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Have the rough years, so big with death One long last look, and many a sad adieu, and ill,
While eyes can see and heart can feel Gone lightly by and left them smiling
you yet, yet?
I leave sweet home and sweeter hearts to Wild black-eyed Jeanne whose tongue was
you, never still,
A prayer for Picaud, one for pale Lisette, Old wrinkled Picaud, Pierre and pale A kiss for Pierre, my little Jacques, and Lisette,
thee, The homely hearts that never cared to A sigh for Jeanne, a sob for Verginie.
range, While life's wide fields were filled with Oh, does she still remember? Is the dream rush and change.
Now dead, or has she found another
mate ? And where is Jacques, and where is Ver- So near, so dear; and ah, so swift the ginie ?
stream ; I cannot tell; the fields are all a blur. Even now perhaps it were not yet too The lowing cows whose shapes I scarcely
But, oh, what matter; for, before the night Oh, do they wait and do they call for her? Has reached its middle, we have far to And is she changed, or is her heart still clear
Bend to your paddles, comrades ; see, the As wind or morning, light as river foam ? light Or have life's changes borne her far from Ebbs off apace ; we must not linger so. here,
Aye thus it is! Heaven gleams and then And far from rest, and far from help and home?
Once, twice, it smiles, and still we wander Ah comrades, soft, and let us rest awhile, For arms grow tired with paddling many a mile.
A FORECAST The woods grow wild, and from the rising shore
What days await this woman, whose The cool wind creeps, the faint wood strange feet odors steal ;
Breathe spells, whose presence makes men Like ghosts adown the river's blackening dream like wine, floor
Tall, free and slender as the forest pine, The misty fumes begin to creep and reel. Whose form is moulded music, through Once more I leave you, wandering toward
whose sweet the night,
Frank eyes I feel the very heart's least Sweet home, sweet heart, that would
beat, have held me in ;
Keen, passionate, and full of dreams and Whither I
I know not, and the light Is faint before, and rest is hard to win. How in the end, and to what man's desire Ah, sweet ye were and near to heaven's Shall all this yield, whose lips shall these gate;
lips meet ? But youth is blind and wisdom comes too One thing I know : if he be great and late.
This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure ; Blacker and loftier grow the woods, and Triumph and hope shall lead him by the hark !
palm : The freshening roar! The chute is near But if not this, some differing thing he be, us now,
That dream shall break in terror ; he shall And dim the canyon grows, and inky dark The water whispering from the birchen The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the prow.
The beat, the thunder, and the hiss
Cease not, and change not, night nor day. ONCE ye were happy, once by many a shore,
And moving at unheard commands, Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might The abysses and vast fires between, stray,
Flit figures that, with clanking hands,
They are not flesh, they are not bone,
A dreadful and monotonous cry.
And whoso of our mortal race
Lean Death would smite him face to face, And now, though many hundred altering And blanch him with its venomed air ; years
Or, caught by the terrific spell,
His soul would shrivel, and its shell
The light above it leaped and shone.
Once there were multitudes of men
Until its might was made, and then
They withered, age by age, and died ;
And now of that prodigious race
Set like carved idols face to face,
Remain the masters of its power ;
And at the city gate a fourth,
Beyond the reach of memories :
Fast-rooted to the lurid floor,
Or mind or soul, — an idiot !
Shall perish and their hands be still,
And with the masters' touch shall flee
Their incommunicable skill.
A stillness, absolute as death,
Along the slacking wheels shall lie,
And, flagging at a single breath,
The fires shall smoulder out and die.
And over that tremendous town
The silence of eternal night
Shall gather close and settle down.
Shall be abandoned utterly,
And into rust and dust shali fall
Nor sound of any foot shall pass.
Love, whom the fingers of death are quell
ing, MARIAN DRURY, Marian Drury,
Cries you a cheer from the Norland How are the marshes full of the sea !
home. Acadie dreams of your coming home All year through, and her heart gets Marian Drury, Marian Drury, free,
How are the marshes filled with you !
