Agnes
Maule Machar
1837-1927
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| Agnes
Maule Machar was born in Kingston Upper Canada,
on January 23, 1837. Her father was a theologian
and head of the college that was to become Queen’s
University, and throughout her long life she was
actively involved in philanthropy and the local
cultural community. Though encouraged in intellectual
pursuits (she studied Latin and Greek before she
was ten), she was not encouraged to write since,
according to Ethelwyn Wetherald, her mother believed
that “a literary vocation was not likely
to promote a woman’s happiness” (300).
Almost all of Machar’s work originally appeared
under a pseudonym since “she feared her
words would be little heeded, if it were known
that they owed their being to a mere girl”
(Wetherald 300). Machar chose “Fidelis”
as her pen name because “Faithfulness is
the quality I most value, and care most to possess”
(quoted by Wetherald, 300). With the goal of encouraging
Canadian patriotism, Machar wrote historical poems
about heroic figures such as Laura Secord and
Louis Riel, paeans to Canadian nature in her many
“Thousand Island” poems, and more
overtly patriotic poems such as “The Canadian
Fatherland,” which reveals an intriguing
shift in gender in the third stanza and calls
for unity in diversity.
Machar
was active in numerous social organizations, including
the Humane Society and the American Audubon Society
“for the defence of birds from the ravages
of fashion” (Wetherald 300). Efforts to
galvanize women to political action are humorously
portrayed in the poem “A Woman’s Meeting.”
Though advocacy for causes such as higher education
for women appears mostly in Machar’s prose,
poems such as “Madonna of the Entry”
(see also “No Room for the Baby,”
the Week 7 [28 March 1890]: 268) reveal
her passion for social justice.
Machar
published nine works of fiction, six histories,
five biographies, and was a frequent contributor
to Canadian periodicals such as the Canadian
Monthly, the Week, and the Canadian
Magazine and American periodicals such as
Century Magazine, St. Nicholas,
and Wide Awake. Most of [Page
61] her poetry was collected and published
in Lays of the “True North” and
Other Canadian Poems (1899), which was sufficiently
popular to prompt the publication of an enlarged
edition in 1902. Both Nancy Miller Chenier’s
1977 thesis and Carole Gerson’s essay on
Machar and her contemporaries in Canadian
Writers and Their Works provide detailed
overviews of Machar’s fiction and her significant
contributions to Canadian intellectual life. She
was, as Gerson points out, an “outstanding
crusader for the causes of temperance, labour,
reform, feminism and…Christianity”
(DLB 92:221).She died on January 24,
1927.
Though
apparently not musically gifted, Machar wins praise
from Charles G.D. Roberts in 1888 for her “firm
command of musical and simple lyric forms, and
of vivid description” (234). The latter
quality, which owes much to her enthusiasm for
sketching and painting, results in some memorable
imagery. Machar’s strengths and weaknesses
as a poet are revealed through a comparison of
her poem “The Passing of Clote Scarp”
with Roberts’ poem on the same theme.
Though
William Douw Lighthall, the editor of Songs
of the Great Dominion, described her in 1889
as “one of those who well disputes the palm
for the leadership among Canadian poetesses”
(458), she has not fared well over time. William
Wilfred Campbell argued in an 1892 “At the
Mermaid Inn” column that Machar was “more
human and more interesting than any book she will
ever write” (196), and Wetherald admits
that “some of her poetry is produced by
a collaboration of the artist and moralist within
her, and that we are not so grateful for the moral
as we are for the image,” (300-301). In
a poem such as “Misunderstanding,”
which makes effective use of contrasting memories
of the same incident and some striking imagery,
we see Machar at her best. Her penchant for didactic
endings tends to mar our appreciation of poems
such as “To a Friend in Europe” and
“Untrodden Ways.” In fact, when the
latter poem was republished by Ryerson in 1935,
the closing stanza was left out entirely. Machar’s
own approach to revision can be studied by comparing
“The Happy Islands” with an earlier
and longer version entitled “‘The
Cliff’ to ‘The Islands.’”
Like
Lampman and other poets of the period, Machar
believed in the recuperative powers of nature,
and she herself often sought refuge at Ferncliffe,
her summer home overlooking the St. Lawrence at
Gananoque. Though tempted to drift forever among
her beloved islands, she returned always to the
“nobler task” and higher cause. [Page
62]
Selected
Bibliography
“The
Cliff” to “The Islands”
(Gananoque, ON: Privately Printed, 1891)
Lays of the “True North” and Other
Canadian Poems (Toronto: Copp,
1899) Enlarged 2nd edition (1902)
The Thousand Islands (Toronto: Ryerson,
1935)
Ethelwyn Wetherald, “Some Canadian Literary
Women—II. ‘Fidelis,’”
The Week (5 April 1888): 300-01; Charles
G.D. Roberts, Poems of Wild Life, (Toronto:
Gage, 1888):234; William Wilfred Campbell, “At
the Mermaid Inn,” 26 November 1892 At
the Mermaid Inn: Wilfred Campbell, Archibald Lampman,
Duncan Campbell Scott in The Globe 1892-93
(Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1979): 195-96; W.D.
