Part 4

Yea, we have journeyed since thou trod'st the road, Yet still we keep the foreappointed quest; While the last sunset smoulders in the West, Still the great faith with the undying hope Upsprings and flows, While dim Assisi fades on the wide slope And the deep Umbrian valleys fill with rose.

AT WILLIAM MACLENNAN'S GRAVE

Here where the cypress tall Shadows the stucco wall, Bronze and deep, Where the chrysanthemums blow, And the roses--blood and snow-- He lies asleep.

Florence dreameth afar; Memories of foray and war, Murmur still; The Certosa crowns with a cold Cloud of snow and gold The olive hill.

What has he now for the streams Born sweet and deep with dreams From the cedar meres? Only the Arno's flow, Turbid, and weary, and slow With wrath and tears.

What has he now for the song Of the boatmen, joyous and long, Where the rapids shine? Only the sound of toil, Where the peasants press the soil For the oil and wine.

Spirit-fellow in sooth With bold La Salle and Duluth, And La Verandrye,-- Nothing he has but rest, Deep in his cypress nest With memory.

Hearts of steel and of fire, Why do ye love and aspire, When follows Death--all your passionate deeds, Garnered with rust and with weeds In the hollows?

God that hardened the steel, Bid the flame leap and reel, Gave us unrest; We act in the dusk afar, In a star beyond your star, His behest.

"We leave you dreams and names Still we are iron and flames, Biting and bright; Into some virgin world, Champions, we are hurled, Of venture and fight."

Here where the shadows fall, From the cypress by the wall, Where the roses are-- Here is a dream and a name, There, like a rose of flame, Rises--a star.

THE WOOD-SPRING TO THE POET

Dawn-cool, dew-cool Gleams the surface of my pool Bird haunted, fern enchanted, Where but tempered spirits rule; Stars do not trace their mystic lines In my confines; I take a double night within my breast A night of darkened heavens, a night of leaves, And in the two-fold dark I hear the owl Puff at his velvet horn And the wolves howl. Even daylight comes with a touch of gold Not overbold, And shows dwarf-cornel and the twin-flowers, Below the balsam bowers, Their tints enamelled in my dew-drop shield. Too small even for a thirsty fawn To quench upon, I hold my crystal at one level There where you see the liquid bevel Break in silver and go free Singing to its destiny.

Give, Poet, give! Thus only shalt thou live. Give! for 'tis thy joyous doom To charm, to comfort, to illume.

Speak to the maiden and the child With accents deep and mild, Tell them of the world so wide In words of wonder and pure pride, Touched with the rapture of surprise That dwells in a child angel's eyes, Awed with the strangeness of new-birth, When the flaming seraph sent To lead him into Paradise, Calls his name with the mother's voice He has just ceased to hear on earth.

Give to the youth his heart's content, But power with prudence blent, Thicken his sinews with love, With courage his heart prove, Till over his spirit shall roll The vast wave of control. In the cages and dens of strife, Where men draw breath Thick with a curse at the dear thing called life, Give them courage to bear, Strength to aspire and dare; Give them hopes rooted in stone, That the loveliest flowers take on, Bind on their brows with a gesture free The palm green bays of liberty.

Give to the mothers of men The knowledge of joy in pain, Give them the sense of reward That grew in the breast of the Lord On the dawn of the seventh morn; For 'tis they who re-create the world Whenever a child is born.

Give, Poet, give! Give them songs that charm and fill The soul with an alluring pleasure, Prelusive to a deeper thrill, A richer tone, a fuller measure; Like voices, veiled with hidden treasure, Of angels on a windy morning, That first far off, then all together, Come with a glorious clarion calling; And when they swoon beneath the spell Recapture them to hear the echoes Falling--falling--falling.

To those stoned for the truth Give ruth; Give manna for the mourner's mouth Sovereign as air; For his heart's drouth A prayer.

Give to dead souls that mock at life Aweary of their cankered hearts, Weary of sleep and weary of strife, Weary of markets and of arts,-- Helve them a song of life, Two-edged with joyous life, Tempered trusty with life, Proud pointed with wild life, Plunge it as lightning plunges, Stab them to life!

Give to those who grieve in secret, Those who bear the sorrows of earth, The deep unappeasable longings Which beset them with throngings and throngings, (As, on a windless night, Through the fold of a dark mantle furled, Gleams on our world, world after unknown world) Give them peace, Wide as the veil that hides God's face, The pure plenitude of space, In which our universe is but a glittering crease,-- Give them such peace.

Give, Poet, give! Thus only shalt thou live: Give as we give who are hidden In myriad dimples of rock and fern; Give as we give unbidden To tarn and rillet and burn, Where the lake dreams, Where the fall is hurled, Striving to sweeten The oceans of the world.

Should my song for a moment cease, Silence fall in the woodland peace; Should I wilfully check the flow Bubbling and dancing up from below; Say to my heart be still--be still, Let the murmur die with the rill; Then should the glittering, grey sea-things Sigh as they wallow the under springs; Where the deep brine-pools used to lie Deserts vast would stare at the sky, And even thy rich heart (O Poet, Poet!) Even thy rich heart run dry.

THE NOVEMBER PANSY

This is not June,--by Autumn's stratagem Thou hast been ambushed in the chilly air; Upon thy fragile crest virginal fair The rime has clustered in a diadem; The early frost Has nipped thy roots and tried thy tender stem, Seared thy gold petals, all thy charm is lost.

Thyself the only sunshine: in obeying The law that bids thee blossom in the world Thy little flag of courage is unfurled; Inherent pansy-memories are saying That there is sun, That there is dew and colour and warmth repaying The rain, the starlight when the light is done.

These are the gaunt forms of the hollyhocks That shower the seeds from out their withered purses; Here were the pinks; there the nasturtium nurses The last of colour in her gaudy smocks; The ruins yonder Show but a vestige of the flaming phlox; The poppies on their faded glory ponder.

Here visited the vagrant humming-bird, The nebulous darting green, the ruby-throated; The warm fans of the butterfly here floated; Those two nests reared the robins, and the third Was left forlorn Muffled in lilacs, whence the perfume stirred The tremulous eyelids of the dewy morn.