Crawford, Isabella Valancy Part 2 - Ontario Poet Anthology
ANTHOLOGYFrom "WHO SEES A VISION"
Who sees a vision bright and bold
Hath found a treasure of pure gold ;
For say it vanisheth
When morning banisheth
Sleep, mother of all dreams,
Before his comely beams,
Thou didst not wis, before sleep showed to thee
That things so nobly fair might ever be ;
But now that thou dost know,
Waking shall make it so ;
So here is treasure hid
Beneath a closed eyelid.
Who dreams a dream both sweet and bright
Hath found a true nectar of delight ;
For say with pain and smart
It fadeth out apart,
Thy galled heart did never,
In waking sad endeavour,
Bend back the veil of murky tapestry
And show such things of light and joy to thee;
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
But now that thou dost know,
Hope builds her skyward bow ;
There cannot be a shade
But for it form is made.
THE ROSE
The Rose was given to man for this :
He, sudden seeing it in later years,
Should swift remember Love s first lingering
kiss
And Grief s last lingering tears ;
Or, being blind, should feel its yearning soul
Knit all its piercing perfume round his own,
Till he should see on memory s ample scroll
All roses he had known ;
Or, being hard, perchance his finger-tips
Careless might touch the satin of its cup,
And he should feel a dead babe s budding lips
To his lips lifted up ;
Or, being deaf and smitten with its star,
Should, on a sudden, almost hear a lark
Rush singing up the nightingale afar
Sing thro the dew-bright dark;
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ANTHOLOGY
Or, sorrow-lost in paths that round and round
Circle old graves, its keen and vital breath
Should call to him within the yew s bleak bound
Of Life, and not of death.
SAID THE DAISY
There ne er was blown out of the yellow east
So fresh, so fair, so sweet a morn as this.
The dear earth decked herself as for a feast ;
And, as for me, I trembled with my bliss.
The young grass round me was so rich with dew,
And sang me such sweet, tender strains,as low
The breath of dawn among its tall spikes blew ;
But what it sang none but myself can know!
O never came so glad a morn before !
So rosy dimpling burst the infant light,
So crystal pure the air the meadows o er,
The lark with such young rapture took his
flight,
The round world seemed not older by an hour
Than mine own daisy self ! I laughed to see
How, when her first red roses paled and died,
The blue sky smiled, and decked her azure lea
With daisy clouds, white, pink-fringed, just
like me !
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
"This is a morn for song," sang out the lark,
"O silver-tressed beloved !" My golden eye
Watched his brown wing blot out the last star-
spark
Amidst the daisy cloudlets of the sky.
"No morn so sweet as this, so pure, so fan*
God s bud time," so the oldest white thorn
said,
And she has lived so long ; yet here and there
Such fresh white buds begem her ancient
head.
And from her thorny bosom all last night
Deep in my dew-sealed sleep I heard a
note
So sweet a voice of anguish and delight
I dreamed a red star had a bird-like throat
And that its rays were music which had crept
Mid the white-scented blossoms of the
thorn,
And that to hear her sing the still night wept
With mists and dew until the yellow morn.
I wonder, wonder what the song he sang,
That seemed to drown in melody the vales !
I knew my lark s song as he skyward sprang,
But only roses know the nightingale s.
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ANTHOLOGY
The yellow cowslip bent her honeyed lips
And whispered : "Daisy, wert thou but as high
As I am, thou couldst see the merry ships
On yon blue wondrous field blown gaily by."
A gay, small wind, arch as a ruddy fox,
Crept round my slender, green and dainty
stem,
And piped : "Let me but shake thy silver locks
And free thy bent head from its diadem
Of diamond dew, and thou shalt rise and gaze
Like the tall cowslips, o er the rustling grass,
On proud, high cliffs, bright strands and spark
ling bays,
And watch the white ships as they gaily pass."
"Oh, while thou mayst keep thou thy crystal
dew!"
Said the aged thorn, where sang the heart of
night,
The nightingale. "The sea is very blue,
The sails of ships are wondrous swift and
white.
Soon, soon enough thy dew will sparkling die,
And thou, with burning brow and thirsty lips,
Wilt turn the golden circle of thine eye,
Nor joy in them, on ocean and her ships !"
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V.C. 3
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
There never flew across the violet hills
A morn so like a dove with jewelled eyes,
With soft wings fluttering like the sound of
rills,
And gentle breast of rose and azure dyes.
The purple trumpets of the clover sent
Such rich, dew-loosened perfume, and the
bee
Hung like a gold drop in the woodbine s tent.
What care I for the gay ships and the sea !
