Twenty-Five Fugitive Poems by Archibald Lampman

Edited and Introduced by L.R. Early

In the past decade, criticism of Canadian literature has quite outrun our textual scholarship, though some gains have been made in the latter area. The case of Archibald Lampman nicely illustrates this observation. Criticism of his work has been diverse and stimulating, and has been amplified recently by some very useful scholarship: an extensive bibliography, the first publication of one of his literary lectures and a careful edition of his most important correspondence.1  But his poetry remains the substance of his achievement, and for that we must still rely largely upon the Memorial Edition, compiled by Duncan Campbell Scott in 1900. Bruce Nesbitt has pronounced this text unreliable, and it is no comfort to discover that later selections of Lampman's poems, by Scott, E.K. Brown, and Margaret Coulby Whitridge, are also unsatisfactory in fundamental ways.2  Nevertheless, as a definitive edition of "the works" remains an unrealized ideal, we must make do with what we have. Therefore I think it worth-while to bring together these twenty-five poems published in a variety of places, but uncollected in the principal editions.

     Nineteen of these pieces were published in periodicals from 1882 to 1898, during Lampman's lifetime. Of this group, six are unlisted in the main bibliographies, and three, from Owl, the Ottawa University magazine, have not been recorded anywhere, so far as I know.3  Six other poems have appeared in odd places since Lampman's death. "The Settler's Tale" was edited by Scott for periodical publication in 1913, and "Impromptu" appeared in his shorter selection of Lampman's work, Lyrics of Earth, Sonnets and Ballads, in 1925. Lampman's untitled parody of Stephen Crane's verse also made its first printed appearance in Scott's introduction to this volume. More recently, three very short, untitled pieces have been quoted in their entirety in various critical journals. I hesitated to incorporate these six posthumous items here as there is no indication that Lampman considered them worth publishing, and concerning "The Settler's Tale" there is clear evidence to the contrary.4   Readers, however, may well find them interesting, and I include them after all, for the sake of completeness and convenience.

     Obviously these poems are of varying quality and importance. In my judgement, none comes into the first rank of Lampman's work, but several belong in the second. Some, while flawed, illuminate crucial aspects of his imagination, or illustrate his wide range of interests. Nine of them date from Lampman's apprenticeship to poetry during 1882-83; most of these appeared in Rouge et Noir, the Trinity College magazine to which he contributed both as undergraduate and alumnus. "Verses," which seems to be his earliest published poem, introduces a persistent secondary strain in his work: earnest didacticism yoked to the extended simile or metaphor. "Derelict" and "Hope and Fear" are of the same kind, and not among his happier efforts in any sense of the adjective. Eventually he had much greater success when he compressed such utterances within the sonnet form.

      No one will be surprised that the early nature poems are much better efforts. "The Hepatica" shows Lampman at his most unabashedly Keatsian, already embroidering his dream-myth of seasonal dissolution and renewal. "Winter Evening" crystallizes several enduring motifs in his nature poetry, and in the third stanza of "An August Warning" there are hints of the sun-drenched landscapes of "Among the Timothy" and "Heat." There are also other foreshadowings. "A Fantasy" and "Emancipation" adumbrate the ominous vision ultimately expressed in "The City of the End of Things." And perhaps the most startling anticipation of all occurs in "The Last Sortie" (Rouge et Noir, 1882), which is echoed several times in "At the Long Sault," written sixteen years later.

     The shape of Lampman's career is implied in this collection, in that the most interesting of the later fugitive pieces are not "nature work." The two long poems, "Sebastian" and "The Settler's Tale," register disparate ideas of heroism and destiny. Sebastian is the transformed romance hero typical in Lampman's work up to 1894. He is humble in origin, physically impressive, detached, studious, and a leader-in-waiting, much like Richard Stahlberg in "The Story of an Affinity." As a "statement," "Sebastian" reflects an ingenuous confidence in knowledge, and affirms Lampman's faith that ultimately all life "to some large purpose moves serenely on." By contrast, "The Settler's Tale" represents a shift toward the tragic knowledge of such later protagonists as Alf of Upsala, the Minstrel, and Daulac. I incline toward Scott's view, despite Lampman's own misgivings, that "The Settler's Tale" is an important work: a sombre study of the spiritual destruction wrought by suffering. The flat march of couplets suggests both the speaker's desolation and a stark inevitability in his tale. This poem, written in 1893, eerily foreshadows Lampman's own grievous loss of a child a year later, and reflects his new and disturbing sense of a grim idiocy at the very gates of life. Some of the shorter pieces, such as the fragment on "the pimp and the politician," indicate a satiric aptitude which Lampman never properly cultivated. His parody of Crane is weak, but "An Invitation to the Woods" is an engaging self-parody which spoofs a serious theme of his own nature poetry. All in all, these twenty-five poems provide something like a microcosm of Lampman's oeuore. The best are not "phantoms of many a dead idolatry, / Dream-rescued from oblivion," but will reward readers who give their power a chance to work.5

     The poems are arranged in the order of composition, and the texts are those of the published versions emended, where possible, on manuscript authority. For each I provide a note on the place of publication, date of composition, principal manuscript source, and all substantive variants adopted from manuscript. I have silently corrected spelling and occasionally altered punctuation to conform to Lampman's customary usage or to clarify syntax.


