The Cornflower, and Other Poems

ST. PATRICK'S DAY

There's an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,Here's to the Saint that blessed it!And here's to the billows wild and freeThat for centuries have caressed it!Here's to the day when the men that roamSend longing eyes o'er the water!Here's to the land that still spells homeTo each loyal son and daughter!Here's to old Ireland – fair, I ween,With the blue skies stretched above her!Here's to her shamrock warm and green,And here's to the hearts that love her!

LESLEY

From the little bald head to the two little feet,You are winsome, and bonnie, and tender, and sweet,But not for this do I love you.You're wilful, cajoling, not fond of restraint,A creature of moods – no tiresome saint —You're wise and you're wistful, and oh, you are quaint,But not for this do I love you.You're a rose of a maiden, the pink and the whiteOf your face is to me a rare thing of delight,But not for this do I love you.That "agoo" on your lips is the tenderest thing,And the eyes smiling at me, ye bonnie wee thing,Are violets washed with the dewdrops of spring,But not for this do I love you.Come, nestle down close on my bosom, you dear,The secret I'll whisper right into your ear,Because you are you do I love you,Because you are you, just you, oh, my own,Because you are Lesley, this reason aloneWill do for us, darling, until you are grown,Because you are you do I love you.

THE TRYST

The harvest moon in yellow hazeIs steeping all the sea and land,Is kindling paths and shining waysAround the hills, across the sand.And there are only thou and I —O sweetheart, I've no eyes to noteThe glory of the sea and sky,I see a softly rounded throat,A face uplifted, pure and sweet,Two blue eyes filled with trust and love;Enough, the sea sings at our feet,The harvest moon sails just above.

A GOOD WOMAN

Her eyes are the windows of a soulWhere only the white thoughts spring,And they look, as the eyes of the angels look,For the good in everything.Her lips can whisper the tenderest wordsThat weary and worn can hear,Can tell of the dawn of a better mornTill only the cowards fear.Her hands can lift up the fallen oneFrom an overthrow complete,Can take a soul from the mire of sinAnd lead it to Christ's dear feet.And she can walk wherever she will —She walketh never alone.The work she does is the Master's work,And God guards well His own.

DESPAIR

We catch a glimpse of it, gaunt and gray,When the golden sunbeams are all abroad;We sober a moment, then softly say:The world still lies in the hand of God.We watch it stealthily creeping o'erThe threshold leading to somebody's soul;A shadow, we cry, it cannot be moreWhen faith is one's portion and Heaven one's goal.A ghost that comes stealing its way along,Affrighting the weak with its gruesome air,But who that is young and glad and strongFears for a moment to meet Despair?To this heart of ours we have thought so boldAll uninvited it comes one day —Lo! faith grows wan, and love grows cold,And the heaven of our dreams lies far away.

OUR DEAD IN SOUTH AFRICA

Day of battle and day of bloodFound you steady and strong, I ween;Sons of the land of the Maple Leaf,Face to the foe, you died for the Queen.Brave boys, our boys, filling to-dayNameless graves upon veldt and plain,Here's to your mem'ry gallant and true,Sons of our soil, who thought it gainTo fight and win, or to fight and fall!Strong of purpose, you took your stand,Proved with your life-blood red and warmCanada's faith in the Motherland!Brave boys, our boys, this have you done,Drawn us closer, and bound us fast;One are we with the Isle in the sea,One in the future, the present, the past.Brave boys, our boys, honor we owe,Honor and homage a mighty debt —You proved our love and our loyalty —The land that bore you will not forget!Canada's soldiers, Canada's sons,The land that bore you will not forget!

THE BARLEY FIELDS

The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge,Saffron pale, where a star of whiteHas tangled itself in the trailing fringeOf the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.O the green of the barley fields grows deep,The breath of the barley fields grows rare;There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep —The wind is holding high revel there,Singing the song it has often sung —Hark to the troubadour glad and bold:"Sweet is the earth when the summer is youngAnd the barley fields are green and gold!"