GOOD-BYE S THE WORD
Heave up the anchor, heave ye ho I
And swing her head about;
The blue flag flies, the breezes blow,
Let all her canvas out !
Blue eyes and black upon the quay
Are smiling tears away ;
And sweethearts blush at parting kiss,
And wives and mothers pray.
The babe upon my Polly s breast will toddle
down the strand,
And pipe a welcome when again our good ship
sails to land ;
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ANTHOLOGY
And Tom will reach my elbow then, and Ned
be shoulder high
Avast! avast! I sail too fast good-bye s
the word, good-bye !
Heave up the anchor, heave ye ho !
And speed us on our way ;
A stiff breeze, sweet with rose and thyme
Blows fast along the bay ;
The sails round out, the rattling shrouds
Are loud with noisy glee ;
The staunch craft trembles as she hears
The footsteps of the sea.
Belike, my mates, tis just the way a lass s
heart will beat
When sounds upon the shingly strand her tar s
returning feet;
Or Poll will tremble when she hears my foot
steps drawing nigh
Avast! avast! I sail too fast good-bye s the
word, good-bye !
Heave up the anchor, heave ye ho !
God bless the dear brown hands
That wave "good-bye" when Jack sets sail
To steer for other strands ;
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
And tho our ship her anchor heaves
When she would sail afar,
My eyes ! she don t resemble there
The ways of true Jack tar.
For when Jack casts life s anchor down his
heart, belike, you know
He never hauls it up again, whatever squalls
may blow ;
Mine s grappled safe in Polly s breast until
the day I die
Avast! avast! the wind blows fast good-bye s
the word, good-bye !
A HARVEST SONG
The noon was as a crystal bowl
The red wine mantled through ;
Around it like a Viking s beard
The red-gold hazes blew,
As tho he quaffed the ruddy draught
While swift his galley flew.
This mighty Viking was the Night;
He sailed about the earth,
And called the merry harvest-time
To sing him songs of mirth ;
And all on earth or in the sea
To melody gave birth.
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ANTHOLOGY
The valleys of the earth were full
To rocky lip and brim
With golden grain that shone and sang
When woods were still and dun,
A little song from sheaf to sheaf
Sweet Plenty s cradle-hymn.
O gallant were the high tree-tops,
And gay the strain they sang !
And cheerfully the moon-lit hills
Then- echo-music rang !
And what so proud and what so loud
As was the ocean s clang !
But O the little humming song
That sang among the sheaves !
Twas grander than the airy march
That rattled thro the leaves,
And prouder, louder, than the deep,
Bold clanging of the waves :
"The lives of men, the lives of men
With every sheaf are bound !
We are the blessing which annuls
The curse upon the ground!
And he who reaps the Golden Grain
The Golden Love hath found."
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
ROSES IN MADRID
Roses, Senors, roses !
Love is subtly hid
In the fragrant roses
Blown in gay Madrid.
Roses, Senors, roses !
Look, look, look, and see
Love hanging in the roses
Like a golden bee !
Ha ! ha ! shake the roses
Hold a palm below ;
Shake him from the roses,
Catch the vagrant so !
High I toss the roses
From my brown palm up,
Like the wine that bubbles
From a golden cup.
Catch the roses, Senors,
Light on finger-tips ;
He who buys red roses
Dreams of crimson lips.
Tinkle my fresh roses,
With the rare dews wet ;
Clink my crisp, red roses
Like a Castanet.
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ANTHOLOGY
Roses, Senors, roses !
Come, Hidalgo, buy!
Proudly wait my roses
For thy Rose s eye.
Be thy Rose as stately
As a pacing deer,
Worthy are my roses
To burn behind her ear.
Ha ! ha ! I can see thee,
Where the fountains foam,
Twining my red roses
In her golden comb !
Roses, Donnas, roses !
None so fresh as mine,
Plucked at rose of morning
By our Lady s shrine.
Those that first I gathered
Laid I at her feet,
That is why my roses
Still are fresh and sweet.
Roses, Donnas, roses,
Roses, waxen fair!
Acolytes my roses,
Censing ladies prayer !
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
Roses, roses, roses !
Hear the tawny bull
Thund ring in the circus
Buy your arms full.
Roses by the dozen !
Roses by the score !
Pelt the victor with them
Bull or toreador !
THE CITY TREE
I stand within the stony, arid town,
I gaze forever on the narrow street,
I hear forever passing up and down
The ceaseless tramp of feet.
I know no brotherhood with far-locked woods,
Where branches bourgeon from a kindred
sap,
Where o er mossed roots, in cool, green soli
tudes,
Small silver brooklets lap.