Lighthall, Songs of the Great Dominion
(London: Walter Scott, 1889); Emily McManus, “Lays
of the ‘True North’ and Other Canadian
Poems: a Review,” Canadian Magazine
14 (December 1899): 174-77; R.W. Cumberland, “Agnes
Maule Machar,” Queen’s Quarterly
34 (January 1927): 331-39; Nancy Miller Chenier,
“Agnes Maule Machar: Her Life, Her Social
Concerns, and a Preliminary Bibliography of Her
Writing,” (MA Thesis, Carleton University,
1977); Carole Gerson, “Three Writers of
Victorian Canada,” Canadian Writers
and Their Works: Fiction Series 1:195-256
(Toronto: ECW, 1983); Ruth Compton Brouwer, “The
‘Between-Age’ Christianity of Agnes
Machar,” Canadian Historical Review
65 (1984): 347-70; Carole Gerson, “Agnes
Maule Machar,” Dictionary of Literary
Biography 92 (1990): 220-21. [Page
63]
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September among the Thousand Islands
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The
long pine branches lightly bend
Above grey rocks with moss
o’ergrown,
And rays of golden light descend
Aslant on twisted root and
stone;
All still and silent at our feet |
5 |
Lies
the broad river’s glassy sheet.
So calm, so tranquil its expanse; No
ripple on its peaceful breast;
It might be sea of fairyland
By some strange magic laid
to rest;
|
10 |
And
the grey, hazy islands seem The
vision of a passing dream.
In such soft tints their shores extend,
So dim their winding outlines
lie;—
They do not separate, but blend
|
15 |
The
melting hues of lake and sky,
Save where some light-tower’s snowy gleam
Is mirrored in the placid stream. No
sounds the dreamy stillness break;
No echo o’er the
lake is heard, |
20 |
Save
that the leaping fishes make,
Or twitter of a lonely bird;
And summer sweetness seems to stray,
Confused, through the September day!
We watch the swift receding boat,
|
25 |
And
long we bend our patient gaze,
And strive to trace it, far afloat,
Through the soft mist’s
uncertain haze,
To catch the latest glimpse we may
Of friends beloved it bears away. [Page
64] |
30 |
So,
often, through the misty veil
That hides from us the spiritland,
We gaze and gaze, till gazing fail,
As on its outer verge we
stand,
On cherished forms receding far |
35 |
| To realms
that undiscovered are! |
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Canadian
Monthly Lays
of the“True
September 1874 (6:228) North”
1899 |
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To a Friend in Europe
‘Cœlum, non animum, mutant, qui
trans mare currunt.’
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I, here
amid the Canadian pines,
Whose floating fragrance
fills the air;
Where rocks are green with tangled vines,
And ferns are waving everywhere;
Where, under long, dark hemlock boughs,
|
5 |
Bright
waves leap sparkling to the sun,
Or rest ’neath pine-crowned craggy brows
In purple state when day
is done!
You, where, amid bright southern flowers,
You gaze on soft, blue southern
seas,
|
10 |
And,
framed in vine and olive boughs, The
summits of the Pyrenees;—
Where, o’er the château’s vine-clad
wall
You watch the sunset’s
glorious dream,
When softly kissed by golden mist
|
15 |
| The
Titans all transfigured seem;— Or,
passing from the quaint old town,
You wander up their rocky
base,
While laden peasants clamber down [Page
65]
The winding, walnut-shaded
ways;— |
20 |
Or,
seaward turned, your eyes explore
Soft gleaming hills and
headlands bare;
The sleeping sea and sunlit shore,
And crags that swim in purple
air! What
matter ’neath those skies or these
|
25 |
We
share the long sweet summer day,
Where myrtle blossoms scent the breeze,
Or feathery hemlocks fringe
the bay?
So, only by the waiting soul
Mid rustling leaves or woodland
scent,
|
30 |
The
spirit that informs the whole
More closely with the heart
is blent—
So, in the presence felt of Him
Who seems so near in woodland
ways,
We learn, in forest alleys dim,
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35 |
Sweet
lessons for the wintry days,
When death lies chill on vale and hill,
And even a southern sea
is gray;
When fairest skies the storm-clouds fill,
And summer seems so far
away!
|
40 |
So,
from the heart divine there rise
A fuller spring of love
in ours,
Bright hopes for dark November skies,
Warm faith for bleak and
wintry hours;
That faith, to those who seek it given,
|
45 |
Grow
still in us as seasons roll,
And—drawing sunshine straight from heaven—
Keep living summer in the
soul! [Page 66] |
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Canadian
Monthly Lays
of the“True
March 1876 (9:203-03)
North” 1899 |
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You
smile to see the canvas bear
The golden sunshine of September,
And trace, in all its outlines fair,
The
landscape we so well remember.
You mark the sky, so softly blue;
|
5 |
The
dreamy haze, so golden mellow;
The woods, in greens of tenderest hue,
Just turning here and there
to yellow;
The solemn pines above the stream
Where yon gray mountain
rears its shoulder,
|
10 |
And,
by the shore, the scarlet gleam
Beside the lichened granite
boulder. You
whisper, with a proud delight,
That this reflection of
September
Might cheer us on the wintriest night |
15 |
Amid
the snows of dull December!