  1. George Wicken, "Archibald Lampman: An Annotated Bibliography," in The Annotated Bibliography of Canada's Major Authors, ed. Robert Lecker and Jack David, II (Downsview, Ont.: ECW, 1980), 97-146, Archibald Lampman, "Style," ed. Sue Mothersill Canadian Poetry, No. 7 (Fall/Winter 1980), pp. 56-72; Helen Lynn, ed., An Annotated Edition of the Correspondence Between Archibald Lampman and Edward William Thomson (1890-1898) (Ottawa: Tecumseh, 1980), hereafter cited as Correspondence.[back]
  2. The Poems of Archibald Lampman, ed. Duncan Campbell Scott (Toronto: Morang, 1900), rpt. Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1974, in an edition which also includes At the Long Sault and Other New Poems, ed. Duncan Campbell Scott and E.K. Brown (Toronto: Ryerson, 1943); Lampman's Kate: Late Love Poems of Archibald Lampman, 1887-1897, ed. Margaret Coulby Whitridge (Ottawa: Borealis, 1975); Lampman's Sonnets, 1884-1899, ed. Margaret Coulby Whitridge (Ottawa: Borealis, 1976). On the shortcomings of these editions, see Bruce Nesbitt, "Lampmania: Alcyone and the Search for Merope," in Editing Canadian Texts, Proc. of a Conference on Editorial Problems, Univ. of Toronto, 1972, ed. Francess G. Halpenny (Toronto: Hakkert, 1975), pp. 33-48, Nesbitt's "The New Lampman," in The Lampman Symposium, ed. Lorraine McMullen (Ottawa: Univ. of Ottawa Press, 1976), pp. 99-110; and W.J. Keith, "Three Recent Editions of Lampman," Canadian Poetry, No. 2 (Spring/Summer 1978), pp. 99-105.[back]
  3. Lampman's contributions to the Owl seem to have escaped notice altogether. Besides the three uncollected lyrics presented here, four sonnets subsequently included in The Poems of Archibald Lampman and At the Long Sault were first published in Owl: "April Voices," 3 (May 1890), 297; "The Piano," 5 (Dec. 1891), 172; "On the Death of Tennyson," 6 (Dec. 1892), 177; and "Dead Cities" II, 9 (Dec. 1895), 161 (together with its companion sonnet, earlier published in Scribner's, 7 [May 1890], 624).[back]
  4. In a letter responding to criticism of several works submitted for his friend Thomson's opinion, Lampman admitted that he had "suspected that 'The Settler's Tale' was rubbish," even though "I seemed to write those pieces under the influence of a genuine impulse," and he resolved to discard the poem, "which I fully agree . . . is hopeless" (To E.W. Thomson, 22 Nov. 1893, Correspondence, p. 101). In 1913 Duncan Campbell Scott, who as Lampman's literary executor retained the manuscripts, rediscovered and edited the poem. In his prefatory note, he wondered at having excluded it from the Memorial Edition, and claimed that "its beauties are evident, and they come upon us sadly as manifestations of a genius that, as we humanly think, should yet be vigorous and active in our midst and not utterly quenched" (Canadian Magazine, 42 [Dec. 1913], 113). Thirty years later, when he co-edited At the Long Sault, Scott decided after "great doubt" to exclude "The Settler's Tale" (D.C. Scott, Letters to E.K. Brown, Autumn 1942 and 18 Jan. 1943, Some Letters of Duncan Campbell Scott, Archibald Lampman, and Others, ed. Arthur S. Bourinot [Ottawa: The Editor, 1959], pp. 17, 23).[back]
  5. "Dead Cities" I, in The Poems of Archibald Lampman, p. 269.[back] 



As the wild murmuring waves
     Of the resistless sea
Buffet the shifting sands,
     So Fate may thee.
Some the strong billows hurry  
     Far onward in their flow,
Yet ever bearing many,
     Back, back they go!
Then in thy might and splendour
     Oh! man shut not thy heart,                                                    
Think of the sands: forget not
     Still man thou art.
That should the stern waves drag thee
     Down from the sunlit shore,
Thy memories may regret not                                                    
     The days of yore.

The Last Sortie

Far o'er the valley, hushed and still,
     The silence of death is hanging,
Save for a faint-heard bugle note
     Or a sabre's distant clanging.

The first pale light hath risen and veiled            

     The eastern stars in morning
And many a gun hath opened wide
     Its hungry lips for warning.

High in the East, Valerien,
     The huge dim mass expanding,                   

Is fringed and streaked in the pallid light
     By the breathless thousands standing.

The fires are out and the air is chill
     The morning light is dreary,
And sleep hangs over dark Montretout,     

     For the German limbs are weary.

Sad and soft through the leafless trees
     The straying wind is sighing:
Softer its voice when the night shall pass
     O'er the lips of the dead and dying.                  


Awake! Awake! the dawn is come,
     While ye, brave hearts, are sleeping,
Through the dim light and the lingering mist
     The silent foe are creeping.
                           * * *
Far o'er the valley thick and fast                                                      
     The battle clouds are rolling,
A vast death-knell from the smoke-wrapt heights
     The mighty guns are tolling.

Onward the countless hosts of France

     With sullen tramp are streaming.                                                   
Lurid and red through the gathering smoke
     The cannon flames are gleaming.

Strong and fast on dark Montretout,
     Heeding no foeman's warning,

With tightened lips the Teutons stand,                                             
     Pale in the growing morning.

Silent they stand, a little ring,
     Scarce worth the sabre's cleaving,

With a last brave thought for the distant homes,
     Their gallant souls are leaving.                                                    

Onward and round the foe sweep on
     Like the swirl of the tide advancing;

Pale faces gleam through the misty smoke,
     And the thirsty steel is glancing.

Up! Up! ye hosts of the fatherland,                                                  
     Hark to the cannon calling:

Marshal your legions thick and fast,
     For your bravest hearts are falling.
                           * * *
The wintry snow is streaked with blood,
     And the death-like wind is sighing       
Dreary and chill o'er the darkened waste,
     The sullen foe are flying.

Fast from the night-wind o'er the vale
     The battle smoke is rolling:

Slowly and far from the shadowy height,                                         
     The hollow guns are tolling.

Silent and still on dark Montretout,
     The moon's soft light is falling

On the pallid lips of the proudest hearts,
     That died at their country's calling.                                  



I saw a proud ship, tall and gay,
     With streamers waving merrily,
From lock to lock, a weary way,
     Toil slowly upward to the sea.

And ready hands sprang at her word,               

     The mighty gates swung free and wide;
And many a nimble tongue was heard,
     In wonder at her stately pride.

The ruddy light of morning fell
     On folded sail and naked mast;                             

Louder and louder grew the swell
     Of voices, as the way she past.

And when the noon stood hot and high,
     The broad sails drank the strong sea breeze,

While shrilly rose the wondering cry                                         
     Of thousands on the thronging quays.

And far behind her as she swept
     Over the wide, sun-sprinkled sea,

A murmur of deep voices crept,
     Marring the white waves' harmony.                                        

I saw that stately ship again
     Upon the rocks, a lonely wreck,

And long the sea-worn sails had lain
     Like shattered wings across her deck.

I heard the dark sea leap and roll                                               
     About the black and sundered beams

And one by one the long waves stole
     With dreary murmur through her seams.

And there no human thing could be
     No sound save the lone sea-wind's moans,             

And the deep voice of the wind-worn sea
     Upon its cold and barren stones.


So did I watch a strong man's life
     Steal slowly upward hour by hour,
Through the grim paths of toil and strife                                     
     To the cold majesty of power.

And thousands sprang to aid him by,

     And watched through all the weary race,
With murmuring lip and dazed eye,
     The cold calm wonder of his face.                                         

The glow of youth grew sere and dead,

     As year by year the way slid past,
Till furrowed brow and silvered head
     Beheld the broad bright sea at last.