Grand Pré dreams of your coming home, Free on the trail of the wind to travel, Dreams while the rainbirds all night Search and course with the roving tide,
through, All year long where his hands unravel Blossom and berry the marshes hide. Far in the uplands calling to win you,
Tease the brown dusk on the marshes Marian Drury, Marian Drury,
wide ; How are the marshes full of the surge ! And never the burning heart within you April over the Norland now
Stirs in your sleep by the roving tide. Walks in the quiet from verge to verge.
A SEA CHILD Burying, brimming, the building billows The lover of child Marjory
Fret the long dikes with uneasy foam. Had one white hour of life brim full ; Drenched with gold weather, the idling Now the old nurse, the rocking sea, willows
Hath him to lull. Kiss you a hand from the Norland home.
The daughter of child Marjory
Hath in her veins, to beat and run, Marian Drury, Marian Drury,
The glad indomitable sea,
The strong white sun.
She lived where the mountains go down to All spring through they falter and follow,
Wander, and beckon the roving tide, And river and tide confer.
She had the soul no circumstance
Can hurry or defer. How are the marshes full of the rain !
Golden Rowan, of Menalowan, April over the Norland now
How time stood still for her! Bugles for rapture, and rouses pain,
Her playmates for their lovers grew, Halts before the forsaken dwelling,
But that shy wanderer, Where in the twilight, too spent to
Golden Rowan, of Menalowan, roam,
Knew love was not for her.
Hers was the love of wilding things ; To hear a squirrel chir
In the golden rowan of Menalowan Was joy enough for her.
She sleeps on the hill with the lonely sun, Where in the days that were,
The golden rowan of Menalowan So often shadowed her.
The scarlet fruit will come to fill,
The golden rowan of Menalowan,
Make me of thy seed to-morrow,
Only the wind is over her grave,
And “Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,” Is all we know of her.
MAKE me over, mother April,
Make me over, mother April,
Take my dust and all my dreaming,
Let me hear the far, low summons,
Set me in the urge and tide-drift
So I win, to time's confusion,
He harries the ports of the Hollyhocks, The one perfect pearl of time,
And levies on poor Sweetbrier ; Joy and joy and joy forever,
He drinks the whitest wine of Phlox, Till the sap forgets to climb !
And the Rose is his desire. Make me over in the morning,
He hangs in the Willows a night and a From the rag-bag of the world !
Under the tautest hatches.
He woos the Poppy and weds the Peach, In the rag-bag of the world !
And then like a tramp abandons each
For the gorgeous Canada Lily.
There's not a soul in the garden world Let the great slow joys of being
But wishes the day were shorter, Well my heart through as of yore !
When Mariner B. puts out to sea Let me taste the old inmortal
With the wind in the proper quarter. Indolence of life once more !
Or, so they say! But I have my doubts ; Give me the old drink for rapture,
For the flowers are only human, The delirium to drain,
And the valor and gold of a vagrant bold All my fellows drank in plenty
Were always dear to woman.
He dares to boast, along the coast,
The beauty of Highland Heather, The delirium to drain !
How he and she, with night on the sea,
Lay out on the hills together.
He pilfers from every port of the wind, Make me man or make me woman,
From April to golden autumn; Make me oaf or ape or human,
But the thieving ways of his mortal days Cup of flower or cone of fir ;
Are those his mother taught him.
His morals are mixed, but his will is fixed;
And follows an instinct, compass-sure,
And that is why, when he comes to die, A burly velveted rover,
He'll have an easier sentence Who loves the booming wind in his ear Than some one I know who thinks just As he sails the seas of clover.
And then leaves room for repentance.
He never could box the compass round; He steers for the open verge of blue He does n't know port from starboard ; With the filmy world before him.
But he knows the gates of the Sundown
Straits, His flimsy sails abroad on the wind
Where the choicest goods are harbored. Are shivered with fairy thunder ; On a line that sings to the light of his wings He never could see the Rule of Three, He makes for the lands of wonder.
But he knows a rule of thumb