Ah, well! you kindly praise the whole;
You
cannot see the figure in it
That graved upon the artist’s soul
The sunshine of that golden
minute!
|
20 |
You
cannot see the earnest eyes That
grew so dreamy and so tender,
While watching with a glad surprise
The autumn landscape’s
golden splendour.
You cannot see the soul-lit face
|
25 |
That
made the landscape’s central sweetness,
Adding to Nature’s ripest grace
The crowning charm of glad
completeness! [Page 67]
Well, love, that charm is left me still,
Though vanished is the bright
September;
|
30 |
Though
leaves lie strewn and winds blow chill,
You make my sunshine
in December! |
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Rose
Belford’s Lays
of the “True
Canadian Monthly North”
1899
January 1880 (4:82) |
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During
the so-called war of 1812-14 between England and
the United States, Laura Secord, the wife of a
crippled British veteran, saved the British forces
from surprise and possible destruction by the
heroic action narrated in the ballad. Her home
lay near the celebrated Queenston Heights, a few
miles from the Falls of Niagara.
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Softly
the spell of moonlight fell
On the swift river’s
flow,
On the gray crags of Queenston Heights,
And the green waves below.
Alone the whip-poor-will’s sad cry
|
5 |
Blent
with the murmuring pines, Save
where the sentry paced his rounds
Along th’invading
lines.
But in one lowly cottage home
Were trouble and dismay;
|
10 |
Two
anxious watchers could not sleep
For tidings heard that day.
Brave
James Secord, with troubled heart,
And weary crippled frame,
That bore the scars of Queenston Heights, |
15 |
Back
to his cabin came;
For he had learned a dark design [Page 68]
Fitzgibbon to surprise,
As with a handful of brave men
At Beaver Dam he lies.
|
20 |
‘And
Boerstler, with eight hundred men,
Is moving from the shore
To steal upon our outpost there,
Guarded by scarce two score!
Then, wiping out, as well he may,
|
25 |
That
gallant little band,
The foe will sweep his onward way
O’er the defenceless
land.
Then noble Brock had died in vain—
If but Fitzgibbon knew!’
|
30 |
And
the poor cripple’s heart is fain
To press the journey through.
But
Laura, bending o’er her babes,
Said, smiling through
her tears:
‘These are not times for brave men’s
wives |
35 |
To
yield to craven fears. ‘You
cannot go to warn our men,
Or slip the outposts through;
But if perchance they let me pass,
This errand I will do.’
|
40 |
She
soothed his anxious doubts and fears:
She knew the forest way;
She put her trust in Him who hears
His children when they pray!
Soon as the rosy flush of dawn
|
45 |
Glowed
through the purple air,
She rose to household tasks—and kissed
Her babes with whispered
prayer. [Page 69]
To
milk her grazing cow she went;
The sentry at the lines
|
50 |
Forgot
to watch, as both were lost
Amid the sheltering pines.
The rising sun’s first golden rays
Gleamed through the forest
dim,
And through its leafy arches rang
|
55 |
The
bird’s sweet morning hymn.
The fragrant
odour of the pines,
The carols gay and sweet,
Gave courage to the fluttering heart,
And strength to faltering
feet.
|
60 |
And
on she pressed, with steadfast tread,
Her solitary way,
O’er tangled brake and sodden swamp
Through all the sultry day.
Though, for the morning songs of birds
|
65 |
She
heard the wolf’s hoarse cry,
And saw the rattlesnake glide forth,
As swift she hurried by.
Nor
dark morass nor rushing stream
Could balk the steadfast
will, |
70 |
Nor
pleading voice of anxious friends
Where stood St. David’s
Mill.
The British sentry heard her tale,
And cheered her on her way;
But bade her ‘ware the Indian scouts
|
75 |
Who
in the covert lay.
Anon, as cracked a rotten bough
Beneath her wary feet,
She heard their war-whoop through the gloom, [Page
70]
Their steps advancing fleet;
|
80 |
But
quickly to the questioning chief
She told her errand grave,
How she had walked the livelong day
Fitzgibbon’s men to
save!
The redskin heard and kindly gazed
|
85 |
Upon
the pale-faced squaw;
Her faithful courage touched his heart,
Her weary look he saw.
“Me go with you” was all he said,
And through the forest gray
|
90 |
He led
her safe to Beaver Dam,
Where brave Fitzgibbon lay.
With
throbbing heart she told her tale;
They heard with
anxious heed,
Who knew how grave the crisis was, |
95 |
How
urgent was the need! Then
there was riding far and near,
And mustering to and fro
Of troops and Indians from the rear
To meet the coming foe;
|
100 |
And
such the bold, determined stand
Those few brave soldiers
made— So
fiercely fought the Indian band
From forest ambuscade—
That Boerstler in the first surprise
|
105 |
Surrendered
in despair,
To force so small it scarce could serve
To keep the prisoners there!
