The Cornflower, and Other Poems

THE CRICKET

O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth,With its piping and its chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!There is magic in the music that he flings us with such zest:"Love's the only wealth that's lasting – who cares aught for all the rest?Never mind though ill-luck dog you, never mind though times are hard,Have you not the wife and bairns?" chirps the sweet, insistent bard —Chirps and chirps, until you heed him, till your heart is all aglow —"Love's the only wealth that's lasting, home's a bit of heaven below."O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth,With his piping and his chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!

EARTH TO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

You cannot take from out my heart the growing,The green, sweet growing, and the vivid thrill."O Earth," you cry, "you should be old, not glowingWith youth and all youth's strength and beauty still!"Old, and the new hopes stirring in my bosom!Old, and my children drawing life from me!Old, in my womb the tender bud and blossom!Old, steeped in richness and fertility!Old, while the growing things call to each other,In language I alone can understand:"How she doth nourish us, this wondrous motherWho is so beautiful and strong and grand!"Old, while the wild things of the forest hide themIn my gray coverts, which no eye can trace!Hunted or hurt, 'tis my task to provide themHealing and soothing and a hiding place.And then, my human children, could you listenTo secrets whispered in the stillness deepOf noonday, or when night-dews fall and glisten —'Tis on my bosom that men laugh and weep.Some tell me moving tales of love and passion,Of gladness all too great to be pent in —The sweet, old theme which does not change its fashion —Another cries out brokenly of sin.While others filled with sorrow, fain to share it,Hide tear-wet faces on my soft brown breast,Sobbing: "Dear Mother Earth, we cannot bear it,Grim death has stolen all that we loved best!"The old familiar cry of loss and sorrowI hear to-day – I heard it yesterday —Ay, and will hear in every glad to-morrowThat ye may bring to me, O Century.I answer mourner, penitent, and lover,With quick'ning stir, with bud and leaf and sap:"Peace, peace," I say, "when life's brief day is overYe shall sleep soundly in your mother's lap."The loss, the longing of mankind I'm sharing,The hopes, the joys, the laughter and the tears,And yet you think I should be old, uncaring,The barren, worn-out plaything of the years!Past centuries have not trodden out my greennessWith all their marches, as you well can see,Nor will you bring me withered age or leanness.March on – what are your hundred years to me.While life and growth within me glow and flourish,While in the sunshine and the falling rainI, the great Mother, do bring forth and nourishThe springtime blossom and the harvest grain?March on, O Century, I am safe holdenIn God's right hand, the garner-house of truth —The hand that holds the treasure rare and goldenOf life, and sweetness, and eternal youth!

THAIL BURN

The river is a ribbon wide,The falls a snowy feather,And stretching far on ilka sideAre hills abloom wi' heather.The wind comes loitering frae the westBy weight o' sweets retarded;The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest,A Golden Fleece unguarded.We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair,That hand in hand do tarry;The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr,The lass is Highland Mary.He tells her they will never pairt —'Tis life and luve taegither —The world has got the song by hairtHe sang among the heather.'Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago,Yet all remember dearlyThe eyes, the hair, the brow o' snowO' her he luved sae dearly.And lads still woo their lassies dear,I' cot and hall and dairy,By words he whispered i' the earO' his ain Highland Mary.

THE LAKE SHORE ROAD

'Tis noon, the meadow stretches in the sun,And every little spear of grass uplifts its slimness to the glowTo let the heavy-laden bees pass out.A stream comes at a snail's pace through the gloomOf shrub and fern and brake,Leaps o'er a wall, goes singing on to findThe coolness of the lake.A wild rose spreads her greenness on a hedge,And flings her tinted blossoms in the air;The sweetbriar neighbors with that porcupineOf shrubs, the gooseberry; with parasolOf white the elderberry shades her headAnd dreams of purple fruit and wine-press chill.From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,A bird flies with a call of love and joyThat wins an answer straightFrom that brown thing of gladness on a bough,Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,The proud and watchful mate.The wind comes heavy freighted from the wood,With jasmine, honeysuckle, iris, phlox,And lilies red and white;The blue lake murmurs, and the world seems allA garden of delight.

MAGDALENE

A woman in her youth, but lost to allThe joys of innocence. Love she had known,Such love as leaves the soul filled full of shame.Passion was hers, hate and impurity,The gnawing of remorse, the longing vainTo lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flushOf fallen womanhood, the envy ofThe spotless, the desire that they might sinkLow in the mire as she.Oh, what a soulShe carried on that day! The women drewTheir robes back from her touch, men leered,And children seemed afraid to meetThe devilish beauty of her form and face.Shunned and alone,Till One came to her side,And spake her name, and took her hand in His.And what He saidIs past the telling. There are things the heartKnows well, but cannot blazon to the world;And when He went His way,Upon her brow, where shame had lain,Was set the one sweet word:Forgiveness.