No emerald vines creep wistfully to me
And lay their tender fingers on my bark ;
High may I toss my boughs, yet never see
Dawn s first most glorious spark.
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ANTHOLOGY
When to and fro my branches wave and sway,
Answ ring the feeble wind that faintly calls,
They kiss no kindred boughs, but touch alway
The stones of climbing walls.
My heart is never pierced with song of bird ;
My leaves know nothing of that glad unrest
Which makes a flutter in the still woods heard
When wild birds build a nest.
There never glance the eyes of violets up,
Blue, into the deep splendour of my green;
Nor falls the sunlight to the primrose cup
My quivering leaves between.
Not mine, not mine to turn from soft delight
Of woodbine breathings, honey-sweet and
warm;
With kin embattled rear my glorious height
To greet the coming storm !
Not mine to watch across the free, broad plains
The whirl of stormy cohorts sweeping fast.
The level silver lances of great rains
Blow onward by the blast !
Not mine the clamouring tempest to defy,
Tossing the proud crest of my dusky leaves
Defender of small flowers that trembling lie
Against my barky greaves !
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
Not mine to watch the wild swan drift above,
Balanced on wings that could not choose
between
The wooing sky, blue as the eye of love,
And my own tender green !
And yet my branches spread, a kingly sight,
In the close prison of the drooping air :
When sun-vexed noons are at their fiery
height
My shade is broad, and there
Come city toilers, who their hour of ease
Weave out to precious seconds as they lie
Pillowed on horny hands, to hear the breeze
Through my great branches die.
I see no flowers, but as the children race
With noise and clamour through the dusty
street,
I see the bud of many an angel face,
I hear their merry feet.
No violets look up, but, shy and grave,
The children pause and lift their crystal eyes
To where my emerald branches call and wave
As to the mystic skies.
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ANTHOLOGY
THE CAMP OF SOULS
My white canoe, like the silvery air
O er the River of Death that darkly rolls
When the moons of the world are round and
fair,
I paddle back from the "Camp of Souls."
When the wishton-wish in the low swamp
grieves
Come the dark plumes of red "Singing
Leaves."
Two hundred times have the moons of spring
Rolled over the bright bay s azure breath
Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle s
wing,
And painted my face with the "paint of
death,"
And from their pipes o er my corpse there broke
The solemn rings of the blue "last smoke."
Two hundred times have the wintry moons
Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white ;
Two hundred times have the wild sky loons
Shrieked in the flush of the golden light
Of the first sweet dawn, when the summer
weaves
Her dusky wigwam of perfect leaves.
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
Two hundred moons of the falling leaf
Since they laid my bow in my dead right hand
And chanted above me the "song of grief"
As I took my way to the spirit land ;
Yet when the swallow the blue air cleaves
Comes the dark plumes of red "Singing
Leaves."
White are the wigwams in that far camp,
And the star-eyed deer on the plains are
found ;
No bitter marshes or tangled swamp
In the Manitou s happy hunting-ground !
And the moon of summer forever rolls
Above the red men in their "Camp of Souls."
Blue are its lakes as the wild dove s breast,
And their murmurs soft as her gentle note ;
As the calm, large stars in the deep sky rest,
The yellow lilies upon them float ;
And canoes, like flakes of the silvery snow,
Thro the tall, rustling rice-beds come and go.
Green are its forests ; no warrior wind
Rushes on war trail the dusk grove through,
With leaf-scalps of tall trees mourning behind ;
But South Wind, heart friend of Great
Manitou,
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ANTHOLOGY
When ferns and leaves with cool dews are wet,
Blows flowery breaths from his red calumet.
Never upon them the white frosts lie,
Nor glow their green boughs with the "paint
of death";
Manitou smiles in the crystal sky,
Close breathing above them His life-strong
breath ;
And He speaks no more in fierce thunder
sound,
So near is His happy hunting-ground.
Yet often I love, in my white canoe,
To come to the forests and camps of earth :
Twas there death s black arrow pierced me
through;
Twas there my red-browed mother gave me
birth;
There I, in the light of a young man s dawn,
Won the lily heart of dusk "Springing Fawn."
And love is a cord woven out of life,
And dyed hi the red of the living heart ;
And time is the hunter s rusty knife,
That cannot cut the red strands apart :
And I sail from the spirit shore to scan
Where the weaving of that strong cord began.
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
But I may not come with a giftless hand,
So richly I pile, in my white canoe,
Flowers that bloom in the spirit land,
Immortal smiles of Great Manitou.
When I paddle back to the shores of earth
I scatter them over the white man s hearth.
For love is the breath of the soul set free ;
So I cross the river that darkly rolls,
That my spirit may whisper soft to thee
Of Thine who wait in the "Camp of Souls."