While the brave weary messenger [Page 71]
In dreamless slumber lay,
|
110 |
And
woke to find her gallant friends
Were masters of the fray. |
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If e’er
Canadian courage fail,
Or loyalty grow cold,
Or nerveless grow Canadian hearts, |
115 |
Then
be the story told— How
British gallantry and skill
There played their noblest
part,
Yet scarce had won if there had failed
One woman’s dauntless
heart!
|
120 |
Rose
Belford’s Lays
of the “True
Canadian
Monthly North”
1899
June 1880 (4:575-77) |
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Untrodden Ways; or, Two Visions
|
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Where
close the curving mountains drew
To clasp the stream in their
embrace,
With every outline, shade and hue
Reflected in its placid
face,
The ploughman stops his team to watch
|
5 |
The
train, as swift it thunders by;
Some distant glimpse of life to catch,
He strains his eager, wistful
eye.
His waiting horses patient stand
With wonder in their gentle
eyes,
|
10 |
| As
through the tranquil mountain land
The snorting engine onward
flies.
The morning freshness is on him, [Page
72]
Just wakened from his
balmy dreams;
The wayfarers, all soiled and dim,
|
15 |
Think
longingly of mountain streams.
Oh, for the joyous mountain air,
The long delightful autumn
day
Among the hills!—the ploughman there
Must have perpetual holiday!
|
20 |
And
he, as all day long he guides
His steady plough with patient
hand,
Thinks of the train that onward glides
Into some new enchanted
land,
Where, day by day, no plodding round
|
25 |
Wearies
the frame and dulls the mind,
Where life thrills keen to sight and sound,
With ploughs and furrows
left behind.
Even so, to each the untrod ways
Of life are touched by fancy’s
glow,
|
30 |
That
ever sheds its brightest rays
Upon the path we do not
know. |
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Rose
Belford’s Lays
of the “True
Canadian Monthly North”
1899
February 1882 (8:130) |
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Quebec to Ontario,
A Plea for the Life of Riel, September, 1885
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You
have the land our fathers bought
With blood, and toil, and
pain,
De Mont’s and Cartier’s earnest thought—
The life-blood of Champlain.
From fair Acadia’s rock-bound strand
|
5 |
To
wide Ontario’s shore,
Where Norman swords fought hand to hand [Page
73]
The Iroquois of yore,
And
those great western wilds afar,
Where wandering Indians
roam,
|
10 |
And
where the hardy voyager
First reared his cabin home—
All, all is yours; from east to west
The British banner streams,
But in a conquered people’s breast
|
15 |
Will
live its early dreams!
So when your rich men grudge our poor
Homes on their native plains,
The blood of the old voyageur
Leaps boiling in our veins.
|
20 |
And one whose heart was fired at sight
Of suffering and wrong
Took arms, in evil hour, to fight,
For weakness—with
the strong.
His wild scheme failed; how could it stand
|
25 |
Against
such fatal odds?
And brave hearts sleep in yon far land
Beneath the prairie sods.
He stands a traitor at the bar
Of your cold modern laws,
|
30 |
And
yet, to him who woke the war
It seemed a patriot cause!
Nay, more, perchance the sore distress
That stirred the bitter
fray,
Through that, has pierced to ears that
else
|
35 |
| Had
still been deaf to-day; While
he who sought his people’s weal,
Who loved his nation well,
The prisoner of your fire and steel, [Page
74]
Lies doomed in felon’s
cell!
|
40 |
Pity
the captive in your hand,
Pity the conquered race;
You—strong, victorious in the land—
Grant us the victor’s
grace! |
|
c.
1885 Lays
of the “True
North”1899 |
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All
day the dreaming sunshine steeps
In gold the yellowing beeches;
In softest blue the river sleeps
Among the island reaches.
Against the distant purple hills
|
5 |
The
autumn tints are glowing;
With blood-red wine the sumach fills,
Rich lines of carmine showing.
Upon the glassy stream the boat
Glides softly like a vision;
|
10 |
And,
with its shadow, seems to float
Among the isles Elysian.
About the plumy golden-rod
The tireless bees are humming;
The aster’s clusters star the sod
|
15 |
And
wait the rover’s coming.
The birch and maple glow with dyes
Of scarlet, rose and amber;
And like a flame from sunset skies,
Bright tangled creepers
clamber.
|
20 |
The oaks in Tyrian purple dight
Burn, where the sunlight
presses; [Page 75]
The birch stands like a Dryad bright
Beneath her golden tresses.
So still the air, so like a dream,
|
25 |
We
hear the acorn falling;
And o’er the scarcely rippled stream
The loon’s long quavered
calling.
The robin* softly
o’er the lea,
His farewell song is trilling;
|
30 |
The
squirrel flits from tree to tree,
His winter storehouse filling.
Like him we, too, may gather store
From all this glorious nature.
Then leave, my friend, dry bookish lore
|
35 |
And
dreary nomenclature;
Let logic wintry hours beguile; Leave
weary mathematics;
Let Artistotle rest awhile,
And all the Eleatics.
|
40 |
O’er Plato we can talk and muse
When wintry winds are blowing;
Now Nature bids us not refuse
The glory she is
showing.
For she herself has better lore
|
45 |
Than
all man’s cold dissections;
Her hieroglyphs can teach us more
Than volumes of reflections.