Short, stormy years had come and flown,         

      I saw that stately life once more
A dreary wreck, storm-riven, blown
     Upon the bleak world's barren shore.

Half-heeded now the deadened roll

     Of envy, sorrow, strife and pain,                                             
With sorrowful, soft murmur stole
     Through broken heart and weary brain.

Winter Evening

Westward the sunset is waning slow,
A far torn flame on the silent snow
And dies, as the vast night waxes higher,
In scattering lines of stormy fire.

The piled clouds are sinking dreary and dun       

On the red wild track of the setting sun
Westward the fierce winds gather and fleet
Mightily down the frozen street.

Like the work of the painter's hand are pressed

On the pale clear brow of the yellow west,                                 
The pointed spires and the dark and still
Towers of the town on the western hill.

Far through the firmament, misty fair,

Veiled and dimmed with their golden hair,
The moon and her chorus of sweet stars whirl                           
In their white torn mantles of cloudy pearl.

The hard snow shrieks on the beaten street —

Under the tread of the hurrying feet,
Sharp and shrill, like a thing in pain,
Bound in the winter's Titan chain.                                              

Westward away the wan day sinks;

I see, as I pass, through the shutter chinks
The bright ruddy lips of children prate
Round the red warm hearth and the blazing grate.

Ah, bright bitter winter, I love thee still                               

For thy strong bright wine to the strong man's will:
For thy stormy days of tempest and moil,
And thy calm sweet peace that follows toil;

For thy bright white snow and the silver chime

Of bells that gladden the bitter time;                                           
For the laughing lips and the children at play
And the long mirthful hours that sweeten day.

Winter's Nap

For a moment in the north,
     On the jagged dark pine steeps,
Drooping low his starless wings,
     Wizard-fingered winter sleeps.

Fast are closed the Gorgon eyes,      

     That turned man and beast to stone,
And his vast sun-slaying shield
     Lies uncharmed beside his throne.

From between his awful feet

     Speed the children of the sun,                                                  
Weaving golden mist and light,
     Weaving, laughing, every one;

Like swift subtle dreams that creep

     From beneath the wings of care,
Smoothing out the knotted brows,                                               
     That had been so bleak and bare.

And the gentle mother earth,

     Who, when winter kissed his bride,
Looked upon his mighty shape,
     Looked and touched his feet, and died —                                

As the child of Cadmus old

     Looked upon the awful grace
Of the king of gods, and fell,
     Biding not her master's face —

Now looks up again and smiles                  

     Through her wide eyes wan and wet,
Lifting white arms to the sun,
     To the sun, who comes not yet:

While away the spirits sweep,

     Southward, till the sunless plain                                              
Drinks the sunlight from their feet,
     Quailing with the joyous pain;

Beating off the clinging glooms

     From the haunted forest lines;
Shaking out the sombre dreams                                                  
     From the winter-loving pines;

And the blind beasts from their caves,

     Blinking in the sudden light,
Hear their spirit voices say,
     "Winter sleeps a day and night;"                                              

And the snow pearls in the locks,

     Ever green and ever new,
Of the cedars, kissed by them,
     Tremble into silver dew.

Then with music-shafted wings,         

     Mount they upward swift like fire,
Beating out a golden path
     For the golden sun, their sire.

Then across the sky, and round

     Many a pillared mountain form,                                             
Run they chasing the dull clouds,
     Sightless children of the storm;

Lighting up the altars dead
     Of the sea-waves, dark and dun,

From the altar fire divine                                                           
     Of the temple of the sun.

Thus all day o'er earth and sea,
     With swift hands of flame, they go
Till night hears their footsteps die,

     In mute music on the snow;

And a strident sound is heard,
     Cleaving earth from zone to zone,
Of the winter's wings unfurled
     Flapping from his caverned throne.


 Hope and Fear

As when the sunless face of winter fills
     The earth — a moment misty bright — 
     The sun streams forth in powdery light,
A silver glory over silent hills;

And all the rolling glooms that lie below                                     
     That sudden splendour of the sun,
     With shivered feet and mantles dun,
In stricken columns skim the gleaming snow;

Yet far away, beyond the utmost range
     Of sun-drowned heights, pine-skirted, dim,                              
     That fringe the white waste's frozen rim,
Hang ever ghost-like waiting for the change:

So often to the blank world-sobered heart
     Comes hope, with swift unbidden eye,
     And bids the weary life-glooms fly                                          
With shaken feet, and for a space depart;

Yet evermore, still known of eye and ear,
     With sullen, unforgotten surge,
     Hang ever on the waste heart's verge,
Time's hovering ghosts of restless change and fear.

The Hepatica

     What faint sweet song out of the turning years
Is thine amid the myriad songs of earth?
Frail singer, born of laughter and of tears,
     Betwixt the times of sorrow and of mirth
Mute maker of a soft, pale-petalled rhyme,                                  
Whom sharp death slays so long before the prime.

     'Twas but a little time ago we heard
The slim pines, standing sandalled with waste snow,
And dreary cedar copses, pierced and stirred
     With hollow winds, that spake no word but woe.                   
There was no voice in all the bleak world's breath,
But one wide moan, one hollow song of death.

     And yet a little while, and we shall hear
The maenad earth, grown drunken with rich hours,
Bright-bosomed, sprung from her sad couch of fear,                  
     Enwound with all her bridal gift of flowers,
Unceasingly, while the fair days abide,
Red sunset, burning noon, and morning-tide,

     Lift up her mad song to the shielding sun,
Remembering naught of all the ills that were,                             
To him the Lord, whose shining strength doth run
     Like wine, in all the throbbing veins of her;
But yet thou hast a sweeter song than she,
Too full of hope and burdened memory.

     For all thy soul is sad with sharp things fled,                          
With sights that fade not, though the hours be flown,
And sounds that die not, though the days be dead;
     White wastes that glimmer, houseless winds that moan,
Brown woods that wail, nor any comfort gain
Fill thy grey-memoried treasury of pain.                                    

     Yet is thy thought not all of pain; we know
That strong the sun shines in thy face, and wide
The wild and fruitful hours before thee grow,
     In gathering beauty to the perfect tide;
The full, soft dreams and countless songs that cling                  
About the face of sun-beholden spring.

     These things thou speakest with thy sad, small voice,
And all fair mourning forest things that grow
Bleak trees, pale grasses, withered plants, rejoice
     And gather up their heart of pride to know                              
The end at last of all their drearihead
That lovely summer is not always dead.

