Loneliness

        The ancient poets ne'er did dream
        That Canada was land of cream,
        They ne'er imagined it could flow
        In this cold land of ice and snow,
        Where everything did solid freeze,
        They ne'er hoped or looked for cheese.

        A few years since our Oxford farms
        Were nearly robbed of all their charms,
        O'er cropped the weary land grew poor
        And nearly barren as a moor,
        But now their owners live at ease
        Rejoicing in their crop of cheese.

        And since they justly treat the soil,
        Are well rewarded for their toil,
        The land enriched by goodly cows
        Yields plenty now to fill their mows,
        Both wheat and barley, oats and peas,
        But still...

Here Johnson lies—a sage by all allow’d,
Whom to have bred may well make England proud,
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught,
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;
Whose verse may claim—grave, masculine, and strong—
Superior praise to the mere poet’s song;
Who many a noble gift from heaven possess’d,
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.
O man, immortal by a double prize,
By fame on earth—by glory in the skies!

My mother dandled me and sang,
'How young it is, how young!'
And made a golden cradle
That on a willow swung.

'He went away,' my mother sang,
'When I was brought to bed,'
And all the while her needle pulled
The gold and silver thread.

She pulled the thread and bit the thread
And made a golden gown,
And wept because she had dreamt that I
Was born to wear a crown.

'When she was got,' my mother sang,
I heard a sea-mew cry,
And saw a flake of the yellow foam
That dropped upon my thigh.'

How therefore could she help but braid
The gold into my hair,
And dream that I should carry
The golden top of care?

Though the times be dark and dreary,
Though the way be long,
Keep your spirits bright and cheery,--
--"Bide a wee, and dinna weary!"
Is a heartsome song.

When wise Ulysses, from his native coast
Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss'd,
Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone,
To all his friends, and even his queen unknown:
Changed as he was with age, and toils, and cares,
Furrow'd his reverend face, and white his hairs,
In his own palace forced to ask his bread,
Scorn'd by those slaves his former bounty fed,
Forgot of all his own domestic crew;
The faithful dog alone his rightful master knew:
Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay,
Like an old servant now cashier'd, he lay;
Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful man,
And longing to behold his ancient lord again.
Him when he saw he rose, and crawl'd to meet,
('Twas all he could) and fawn'd and kiss'd his feet,
Seized with dumb joy: then falling by hi...

Reader! I do not wish to brag;
But, to display Eliza's skill,
I'd proudly be the vilest rag
That ever went to paper-mill.

Content in pieces to be cut;
Tho' sultry were the summer-skies,
Pleas'd between flannel I'd be put,
And after bath'd in jellied size.

Tho' to be squeez'd and hang'd I hate,
For thee, sweet girl! upon my word,
When the stout press had forc'd me flat,
I'd be suspended on a cord.

And then, when dried and fit for use,
Eliza! I would pray to thee,
If with thy pen thou would'st amuse,
That thou would'st deign to write on me.

Gad's bud! how pleasant it would prove
Her pretty chit-chat to convey,
P'rhaps be the record of her love,
Told in some coy enchanting way.

Or, if her pencil she would try,

1729

To form a just and finish'd piece,
Take twenty gods of Rome or Greece,
Whose godships are in chief request,
And fit your present subject best;
And, should it be your hero's case,
To have both male and female race,
Your business must be to provide
A score of goddesses beside.
    Some call their monarchs sons of Saturn,
For which they bring a modern pattern;
Because they might have heard of one,[1]
Who often long'd to eat his son;
But this I think will not go down,
For here the father kept his crown.
    Why, then, appoint him son of Jove,
Who met his mother in a grove;
To this we freely shall consent,
Well knowing what the poets meant;
And in their sense, 'twixt me and you,
It may be literally true.[2]
    Next, as the laws ...

Come forth, you workers!
Let the fires go cold -
Let the iron spill out, out of the troughs -
Let the iron run wild
Like a red bramble on the floors -
Leave the mill and the foundry and the mine
And the shrapnel lying on the wharves -
Leave the desk and the shuttle and the loom -
Come,
With your ashen lives,
Your lives like dust in your hands.

I call upon you, workers.
It is not yet light
But I beat upon your doors.
You say you await the Dawn
But I say you are the Dawn.
Come, in your irresistible unspent force
And make new light upon the mountains.

You have turned deaf ears to others -
Me you shall hear.
Out of the mouths of turbines,
Out of the turgid throats of engines,
Over the whistling steam,
You shall hear m...

By Clara Doty Bates.


One sunny day, in the early spring,
Before a bluebird dared to sing,
Cloaked and furred as in winter weather,--
Seal-brown hat and cardinal feather,--
Forth with a piping song,
Went Gold-Locks "after flowers."
"Tired of waiting so long,"
Said this little girl of ours.

She searched the bare brown meadow over,
And found not even a leaf of clover;
Nor where the sod was chill and wet
Could she spy one tint of violet;
But where the brooklet ran
A noisy swollen billow,
She picked in her little hand
A branch of pussie-willow.

