A TREASURY OF CANADIAN VERSE

WITH BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

SELECTED AND EDITED BY

THEODORE H. RAND

D.C.L.

AUTHOR OF 'AT MINES BASIN AND OTHER POEMS'

NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO. 1900

All rights reserved

THIS ANTHOLOGY OF ENGLISH-CANADIAN VERSE IS INSCRIBED WITH AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION TO

LOUIS FRÉCHETTE

LL.D., F.R.S. CAN. C.M.G. the Lamartine of Canada

[ix]

PREFACE

TO one opening this book for the first time, it may be permissible to say that the verse included in the volume does not treat solely nor chiefly of Canadian themes. While Canadian environment and life necessarily supply the note of inspiration and impart its timbre and accent, the thought and emotion are of wide range, and seek response in the universal heart.

The practical energies of the Canadian people are abundantly attested by extensive systems of railways and canals, a wide commerce, systems of free public education in the several provinces and territories, liberal facilities for the higher education of men and women, and an enterprising and influential press. Thirty-two years have passed since the organization of the Dominion of Canada. These years have witnessed great progress in civil and social institutions, and no unworthy beginning of an adequate development of the illimitable material resources of Canada's vast domain. It is noteworthy, as marking the quality of life of the people, that from the earliest settlement of the several provinces there have not been wanting public evidences of the presence of the scientific and literary spirit. The latter has expressed itself both in prose and verse, and in these recent years there is an increased activity in literary production commensurate with the expanding life of Canada.

It has been my purpose to present worthy specimens of English-Canadian verse, selected from the entire field of our history. Such a collection should be of[x] interest, not only to Canadians, but to all English-speaking peoples. Here are reflected the singular loveliness of our evanescent spring, the glow and luxuriant life of our hasting summer, the sensuous glory of our autumn, and the tingle of our frosty air and the white winter's cheer. Every form and aspect of natural beauty is, in some degree, caught and expressed—sometimes in homely, sometimes in classical phrase; often with striking simplicity, and generally with much purity of thought and an authentic note. A sane and wholesome spirit is characteristic of the verse, and its spiritual quality seems to me to be of a high order. The sympathetic reader will notice a marked pictorial use of nature in some of the specimens given, as well as a sensuous delight in nature itself, depicted, as it is, with true feeling and not infrequently with an almost flawless art. He will notice also that

nature is often humanized, and tenderness, love and pity, and the subtle problems of man's life and existence, are enshrined in original and poetic similitudes to the melody of haunting music. Nor are there altogether wanting instances of that insight and vision which beholds the phenomenal and cosmic with rapt wonder as awesome beauty-gleams, radiant symbols, or sublime manifestations of the immanent and loving One in whom all things consist. Great personalities, high achievement, and noble character, also, have inspired Canadian song. From the earliest to the latest singer, a glowing devotion to native land and a loyal and loving reverence for our gracious Sovereign are characteristic notes. If it should appear that the abundant verse inspired by these latter motives is insufficiently represented in this anthology, it may suffice to say that such verse is already widely known and is not by any means the highest product of the Canadian muse. Room has been made for the less hackneyed and richer inspirations of our poets—the virgin freshness and promise of our

country; the life and deeds of men everywhere; the[xi] yearnings of the individual soul; and the aspirations of a people after the noblest and the divinest. These, with domestic loves, have kindled our singers to beautiful expression that demands a wider appreciation, as supplying sustenance and stimulus essential to fulness of national and imperial life. It will be observed that not only in recent verse, but also in that of nearly fifty years ago, Canadian poets have given expression to Anglo-centric conceptions and aspirations, divining with poetic insight the coming good.

While the selections have been carefully made, it will be apparent that some verse has been included whose chief claim to recognition is found in local and popular associations. It should also be said that much popular verse has been excluded, in order that the volume be kept of usable form and size. It did not fall within the plan of this anthology to include sacred and devotional lyrics, otherwise not a few hymns must have found a place, notably Joseph Scriven's "What a Friend we have in Jesus," known as widely as the language is spoken.

The printing together of the selections from any author has been advisedly adopted, as affording a greater variety and interest than could be secured by an abstract or logical classification of the verse of the entire volume. The convenience of an alphabetical order of authors is apparent, while the dates supplied in the Notes afford ample chronology. Here and there the reader may find unfilled dates of birth or death, or unexpanded initials of names, but all reasonable effort has been made to furnish complete and trustworthy information.