When the bright day laughs, or the wan night
grieves,
Come the dusky plumes of red "Singing
Leaves."
THE DARK STAG
A startled stag, the blue-grey Night,
Leaps down beyond black pines.
Behind a length of yellow light
The hunter s arrow shines :
His moccasins are stained with red,
He bends upon his knee,
From covering peaks his shafts are sped,
The blue mists plume his mighty head
Well may the swift Night flee !
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ANTHOLOGY
The pale, pale Moon, a snow-white doe,
Bounds by his dappled flank :
They beat the stars down as they go,
Like wood-bells growing rank.
The winds lif t dewlaps from the ground,
Leap from the quaking reeds ;
Their hoarse bays shake the forests round,
With keen cries on the track they bound,
Swift, swift the dark stag speeds !
Away! his white doe, far behind,
Lies wounded on the plain ;
Yells at his flank the nimblest wind,
His large tears fall in rain;
Like lily-pads, small clouds grow white
About his darkling way ;
From his bald nest upon the height
The red-eyed eagle sees his flight ;
He falters, turns, the antler ed Night
The dark stag stands at bay !
His feet are in the waves of space ;
His antlers broad and dun
He lowers ; he turns his velvet face
To front the hunter, Sun ;
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
He stamps the lilied clouds, and high
His branches fill the west.
The lean stork sails across the sky,
The shy loon shrieks to see him die,
The winds leap at his breast.
Roar the rent lakes as thro the wave
Their silver warriors plunge,
As vaults from core of crystal cave
The strong, fierce muskallunge ;
Red torches of the sumach glare,
Fall s council-fires are lit ;
The bittern, squaw-like, scolds the air ;
The wild duck splashes loudly where
The rustling rice-spears knit.
Shaft after shaft the red Sun speeds :
Rent the stag s dappled side ;
His breast, fanged by the shrill winds, bleeds,
He staggers on the tide ;
He feels the hungry waves of space
Rush at him high and blue ;
Their white spray smites his dusky face,
Swifter the Sun s fierce arrows race
And pierce his stout heart thro .
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ANTHOLOGY
His antlers fall ; once more he spurns
The hoarse hounds of the day ;
His blood upon the crisp blue burns,
Reddens the mounting spray ;
His branches smite the wave with cries
The loud winds pause and flag
He sinks in space red glow the skies,
The brown earth crimsons as he dies,
The strong and dusky stag.
LAUGHTER
Laughter wears a lilied gown
She is but a simple thing ;
Laughter s eyes are water-brown,
Ever glancing up and down
Like a woodbird s restless wing.
Laughter slender is and round
She is but a simple thing ;
And her tresses fly unbound,
And about her brow are found
Buds that blossom by Mirth s spring.
Laughter loves to praise and play
She is but a simple thing
With the children small who stray
Under hedges, where the May
Scents and blossoms richly fling.
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V.C. 4
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
Laughter coyly peeps and flits
She is but a simple thing
Round the flower-clad door, where sits
Maid who dimples as she knits,
Dreaming in the rosy spring.
Laughter hath light-tripping feet
She is but a simple thing;
Yet may often Laughter meet
In the hayfield, gilt and sweet,
Where the mowers jest and sing.
Laughter shakes the bounteous leaves-
She is but a simple thing
On the village ale-house eaves,
While the angered swallow grieves
And the rustic revellers sing.
Laughter never comes a-nigh
She s a wise though simple thing
Where men lay them down to die ;
Nor will under stormy sky
Laughter s airy music ring.
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ANTHOLOGY
HIS CLAY
He died ; he was buried, the last of his race,
And they laid him away in his burial-place.
And he said in his will, "When I have done
With the mask of clay that I have on,
"Bury it simply I m done with it,
At best it is only a poor misfit.
"It cramped my brains and chained my soul,
And it clogged my feet as I sought my goal.
"When my soul and I were inclined to shout
O er some noble thought we had chiselled
out;
"When we d polished the marble until it stood
So fair that we truly said : Tis good !
"My soul would tremble, my spirit quail,
For it fell to the flesh to uplift the veil.
"It took our thought in its hands of clay,
And lo ! how the beauty had passed away.
"When Love came in to abide with me,
I said, Welcome, Son of Eternity!
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
"I built him an altar strong and white,
Such as might stand hi God s own sight ;
"I chanted his glorious litany
Pure Love is the Son of Eternity;
"But ever my altar shook alway
Neath the brute hands of the tyrant clay.
"Its voice, with its accents harsh and drear,
Mocked at my soul and wailed hi its ear :
Why tend the altar and bend the knee?