THE IMPRISONED LARK

Did you send your song to the gates of goldIn the days of long ago?A song of sweetness and gladness untold,Till fain was my lady to have and to hold —Ah! my lady did not know.'Tis love and joy make the soul of a song,If we only understood.Can each strain be tender, and true, and strong,When the days stretch out so weary and long,Dear little bird of the wood?The sun came so boldly into your cell —'Tis the springtime, pretty bird —And full sweet the story he had to tellOf doings in meadow and wood and dell,Till your longing grew and stirred.This cage of my lady's has silver bars,And my lady's voice is mild,But oh, to sail 'twixt the earth and stars,Forget the hurt of the prison barsIn the gladness of freedom wild!To soar and circle o'er shadowy gladeWhere dewdrops hide from the sun!O fields where the blossoming clover swayed!O voices familiar that music madeTill the full, glad day was done!Ah, then you sang, little bird of the wood,And you stilled the laughing throng.To make passionate longing understoodYou took the height and depth of your moodAnd flung them into a song!These guests of my lady's did listen, I know,When out through the silver barsYou sent forth a measure, liquid and lowAs laughter of waters that ebb and flowUnder the shimmering stars.You sang of the sweetest, gladdest, and bestYour longing heart held in store,Till into the careless listener's breastThere flashed a sudden and vague unrest,That grew into something more.Eyes saw for a few brief moments' spaceThe heights that were never trod,And, seeing, grew dim for the swift, bold raceThat was planned in the hours when youth and graceCame fresh from the hand of God.Only a homesick bird of the fieldTrilling a glorious note!Only a homesick bird of the woodWith heaven in your full throat!

WOMAN

Not faultless, for she was not fashioned so,A mingling of the bitter and the sweet;Lips that can laugh and sigh and whisper lowOf hope and trust and happiness complete,Or speak harsh truths; eyes that can flash with fire,Or make themselves but wells of tendernessWherein is drowned all bitterness and ire —Warm eyes whose lightest glance is a caress.Heaven sent her here to brighten this old earth,And only heaven fully knows her worth.

THE MULLEIN MEADOW

Down in the mullein meadowThe lusty thistle springs,The butterflies go criss-cross,The lonesome catbird sings,The alderbush is flauntingHer blossoms white as snow —The same old mullein meadowWe played in long ago.The waste land of the homestead,The arid sandy spot,Where reaper's song is never heard,Where wealth is never sought,But where the sunshine lingers,And merry breezes comeTo gather pungent perfumesFrom the mullein-stalks abloom.There's a playground on the hillside,A playhouse in the glade,With mulleins for a garden,And mulleins for a shade.And still the farmer grumblesThat nothing good will growIn this old mullein meadowWe played in long ago!

LIVING FRESHNESS

O freshness, living freshness of a dayIn June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight,And not a stain of wear shows on the grassBeneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls,"Our day of loveliness is past and gone!"I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells,The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks;The wild-flowers found the sunlight where they stood,And some hid their white faces quite away,While others lifted up their starry eyesAnd seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze.

LIFE'S DAY

"Life's day is too brief," he said at dawn,"I would it were ten times longer,For great tasks wait for me further on."At noonday the wish was stronger.His place was in the thick of the strife,And hopes were nearing completeness,While one was crowning the joys of lifeWith love's own wonderful sweetness."Life's day is too brief for all it contains,The triumphs, the fighting, the proving,The hopes and desires, the joys and the pains —Too brief for the hating and loving."To-night he sits in the shadows gray,While heavily sorrow presses.O the long, long day! O the weary day,With its failures and successes!He sits in the shadows and turns his eyesOn the years that lie behind him."I am tired of all things now," he cries,And the hot tears rise and blind him."Rest and stillness is all that I crave,Such robbing of strength has grief done.Make room, dear love, in your lowly grave —Life's day, thank God, is a brief one!"

MORNING

The eastern sky grew all aglow,A tinted fleet sailed just below.The thick wood and the clinging mistSlow parted, wept good-bye, and kissed.To primrose, tulip, daffodil,The wind came piping gay and shrill:"Wake up! wake up! while day is new,And all the world is washed with dew!"

GRACE

(June 13, 1899.)So still you sleep upon your bed,So motionless and slender,It cannot be that you are dead,My maiden gay and tender!You were no creature pale and meekThat death should hasten after,The dimples played within your cheek,Your lips were made for laughter.To you the great world was a placeThat care might never stay in,A playground built by God's good graceFor glad young folks to play in.You made your footpath by life's flowers,O happy, care-free maiden!The sky was full of shine and showers,The wind was perfume laden.Your dimpled hands are folded nowUpon your snowy bosom,The dark hair nestles on your brow —O tender, broken blossom!The white lids hide your eyes so clear,So mirthful, so beguiling,But as my tears fall on you, dear,Your lips seem softly smiling.And do you feel that it is home,The city far above us?And were they glad to have you come?And will you cease to love us?Methinks when you stand all in whiteTo learn each sweet new duty,Some eye will note, with keen delight,Your radiance and beauty.And when your laughter softly ringsOut where God's streets do glisten,The angels fair will fold their wingsAnd still their song to listen.