MY LADY NIGHTINGALE

I heard you singing in the grove,My Lady Nightingale;The thirsty leaves were drinking dew,And all the sky was pale.A silence – clear as bells of peaceYour song thrilled on the air,Each liquid note a thing of joy,And sweet beyond compare.Not all of joy – a haunting strainOf sorrow and of tears,A note of grief which seemed to voiceThe sadness of the years.'Twas pure, 'twas clear, 'twas wondrous sweet,My Lady Nightingale,Yet subtly sad, the song you sangWhen all the sky was pale.

THE ORCHARD

There's no garden like an orchard,Nature shows no fairer thingThan the apple trees in blossomIn these late days o' the spring.Here the robin redbreast's nesting,Here, from golden dawn till night,Honey bees are gaily swimmingIn a sea of pink and white.Just a sea of fragrant blossoms,Steeped in sunshine, drenched in dew,Just a fragrant breath which tells youEarth is fair again and new.Just a breath of subtle sweetness,Breath which holds the spice o' youth,Holds the promise o' the summer —Holds the best o' things, forsooth.There's no garden like an orchard,Nature shows no fairer thingThan the apple trees in blossomIn these late days o' the spring.

OCTOBER

Who is it says May is the crown of the year?Who is it says June is the gladdest?Who is it says Autumn is withered and sere,The gloomiest season and saddest?You shut to your doors as I come with my train,And heed not the challenge I'm flinging,The ruddy leaf washed by the fresh falling rain,The scarlet vine creeping and clinging!Come out where I'm holding my court like a queen,With canopy rare stretching over;Come out where I revel in amber and green,And soon I may call you my lover!Come out to the hillside, come out to the vale,Come out ere your mood turns to blaming,Come out where my gold is, my red gold and pale,Come out where my banners are flaming!Come out where the bare furrows stretch in the glow,Come out where the stubble fields glisten,Where the wind it blows high, and the wind it blows low,And the lean grasses dance as they listen!

ST. ANDREW'S DAY – A TOAST

Wha cares if skies be dull and gray?Wha heeds November weather?Let ilka Scot be glad to-dayThe whole wide warl' thegither.We're a' a prood and stubborn lot,And clannish – sae fowk name us —Ay, but with sic guid cause none oughtTae judge us, or tae blame us,For joys that are we'll pledge to-dayA land baith fair and glowing —Here's tae the hames o' Canada,Wi' luve and peace o'erflowing!For joys that were, for auld lang syne,For tender chords that bind us,A toast – your hand, auld friend, in mine —"The land we left behind us!"Ho, lowlanders! Ho, hielandmen!We'll toast her a' thegither,Here's tae each bonnie loch and glen!Here's tae her hills and heather!Here's tae the auld hame far away!While tender mists do blind us,We'll pledge on this, St. Andrew's day,"The land we left behind us!"

WHEN TREES ARE GREEN

Would you be glad of heart and good?Would you forget life's toil and care?Come, lose yourself in this old woodWhen May's soft touch is everywhere.The hawthorn trees are white as snow,The basswood flaunts its feathery sprays,The willows kiss the stream belowAnd listen to its flatteries:"O willows supple, yellow, green,Long have I flowed o'er stock and stone,I say with truth I have not seenA rarer beauty than your own!"The rough-bark hickory, elm, and beechWith quick'ning thrill and growth are rife;Oak, maple, through the heart of eachThere runs a glorious tide of life.Fresh leaves, young buds on every hand,On trunk and limb a hint of red,The gleam of poplars tall that standWith God's own sunshine on their head.The mandrake's silken parasolIs fluttering in the breezes bold,And yonder where the waters brawlThe buttercups show green and gold.The slender grape-vine sways and weaves,From sun-kissed sward and nook of gloomThere comes the smell of earth and leaves,The breath of wild-flowers all abloom.Spring's gleam is on the robin's breast,Spring's joy is in the robin's song:"My mate is in yon sheltered nest;Ho! love is sweet and summer long!"While full and jubilant and clear,All the long day, from dawn till dark,The trill of bobolink we hear,Of hermit thrush and meadowlark.Sit here among the grass and fernUnmindful of the cares of life,The lessons we have had to learn,The hurts we've gotten in the strife.There's youth in every breath we take,Forgetfulness of loss and tears,Within the heart there seems to wakeThe gladness of the long past years.Peace keeps us company to-dayIn this old fragrant, shadowy wood;We lift our eyes to heaven and say:The world is fair and God is good.