Love lives and dies in the dust with me.
"So the flesh that I wore chanced ever to be
Less of my friend than my enemy.
"Is there a moment this death-strong earth
Thrills, and remembers her time of birth?
"Is there a time when she knows her clay
As a star in the coil of the astral way?
"Who may tell? But the soul in its clod
Knows hi swift moments its kinship to God.
"Quick lights hi its chambers that flicker
alway
Before the hot breath of the tyrant clay.
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ANTHOLOGY
"So the flesh that I wore chanced ever to be
Less of my friend than my enemy.
"So bury it deeply strong foe, weak friend
And bury it cheaply and there its end!"
THE BUTTERFLY
When the moon was horned the mother died,
And the child pulled at her hand and knee,
And he rubbed her cheek and loudly cried :
"O mother, arise, give bread to me !"
But the pine tree bent its head,
And the wind at the door-post said :
"O child, thy mother is dead!"
The sun set his loom to weave the day;
The frost bit sharp like a silent cur ;
The child by her pillow paused in his play :
"Mother, build up the sweet fire of fir !"
But the fir tree shook its cones,
And loud cried the pitiful stones :
"Wolf Death has thy mother s bones!"
They bore the mother out on her bier ;
Their tears made warm her breast and
shroud ;
The smiling child at her head stood near;
And the long, white tapers shook and bowed,
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
And said with their tongues of gold,
To the ice lumps of the grave mold :
"How heavy are ye and cold !"
They buried the mother ; to the feast
They flocked with the beaks of unclean crows.
The wind came up from the red-eyed east
And bore in its arms the chill, soft snows.
They said to each other: "Sere
Are the hearts the mother held dear ;
Forgotten, her babe plays here !"
The child with the tender snowflakes played,
And the wind on its fingers twined his hair
And still by the tall, brown grave he stayed,
Alone in the churchyard lean and bare.
The sods on the high grave cried
To the mother s white breast inside :
"Lie still; in thy deep rest abide !"
Her breast lay still like a long-chilled stone,
Her soul was out on the bleak, grey day;
She saw her child by the grave alone,
With the sods and snow and wind at play.
Said the sharp lips of the rush,
"Red as thy roses, O bush,
With anger the dead can blush!"
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ANTHOLOGY
A butterfly to the child s breast flew,*
Fluttered its wings on his sweet, round cheek
Danced by his fingers, small, cold and blue.
The sun strode down past the mountain peak
The butterfly whispered low
To the child: "Babe, follow me; know,
Cold is the earth here below."
The butterfly flew; followed the child,
Lured by the snowy torch of its wings ;
The wind sighed after them soft and wild
Till the stars wedded night with golden rings ;
Till the frost upreared its head,
And the ground to it groaned and said :
"The feet of the child are lead!"
The child s head drooped to the brown, sere
mold,
On the crackling cones his white breast lay ;
The butterfly touched the locks of gold,
The soul of the child sprang from its clay.
The moon to the pine tree stole,
And, silver-lipped, said to its bole;
"How strong is the mother s soul!"
*In Eastern Europe the soul of the deceased is said
to hover, in the shape of a bird or butterfly, close to
the body until after the burial.
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
The wings of the butterfly grew out
To the mother s arms, long, soft and white ;
She folded them warm her babe about,
She kissed his lips into berries bright,
She warmed his soul on her breast;
And the east called out to the west :
"Now the mother s soul will rest!"
Under the roof where the burial feast
Was heavy with meat and red with wine,
Each crossed himself as out of the east
A strange wind swept over oak and pine.
The trees to the home-roof said :
" Tis but the airy rush and tread
Of angels greeting thy dead."
From THE ROSE OF A NATION S THANKS
A welcome? Oh, yes, tis a kindly word, but why
will they plan and prate
Of feasting and speeches and such small
things, while the wives and mothers wait?
Plan as ye will, and do as ye will, but think of
the hunger and thirst
In the hearts that wait ; and do as ye will, but
lend us our laddies first !
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ANTHOLOGY
Why, what would ye have? There is not a
lad that treads in the gallant ranks
Who does not already bear on his breast the
Rose of a Nation s Thanks !
A welcome? There is not a babe at the breast
won t spring at the roll of the drum
That heralds them home the keen, long cry
in the air of "They come ! They come !"
And what of it all if ye bade them wade knee-
deep in a wave of wine,
And tossed tall torches, and arched the town
in garlands of maple and pine?
All dust in the wind of a woman s cry as she
snatches from the ranks
Her boy who bears on his bold young breast
the Rose of a Nation s Thanks !