THE WAY TO DREAMLAND

With an angel flower-laden, every day a dimpled maidenSails away from off my bosom on a radiant sea of bliss;I can see her drifting, drifting, hear the snowy wings upliftingAs he woos her into Dreamland with a kiss.Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper, guarded by an angel keeper,List'ning to the words he brings thee from a fairer world than this;Sweet! thy heart he is beguiling, I can tell it by thy smiling,As he woos thee into Dreamland with a kiss.Could there come to weary mortals such a glimpse through golden portals,Would we not drift on forever toward the longed-for land of peace,Would we not leave joys and sorrows,Glad to-days and sad to-morrows,For the sound of white wings lifting, and the kiss?

HER MISSION

She is so winsome and so wiseShe sways me at her will,And oft the question will arise,What mission does she fill?O then I say with pride untold,And love beyond degree,This woman with the heart of gold,She just keeps house for me – For me,She just keeps house for me!A full content dwells on her face,She's quite in love with life,And for a title wears with graceThe sweet old-fashioned "wife."Our children climb upon her knee,And nestle on her breast,And ah! her mission seems to meThe grandest and the best.O then I say with pride untold,And love beyond degree,This woman with the heart of gold,She just keeps house for me —For me,She just keeps house for me!

FRIEND OR FOE?

There's a man I know —A likeable man —Whom you meanly woundWhenever you can,Remark with maliceHis task is done ill,He's poor of judgmentAnd weak of will.I implore you, now,As that poor man's friend,Let persecutionHave speediest end.Cease taunting the manWith blunders he makes,Cease harping alwayOn wrongs and mistakes.Come, be his good friend —Hail fellow, well met —His failures forgive,And his faults forget.Who is the man you'veDiscouraged and blamed?The man is yourself—Are you not ashamed?For faults of the pastMake ample amends,And you and yourselfBe the best of friends.

THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD

O the hills of purple heather,And the skies so warm and gray!O the shimmer of the sea-mistIn the sea-wind far away!O the calling of the torrent,Sweeping down Ben Vorlich's side,And my white flocks faring foldwardIn the hush of eventide!

CHRISTMAS CONVERSION

I can see her in the kitchen,Apron on and sleeves rolled up,Measurin' spices in a teaspoon,Figs and raisins in a cup.Now she's throwin' apple quartersIn that wooden bowl of hers,'Long with lemon peel and orange,An' she stirs, an' stirs, an' stirs.Then she takes her knife an' chops it,Chops so fast her hand jest flies.Now I know what ma is up to —Makin' mincemeat for the pies.I smell Christmas in our kitchen,An' my heart gets big an' glad,An' I, somehow, fall to wishin',That I wasn't quite so bad.An' I tell myself I'll neverCheat at marbles any more,Nor make faces at my teacher,Nor hang round the corner store'Stead of goin' on my errands;Never touch the cookie pail,Nor play hooky an' go skatin',Nor tie cans on Rover's tail;Never let ma think it's spellingsWhen it's only Robin Hood.With the gladness comes the wishin'To be, oh, just awful good!'Bout this time of year it takes me —Pa, he doesn't understand,Always says: "You sly young codger,You know Christmas is at hand."But it isn't that, it's something —Can't explain it very well —Takes me when ma fills the kitchenWith this juicy Christmas smell.When she chops the spice an' raisins,With the peels an' Northern Spies,Sleeves rolled up above her elbows,Makin' mincemeat for the pies.

A BIT O' SHAMROCK

We met her on the hillside greenBelow old Castle Blarney;Her name, she whispered, was Eileen,Her home it was Killarney.I see her yet, her Irish eyesBlue gray as seas in summer,And hear her welcome, on this wise,Vouchsafed to each new-comer:"I'll guide ye up the stairway steep,And naught will ye be missingO' battlement or donjon keep,Or blarney stone for kissing."The tower that was McCarthy's pride,The scene o' battles thrilling,And where the Desmond kept his bride —Me fee is but a shilling."Here's for ye, now, a keepsake charm" —Her low tones grow caressing —"A bit o' shamrock green and warm,To bring ye luck and blessing."The "keepsake charm" – I have it yet —A thing of guile and blarney;Each green leaf dares me to forgetFair Eileen o' Killarney.