I wish to express my gratitude to Mr. Charles C. James, M.A., Deputy Minister of Agriculture for Ontario, who has given me free access to his valuable and extensive collection of the works of Canadian poets; to Mr. James Bain, Jr., of the Toronto Public Library, for special facilities for inspecting the[xii] excellent collection in his charge; and to Mr. E. S. Caswell, of the publishing house of William Briggs, for many courtesies, and specially for aid in procuring well-nigh inaccessible materials for examination. To the many persons who have so cordially responded to letters of inquiry, and whom I may not thank by name, I express my acknowledgments. The following special works have been of service: Selections from Canadian Poets(1864), by Edward Hartley Dewart; The Canadian Birthday Book(1887), by Seranus; Songs of the Great Dominion(1889), by William Douw Lighthall, M.A., and Morgan's Canadian Men and Women of the Time.

Special thanks are rendered to the authors who have permitted the use of their poems, and to the various publishers for copyright permission. I regret that I was unable to secure permission to include any poems by Mr. William Wilfred Campbell. Perhaps the selections from my own verse should not appear in the volume. Their inclusion, it is proper to say, is in deference to the wishes of persons of acknowledged taste, rather than to any desire of my own.

A Canadian by birth, education, and life-service, as were my father and his father, my mother and her mother, I may be pardoned the expression of a feeling of national pride that the materials are so abundant from which to prepare a representative volume, much of whose contents will not suffer by comparison with the verse of older countries. I trust that this anthology may serve as an open door through which the voices of Canadian singers may vibrate yet more widely on sympathetic ears both at home and abroad.

T. H. R.

Toronto, Canada,

February. 1900.

[xiii]

AUTHORS AND SELECTIONS

[1]

A TREASURY

OF CANADIAN VERSE

THE WHITETHROAT

SHY bird of the silver arrows of song,

That cleave our Northern air so clear,

Thy notes prolong, prolong,

I listen, I hear—

"I—love—dear—Canada,

Canada, Canada."

O plumes of the pointed dusky fir,

Screen of a swelling patriot heart,

The copse is all astir

And echoes thy part!...

Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes

As the noise of the day dies down;

And silence strings her lutes,

The Whitethroat to crown....

O bird of the silver arrows of song,

Shy poet of Canada dear,

Thy notes prolong, prolong,

We listen, we hear—

"I—love—dear—Canada,

Canada, Canada."

[2]

MARGARET H. ALDEN

MOTHER'S WORLD

EYES of blue and hair of gold,

Cheeks all brown with summer tan,

Lips that much of laughter hold,

That is mother's little Man.

Shining curls like chestnut brown,

Long-lashed eyes, demure and staid,

Sweetest face in all the town,

That is mother's little Maid.

Dainty room with snow-white beds,

Where, like flowers with petals curled,

Rest in peace two dreaming heads,

That—is mother's little World!

JOSEPH ANTISELL ALLEN

From "DAY-DREAMS"

AH, what if the mind,

By sense-law confined,

In time, 'neath this stratum of stars,

Secretes by her spell

This fair, wondrous shell

Self-substanced, till bursting the bars

Of chrysalis time,

Free, joyous, sublime,

She mounts the blue space, winged with light,

Where, deep in the soul,

Is mirrored the whole,

As in a calm lake the pure night!

And what, if the whole

Are things of the soul,

This frame, Earth, bright Moon, garnished Skies,

If from the great Sun

Of spirit are spun

All systems which gravity ties

To their focal source,

By a hidden force

Mysterious, dynamic, unknown—

A power that controls

Each orb as it rolls,

And links to the great central throne!...

When the dew-drops shine,

On each sunlit line,

Of gossamer network, on sod

Of emerald green,

In the morning's sheen,

'Tis a miniature sky-work of God....

Arachne how oft,

In the twilight soft,

Seems poised in mid-air; yet some tie

Holds spider, moon, mote,

All known, near, remote,

From mind to yon azure-domed sky!

GRANT ALLEN

ONLY AN INSECT

I

ON the crimson cloth

Of my study desk

A lustrous moth

Poised statuesque.

Of a waxen mould

Were its light limbs shaped,

And in scales of gold

Its body was draped:

While its luminous wings

Were netted and veined

With silvery strings,

Or golden grained,

Through whose filmy maze

In tremulous flight

Danced quivering rays

Of the gladsome light.

II

On the desk hard by

A taper burned,

Towards which the eye

Of the insect turned.

In its vague little mind

A faint desire

Rose, undefined,

For the beautiful fire.

Lightly it spread

Each silken van;

Then away it sped

For a moment's span.

And a strange delight

Lured on its course

With resistless might

Towards the central source:

And it followed the spell

Through an eddying maze,

Till it fluttered and fell

In the deadly blaze.