She shouted out, in a happy way,
At the catkins' fur, so soft and gray;
She smoothed them down with loving pats,
And called them her little pussie-cats.
She played at scratch ...

Tune - "The Maid's Complaint."


I.

    It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,
        Nor shape that I admire,
    Altho' thy beauty and thy grace
        Might weel awake desire.
    Something in ilka part o' thee,
        To praise, to love, I find;
    But dear as is thy form to me,
        Still dearer is thy mind.

II.

    Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae,
        Nor stronger in my breast,
    Than, if I canna mak thee sae,
        at least to see thee blest.
    Content am I, if heaven shall give
        But happiness to thee:
    And as wi' thee I'd wish to live,
        For thee I'd bear to die.

When dawns on earth the Easter sun
The dear saints feel an answering thrill.
With whitest flowers their hands they fill;
And, singing all in unison,

Unto the battlements they press--
The very marge of heaven--how near!
And bend, and look upon us here
With eyes that rain down tenderness.

Their roses, brimmed with fragrant dew,
Their lilies fair they raise on high;
"Rejoice! The Lord is risen!" they cry;
"Christ is arisen; we prove it true!

"Rejoice, and dry those faithless tears
With which your Easter flowers are stained;
Share in our bliss, who have attained
The rapture of the eternal years;

"Have proved the promise which endures,
The Love that deigned, the Love that died;
Have reached our haven by His side--
Are Christ's...

A little girl crouches with her little brother
Next to an overturned barrel of water.
In rags, a beast of a person lies gulping food
Like a cigarette butt on the yellow sun.
Two skinny goats stand in broad green spaces
On pegs, and their ropes sometimes tighten.
Invisible behind monstrous trees
Unbelievably at peace the huge horror approaches.

Siccome eterna vita è veder Dio.

ALL HIS HAPPINESS IS IN GAZING UPON HER.


    As life eternal is with God to be,
No void left craving, there of all possess'd,
So, lady mine, to be with you makes blest,
This brief frail span of mortal life to me.
So fair as now ne'er yet was mine to see--
If truth from eyes to heart be well express'd--
Lovely and blessèd spirit of my breast,
Which levels all high hopes and wishes free.
Nor would I more demand if less of haste
She show'd to part; for if, as legends tell
And credence find, are some who live by smell,
On water some, or fire who touch and taste,
All, things which neither strength nor sweetness give,
Why should not I upon your dear sight live?

MACGREGOR.

Since Man first lifted up his eyes to hers
And saw her vampire beauty, which is lust,
All else is dust
Within the compass of the universe.
With heart of Jael and with face of Ruth
She sits upon the tomb of Time and quaffs
Heart's blood and laughs
At all Life calls most noble and the truth.
The fire of conquest and the wine of dreams
Are in her veins; and in her eyes the lure
Of things unsure,
Urging the world forever to extremes.
Without her, Life would stagnate in a while.
Her touch it is puts pleasure even in pain.
So Life attain
Her end, she cares not if the means be vile.
She knows no pity, mercy, or remorse.
Hers is to build and then exterminate:
To slay, create,
And twixt the two maintain an equal course.

Why did we meet long years of yore?
    And why did we strike hands and say
"We will be friends and nothing more";
    Why are we musing thus to-day?
    Because because was just because,
    And no one knew just why it was.

Why did I say good-by to you?
    Why did I sail across the main?
Why did I love not heaven's own blue
    Until I touched these shores again?
    Because because was just because,
    And you nor I knew why it was.

Why are my arms about you now,
    And happy tears upon your cheek?
And why my kisses on your brow?
    Look up in thankfulness and speak!
    Because because was just because,
    And only God knew why it was.

The winter through I lay asleep,
Unconscious and unseen;
The howling winds disturbed me not,
Nor felt the frost tho' keen.
Thick blankets covered me about,
And kept me dry and warm,
And weeks and months passed quickly by
And I received no harm.
At last I felt uneasy in
My cosy little cot,
Tho' it was lined with softest down.
The cause I knew not what.
I struggled hard to free myself,
But struggled all in vain;
My blankets felt the strain, 'tis true,
And opened to the rain,
But just enough for me to see
The frowning sky o'erhead;
I closed my eyes, in sad affright,
And wished that I was dead.

But soon a change came o'er my frame,
Much like electric shock;
Oh, how I longed for some rare key
With which I might unlock
M...

The Text is taken from Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, where it is entitled The Gowans sae gay. This ballad is much better known in another form, May Colvin (Collin, Collean).


The Story.--Professor Child says, 'Of all ballads this has perhaps obtained the widest circulation,' and devotes thirty-two pages to its introduction. Known in the south as well as in the north of Europe, the Germans and Scandinavians preserve it in fuller and more ancient forms than the Latin nations.

In the still popular Dutch ballad Halewijn, Heer Halewijn sings so sweetly that the king's daughter asks leave to go to him. Her father, mother, and sister remind her that those who have gone to him have never returned; her brother says he does not care where she goes, if she retains her honour....

South winds jostle them,
Bumblebees come,
Hover, hesitate,
Drink, and are gone.

Butterflies pause
On their passage Cashmere;
I, softly plucking,
Present them here!