A welcome? O Joy, can they stay your feet,
or measure the wine of your bliss?
O Joy, let them have you alone to-day a day
with a pulse like this !
A welcome? Yes, tis a tender thought, a
green laurel that laps the sword
But Joy has the wing of a wild white swan, and
the song of a free wild bird !
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
She must beat the air with her wing at will, at
will must her song be driven
From her heaving heart and tremulous throat
through the awful arch of heaven.
And what would ye have? There isn t a lad
will burst from the shouting ranks
But bears like a star on his faded coat the Rose
of a Nation s Thanks !
A BATTLE
Slowly the Moon her banderoles of light
Unfurls upon the sky ; her fingers drip
Pale, silvery tides ; her armoured warriors
Leave Day s bright tents of azure and of gold,
Wherein they hid them, and in silence flock
Upon the solemn battlefield of Night
To try great issues with the blind old king,
The Titan Darkness, who great Pharaoh fought
With groping hands, and conquered for a span.
The starry hosts with silver lances prick
The scarlet fringes of the tents of Day,
And turn their crystal shields upon their breasts
And point their radiant lances, and so wait
The stirring of the giant in his caves.
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ANTHOLOGY
The solitary hills send long, sad sighs
As the blind Titan grasps their locks of pine
And trembling larch to drag him toward the
sky,
That his wild-seeking hands may clutch the
Moon
From her war-chariot, scythed and wheeled
with light,
Crush bright-mailed stars, and so, a sightless
king,
Reign in black desolation ! Low-set vales
Weep under the black hollow of his foot,
While sobs the sea beneath his lashing hair
Of rolling mists, which, strong as iron cords,
Twine round tall masts and drag them to
the reefs.
Swifter rolls up Astarte s light-scythed car:
Dense rise the jewelled lances, groves of light;
Red flouts Mars banner in the voiceless war
(The mightiest combat is the tongueless one) ;
The silvery dartings of the lances prick
His fingers from the mountains, catch his locks
And toss them in black fragments to the winds,
Pierce the vast hollow of his misty foot,
Level their diamond tips against his breast,
And force him down to lair within his pit
--49
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
And thro its chinks thrust down his groping
hands
To quicken Hell with horror for the strength
That is not of the Heavens is of Hell.
THE VESPER STAR
Unfold thy pinions, drooping to the sun,
Just plunged behind the rough-browed moun
tain, deep
Crowned with the snows of hawthorn, aval-
anched
All down its sloping shoulder with the bloom
Of orchards, blushing to the ardent South,
And to the evening oriflamme of rose
That arches the blue concave of the sky.
O rosy star, thy trembling glory part
From the great sunset splendour that its tides
Sends rushing in swift billows to the east,
And on their manes of fire outswell thy sails
Of light-spun gold ; and as the glory dies,
Throbbing thro changeful rose to silver mist,
Laden with souls of flowers wooed abroad
From painted petals by the ardent Night,
Possess the heavens for one short splendid
hour
r>o
ANTHOLOGY
Sole jewel on the Egypt brow of Night,
Who steals, dark giant, to caress the Earth,
And gathers from the glassy mere and sea
The silver foldings of his misty robe,
And hangs upon the air with brooding wings
Of shadow, shadow, stretching everywhere.
AN INTERREGNUM
Loud trumpets blow among the naked pines,
Fine spun as sere-cloth rent from royal dead.
Seen ghostly thro high-lifted vagrant drifts,
Shrill blaring, but no longer loud to moons
Like a brown maid of Egypt stands the Earth,
Her empty valley palms stretched to the Sun,
For largesse of his gold. Her mountain tops
Still beacon winter with white flame of snow,
Fading along his track ; her rivers shake
Wild manes, and paw their banks as though
to flee
Their riven fetters.
Lawless is the time,
Full of loud kingless voices that way gone :
The Polar Caesar striding to the north,
Nor yet the sapphire-gated south unfolds
51
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
For Spring s sweet progress; the winds, un
kinged,
Reach gusty hands of riot round the brows
Of lordly mountains waiting for a lord,
And pluck the ragged beards of lonely pines
Watchers on heights for that sweet,hidden king,
Bud-crowned and dreaming yet on other shores
And mock their patient waiting. But by night
The round Moon falters up a softer sky,
Drawn by silver cords of gentler stars
Than darted chill flames on the wintry earth.
Within his azure battlements the Sun
Regilds his face with joyance, for he sees,
From those high towers, Spring, earth s fairest
lord,
Soft-cradled on the wings of rising swans,
With violet eyes slow budding into smiles,
And small, bright hands with blossom largesse
full,
Crowned with an orchard coronal of white,
And with a sceptre of a ruddy reed
Burnt at its top to amethystine bloom.