     Pale singer, friend of them that joy and weep,
The glad time dawning shall behold thee dumb,
Laid songless then, wrapped round with painless sleep,            
     Too heavy-weighed to see the wild hours come;
Too weary-worn with thought of hard things slain,
And wildering hope, that yet was almost pain.

     Then flourish fairly, flower and glossy leaf,
Let no hand stoop to do thee any wrong,                                      
God wot, thy pale mid time is very brief
     To gather in the sunlight and the song;
Mute singer of a sweet pale-petalled rhyme
Whom sharp death slays so long before the prime.

An August Warning

O cold bleak wind, why must thou weep and moan,
     With such wild warning, so forebodingly?
There is no voice today but thine alone,
     Piercing soft summer with that autumn cry;
Oh why is all the world so bleak and wet?                                  
     Hush, hush, mad wind, it is not autumn yet.

Two days ago the woods, and fields, and skies
     Were full of slumberous notes and shadowy gleams,
It seemed as if grey Time's own restless eyes,
     Grown faint, change-weary, lulled with nectarous dreams,     
Had fallen adrowse in some deep drift of flowers,
     And lost the counting of the rose-crowned hours.

All day cool shadows o'er the drowsy kine
     The wide elms in the shining pastures flung;
The tufted branches of the sun-soaked pine                                
     Grey-silvery in the burning noontide hung;
The light winds chattered in the poplar leaves;
     The squirrels robbed among the golden sheaves.

Deep in the woods through the warm silent hours
     Brown shadows wavered on the mottled mould;                     
In the still gardens full of light and flowers
     No word of death or any doom was told,
No voice there was but of the birds and trees,
     And day-long labour of uneasèd bees.

Surely the days had voices too divine                                         
     To hear one word that drear November saith.
Was there in all the world one note of thine?
     Had one sere leaf foretold the dreary death?
Ah wintry wind, it was not time to blight
     That golden peace, that languor of delight.                            

Sad weary wind, away, why must thou mock
     Soft summer's faith, her short-lived fantasy?
See how the slim flame-knotted holly hock
     In the cold garden close sways fearfully,
And though the hours life-bearing be not told,                            
     The sweet pinks droop, the roses are acold.

The tall elms sway, and wring their chilly leaves,
     And moan in long-drawn frightened agony;
Far on the upland slopes the dusk pine grieves
     Vast-voicèd for his sombre misery;                                         
The clover fields lie sodden, chill and grey;
     The poor numbed bees can get no heart today.

The time is short: the dark hour cometh fast,
     Why tease the warm earth with thy misery?
We would not know that death must come at last.                      
     Sweet summer folds us round. Oh let us be!
Though all the world be cold and sad and wet,
     Grey bitter wind, it is not autumn yet.

A Fantasy

As in a city given over to death,
     One flying hour before the grave may be,
All frenzied mortals that have life and breath
     Clasp hands, join lips, and take their fill of glee, — 
The grave fulfils, and faster whirls the throng,                
     Redder the wine runs through the desperate days,
The dance grows louder, madder grows the song,
     The kisses wilder as the blue plague slays:
So the leaves fall and death is wide to smite;
Haste, wind, make revel for a day and night!           


Housed in earthen palaces are we
     Over smouldering fires,
Wherethrough the fumes creep witheringly,
     Doubts and hot desires
And our souls in that dense place                                                 
        Lose their grace.

Some forever grope and climb
     Toward the outer air;
Some into the nether slime
     Slip and stifle there;                                                                 
Others with alternating mind
          Wander blind.

Yet each palace — this we know — 
     Hath one central tower
Round about it breathe and blow                                                 
     Winds for every hour;
And its spire through ether riven
          Enters heaven.

At its base a narrow slit
     Gleams and that is all;                                                             
But the sunlight slants through it,
     Like a solid wall.
Enter, lest thine after moan
         Find it flown.


What thoughts are in Sebastian's mind? He stands
Tall and loose-limbed, leaning upon his pole,
Rapt yet alert, a giant in a dream:
Drooped shoulders, head thrust slightly forward, hair
Curled duskly over wide and wave-like brows,                          
Long hands with lean and supple fingers, cheeks
High-boned, tanned red as leather, watchful eyes
Sudden and swift and grey, but far within
Fed by a tranquil and perpetual fire:
So leans Sebastian with unharrassed gaze                                  
That marks the hour, but seems to watch beyond.
Outside the wide waste waters gleam. The sun
Beats hot upon the roofs, and close at hand
The heavy river o'er its fall of rocks
Roars down in foam and spouted spray and pounds                    
Its bed with solid thunders. Far away
Stretch the grey glimmering booms that pen the logs,
Brown multitudes that from the northern waste
Have come by many a rushing stream, and now
The river shepherds with their spiked poles                              
Herd them in flocks, and drive them like blind sheep
Unto the slaughterer's hand. Here in the mills,
Dim and low-roofed, cool with the scent of pines
And gusts from off the windy cataract
All day the crash and clamour shake the floors,                         
The immense chains move slowly on. All day
The pitiless saws creep up the dripping logs
With champ and sullen roar, or round and shrill,
A glittering fury of invisible teeth,
Yell through the clacking boards. Sebastian turns                      
A moment's space, and through the great square door
Beholds as in a jarred and turbulent dream
The waste of logs and the long running crest
Of plunging water; farther still, beyond
The openings of the piered and buttressed bridge,                     
The rapid flashing into foam, and last,
Northward, far-drawn, above the misty shore,
The pale blue cloud line of the summer hills.

So stands Sebastian, and with quiet eyes,
Rapt forehead and lips manfully closed,                                    

Sees afar off, and through the heat and roar,
Beyond the jostling shadows and the throng,
Skirts the cool borders of an ampler world
Decking the hours with visions. Yet his hands,
Grown sure and clock-like at their practised task,               
Are not forgetful. Up the shaken slides
With splash and thunder come the groaning logs.
Sebastian grasps his cant-dog with light strength,
Drives into their dripping sides its iron fangs,
And one by one as with a giant's ease                                        
Turns them and sets them toward the crashing saws.
So all day long and half the weary night
The mills roar on, the logs come shouldering in,
And the fierce light glares on the downward blades
And the huge logs and the wild crowd of men.                      
Through every hole and crack, through all the doors,
A stream upon the solid dark, it lights
The black smooth races and the glimmering booms,
And turns the river's spouted spray to silver.

The blind across Sebastian's window lifts.                                

