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!

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