds, the birds, The bees, the far-off herds,

Into a drowsy tune Transmute the afternoon.

So, Friend, with ears and eyes Which shy divinities

Have opened with their kiss, We need no balm but this,—

A little space for dreams On care-unsullied streams,—

'Mid task and toil, a space To dream on Nature's face!

AN ODE FOR THE CANADIAN CONFEDERACY.

Awake, my country, the hour is great with change! Under this gloom which yet obscures the land, From ice-blue strait and stern Laurentian range To where giant peaks our western bounds command, A deep voice stirs, vibrating in men's ears As if their own hearts throbbed that thunder forth, A sound wherein who hearkens wisely hears The voice of the desire of this strong North,— This North whose heart of fire Yet knows not its desire Clearly, but dreams, and murmurs in the dream. The hour of dreams is done. Lo, on the hills the gleam!

Awake, my country, the hour of dreams is done! Doubt not, nor dread the greatness of thy fate. Tho' faint souls fear the keen confronting sun, And fain would bid the morn of splendor wait; Tho' dreamers, rapt in starry visions, cry "Lo, yon thy future, yon thy faith, thy fame!" And stretch vain hands to stars, thy fame is nigh, Here in Canadian hearth, and home, and name;— This name which yet shall grow Till all the nations know Us for a patriot people, heart and hand Loyal to our native earth, our own Canadian land!

O strong hearts, guarding the birthright of our glory, Worth your best blood this heritage that ye guard! These mighty streams resplendent with our story, These iron coasts by rage of seas unjarred,— What fields of peace these bulwarks well secure! What vales of plenty those calm floods supply! Shall not our love this rough, sweet land make sure, Her bounds preserve inviolate, though we die? O strong hearts of the North, Let flame your loyalty forth, And put the craven and base to an open shame, Till earth shall know the Child of Nations by her name!

THE QUELLING OF THE MOOSE.

A MELICETE LEGEND.

When tent was pitched, and supper done, And forgotten were paddle, and rod, and gun, And the low, bright planets, one by one,

Lit in the pine-tops their lamps of gold To us by the fire, in our blankets rolled, This was the story Sacòbi told—

"In those days came the moose from the east, A monster out of the white north-east, And as leaves before him were man and beast.

"The dark rock-hills of Saguenay Are strong,—they were but straw in his way. He leapt the St. Lawrence as in play.

"His breath was a storm and a flame; his feet In the mountains thundered, fierce and fleet, Till men's hearts were as milk, and ceased to beat.

"But in those days dwelt Clote Scarp with men. It is long to wait till he comes again,— But a Friend was near and could hear us, then!

"In his wigwam, built by the Oolastook, Where the ash-trees over the water look, A voice of trouble the stillness shook.

"He rose, and took his bow from the wall, And listened; he heard his people's call Pierce up from the villages one and all.

"From village to village he passed with cheer; And the people followed; but when drew near The stride of the moose, they fled in fear.

"Like smoke in a wind they fled at the last But he in a pass of the hills stood fast, And down at his feet his bow he cast.

"That terrible forehead, maned with flame, He smote with his open hand,—and tame As a dog the raging beast became.

"He smote with his open hand; and lo! As shrinks in the rains of spring the snow, So shrank the monster beneath that blow,

"Till scarce the bulk of a bull he stood. And Clote Scarp led him down to the wood, And gave him the tender shoots for food."

He ceased; and a voice said, "Understand How huge a peril will shrink like sand, When stayed by a prompt and steady hand!"

A SONG OF REGRET.

In the southward sky The late swallows fly, The low red willows In the river quiver; From the beeches nigh Russet leaves sail by, The tawny billows In the chill wind shiver; The beech-burrs burst, And the nuts down-patter; The red squirrels chatter O'er the wealth disperst.

Yon carmine glare Would the west outdare;— 'Tis the Fall attire Of the maples flaming. In the keen late air Is an impulse rare, A sting like fire, A desire past naming. But the crisp mists rise And my heart falls a-sighing,— Sighing, sighing That the sweet time dies!