He leans over the sill, and toward the night
Looks out a moment with that ample front
And those calm, capable, untroubled eyes.
Far off into the dusk, halo'd and vast,
Level, dark-towered, seamed with its serried streets,      
The city stretches miles on miles away;
And all around him, as he leans and listens,
The complex movement of this sleepless life
Surges with massive murmur in his ear,
The mingled sough and tumult of mankind                         
Groping forever toward an unseen end.
What thought is in yon city's moving heart?
What thoughts are in Sebastian's soul? Those stars
That sprinkle and incrust the height of heaven
Are not more clear and steadfast than his eyes.                
The future! What shall the great future bring?
He dreams not yet; but this, unconsciously,
Sown with the very seed of life, he knows,
That all his being like yon city's heart,
Brain, flesh, and spirit, by encumbered paths,                           
To some large purpose moves serenely on.

Sebastian only works by day; the nights
Are his; the solemn and triumphant nights!
In the small upper chamber where he sleeps,
The shaded lamp into the midnight shines                                  
On rough hewn shelves and serried ranks of books;
And there Sebastian sits, and with grave brow,
Keeps vigil stouter than a knight of old,
Questing through lands beset with doubt and toil 

His modern Sangreal. Where it shall end,                                  
Or what the seeker's final gain shall be,
He knows not, but already o'er his soul
Hath risen the first reward of knowledge — joy!

Not vain the fight; already hath the veil

Been partly lifted; he hath seen the god!                                     
World upon world hath opened till his eyes,
Grown blind and dizzy with sheer weight of rapture,
Scarce dare to trust their strength; but not for him
Is doubt; might hath begotten might; the hours
Move onward, widening to eternity,                                         
Sebastian sees them, and his eager gaze
Grows firmer and more trustful day by day,
More spacious and more solemn. From his ears
Falls off the crash and thunder of the mills,
The city's roar, the pettier sounds of life.                                 
Hoarse voices echo from the rooms below,
Threats, curses, drunken songs. He hears them not.
The world's poor makeshifts and its common lures,
Wine, lust, or play, pass by him like a dream.
One genius rules him, the unresting mind,                                
Watchful and bright, insatiate, penetrating,
Feeding on all things, finding nothing waste.

Each fact, each thought, each point of knowledge gained
Pierces his being with a glow of power.
It is a key to open stanchioned doors                                        
And lift the lids of coffers yet unsearched,

A golden gleam on many a dark recess,
A sword laid by that may be some day drawn.
So shall Sebastian sit and bind his fates
Lonely, self-centred, pure, and armed with joy;                       
Build up the conquering fabric of his brain,
A sleepless engine, and abide his time.
There is no hurry in his soul. The world
Gleams out upon him from a thousand doors.
When he is ready, horsed, and fully armed,                              
The occasion shall not pass unmarked. His hour
Will bid him with an unmistakeable touch.

"How dealt the world . . ."

How dealt the world, Oh Christ, with thee,
     Who shrank not from the common rod,
Whose secret was humility?
     They mocked and scourged, then hailed thee god.

And built out of thine earnest speech,                                       
     Whose gift was for the simplest needs,
Whose meaning was in all men's reach,
     The strangest of phantastic creeds.

Elemental Voices

The sound of the wind in the tree,
     Of the rain on the roof,
The voice of the surge of the sea,
     Or of thunder aloof.

What thought or remembrance is mine,                                       
     Unprobed, as I hear;
The touch of a passion divine,
     Remote and yet near.

A dream of the spirits that wrought,
     When life was unfurled,                                                          
A yearning immortal, upcaught
     From the birth of the world.

"Earth, heaven, and the mighty whole . . ."

Earth, heaven, and the mighty whole — 
     I scan them and forget the strife;
'Tis when I read the human soul
     A darkness passes upon life.

The Lesson of the Trees

The tall trees stand without fear, without pain,
     Though summers gather their gold and go;
For life is a thing to be lived; it is gain;
     In the bounty of June or the winter's snow;
They are earth's, they are God's, and whatever may be,               
They stand, as we ought to do, straight and free.


Down a narrow alley blind,
Touch and vision, heart and mind,
Turned sharply inward, still we plod
Till the calmly smiling god
Leaves us, and our spirits grow                   
More thin, more acrid, as we go.
Creeping by the sullen wall
We forego the power to see
The threads that bind us to the all,
God or the immensity,                                  
Whereof on the eternal road
Man is but a passing mode.

Subtly conscious, all awake,
Let us clear our eyes and break

Through the cloudy chrysalis —                                                 
See the wonder as it is.
Too blind we are, too little see
Of the magic pageantry,
Every minute, every hour,
From the cloud-flake to the flower,                                            
Forever old, forever strange,
Issuing in perpetual change
From the rainbow gates of time.

But he who through this common air

Surely knows the great and fair,                                                 
What is lovely, what sublime,
Becomes in an increasing span
One with earth and one with man.
One, despite these mortal scars,
With the planets and the stars;                                                  
And nature from her holy place,
Bending with unveiled face,
Fills him in her divine employ
With her own majestic joy.

The Settler's Tale

You say you have thought of me day by day,
And wondered why I am grim and grey,

So drawn of mouth and so hard of eye:
You are kind, you are good, I will tell you why.

By the tender light and the motherly grace                                     
That win my eyes to your gentle face,

By the little fingers that cling to your hand,
I know you will hear me, and understand.


In a long past year, ere the spring was awake,
I built me a hut by a northern lake.                                              

The logs I measured and hauled and hewed,
Ere the leaves were aflame in the autumn wood.


I raised and mortised them close and well,
And I finished the roof, when the first snow fell.

While the light of the wintry sun was thin,                                  
I carved and fitted it fair within.


Though the drifts were like hills in the frost-white hours,
In my heart there was summer with birds and flowers;

For I thought of the girl I had wooed and won,
And I whistled and sang till my task was done.                    


I took my paddle when spring began,
And many a gusty rapid I ran.

By lake and river I journeyed down,
Till I came to the mills in a far-off town;

And my love — I found her as fair and true,                              
As she was in the year when our love was new.

By rapid and pool in my paddle's wake,
I brought her back to my northern lake.


She was all in the world that my heart held dear,
And our days were filled with content and cheer.                        

A twelve-month long without shadow of dread,
We laboured and planned for the years ahead.


And then in the hour of my hope and pride
She bore me a beautiful child, and died.

I went to the clearing with pick and spade,                                
And a long, deep grave in the mould I made;


And I bore her and laid her tenderly there,
With her sad white cheeks and her nut-brown hair,

My beautiful one, with her gentle smile.
I lay in the earth at her feet awhile,                                            

With never a moan and never a tear,
For my heart was benumbed with horror and fear.