Come, Lord, thy kingdom stretches barren
hands!
Come, King, and chain thy rebels to thy throne
With tendrils of the vine and jewelled links
Of ruddy buds pulsating into flower !
52
ANTHOLOGY
SAID THE WEST WIND
I love old earth! Why should I lift my wings,
My misty wings, so high above her breast
That flowers would shake no perfumes from
their hearts,
And waters breathe no whispers to the shores?
I love deep places builded high with woods,
Deep, dusk, fern-closed, and starred with nod
ding blooms,
Close watched by hills,green,garlanded and tall.
On hazy wings, all shot with mellow gold,
I float, I float thro shadows clear as glass ;
With perfumed feet I wander o er the seas,
And touch white sails with gentle finger-tips ;
I blow the faithless butterfly against
The rose-red thorn, and thus avenge the rose ;
I whisper low amid the solemn boughs,
And stir a leaf where not my loudest sigh
Could move the emerald branches from their
calm
Leaves, leaves, I love ye much, for ye and I
Do make sweet music over all the earth !
I dream by glassy ponds, and lingering, kiss
The gold crowns of their lilies one by one,
53
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
As mothers kiss their babes who be asleep
On the clear gilding of their infant heads,
Lest if they kissed the dimple on the chin,
The rose flecks on the cheek or dewy lips,
The calm of sleep might feel the touch of love
And so be lost. I steal before the rain,
The longed-for guest of summer ; as his fringe
Of mist drifts slowly from the mountain peaks,
The flowers dance to my fairy pipe and fling
Rich odours on my wings, and voices cry,
"The dear West Wind is damp, and rich with
scent ;
We shall have fruits and yellow sheaves for
this."
At night I play amid the silver mists,
And chase them on soft feet until they climb
And dance their gilded plumes against the stars ;
At dawn the last round primrose star I hide
By wafting o er her some small fleck of cloud,
And ere it passes comes the broad, bold Sun
And blots her from the azure of the sky,
As later, toward his noon, he blots a drop
Of pollen-gilded dew from violet cup
Set bluely in the mosses of the wood.
54
ANTHOLOGY
From BETWEEN THE WIND AND RAIN
Long swayed the grasses like a rolling wave
Above an undertow ; the mastiff cried ;
Low swept the poplars, groaning in their hearts ;
And iron-footed stood the gnarled oaks,
And braced their woody thews against the
storm.
Lashed from the pond, the ivory cygnets sought
The carven steps that plunged into the pool ;
The peacocks screamed and dragged forgotten
plumes ;
On the sheer turf all shadows subtly died
In one large shadow sweeping o er the land ;
Bright windows in the ivy blushed no more ;
The ripe, red walls grew pale, the tall vane dim.
Like a swift offering to an angry god,
O erweighted vines shook plum and apricot
From trembling trellis, and the rose trees
poured
A red libation of sweet, ripened leaves
On the trim walks ; to the high dove-cote set
A stream of silver wings and violet breasts,
The hawk-like storm down swooping on their
track.
55
V.C. 5
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
CANADA TO ENGLAND
Gone are the days, old Warrior of the Seas,
When thine armed head, bent low to catch my
voice,
Caught but the plaintive sighings of my woods,
And the wild roar of rock-dividing streams,
And the loud bellow of my cataracts,
Bridged with the seven splendours of the bow.
When Nature was a Samson yet unshorn,
Filling the land with solitary might,
Or as the Angel of the Apocalypse,
One foot upon the primeval bowered land,
One foot upon the white mane of the sea,
My voice but faintly swelled the ebb and flow
Of the wild tides and storms that beat upon
The rocky girdle loud shrieking from the Ind
Ambrosial-breathing furies ; from the north
Thundering with Arctic bellows, groans of seas
Rising from tombs of ice disrupted by
The magic kisses of the wide-eyed sun.
The times have won a change. Nature no more
Lords it alone and binds the lonely land
A serf to tongueless solitudes ; but Nature s self
Is led, glad captive, in light fetters rich
As music-sounding silver can adorn ;
And man has forged them, and our silent God
56
ANTHOLOGY
Behind His flaming worlds smiles on the deed.
"Man hath dominion" words of primal
might;
"Man hath dominion" thus the words of God.
If destiny is writ on night s dusk scroll,
Then youngest stars are dropping from the
hand
Of the Creator, sowing on the sky
My name in seeds of light. Ages will watch
Those seeds expand to suns, such as the tree
Bears on its boughs, which grows in Paradise.
How sounds my voice, my warrior kinsman,
now?