Leave the old thinkers to the dreams
That have been dreamed for
ages; [Page
76]
|
50 |
Leave
dry old scientific reams,
And study Nature’s
pages.
Her poetry is sweeter far
Than all men write about
her;
Old Homer, though his theme was war,
|
55 |
Had
scarcely sung without her!
Haste to the woods, throw books away:
They’ll wait the tardy
comer;
For them there’s many a winter day,
But brief’s our Indian
summer!
|
60 |
*
The Canadian Robin, properly a species of thrush.
[back] |
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Week
4 November Lays
of the “True
1886 (3:788) North”
1899 |
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What
is our young Canadian land?
Is it fair Norembega’s strand?
Or grey Cape Breton by the sea?
Quebec? Ontario? Acadie?
Or Manitoba’s flower-decked plain? |
5 |
Or fair
Columbia’s mountain chain?
Can any part, from strand to strand,
Be a Canadian’s Fatherland?
Nay, for our young Canadian land
Is greater, grander far
than these; |
10 |
It stretches
wide on either hand
Between the world’s
two mighty seas.
So let no hostile foot divide
The fields our feet should
freely roam;
Gael, Norman, Saxon, side by side, |
15 |
And
Canada our nation’s home; [Page 77]
From sea to sea, from strand to strand,
Spreads our Canadian Fatherland. |
|
|
|
Where’er
our country’s banner spreads It
folds o’er free Canadian heads—
|
20 |
Where’er
our land’s romantic story
Enshrines the memory and the glory
Of heroes who with blood and toil
Laid deep in our Canadian soil
Foundations for the future age, |
25 |
And
wrote their names on history’s page—
Our history—from strand to strand,
Spreads our Canadian Fatherland!
So each to each is firmly bound
By ties all generous hearts
should own; |
30 |
We cannot
spare an inch of ground:
No severed part can stand
alone.
So Nova Scotia and Quebec
Shall meet in kinship real
and true;
New Brunswick’s hills be mirrored back |
35 |
In
fair Ontario’s waters blue.
From sea to sea, from strand to strand,
Spreads our Canadian Fatherland! |
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|
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Where’er
Canadian thought breathes free,
Or strikes the lyre of poesy— |
40 |
Where’er
Canadian hearts awake,
To sing a song for her dear sake,
Or catch the echoes, spreading far,
That wake us to the noblest war
Against each lurking ill and strife |
45 |
That
weakens now our growing life,
No line keep hand from clasping hand—
One is our young Canadian land. [Page 78]
McGee and Howe she counts her own;
Hers all her eastern singers’
bays;
|
50 |
Fréchette
is hers, and in her crown
Ontario every laurel lays:
Let CANADA our watchword be,
While lesser names we know
no more;
One nation spread from sea to sea, |
55 |
And
fused by love from shore to shore;
From sea to sea, from strand to strand,
Spreads our Canadian Fatherland! |
|
Week
15 Lays
of the “True
December 1887 (5:36) North”
1899 |
|
|
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In gleam
of pale translucent amber woke
The perfect August day;
Through rose-flushed bars of pearl and amber broke
The sunset’s golden
way.
The river seemed transfigured in its flow
|
5 |
To
tide of amethyst,
Save where it rippled o’er the sands below,
And granite boulders kissed.
The clouds of billowy woodland hung unstirred
In languorous slumber deep,
|
10 |
While,
from its green recessed, one small bird
Piped to its brood asleep.
The clustering lichens wore a tenderer tint,
The rocks a warmer glow;
The emerald dewdrops, in the sunbeams’s glint,
|
15 |
Gemmed
the rich moss below.
Our birchen shallop idly stranded lay
Half mirrored in the stream,
[Page 79]
Wild roses drooped, glassed in the tiny bay,
Ethereal as a dream!
|
20 |
You sat upon your rock, enthroned a queen,
As on a granite throne,
And all that world of loveliness serene
Held but us twain alone.
Nay! but we felt another presence there,
|
25 |
Around,
below, above;
It breathed a poem through the fragrant air—
Its name was LOVE. |
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Week
22 Lays
of the “True
August 1890 (7:601) North”
1899 |
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Past
the Rocks in Deep Water*,
winding its way to the sea,
Sweeps our mighty St. Lawrence, grand, majestic
and free;
Yet methinks he tarries, as glad to linger awhile
Amid the mazy channels where the happy islands smile.
Fair do they seem as Eden, when Eden was newly made,
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5 |
To the
wearied city toilers who seek their grateful shade;
Far from the hurry and clamour, far from the bustle
and din,
See the cool and shady recesses that lure the wanderer
in!