O RADIANCE OF LIFE'S MORNING

O Radiance of life's morning! O gold without alloy!O love that lives through all the years! O full, O perfect joy!The hills of earth touch heaven, the heaven of blue and gold,And angel voices swell the song of love and peace untold!O radiance of life's morning!The dew within the rose,The fragrance fresh from EdenThat freights each breeze that blows!Dear Christ, the wine of Cana pour out in rich supply,These hearts keep young with gladness while all the years go by!O radiance of life's morning!O gold without alloy!O love that lives through all the years,O full, O perfect joy!

THE IDLER

If but one spark of honest zealFlashes to life within his breast —A feeble, flick'ring spark at best;If for a moment he doth feelA dim desire to throw asideThe bonds that idleness has wrought,To do, to be the man he ought,The tyrant thing he calls his pride —The curse of all things good on earth —Takes on the cruel midwife's role,And each high impulse of the soulIs strangled in the hour of birth."To dig I am ashamed," quoth he;"Mine is the pride of name and raceThat scorns to fill such humble space —Life's lowly tasks are not for me."Oh, he can flatter with his tongue,Can toady to the rich and great,Can fawn on those he feels to hate,Until from out his nature's wrungEach shred of honesty and zeal,Each impulse independent, strong,Till truth and honor's but a song,And naught is beautiful or real.

THE TRUST

We steal the brawn, we steal the brain;The man beneath us in the fightSoon learns how helpless and how vainTo plead for justice or for right.We steal the youth, we steal the health,Hope, courage, aspiration high;We steal men's all to make for wealth —We will repent us by and by.Meantime, a gift will heaven appease —Great God, forgive our charities!We steal the children's laughter shrill,We steal their joys e'er they can taste,"Why skip like young lambs on a hill?Go, get ye to your task in haste."No matter that they droop and tire,That heaven cries out against the sin,The gold, red gold, that we desireTheir dimpled hands must help to win.A cheque for missions, if you please —Great God, forgive our charities!We steal the light from lover's eyes,We hush the tale he has to tellOf pure desire, of tender ties —No man can serve two masters well.So loot his treasury of pride,His holy hopes and visions steal,His hearth-fire scatter far and wide,And grind the sparks beneath your heel.A cheque will cover sins like these —Great God, forgive our charities!

WHEN PAGANINI PLAYS

"Dawn!" laughs the bow, and we straight see the sky,Crimson, and golden, and gray,See the rosy cloudlets go drifting by,And the sheen on the lark as, soaring high,He carols to greet the day.Fast moves the bow o'er the wonderful strings —We feel the joy in the air —'Tis alive with the glory of growing things,With wild honeysuckle that creeps and clings,Rose of the briar bush – queen of the springs —Anemones frail and fair!We listen, and whisper with laughter low,"It voices rare gladness, that ancient bow!"Then, sad as the plaint of a child at night —A child aweary with play —The falling of shadows, a lost delight,The moaning of watchers counting the flightOf hours 'twixt the dark and day.It echoes the cry of a broken heart,It grieves o'er a "might have been,"It holds all the passionate tears that startWhen our heaven and our earth drift far apart,And the way lies dark between.It stills all our laughter, and whispers low —'Tis heart-strings it plays on, that ancient bow!

TO-DAY YOU UNDERSTAND

You lifted eyes pain-filled to me,Sad, questioning eyes that did demandWhy I should thrust back, childishly,The friendship warm you offered me —Ah, sweet, to-day you understand!'Twas that my heart beat rapturouslyAt word of thine, at touch of hand,At tender glance vouchsafed to meThe while I knew it must not be —Ah, sweet, to-day you understand!There's neither pain nor mysteryIn that far-off and fragrant landTo which you journeyed fearlessly;By gates of pearl and jasper sea —Ah, sweet, to-day you understand!

LOVE'S SACRIFICE

"And behold, a woman in the city, which was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee's house, brought an alabaster box of ointment and stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head."