THE DEPARTING OF CLOTE SCARP.

It is so long ago; and men well nigh Forget what gladness was, and how the earth Gave corn in plenty, and the rivers fish, And the woods meat, before he went away. His going was on this wise.

All the works And words and ways of men and beasts became Evil, and all their thoughts continually Were but of evil. Then he made a feast. Upon the shore that is beside the sea That takes the setting sun, he ordered it, And called the beasts thereto. Only the men He called not, seeing them evil utterly. He fed the panther's crafty brood, and filled The lean wolf's hunger; from the hollow tree His honey stayed the bear's terrific jaws; And the brown rabbit couched at peace, within The circling shadow of the eagle's wings. And when the feast was done he told them all That now, because their ways were evil grown, On that same day he must depart from them, And they should look upon his face no more. Then all the beasts were very sorrowful.

It was near sunset, and the wind was still, And down the yellow shore a thin wave washed Slowly; and Clote Scarp launched his birch canoe, And spread his yellow sail, and moved from shore, Though no wind followed, streaming in the sail, Or roughening the clear waters after him. And all the beasts stood by the shore, and watched. Then to the west appeared a long red trail Over the wave; and Clote Scarp sailed and sang Till the canoe grew little like a bird, And black, and vanished in the shining trail. And when the beasts could see his form no more, They still could hear him, singing as he sailed, And still they listened, hanging down their heads In long row, where the thin wave washed and fled. But when the sound of singing died, and when They lifted up their voices in their grief, Lo! on the mouth of every beast a strange New tongue! Then rose they all and fled apart, Nor met again in council from that day.

A BREAK.

Oh, the scent of the hyacinth blossom! The joy of that night, But the grievous awaking! The speed of my flight Thro' the dawn redly breaking! Gray lay the still sea; Naked hillside and lea; And gray with night frost The wide garden I crossed! But the hyacinth beds were a-bloom. I stooped and plucked one— In an instant 'twas done,— And I heard, not far off, a gun boom! In my bosom I thrust the crushed blossom; And turned, and looked back Where She stood at her pane Waving sadly farewell once again; Then down the dim track Fled amain, With the flower in my bosom. Oh, the scent of the hyacinth blossom!

TO A LADY,

AFTER HEARING HER READ KEATS' "NIGHTINGALE."

This supreme song of him who dreamed All beauty, and whose heart foreknew The anguish of vain longing, seemed To breathe new mystery, breathed by you.

As if the rapture of the night, Moon-tranced, and passion-still, were stirred To some undreamed divine delight By sudden singing of a bird!

RONDEAU.

TO LOUIS HONORE FRÉCHETTE.

Laurels for song! And nobler bays, In old Olympian golden days Of clamor thro' the clear-eyed morn, No bowed triumphant head hath borne, Victorious in all Hellas' gaze!

They watched his glowing axles graze The goal, and rent the heavens with praise;— Yet the supremer heads have worn Laurels for song.

So thee, from no palaestra-plays A conqueror, to the gods we raise, Whose brows of all our singers born The sacred fillets chief adorn,— Who first of all our choir displays Laurels for song.

A BIRTHDAY BALLADE.

All deserted to wind and to sun You have left the dear, dusky canoe. The amber cool currents still run, But our paddle forgets to pursue. Our river wears still the rare blue, But its sparkle seems somehow less gay; It confides me this greeting for you— Many Happy Returns of the Day!

Where's the mirth that with morn was begun, Nor dreaded the dark and the dew? Some sweet thieves have made off with our fun! Would our paddles were free to pursue! Ah, could we but catch them anew, Clip their wings, forbid them to stray, Then more blithely we'd sing than we do— Many Happy Returns of the Day!

Dear remembrances die, one by one, So cunning Time's craft to undo! But ours must be never undone. Oft again must the paddle pursue, Oft the treasured impression renew! Then, return our Acadian way, For our days of delight were too few— Many Happy Returns of the Day!