I rose from the grave, and with silent care
I filled and rounded it smooth and fair;

And then to my motherless babe I turned,                                   
And wept, and the wildness of grief I learned.

As softly and deftly as mothers may
I tended my little one night and day,


The one thing left that my heart held dear,
I watched her with joy and shuddering fear,                               

The fairest of delicate baby girls,
With her mother's eyes and her mother's curls.

Winter or summer, whatever befell,
I kept and guarded her safe and well;


And still as she grew, in my gathering joy                                  
I made her many a curious toy,

Seeking ever for some new thing
To make her musical laughter ring.

But I fought in vain with the fate in store,
For the thing I dreaded was there at my door.    


In the hush of one sultry summer night
I sprang from my bed in a dark affright.

I called upon God, and my heart beat wild,
For a horrible sickness had seized my child.

I worked as I would, but ere morning was red,                          
My beautiful baby was cold and dead. 


I went to the clearing with pick and spade,
And a small deep grave in the mould I made.

I softened its floor with an otter's skin, 
And I laid my little one low therein.                                             

And everything there from the first to the least,
That her hands had touched, or her lips had kissed — 


The toys that had been her delight and pride — 
I gathered and laid by my little one's side.

I knelt in the mould and I kissed her brow,                                 
And her cheeks and shoulders as cold as snow.

I smoothed her locks on the otter's skin,
And I rose from the grave and covered it in. 


I covered it in, and with patient care
I heaped and rounded it smooth and fair                                     

I wept not, nor moaned, nor uttered her name,
For my heart was dry, as with living flame.

And again I laboured with pick and spade,
And a long, deep grave in the mould I made.


I made it deep and I made it wide,                                             
And I sat in the silent night by its side.

A new day dawned and a second and third,
But I know not if ever I spake or stirred,

For thought with the wreck of my love had fled;
My body still lived, but my soul was dead.     


Only one thing in the dark I knew — 
The presence of Death that grew and grew.

I saw not its form, for it stretched away,
Miles upon miles, beyond night, beyond day.

But its eyes I saw, yea, I saw its eyes,                                        
That were fixed upon mine with a pale surmise,


With a veiled, impalpable, ceaseless stare,
Till my life ebbed low, and my bones grew bare.

And then in the midnight a tempest came;
With the crash of wind and the stroke of flame,                        

And I reeled at the end of my life and fell
Into the grave I had dug so well.


I would that the rain with its tempest blow
Had crumbled the earth of its sides, and so

Buried me there, but it heeded me not,                                     
For still I live to recount my lot.

An Indian found me at break of morn,
With limbs rain-sodden, wasted and worn,


And bore me away to his tent, and there
With wild-wood wisdom and rugged care                               

Nursed me through fever that fought and burned,
Till the fires died low and the life returned.

You see I am bred in a bitter school:
I am not as other men are, a pool


That shrieks in the onrush of every blast,                                 
But smiles and is still, when the tempest is past.

My joy went forth as a word that is said;
It is gone, and forever; my heart is dead.


"From the seer with his snow-white crown . . ."

From the seer with his snow-white crown
     Through every sort of condition
Of bipeds all the way down
     To the pimp and the politician

Wind and World

The wind is roaring in the trees
On the dark hillside,
And down in the valiey, farther still,
It is blowing bleak and wide.

The voice of a spirit, formless and vast,                                      
It cometh to mine ear.
What is it the wind would be saying to me?
I would I could plainly hear.

Out of the East and the North and the West


It bafffles the oak and pine,                                                        
The haunting cry of a wingèd beast
Half bestial, half divine.

The long day sings with a thousand cries,

And the night is all astray.
The old world passes with torch and shroud,                             
And I talk to my soul and pray.

The Cloud Fleet

O'er the blue beaming ocean
     Of heaven afar,
With a slow steady motion,
     Past sun and past star,

Unhailed and unhailing,                                                                
     By night and by day,
The white clouds are sailing
     In spotless array.

Forth fare they with warning,

     To Europe or Ind;                                                                     
Their captain is morning,
     Their steersman the wind.

Over mountain and river,

     O'er city and plain,  
They carry forever                                                                      
     Their cargo of rain.

But sometimes in thunder

     Of battle they meet,
And the storm shatters under
     The world at their feet.                                                            

Their broadsides, the leven
     That splinters and runs,
Roll down out of heaven
     The roar of their guns.



Sweeter than any name
Of power or blessing, tumult or of calm,
The pride of any victory with its palm,
Sweeter than fame,
The love we bear to women in our youth,                     
When ardour cleaves to ardour, truth to truth;

When Beauty cuts her sheaf
And flings its loaded treasure at our feet:
But bitter — bitter! — even as this is sweet,
The gathering grief                                                                     

Of passionate love misplaced, or given in vain,
The love that bears no harvest save of pain.

In a Copy of Miss Wetherald's "House of the Trees"

Little book, thy pages stir
With a poet's brighter life;
In days that gloom with doubt and strife,
To many a moody sufferer

Thou shalt bring a balm for pain,                                    

Felt behind his prison bars,
The spirit of the sun and stars,
The spirit of the wind and rain.

               "There was once a man . . ."

There was once a man.
He sat in a world of things that
         seemed to be shadows,
Some of them radiant, beautiful,
Yet with a certain striving                            
Because they saw a light,
Not theirs, but something they
         desired unspeakably to attain;
Others bitter and foul
Yet also with a certain perversity,                    
Because they saw a gloom.
A gloom that drove them to madness.
And the man rose from among
         the shadows and shouted,
Tearing open his heart:                           
"Lo! I will be myself,
I will utter myself."
And one of the radiant ones turned
         to him and whispered:
"Friend! It is probably fated that                                                
         thou should'st be thyself,
But is it worth while to utter thyself
If thyself be an unseemly thing?"

A May Song

The elm-trees in the field are waiting,
     Smiling and ready for the leaves.
The spiders on the pools are skating.
     The little sparrow builds and weaves.

The blue bird in his glory hovers                                                 
     About the meadow all day long,
And, tenderest of plumed lovers,
     Beguiles his merry mate with song.

The grass in all the world is springing.
     The air is full of wind and sun.                                                
I hear a thousand waters singing.
     The fortress of the year is won.

And yonder in the blue, past noting,
     Where thoughts and phantasies go free,
The little careless clouds are floating,                                       
     Like ships upon a windless sea.

Blue heaven and brown earth compel me.
     I wander as a child at play.
What was it, little sparrow, tell me,
     That made me grieve so yesterday?                             