III

Dazzled and stunned

By the scalding pain,

[5]

One moment it swooned,

Then rose again;

And again the fire

Drew it on with its charms

To a living pyre

In its awful arms;

And now it lies

On the table here

Before my eyes

Shrivelled and sere.

IV

As I sit and muse

On its fiery fate,

What themes abstruse

Might I meditate!

For the pangs that thrilled

Through that martyred frame

As its veins were filled

With the scorching flame,

A riddle enclose

That, living or dead,

In rhyme or in prose,

No seer has read.

"But a moth," you cry,

"Is a thing so small!"

Ah, yes; but why

Should it suffer at all?

Why should a sob

For the vaguest smart

One moment throb

Through the tiniest heart?

Why in the whole

Wide universe

Should a single soul

Feel that primal curse?

Not all the throes

Of mightiest mind,

Nor the heaviest woes

Of human kind,

Are of deeper weight

In the riddle of things

Than that insect's fate

With the mangled wings.

V

But if only I

In my simple song

Could tell you the Why

Of that one little wrong,

I could tell you more

Than the deepest page

Of saintliest lore

Or of wisest sage.

For never as yet

In its wordy strife

Could Philosophy get

At the import of life;

And Theology's saws

Have still to explain

The inscrutable cause

For the being of pain.

So I somehow fear

That in spite of both,

We are baffled here

By this one singed moth.

WILLIAM TALBOT ALLISON

"THERE SAT THE WOMEN WEEPING FOR THAMMUZ"

THE days begin to wane, and evening lifts

Her eyes the sooner towards the vales of sleep;

The yellow leaf upon the night-breeze drifts

And winter-voices thunder from the deep;

Thammuz grows pale in death, the Queen of Shades

Mocks sad-eyed Ishtar and her mourning maids.

Prostrate along the Babylonish halls,

On alabaster floors the women moan,

All unadmired the lilac-tinted walls

Bespangled wantonly, and sculptured stone;

For Thammuz dies; bereft, the Queen of Love;

Melt into tears, O Earth, O Heaven above!

Let all the Land between the Rivers sigh,

And such as ever danced with throbbing veins

To Ishtar's music, fill the sodden sky,

With lamentation and most doleful strains.

Thammuz is dead; no more the shepherd leads

His golden flock adown Im's jewelled meads.

Proud Larsam of Chaldean cities blest,

Famed for the glories of her sun-god's home,

Erech, where countless Kings are laid to rest,

And Eridhu, wet with the salt sea-foam;—

Princes and priests and lustrous maidens there

Sing plaintive hymns to Thammuz, young and fair.

And out upon Shumir-Accadian plains,

Beneath the orient night, the shepherd boy

Blows from his oaten pipe the sweet refrains

That tell of Ishtar's one-time joy;

Ana, lord of the starry realms of space,

Roams near to earth seeking the warm god's face.

Yet full-zoned Ishtar will not weep for aye,

Nor will the land forever saddened be;

For Thammuz is not dead, some spring-time day

He will appear in greater majesty:

Chaldean lovers will take heart again,

The Queen of Love will kiss the sons of men.

[8]

THE MEN OF THE NORTH

FROM out the cold house of the north

Thor's stalwart children hurtled forth,

Forsook their sullen seas;

Southward the Gothic waggons rolled,

While bards foretold a realm of gold,

And fame, and boundless ease.

Loud rang the shields with sounding blows,

The furious din of war arose

Adown the dreary land;

But Woden held them in his ken,

And safely passed the Teuton men

By every hostile band.

At length, one day, the host was thrilled

At that glad cry the foremost shrilled,—

"The sea! A southern sea!"

As breathless stood the northmen there,

The wind swept through their yellow hair,

And sang of empery.

Rome's doom was written in their eyes,

Fell tumult under sunny skies,

Death on the Golden Horn:

Now, by the rood, what southron slaves,

Or land that any south sea laves,

Can face the northern born?

VANISHINGS

THE dark has passed, and the chill Autumn morn

Unrolls her faded glories in the fields;

Dead are the gilded air-hosts newly-born,

The hardiest flowers droop their sodden shields,

[9]For lovely Summer hath cut short her stay—

The fickle goddess, loaded with delight,

Grown wantonly unconstant, fled away

Under a hoar-frost mantle yesternight.

In one brief hour, the warm and flashing skies

Pale in the marble dawn; we cannot choose,

But marvel that hearts turn to stone, and eyes

Brimful of passion all their lustre lose.

Drear is the morning; love is gone for aye,

Love done to death in one bright peerless day.