Soft in the haze of morning, their shadowy masses
seem
To rest on the calm blue water like the phantasm
of a dream;
|
10 |
Dark
in the glare of noonday their bowers of foliage
stand,
Spreading their deep, cool shadow like rocks in
a weary land;
But when at close of his journey the sun rides down
the west,
Trailing his crimson and purple o’er the river’s
opal breast,
Then, like isles of the blessed, bathed in celestial
light, |
15 |
They
float between earth and heaven like a mystic vision
bright. [Page
80]
Happy the careless paddler who steers his light
canoe
O’er the mingling ruby and topaz, the purple
shadows through
While the stroke of the ashen paddle beneath the
skilful arm
Scarce clouds the magic mirror, or breaks the wondrous
charm
|
20 |
And
when the mystic moonlight, with its white unearthly
spell
Like a vision of enchantment clothes river and rock
and dell,
How the lights and shadows tremble with a hidden
mystery,
And the silhouettes of the islands lie dark on the
silver sea! |
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Gananoque [back] |
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“The
Cliff” to “The Lays
of the “True
Islands” 1891 North”
1899 |
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Said
one lady to another, meeting in the market-place:
“The way this town is managed is simply a
disgrace;
The men will not do anything, ’tis clearly
plain to all
The women must take hold and at once a meeting call.”
And so the thing was done, and they came by twos
and threes, |
5 |
From
every sort of fancy work to patching Johnnie’s
knees.
All dressed in summer costume tipped with flowers
of every hue,
And voted in their officers without too much ado.
The president took the chair with her easy, smiling
grace,
Declared she’d no experience or fitness for
the place. |
10 |
Only
one rule she was sure of, tho’ of many had
a notion,
And it, “The amendment always goes before
the motion.”
“Indeed!” “Ah, yes.” “Just
so.” And then the buzz began,
Every bonnet nodded and fluttered every fan.
On either side, in front, behind, they all kept
up a chat, |
15 |
No one
addressed the president—they hadn’t
nerve for that.
At last she said: “Now, ladies, really something
we must do.
The afternoon is passing, we must get the business
through.
Let someone make a motion—now do not be afraid—
And I’ll put it to the voting, when the amendment’s
made.” |
20 |
“I
move we meet on Tuesdays,” said a lady dressed
in red.
“I second,” said a pretty one with snowdrops
on her head.
“And now for the amendment,” said the
lady in the chair.
“It must go before the motion, as you are
all aware.” [Page 81]
“I move we meet on Fridays,” one carolled
like a bird.
|
25 |
“But
Friday can’t go first—why, the thing
is too absurd.”
“But Fridays’s the amendment—”
“But ’tis cart before the horse;
We’ll get in a perfect muddle; why, the men
could not do worse.”
“The amendment must go first,” and a
dozen tried to speak.
“Even so, that doesn’t change the order
of the week. |
30 |
Our
husbands all will ridicule,” said one in pince-nose
glasses,
“And if we weren’t women would simply
call us asses.”
Then “logic,” “method,”
“order,” I discerned amid the chatter,
But who’d the floor or proved a point it didn’t
seem to matter.
The question had got subtle, the president looked
perplexed, |
35 |
The
little secretary bit her pencil and looked vexed.
Whether “motion” or “amendment”
went first or last in truth
I’m not prepared to tell you, for—I
went before them both. |
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Saturday
Night
3 December 1892 (6:8) |
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The
children wade amid the sodden leaves,
So lately glistening green
in summer breeze,
Now dropping slowly from
the bare brown trees,
That stretch gaunt arms about the cottage eaves.
Stripped are the orchards; gathered in the sheaves;
|
5 |
The
wildfowl quits her haunts for southern seas
Ere touched by silent frost
the streamlets freeze,
And winter’s craft her icy mantle weaves!
About the woods there breathes the mystic spell
That speaks of vanished
beauty—lost delight;
|
10 |
The
last belated robin flutes farewell;
The sun, ’mid dun
and purple, sinks from sight;
While the wild winds and rain-gusts rise and swell
To wrap the world in storm
and wintry night! [Page 82] |
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Canadian
Magazine Lays
of the “True
November 1895 (6:46) North”
1899 |
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In a
city of churches and chapels,
From belfry and spire and
tower,
On the solemn and starlit silence
The bells chimed the midnight
hour.
Then, in silvery tones of gladness,
|
5 |
They
rang in the Christmas morn,
The wonderful, mystical season
When Jesus Christ was born!
And all thought of the Babe in the manger,
That Child that knew no
sin,
|
10 |
That
hung on the breast of the mother
Who ‘found no room
in the inn.’
All thought of the choir of angels
That swept through the darkness
then,
To chant forth the glad Evangel
|
15 |
| Of
peace and love to men! |
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In that
city of churches and chapels
A mother crouched, hungry
and cold,
In a dark and cheerless entry,
With a babe in her nerveless
hold. |
20 |
Hungry and cold and weary,
She had paced the streets
all night;
No home for her in the city,
No food, no warmth, no light.
And just as the bells’ glad chiming
|
25 |
Pealed
in the Christmas Day, [Page 83]
The angels came down through the darkness
And carried the babe away.
No room for one tiny nursling
In that city of churches
fair;
|
30 |
But
the father hath ‘many mansions’
And room for the baby there! |
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Lays
of the “True
North”1899 |
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Mid
the cloistered forest arches,
’Neath the quivering
hemlock shade,
Where the tassels of the larches
Toss their incense through
the glade,
Where the bracken’s clustered masses |
5 |
Wave
beneath the sheltering pines,
And the sumach interlaces
With a tangle of wild vines,
There—like touch of fairy fingers,
Parting light the leafy
screen—
|
10 |
Every
ray of sunlight lingers
Mid the mystery of green,
Many a web of shadow tracing
O’er green stones
and mosses bright,
Through the beechen covert threadings |
15 |
Quivering
skeins of golden light.