An Invitation to the Woods

  Are you broken with the din
     Of the street?
  Are you sickened of your thin
     Hands and feet?
Are you bowed and bended double      
With a weight of care and trouble,
  Are you spectral with a skin
     Like a sheet?

  Take your body and your soul

     To the woods,                                                                       
  To the tonic and control
     Of its moods,
Where the forest gleams and quivers,
Where the only roads are rivers,
  And the trunk-line bears the whole                                         
     Of your goods.

  Play the hunter — win the crown
     Of your class;

  Bring the duck and partridge down 
     As they pass;                                                                        
Stalk the deer among the tangles
Where the sunlight glints and spangles;
  From the amber deep and brown
     Haul the bass.

  You shall breathe the pungent air                                            
     Of the firs,
  Till your blood shall make you dare

     When it stirs.
Let the camp-cook with his kettle
Make you fat and full of mettle;                                                  
  You must take the forest fare — 
     No demurs.

  You shall see the stars ignite
     With the dew, 
  And the golden morning light                                                   
     Dazzle through;

Mark the noonday heat forsaken,
And the silence only shaken
  By the rustle of your slight
     Birch canoe.                                                                         

  Oh! the sunsets and the break

     Of the day,
  When the vapours from the lake
     Swirl away
Oh! the clouds in snowy ranges,                                                 
With their gold and ruby changes,
  And the fading flake by flake
     Into grey.

  Oh! the mist about the stones,
     How it shines,                                     

  And the squirrels dropping cones
     Out of pines!
Oh! the sunshine on the summit,
And the jay that bugles from it — 
  Of the vigour that atones                                           
     These are signs!

  You shall waken blithe and bold
     As a cork
  From a bed that is not sold

     In New York,                                                                       
You shall thrive and grow no thinner,
On a chunk of bread for dinner,
  With a jack-knife and a cold
     Piece of pork.

  Oh! the triumph of the hound!                            

     Oh! the joy,
  When the rapid spins you round
     Like a toy!
When you race with birch and paddle
And the stern-sheet for a saddle,                                                
  You shall feel yourself as sound
     As a boy.

Notes on the Poems

Verses. Rouge et Noir, 3, No. 1 (Feb. 1882), 8; signed "A.L." Though there is no          known ms, there can be little doubt as to the poem's author. "Verses" immediately      follows the first in a series of prose sketches, "College Days Among Ourselves," by "An Undergraduate" identified as Lampman in a later issue (4, No. 2 [Feb. 1883], 9). "The Last Sortie" and "Derelict," two other poems signed "A.L." which appeared in Rouge et Noir during 1882, are certainly Lampman's. Carl Y. Connor points out that "Verses" was "probably his first published poem" (Archibald Lampman: Canadian Poet of Nature [1929; Ottawa: Borealis, 1977], p. 50).

The Last Sortie. Rouge et Noir, 3, No. 4 (Nov. 1882), 4. There is no known ms. The poem is mentioned by Lampman in a letter to John A. Ritchie, 24 July 1882, quoted at length in Connor, p. 57. Its subject is the Battle of Buzenval, 19 Jan. 1871, the final action in the siege of Paris during the Franco-German War. "On the 19th of January General Trochu led another and the last sortie against the Germans. His force at this time engaged was 100,000 men . . . . Notwithstanding the formidable army of French troops, the attack was very feebly sustained, and in the evening Montretout was retaken by the Germans" (L.P. Brockett, The Year of Battles: or the Franco-German War of 1870-71 [New York: Goodspeed, 1871], pp. 354-55). Lampman's special interest in this conflict is also reflected in two essays he contributed to Rouge et Noir: "German Patriotic Poetry," 3, No. 2 (March 1882), 4-6; and "Gambetta," 4, No. 5 (July 1883), 5-10.

Derelict. Rouge et Noir, 4, No. 1 (Dec. 1882), 5. There is no known ms. The poem is reported by Connor, p. 59, to have been included by Lampman in a letter to John A. Ritchie, 22 Aug. 1882.

Winter Evening. Canadian Illustrated News, 3 Feb. 1883, p. 78; subscribed "A. Lampman, Ottawa, January 22, 1883." There is no known ms.

Winter's Nap. Rouge et Noir, 6, No. 6 (Dec. 1885), 11. Dated 1 Feb. 1883 and titled "Winter's Sleep" in Library of Parliament MS. PS 8473 / A 56 / A 6, Miscellaneous Poems, fols. 10-12.
23 king of gods] King of Gods Rouge et Noir
28 who] that Rouge et Noir

Hope and Fear. Trinity University Review, 1, No. 2 (Feb. 1888), 7. Dated 10 Feb. 1883 in Lib. Parl. Poems, fol. 9.
10 dim] dun Trinity Univ. Review
15 glooms] gloom Trinity Univ. Review
16 feet] skirts Trinity Univ. Review

The Hepatica. Rouge et Noir, 6, No. 3 (May 1885), 5. Dated June 1883 in Lib. Parl. Poems, fols. 1-2.
44 thee dumb] the dumb Rouge et Noir
52 To] So Rouge et Noir

An August Warning. Rouge et Noir, 6, No. 4 (June 1885), 3. Dated Aug. 1883 in Lib. Parl. Poems, fols. 3-4.
46 be!] be. Rouge et Noir

A Fantasy. The Week, 7 Feb. 1884, p. 155. These ten lines form the second stanza of a poem titled "The Carnaval [sic] of Leaves," dated Oct. 1883 in Lib. Parl. Poems, fol. 18. The first stanza reads:

Oh wind, make merry for a day and night
   With the sweet leaves fulfil thy whole desire
Their maddened eyes are stung with strange delight;
    Their lips are bitten with the slaying fire.
E'er the long penance, and the rustling woe
   Draw down upon thine innocent carnaval,
The lenten silence, and the shroud of snow
   Whirl the wild dance through forest hut and hall;
The sun is yellow in the arcades old
The flame-spired roofs and quivering domes of gold.

Emancipation. Owl, 4 (Dec. 1890), 119. Composed c. 1888-89. In Univ. of Toronto Fisher Library MS. 5058, fol. 1, the titles "Life" and "Individual Duty" eppear above this poem, and the final two lines read: "Enter lest thou find that door / Nevermore." Line 13 is emended according to the Fisher MS.; line 17 per an erratum slip in Owl:
13 palace] place Owl
17 riven] given Owl; driven Fisher MS.