SLANDER

He does the devil's basest work, no less,Who deals in calumnies – who throws the mireOn snowy robes whose hem he dare not pressHis foul lips to. The pity of it! Liar,Yet half believed by such as deem the goodOr evil but the outcome of a mood.That one who, with the breath lent him by Heaven,Speaks words that on some white soul do reflect,Is lost to decency, and should be drivenOutside the pale of honest men's respect.O slanderer, hell's imps must say of you:"He does the work we are ashamed to do!"

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN

"Poet by the grace of God."You sing of winter gray and chill,Of silent stream and frozen lake,Of naked woods, and winds that wakeTo shriek and sob o'er vale and hill.And straight we breathe the bracing air,And see stretched out before our eyesA white world spanned by brooding skies,And snowflakes drifting everywhere.You sing of tender things and sweet,Of field, of brook, of flower, of bush,The lilt of bird, the sunset flush,The scarlet poppies in the wheat.Until we feel the gleam and glowOf summer pulsing through our veins,And hear the patter of the rains,And watch the green things sprout and grow.You sing of joy, and we do markHow glad a thing is life, and dear;Of sorrow, and we seem to hearThe sound of sobbing in the dark.The subtle power to sway and move,The stamp of genius strong and true,This, friend, was heaven's gift to you,This made you great and won you love.Your song goes ringing clear and sweet —Though on earth's bosom, bare and brown,All willingly you laid you down,The music is not incomplete.Sleep on, it is not by the yearsWe measure life when all is done;Your rest is earned, your laurels won;Sleep, softly sleep, we say with tears.

A HINT

Among the vivid green I seeA yellow leaf,And yonder in the basswood treeAn empty nest swings lonesomely —The wheat's in sheaf.

CHRYSANTHEMUM'S COURT

They lift their faces to the light,And aye they are a gallant band;The queen of all is snowy white —A stately thing, and tall and grand.See, close beside, in yellow drest,Is the prince consort of the hour;A bit of God's own sunshine prestInto a glorious golden flower!And mark the courtiers' noble grace —Gay courtiers these, in raiment fine —Their satin doublets slashed with lace,Their velvet cloaks as red as wine.Each maid-in-waiting is most fair —Note well the graces she unfurls —The winds have tossed her fluffy hair,And left it in a thousand curls.And yonder quaint, old-fashioned one,Arrayed in palest lavender,Ah! few there are, when all is done,In beauty can compare with her.The pink – I've seen at eventideA something very like to this,A cloud adrift upon the sky,All rosy from the sun's last kiss.Without the court, the chill and gloomOf autumn twilight o'er the land;Within, the grandeur and the bloomOf queen, of prince, and courtiers grand.

HER LITTLE WAY

'Tis woman rules the whole world still,Though faults the critics say she has;She smiles her smile and works her will —'Tis just a little way she has.

THE CRITICISM

The great man came to the country place,To preach to farmers sturdy;He said: "I'm in my happiest vein,I'll be eloquent and wordy.""Not often a great man like myselfComes here to do the teaching —A big event in these quiet lives —They'll not forget my preaching."The great man found him a text at lengthIn Ezekiel's ponderous pages;From point to point of his sermon longHe travelled at easy stages.He soared up high in the realms of thought,Was rich in allegory."I have," said he, as he sat him down,"Covered myself with glory."These simple rustics are overcomeWith my rhetoric and power,They're used to a sprinkling of thoughtAnd I've given them a shower."The great man got a terrible shockAs, the long service over,He walked with a farmer grave and staidHome through the fields of clover."Your people – ah – were they much impressedWith my sermon?" he queried."Preaching with earnestness, power and forceHas left me sadly wearied.""A worse would a done us country folks" —The farmer's tone a terse one —"That is," reflectively, "if youHappened to have a worse one."

JESSIE

You miss the touch of her dear hand,Her laughter gay and sweet,The dimpled cheek, the sunny smile,The patter of her feet.The loving glances she bestowed,The tender tales she told —The world, since she has gone away,Seems empty, drear and cold.Dear, oft you prayed that God would giveYour darling joy and grace,That pain or loss might never dimThe brightness of her face.That her young heart might keep its trust,Its purity so white,Its wealth of sweet unselfishness,Her eyes their radiant light,Her fair, soft face its innocenceOf every guile and wrong,And nothing touch to mar the joyAnd gladness of her song.God heard the prayer; His answer came —Now, cease thy murmuring, cease —"Come, little one, come home," He said,"Unto the Land of Peace!"You sheltered her upon your breast,The child so quaint and wise,To-day, where sorrow is unknown,She walks in paradise.Her eyes have learned the mystery,Her feet the vale have crost,But, friend of mine, you'll find againThe treasure you have lost.Your arms will surely clasp once moreThe little fair-haired girlWho waits for you within the gatesOf jasper and of pearl.