SOPHIE M. ALMON-HENSLEY

CONTENT

I HAVE been wandering where the daisies grow,

Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw

Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw

Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow

From timothy and yellow buttercup,

So by their fearless beauty lifted up.

Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will,

Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep

Or, as ofttimes, in mood caressing, creep

Over the meadows and adown the hill.

So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow,

Blows over proud young hearts and bids them bow.

So beautiful is it to live, so sweet

To hear the ripple of the bobolink,

To smell the clover blossom white and pink,

To feel oneself far from the dusty street,

From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret

Of living, and the fever of regret.

I have grown younger; I can scarce believe

It is the same sad woman full of dreams

Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems

I am a child again, and can deceive

My soul with daisies, plucking, one by one,

The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.

Almost with old-time eagerness I try

My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup,"

Then, lower, "passionément, pas du tout";

Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly

I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch

The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."

I can remember how, in childish days,

I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall

Must love me "passionately" or "not at all."

Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays

It knows not what, and heedlessly demands

The best that life can give with outstretched hands!

Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize

Peace above passion, and the summer life

Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife

Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise

Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold

Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.

SONG

JOY came in Youth as a humming bird,

(Sing hey! for the honey and bloom of life!)

And it made a home in my summer bower

With the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower.

(Sing hey! for the blossoms and sweets of life!)

Joy came as a lark when the years had gone,

(Ah! hush, hush still, for the dream is short!)

And I gazed far up to the melting blue

Where the rare song dropped like a golden dew.

(Ah! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short!)

THERE IS NO GOD

THERE is no God! If one should stand at noon

Where the glow rests, and the warm sunlight plays,

Where earth is gladdened by the cordial rays

And blossoms answering, where the calm lagoon

Gives back the brightness of the heart of June,

And he should say: "There is no sun"—the day's

Fair show still round him,—should we lose the blaze

And warmth, and weep that day has gone so soon?

Nay, there would be one word, one only thought,

"The man is blind!" and throbs of pitying scorn

Would rouse the heart, and stir the wondering mind.

We feel, and see, and therefore know,—the morn

With blush of youth ne'er left us till it brought

Promise of full-grown day. "The man is blind!"

DUNCAN ANDERSON

THE DEATH OF WOLFE.

I

BEHIND Jacques Cartier's hills the sun sinks low

Low burn the beacon fires along the shore;

The drowsy watch dreams of his Norman home,

And dusky warriors sleep, and deem their toils are o'er.

Beneath the raven wing of sable night,

A little band, with martial fire aglow,

Sweeps down, while he who nobly leads them on

Chides every tardy hour that parts him from the foe.

Not glory's star allures that dauntless breast,

Nor lust of conquest fires that eagle eye;

For hearth and home, for King and Crown, his brand

Unsheathes at duty's call, and Wolfe will win or die.

And while no ghostly form unveils the fate

That, ere to-morrow's eve, awaits the brave,—

Love's gifts all laid aside,—he grasps his sword,

And sighs, "The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

Adown the stream, past watch and ward they glide;

And as the keel grates on the rocky shore,

Silent and stern, and lithe as roe, each Gael

Upsprings o'er crag and fell, to meet the battle's roar.

II

And had New France no arm to rule the fight,

Or guard her oriflamme with dauntless breast?

Had the great Marquis wearied of the strife,

His war-worn blade to sheathe, and claim a soldier's rest?

Deserted by a ribald court and King,—

Ruled by a shameless minion's reckless hand,—

A thousand vampires battening on her blood,—

And knaves, or boastful fools deemed noblest of the land;—

Cape Breton's capital laid with the ground,—

Acadia lost,—of Western Empire shorn,—

No friendly fleet to shield her smouldering homes,

And Stadacona's walls crumbling in sun and storm.

Such was New France;—but in her bosom glowed

That patriot fire that burned while life was there;

Not Vandreuil's iron rule could cool her love,

Nor Bigot's vile Friponne hound her to mad despair.

To arms! Grandsire and striplings seek the field;

The Censitaires obey their Seigneurs' call;

Both high and low together ply the spade,

And dainty hands weave gabions for the battered wall.

And on that morn, when like their mountain mist

The Highland plumes waved o'er the beetling height,

One sentinel stood faithful at his post,—

One watchful eye gazed wondering at the sight.

But ere the warning shot could tell the tale,

The Scottish steel found sheath within his breast;

Long may his mother wait to greet her boy;—

He sleeps with kindred brave on Abraham's lofty crest.

One cheer above! one answering shout below!

Swift ply the boats across the ebbing tide;

Victors of Louisbourg press proudly on,

And cheerily the gun toils up the mountain side.

The pass is won, and as grey morning breaks,