Low amid the bending beeches
Many a wilding blossom blows;
Scarce its tiny life outreaches
The safe covert where it
grows.
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20 |
Waxen-pure
or tender-tinted,
In the solitude they bloom;
Scarcely is their presence hinted
By their sutble, faint perfume.
[Page 84]
Through the boughs light forms are winging,
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25 |
And—unseen
but sweetly heard—
In a burst of low, sweet singing
Comes the carol of a bird.
So, amid the silence dreaming,
Many a vagrant fancy wakes,
|
30 |
Like
the blossoms shyly gleaming
Mid the tangled forest brakes;
And we listen to the murmur
Of the wandering summer
breeze,
Till we feel our kinship firmer
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35 |
With
the birds, and flowers, and trees;
Till we reach its living centre—
Till to us its heart is
bare,
And the souls that reverent enter
Meet God in His temple there!
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40 |
Lays
of the “True
North” 1899 |
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Amid
the clustering beeches, hidden deep,
Where scarce at noon the July sunbeams creep,
Where on the bough the humming-bird’s small
nest
Seems, like a knot of lichen, light to rest,
From the dead leaves of last year’s autumn
ripe |
5 |
| Rise
the white clusters of the Indian Pipe.
Is
it an earthly flower or ghostly shade,
From fields Tartarean to our forest strayed?
Or wrought from stainless marble, carven fine
By cunning sculptor in a quaint design,
|
10 |
In mimic
semblance of the pipe of peace
That warriors smoke when war and havoc cease? [Page
85]
All waxen white in stem, and leaf, and flower
It stands—a vision strange in summer bower;
But whence the form its bending blossoms wear?
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15 |
Does
the pale bloom a runic legend bear?
Then murmuring rose the breeze of eventide,
And, whispering low, an ancient sorrow sighed!
Here,
long ago, amid this sylvan shade,
There grew, in budding bloom, an Indian maid,
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20 |
Her
father’s only child—his joy and pride;—
She seemed a lily by a cedar’s side.
Careless she roamed, until one fatal day
A pale-face stranger stole her heart away.
Could a chief’s daughter with such lover
go?
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25 |
Leave
sire and nation for her people’s foe?
Nay! better death than baseness such as this!
Yet youth and joy went with his parting kiss;—
And, like another Iphigenia brave,
Swift-ebbing life for sire and race she gave. |
30 |
But one last boon she sought with parting life—
That with her death should end the vexing strife:
’Twixt white and red man war and feud should
cease,
While o’er her grave they smoked the pipe
of peace;
And there, ere maize and wilding rice were ripe,
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35 |
| Sprang
the pale clusters of the Indian Pipe! |
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Lays
of the “True
North” 1899 |
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The Passing of Clote-Scarp*,
or Glooscap
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Hark!
through the twilight stillness,
Across the sleeping lake,
[Page 86]
What notes of mournful cadence
The charmèd stillness
break!
Is it a wailing spirit
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5 |
That
lingers on its flight,
Or voice of human sorrow
That echoes through the
night?
Nay, not from man or spirit
Does that weird music flow;
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10 |
’Tis
the bird that waits Clote-scarp,
As ages come and go. |
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Still
in the Mic-mac lodges
Is the old story told
How Clote-scarp’s passed, and ended |
15 |
Acadia’s age of gold;
In the primeval forests,
In the old happy days,
The men and beasts lived peaceful
Among the woodland ways—
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20 |
The forest knew no spoiler,
No timid beast or bird
Feared fang or spear or arrow;
No cry of pain was heard;
For all loved gentle Clote-scarp,
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25 |
And
Clote-scarp loved them all,
And men and beasts and fishes
Obeyed his welcome call.
The birds came circling round him
With carols gay and sweet;
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30 |
The
little wilding blossoms [Page 87]
Sprang smiling at his feet.
All spake one simple language,
And Clote-scarp understood,
And, in his tones of music,
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35 |
Taught
them that love was good.
But in the course of age
An alien spirit woke,
And men and woodland creatures
Their peaceful compact broke.
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40 |
Then through the gloomy forest
The hunter tracked his prey;
The bear and wolf went roaming
To ravage and to slay;
Through the long reeds and grasses
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45 |
Stole
out the slimy snake;
The hawk pounced on the nestling,
Close cowering in the brake;
The beaver built his stronghold
Beneath the river’s
flow;
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50 |
The
partridge sought the covert
Where beeches closest grow.
In mute and trembling terror
Each timid creature fled,
To seek the safest refuge,
|
55 |
And
hide its hunted head.
In sorrow and in anger
Then gentle Clote-scarp
spake:
‘My soul can bear no longer
The havoc that ye make!
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60 |
‘Ye will not heed my bidding; [Page
88]
I cannot stay your strife,
And so I needs must leave you
Till love renew your life.’ |
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| Then
by the great wide water |
65 |
He
made a parting feast;
The men refused his bidding,
But there came bird and
beast.