POYNINGS

Do you remember that June day amongThe hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills?Above, the straggling flocks of fleecy cloudsThat skipped and chased each other merrilyIn God's warm pasturage, the azure sky;Below, the hills that stretched their mighty headsAs though they fain would neighbor with that sky.Deep, vivid green, save where the flocks showed white;The wise ewes hiding from the glow of noonIn shady spots, the short-wooled lambs at play,And over all the stillness of the hills,The sweet and solemn stillness of the hills.The shepherds gave us just such looks of mildSurprise as did the sheep they shepherded."Ye are not of the hills," so said the looks,"Not of our kind, but strangers come from outThe busy, bustling world to taste the sweetsOf silence and of peace. We wish you well."In eager quest of what the hills might hide,Some valley of content, some spring of youth,Some deep, enchanted dell filled to the brimWith subtle mysteries, allurement rare,We followed down a path, a little crooked,Wand'ring path that lost itself and found itselfSo oft we knew it for the playmate of the streamThat went with us and sang a clamorous song —A never-ending song of flock and foldOf sea-mist and of sun – until at lengthWe came into a valley warm and wide,A cradle 'mong the hills. In it there layNo infant hamlet, but one gray and oldThat dozed and dreamed the soft June hours away.Gardens there were with fragrant wall-flowers filled,And daffodils, and rhododendrons pale,And sweet, old-fashioned pinks, phlox, rosemary;An avenue of elms, with cottages,And barefoot children sporting on the green."'Tis Poynings," said the rustic, "see, the churchLies yonder, and the graveyard just beyond;This path will lead you straight to it."Do you remember – rather, will you e'er forget? —That gray church built, how many centuriesAgo? The worn stone steps, the oaken door,The crumbling walls, the altar carved,The stories told by stained-glass windows setDeep in the walls; the ivy, thick and green,Which crept and hid the grayness quite from sight.Within, the smell of roses from the sheafOf scarlet bloom before the altar laid,Close mingled with the mould and must of age;On wall and floor memorials to the dead,Who, unafraid, had slumbered there so long.And then the graveyard out among the trees —No graveyard, but a garden, flower filled —Moss roses white as moth wings in the night,And lilies sorrowful but very sweet,Low-growing violets in grasses hid,And rue which spoke of some heart's bitterness.Old Time had decked the stones with lichens rare,Rubbed out with careless hand the lettering:In memory of someone's life and loveEach stood, but whose we might not know.And while we lingered in the perfumed gloom,And watched the golden sunshine smite the hills,An English blackbird straight began a songSo sweet, so high, so shrill, so wondrous clear,That! listening, our eyes grew dim the whileOur hearts did thrill. Whoe'er has heard the songAn English blackbird carols forth in JuneKnows well the power it has, the wondrous charm!Strangers were we within the gates, and soHe gave us welcome, clearer, warmer still,A welcome to the beauty and the bloom,The silence of the churchyard old and gray,A welcome to the grasses and the brook,The shade of feathery elm trees, and the glowOf sunlight quivering, golden on the sward,A welcome to the valley dim, and toThe hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills.

SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA

Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,Sing to the breezes passing by,Sing your jubilant song and sweet,Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!Earth that held thee and skies that kissedMorning and noon and night for long,Sun and rain and dew and mist,All that has made you glad and strong.The harvest fields of the far, far westStretch out a shimmering sea of gold!Every ripple upon its breastSings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold!Far as the eye can reach it goes,Farther yet, 'till there seems no end,Under a sky where blue and roseWith the gold and turquoise softly blend.Here, where sweep the prairies lone,Broad and beautiful in God's eyes,Here in this young land, all our own,The garner-house of the old world lies.

DAWN

I cannot echo the old wish to die at morn, as darkness strays!We have been glad together greeting some new-born radiant days,The earth would hold me, every day familiar thingsWould weigh me fast,The stir, the touch of morn, the bird that on swift wingsGoes flitting past.Some flower would lift to me its tender tear-wet face, and send its breathTo whisper of the earth, its beauty and its grace,And combat death.It would be light, and I would see in thy dear eyesThe sorrow grow.Love, could I lift my own, undimmed, to paradiseAnd leave thee so!A thousand cords would hold me down to this low sphere,When thou didst grieve;Ah! should death come upon morn's rosy breast, I fearI'd crave reprieve.But when, her gold all spent, the sad day takes her flight,When shadows creep,Then just to put my hand in thine and say, "Good-night,"And fall asleep.