The eyes He turned on her who kneeling weptWere filled with tenderness and pity rare;But looking on the Pharisee, there creptA sorrow and a hint of sternness there."Simon, I have somewhat to say to thee,"The Master's voice rang clearly out, and stirred,With its new note of full authority,The list'ning throng, who pressed to catch each word."Master, say on," self-righteous Simon said,And muttered in his beard, "A sinner, she!"Marvelling the while that on the drooping headThe hand of Jesus rested tenderly."Seest thou this woman, Simon?" Scornful eyesDid Simon bend upon the woman's face,The while the breath of love's sweet sacrificeRose from the broken box and filled the place.Self-righteousness, the slimy thing that growsUpon a fellow-creature's frailty,That waxes fat on shame of ruined lives,Swelled in the bosom of the Pharisee."Into thine house I came at thy request,Weary with travel, and thou gavest notTo me the service due the humblest guest,No towel, no water clear and cold was brought"To wash my feet; but she, whom you despise,Out of the great affection she doth bearHath made a basin of her woman's eyes,A towel of her woman's wealth of hair."Thou gavest me no kiss" – O Simon, shame,Thus coldly and unlovingly to greetThe Prince of Peace! – "but ever since I cameThis woman hath not ceased to kiss my feet."He loveth most who hath been most forgiven."O Simon, hearken, learn the great truth well,No soul on faith's glad wings mounts nearer heavenThan that which hath been prisoned deep in hell.Methinks I hear her say: "Thou who forgivestMy many sins, this off'ring, sweet of breath,I pour on Thee, dear Lord, while yet thou liv'st,For love is ever swift to outrun death."Upon her are the eyes of Jesus turned,With gaze which seems to strengthen and to bless.Who knows how long the soul of Him hath yearnedFor some such token of rare tenderness?The flush of shame flaunts red on Simon's cheeks,About the table idle babblings cease,A deep, full silence, then the Master speaks:"Thy faith hath saved thee, go in peace – in peace."

WHEN THE DUSK COMES DOWN

Do you know what I will love best of allTo do when I'm old? At the close of dayWhen the dusk comes down and the shadows play,And the wind sings loud in the poplars tall,I will love to get into my corner here —The curtains drawn, and never a oneTo break the stillness – to sit here aloneAnd dream of these good old times, my dear.In fancy you'll come and sit by my side —I can see your face with my eyes close shut,With the pride and the softness clearly cut,The obstinate chin and the forehead wide,The oval cheek and the smile so warm,The dark eyes full of their fun and power,With the tender light for the tender hour,And the flash of fire that was half their charm.I'll whisper: 'Twas sweet when youth was our own —The laughter, the nonsense, the freedom from care,The castles we built high up in the air,The secrets told to each other alone!Not all of laughter; the world went wrong,And the shadows pressed till my heart was sore.I'll never be glad, I said, any more,Never be happy, or gay, or strong.O the sweetest thing in the hour of painIs to have one near us who understands,To touch us gently and hold our hands,Till our strength and courage come back again.At love's swift pace you hurried to me —Your tender words they will ring in my earsWhen I sit and dream after long, long years —The shine in your eyes through the mists I'll see.Our lives will be lying so far apart,And time, no doubt, will have given us muchOf weary wisdom; put many a touchOf his withering hand on face and heart.But I know what I will love best of allTo do at the end of the busy day,When the dusk comes down and the shadows play,And the wind sings low in the poplars tall.I will love to get into my corner here,With the curtains drawn, and never a oneTo break the stillness – to sit here aloneAnd dream of these happy days, my dear,And take my treasures from memory's hold —The tears, the laughter, the songs that were sung —O the friends we love when the heart is youngAre the friends we love when the heart grows old!

THE GHOSTS OF NIGHT

When we were children, long ago,And crept to bed at close of day,With backward glance and footstep slow,Though all aweary with our play,Do you remember how the room —The little room with window deep —Would fill with shadows and with gloom,And fright us so we could not sleep?For O! the things we see at night —The dragons grim, the goblins tall,And, worst of all, the ghosts in whiteThat range themselves along the wall!We could but cover up our head,And listen to our heart's wild beat —Such dreadful things about our bed,And no protection save a sheet!Then slept, and woke quite unafraid.The sun was shining, and we foundOur shadows and our ghosts all laid,Our world a glorious playing-ground.For O! the things we see at night —The dragons grim, the goblins tall,And, worst of all, the ghosts in whiteThat range themselves along the wall!We are but children still, the yearsHave never taught us to be bold,For mark our trembling and our fearsWhen sometimes, as in days of old,We in the darkness lie awake,And see come stealing to our sideA ghostly throng – the grave Mistake,The Failure big, the broken Pride.For O! the things we see at night —The dragons grim, the goblins tall,And, worst of all, the ghosts in whiteThat range themselves along the wall!How close they creep! How big they loom!The Task which waits, the Cares which creep;A child, affrighted in the gloom,We fain would hide our head and weep.When, lo! the coward fear is gone —The golden sunshine fills the air,And God has sent us with the dawnThe strength and will to do and dare.For O! the things we see at night —The dragons grim, the goblins tall,And, worst of all, the ghosts in whiteThat range themselves along the wall!