Sebastian. The Week, 17 May 1895, p. 585. Dated July 1889 in a rough draft, P.A.C. Notebook 3, MS, pp. 1395-99 (this and all other notebooks cited are in the Lampman Papers, MG 29 D 59, Public Archives of Canada, Ottawa). An undated fair copy in Lib. Parl. MS. PS 8473 / A 56 / A 72, Alcyone, fols. 114-19, authorizes the following readings:
61 He leans] Leans Week
95 god] God Week
116 lids] lid Week
126 shall] will Week

"How dealt the world." Quoted by Bruce Nesbitt in "A Gift of Love: Lampman and Life," Canadian Literature, No. 50 (Autumn 1971), p. 39. Dated Sept. [no year] between two sonnets of Sept. 1889 in P.A.C. Notebook 3, MS, p. 1421. I follow the undated and untitled fair copy in Fisher MS., fol. 26.

Elemental Voices. Owl, 7 (Dec. 1893), 182. Composed c. March 1891, P.A.C. Notebook 3, MS p. 1531. Compare the sonnet "Voices of Earth," written at about the same time (Poems of Archibald Lampman, p. 218).

"Earth, heaven, and the mighty whole." Quoted by F.W. Watt in "The Masks of Archibald Lampman," University of Toronto Quarterly, 27 (Jan.1958), 184. Composed c. March-April 1891; Fisher MS., fol. 91, untitled.

The Lesson of the Trees. Owl, 7 (Jan. 1894), 245; rpt. in The Week, 2 March 1894, p. 331. Composed c. Nov. 1891; P.A.C. Notebook 9, MS, p. 1966.

Vision. In "At the Mermaid Inn," The Globe [Toronto], 19 Nov. 1892, p. 8; signed "L." Slightly revised, these three stanzas appear as the opening movement of "Winter-Store," a long poem first published in Lampman's Lyrics of Earth (Boston: Copeland and Day, 1895), pp. 48-49. There, lines 13-16 are transferred to the poem's opening, and a number of words are capitalized, as indicated below. The three stanzas of "Vision" were composed c. Jan. 1892 P.A.C. Notebook 9, MS, pp. 1984-85.
4 god] God Globe; god Lyrics
9 all] All Lyrics
10 immensity] Immensity Lyrics
12 mode] node Globe; mode Lyrics
23 time] Time Lyrics
31 nature] Nature Lyrics

The Settler's Tale. Edited by D.C. Scott for the Canadian Magazine, 42 (Dec. 1913), 113-16. Dated 1 June 1893 in two rough drafts, P.A.C. Notebook 9, MS, pp. 2056-65; also dated 1 June 1893 in a fair copy, 1893-1897 MS Book, fols. 3-9, Lampman Collection, Simon Fraser University Library. Apparently Scott used the fair copy, freely substituting words and phrases from the rough drafts when he preferred them. I am grateful to the authorities at Simon Fraser for permission to quote from this fair copy, from which I restore most of Lampman's punctuation, as well as the following substantives:
15 sun] snow Scott
20 task] work Scott
51-54 couplets transposed in Scott
58 musical] silvery Scott
77 locks] curls Scott
88 know] knew Scott
92 Death] death Scott
95 I saw its eyes] its horrible eyes Scott
97 ceaseless] stony Scott

"From the seer with his snow-white crown." Quoted by Barrie Davies in "Lampman: Radical Poet of Nature," English Quarterly, 4, No. 1 (Spring 1971), 34. Apparently Scott and Brown considered but decided against using these lines in At the Long Sault; see D.C. Scott, Letter to E.K. Brown, 15 Nov. 1942, in Some Letters of Duncan Campbell Scott, Archibald Lampman, and Others, ed. Arthur S. Bourinot (Ottawa: The Editor, 1959) p. 21. Composed c. Sept. 1893; P.A.C. Notebook 9, MS, p. 2093, untitled.

Wind and World. The Chap-Book, 1 Nov. 1895, p. 475. Dated 12 Feb. 1895 in P.A.C. Notebook 22, MS, inversed pp. 3244-43.

The Cloud Fleet. Youth's Companion, 25 July 1895, p. 358. Composed c. 1895; P.A.C. Notebook 22, MS, inv. p. 3235.

Impromptu. In Archibald Lampman, Lyrics of Earth, Sonnets and Ballads, ed. D.C. Scott (Toronto: Musson, 1925), p. 219. "Impromptu" was the only hitherto unpublished poem except "There was once a man," added to this selection of material from the Memorial Edition. The title is apparently Scott's. Composed c. 1895; P.A.C. Notebook 15, MS, inv. p. 2556.
2 tumult] of tumult Scott
7 cuts] casts Scott
9 bitter! — even] bitter, — even Scott

In a Copy of Miss Wetherald's "House of the Trees." The Week, 6 March 1896, p. 351. Years later this poem was specially issued in fifteen bound copies as Little Book, Thy Pages Stir, An Autograph Poem by Archibald Lampman recently discovered on the fly-leaf of a copy of "The House of the Trees," by Ethelwyn Wetherald, in the possession of Lorne A. Pierce (Toronto: Ryerson, 1923). The autograph is dated "2d Mch. 1896," and line 4 reads "silent sufferer" instead of "moody sufferer."

"There was once a man." Included as the postscript to a letter of 23 March 1896 to E.W. Thomson. First published in Scott's Introduction to Lyrics of Earth, Sonnets and Ballads, pp. 45-46; rpt. in Correspondence, pp. 170-71. The original letter is in the Lampman Papers, Vol. 1, P.A.C. Someone — likely Thomson or Scott — has noted "Imitation and criticism of Stephen Crane" above the postscript. Crane's first volume of poems, The Black Riders and Other Lines, had been published the year before by Copeland and Day of Boston, who in March of 1896 were bringing out Lampman's second volume, Lyrics of Earth. In a previous letter, Lampman had expressed his dislike of Crane's verse, and asserted, "it would be easy to write that sort of stuff, if one could make up one's mind to" (To E.W. Thomson, 11 March 1896, Correspondence, p. 168). This parody shortly followed.

A May Song. Scribner's, 21 (May 1897), 651. Dated 13 April 1896 in Simon Fraser MS. Book, fol. 102. Also included in a letter of April 1898 to E.W. Thomson (Correspondence, p. 202) original in the Lampman Papers, Vol. 2, P.A.C.

An Invitation to the Woods. Youth's Companion, 23 June 1898, p. 304. There is no known ms but Lampman's letters establish the date of composition as Sept. 1897 (To E.W. Thomson 24 Aug. 1897 and 1 Oct. 1897, Correspondence, pp. 190-92).