L'ENVOI. Now an easy enigma or two This ballade is devised to convey. Unto you, and us lonely ones too, Many Happy Returns of the Day!

TO S—— M——.

The disciple of Master Herrick returneth thanks for the gift of a band of pansies for his hat.

I.

Never poet From Musaeus down, Crowned with rose, or myrtle-wreath, or laurel, Had of daintier hand Dearer trophy! Therefore (know it, Castaly! and, Daphne's lover, quarrel!) I for crown Flout the bay and wear thy pansy-band, Mistress Sophie.

II.

As these petals Die not, So the thought that settles Softly in the purple petals Fly not! Half a memory, which a world of men Can buy not,— Half a prayer, that till we meet again Thou sigh not!

LA BELLE TROMBONISTE.

How grave she sits and toots In the glare! From her dainty bits of boots To her hair Not the sign remotest shows If she either cares or knows How the beer-imbibing beaux Sit and stare.

They're most prodigal with sighs, Or they laugh; Or they cast adoring eyes As they quaff. They exert their every wile Her attention to beguile. Do they ever win a smile? Not by half!

She leans upon her chin (Not a toot!), While the leading violin And the flute Wail and plead in low duet Till, it may be, eyes are wet. She her trombone doth forget— She is mute.

The music louder grows; She's awake! She applies her lips and blows— Goodness sake!…… To think that such a peal From such throat and frame ideal, From such tender lips could steal— Takes the cake!

The dinning cymbals shrill Kiss and clash. Drum and kettle-drum at will Roll and crash. But that trombone over all Toots unto my heart a call;— Maid petite, and trombone tall— It's a mash!

Yet, I hesitate—for lo, What a pout! She's poetic; and I know I am stout. In her little room would she On her trombone, tenderly, Sit and toot as thus to me?— Ah, I doubt!

THE POET IS BIDDEN TO MANHATTAN ISLAND.

Dear Poet, quit your shady lanes And come where more than lanes are shady. Leave Phyllis to the rustic swains And sing some Knickerbocker lady. O hither haste, and here devise Divine ballades before unuttered. Your poet's eyes must recognize The side on which your bread is buttered!

Dream not I tempt you to forswear One pastoral joy, or rural frolic. I call you to a city where The most urbane are most bucolic. 'Twill charm your poet's eyes to find Good husbandmen in brokers burly;— Their stock is ever on their mind; To water it they rise up early.

Things you have sung, but ah, not seen— Things proper to the age of Saturn— Shall greet you here; for we have been Wrought quaintly, on the Arcadian pattern. Your poet's lips will break in song For joy, to see at last appearing The bulls and bears, a peaceful throng, While a lamb leads them—to the shearing!

And metamorphoses, of course, You'll mark in plenty, à la Proteus: A bear become a little horse— Presumably from too much throat-use! A thousandfold must go untold; But, should you miss your farm-yard sunny, And miss your ducks and drakes, behold We'll make you ducks and drakes—of money!

Greengrocers here are fairly read. And should you set your heart upon them, We lack not beets—but some are dead, While others have policemen on them. And be the dewfall dear to you, Possess your poet's soul in patience! Your notes shall soon be falling dew,— Most mystical of transformations!

Your heart, dear Poet, surely yields; And soon you'll leave your uplands flowery, Forsaking fresh and bowery fields, For "pastures new"—upon the Bowery! You've piped at home, where none could pay, Till now, I trust, your wits are riper. Make no delay, but come this way, And pipe for them that pay the piper!

THE BLUE VIOLET.

Blossom that spread'st, as spring brings in Her sudden flights of swallows, Thy nets of blue, cool-meshed and thin, In rain-wet pasture hollows,—

Thronging the dim grass everywhere Amid thy heart-leaves tender, Thy temperate fairness seems more fair Even than August's splendor!

Yet do I hear complaints of thee,— Men doubting of thy fragrance! But, Dear, thou hast revealed to me That shyest of perfume-vagrants.

Do ever so, my Flower discreet, And all the world be fair to, While men but guess that rarest sweet Which one alone can swear to!