THE LONG AGO

O life has its seasons joyous and drear,Its summer sun and its winter snow,But the fairest of all, I tell you, dear,Was the sweet old spring of the long ago —The ever and ever so long ago —When we walked together among the flowers,When the world with beauty was all aglow.O the rain and dew! O the shine and showersOf the sweet old spring of the long ago!The ever and ever so long ago.A hunger for all of the past delightIs stirred by the winds that softly blow.Can you spare me a thought from heaven to-nightFor the sweet old spring of the long ago? —The ever and ever so long ago.

FORGIVE AND FORGET

I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart,I'll tell you the sweetest thing —'Tis saying to one that we love: "ForgiveThe careless words and the sting;Forgive and forget, and be friends once more,For the world is an empty placeWithout the light of your warm, true eyes,And the smile of your tender face."O the kissing and making up again,And the tender whispering!I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart,I'll tell you the sweetest thing.I'll tell you the saddest thing, dear heart,I'll tell you the saddest thing:'Tis coming to one that we love full well,Some tender message to bring.And loitering, loitering, by the way —Held back by a foolish pride —Till it's all too late to say "Forgive!"When at length we reach her side.For the ears are heavy and cannot hear,And the chill lips cannot moveTo whisper "Peace," though our hearts may breakWith longing, and pain, and love,O this coming too late with our tenderness!O the passionate tears that spring!I'll tell you the saddest thing, dear heart,I'll tell you the saddest thing!Then let us make haste to be friends again,Make haste to fold to our breastThe one we have hurt by word and deed,Though we loved that one the best."Forgive and forget! Forgive and forget!"O warm in the tear-wet eyesIs the glow and the gleam of a golden lightFrom the shores of Paradise.O the kissing and making up again,And the tender whispering!I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart,I'll tell you the sweetest thing.

THE ARGUMENT

"As friend," she said, "I will be kind,My sympathy will rarely fail,My eyes to many faults be blind —As wife, I'll lecture, scold, and rail,"Be full of moods, a shrew one day,A thing of tenderness the next,Will kiss and wound – a woman's wayThat long the soul of man has vext."You've been a true, unselfish man,Have thought upon my good alway,Been strong to shield, and wise to plan,But ah! there is a change to-day."There's mastery in your 'Be my wife!'For self stands up and eagerlyClaims all my love, and all my life,The body and the soul of me."Come, call me friend, and own me such,Nor count it such a wondrous thingTo hold me close, thrill at my touch —A lord and master! – there's the sting."'Tis all or naught with you, you plead,And he is blest who boldly wins;These words," she said, "are proof, indeed,That love and selfishness are twins."Yet, had you let my wisdom sway,Would it have pleased me, who can tell?I might have said regretfully:'Methinks I reasoned far too well!'"

THE SECRET

The throng about her did not know,Her nearest friend could not surmiseWhence came the brightness and the glow,The wondrous radiance of her eyes.One said, half enviously: "Your faceIs beautiful with gladness rare,With that warm, generous heart of yoursSome precious secret you must share."Ah, true beneath the filmy laceThat rose and fell upon her breast,Her first love-taken held its place —From him, from him whom she loved best!

VASHTI

"O last days of the year!" she whispered low,"You fly too swiftly past. Ah, you might stayA while, a little while. Do you not knowWhat tender things you bear with you away?"I'm thinking, sitting in the soft gloom here,Of all the riches that were mine the dayThere crept down on the world the soft New Year,A rosy thing with promise filled, and gay."But twelve short months ago! a little spaceIn which to lose so much – a whole life's wealthOf love and faith, youth and youth's tender grace —Things that are wont to go from us by stealth."Laughter and blushes, and the rapture strong,The clasp of clinging hands, the ling'ring kiss,The joy of living, and the glorious songThat drew its sweetness from a full heart's bliss."O wealth of tenderness! O gladness great!That crowned me, covered me a year ago!A bankrupt, I – gone faith, gone warm caressGone love, gone youth, gone all!" She whispered low."Oh, last days of the year, you take awayThe riches that I held so close and dear.Go not so swiftly, stay a little, stayWith one poor bankrupt, Last days of the year."