There came the bear and walrus,
The wolf with bristling
crest;
|
70 |
There
came the busy beaver,
The deer with bounding breast;
There came the mink and otter,
The seal with wistful eyes;
The birds in countless numbers,
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75 |
With
sad, imploring cries!
But, when the feast was over,
He launched his bark canoe;
The wistful creatures watched him
Swift gliding from their
view.
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80 |
They heard his far-off singing
Through the fast-falling
night,
Till on the dim horizon
He vanished from their sight.
And then a wail of sorrow
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85 |
Went
up from one and all,
Then echoed through the twilight
The loon’s long mournful
call. [Page 89] |
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But
all in vain their wailing,
In vain that wistful cry,
|
90 |
Alone,
through deepening shadows,
The echoes made reply. |
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Still
through the twilight echoes
That cadence wild and shrill,
But on a blessèd island |
95 |
Clote-scarp
is waiting still.
No darkness, cold or tempest
Comes near that happy spot;
It fears no touch of winter,
For winter’s self
is not.
|
100 |
And there waits gentle Clote-scarp
Till happier days shall
fall,
Till strife be fled for ever,
And love be Lord of all. |
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*
Clote-scarp or Glooscap is the Mic-mac Hiawatha,
with something of the Western Balder and Hiawatha
combined. [back] |
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Lays
of the “True
North” 1899 |
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Methinks
I see it once again—
That sunset of the past,
The flood of slanting golden rays
Athwart the pine-trees cast;
I hear the murmur of the wave
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5 |
Upon
the pebbly shore,
Soft plashing on the light canoe;—
I hear your voice once more!
[Page 90]
I see the shady, sheltered nook
Where you awhile would stay;—
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10 |
The
lichened granite crag that rose
Above the quiet bay.
Before me rise the moss grown rocks
With crests of plumy fern;
The very fragrance of the pines
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15 |
Seems
almost to return.
I hear again the cat-bird’s cry,
The cawing of the rook,
The while you sat and sketched in haste
With grave abstracted look,
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20 |
Until at length I spoke, resolved
At least my fate to try,
And hushed the beating of my heart
To catch your low reply.
Ah well! it changed my life for me,
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25 |
From
hope to long regret,
Swiftly as fled the evening glow
When that bright sun had
set!
All silently, across the lake,
Our bark retraced its way,
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30 |
While
the rich hues of wave and sky
Were fading into gray.
I rowed—you steered—no spoken word
The woodland echoes woke;
Your white hand dipping from the stern
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35 |
The
quivering wavelets broke.
I did not blame you—well I know
Love may not be compelled;
[Page 91]
I would not take a heart that must
In golden links be held;
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40 |
And well I know—few are the hearts
That grasp their brightest
dreams;—
Some day, perchance, we yet shall know
Why life so futile seems!
Since then, my feet have wandered far
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45 |
And
wide by land and sea;
And, love! I trust that life has brought
More joy to you than me.
For nothing—spite some lingering pain—
Can sweeter memories wake
|
50 |
Than
this dried blossom from the shore
Of that Canadian lake! |
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’Tis
such a fair June eventide
As one remembered well—
In those old days the sunset rays |
55 |
With
softer radiance fell!
They would not let me stay behind,
Although I vainly pled;
Nor could I try to tell them—why
The spot so much I dread.
|
60 |
Ah! how the scene, the woodland scent,
Recalls the vanished grace
Of that past sunset glow, that still
Lives in this haunted place!
Not many words, that eventide,
|
65 |
There
passed between us twain; [Page 92]
Yet such an hour can never more
Come back to me again.
He asked if I could leave my home
With him to cross the sea,
|
70 |
And
strangely cold for lover bold
His manner seemed to me!
I knew not then how surface calm
A glowing heart may hide;
His words seemed weak true love to speak,
|
75 |
Or
please my maiden pride!
They called him rich, and I had said
My love should ne’er
be sold;
My heart was numb, my lips seemed dumb,
And words came few and cold.
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80 |
Scarce can I tell what words were said;
He bowed a grave assent,
And silently across the bay
With heavy hearts we went.
The lake, as now, lay glassy calm,
|
85 |
Soft
in the evening light;
In pain and pride I turned to hide
The tears that dimmed my
sight.
I hoped, in vain, that he would speak
Again, but one word more;
|
90 |
But
nought was said, the moment fled;
We parted on the shore!
Such things no doubt must always be;
Yet still returns again
The thought—how different life had been
|
95 |
Had
he but spoken then! [Page 93]
He bade us all a calm good-bye—
The while I stood apart,—
With eyes averted, pressed my hand,
Nor saw the vain tears start.
|
100 |
No doubt he has forgotten long
The love he uttered then;
But here that hour resumes its power
And breathes for me again! |
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| But
here comes little Alice, |
105 |
And
someone by her side,
Whose words I know have waked the blush
She vainly tries to hide.
No more of dreaming now for me;
Such fancies all are past;
|
110 |
Yet
I would pray that many a day
Her happy dream
may last.
And yet perchance the love that here
Its fuller growth may miss
Shall find new spring and blossoming
|
115 |
| In
happier clime than this! [Page 94] |
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Lays
of the “True
North” 1899 |
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