Sounds it not like to thine in lusty youth
A world-possessing shout of busy men,
Veined with the clang of trumpets and the noise
Of those who make them ready for the strife,
And in the making ready bruise its head?
Sounds it not like to thine the whispering vine,
The robe of summer rustling thro the fields,
The lowing of the cattle in the meads,
The sound of Commerce, and the music-set,
Flame-brightened step of Art in stately halls
All the infinity of notes which chord
The diapason of a Nation s voice?
57
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
My infants tongues lisp word for word with
thine ;
We worship, wed, and die, and God is named
That way ye name Him strong bond between
Two mighty lands when as one mingled cry,
As of one voice, Jehovah turns to hear.
The bonds between us are no subtle links
Of subtle minds binding in close embrace,
Half-struggling for release, two alien lands,
But God s own seal of kindred, which to burst
Were but to dash His benediction from
Our brows. "Who loveth not his kin,
Whose face and voice are his, how shall he love
God whom he hath not seen?"
TORONTO
She moves to meet the centuries, her feet
All shod with emerald, and her light robe
Fringed with leaves singing in the jazel air.
Her tire is rich, not with stout battlements,
Prophets of strife, but wealthy with tall spires
All shining Godward, rare with learning s
domes,
And burning with young stars that promise suns
To clasp her older brows. On her young breast
Lie linked the fair, clear pearls of many homes
58
ANTHOLOGY
Mighty and lovely chain, from its white strength
Hangs on her heart the awful jewel, Hope.
She moves to meet the centuries, nor lies
All languid waiting, with the murmuring kiss
Of the large waters on white, nerveless feet,
And dim, tranced gaze upon the harbour bar,
And dusk, still boughs knit over her prone head,
And rose-soft hands that idly pluck the turf,
And rose lips singing idly thro her dream.
She hears the marching centuries which Time
Leads up the dark peaks of Eternity:
The pulses of past warriors bound in her ;
The pulses of dead sages beat in her ;
The pulses of dead merchants stir in her;
The roses of her young feet turn to flame,
Yet ankle-deep in tender buds of spring ;
Till, with the perfumes of close forests thick
Upon her tender flesh, she to her lips
Lifts the bold answering trump, and winding
shrill
With voices of her people and her waves
Notes of quick joy, half queen, half child, she
bounds
To meet the coming Time, and climbs the steps
Of the tall throne he builds upon her strand.
59
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
Toronto, joy and peace ! When comes the day
Close domes of marble rich with gold leap up
From porphyry pillars to the eye-clear sky,
And when the wealthy fringes of thy robe
Sweep outward league on league, and to thee
come
The years all bowed with treasures for thy
house,
On lusty shoulders, still remember thee
Of thy first cradle on the lilies lap
In the dim woods ; and tho thy diadem
Make a new sunrise, still, amid its flame
Twine for the nursing lilies sake the glow
Of God-like lilies round about thy brows
Honour and Peace and sweet-breathed Charity !
CURTIUS
How spake the Oracle, my Curtius, how?
Methought, while on the shadowed terraces
I walked and looked toward Rome, an echo
came
Of legion wails, blent into one deep cry.
"O Jove!" I thought, "the Oracles have said,
And, saying, touched some swiftly answering
chord
General to every soul." And then my heart
60
ANTHOLOGY
(I being here alone) beat strangely loud,
Responsive to the cry, and my still soul
Informed me thus : "Not such a harmony
Could spring from aught within the souls of men,
But that which is most common to all souls.
Lo! that is sorrow!"
Nay, Curtius, I could smile
To tell thee, as I listened to the cry,
How on the silver flax which blew about
The ivory distaff in my languid hand
I found large tears ; such big and rounded drops
As gather thro dark nights on cypress boughs.
And I was sudden angered, for I thought:
"Why should a general wail come home to me
With such vibration in my trembling heart
That such great tears should rise and over
flow?"
Then shook them on the marble where I paced,
Where instantly they vanished in the sun,
As diamonds fade in flames. Twas foolish,
Curtius !
And then methought how strange and lone it
seemed,
For till thou cam st I seemed to be alone
On the vined terrace, prisoned hi the gold
Of that still noontide hour. No widows stole
61
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
Up the snow-glimmering marble of the steps
To take my alms and bless the gods and me ;
No orphans touched the fringes of my robe
With innocent babe fingers, nor dropped the
gold
I laid in their soft palms, to laugh, and stroke
The jewels on my neck, or touch the rose
Thou sayest, Curtius, lives upon my cheek.
Perchance all lingered in the Roman streets
To catch first tidings from the Oracles.
The very peacocks drowsed in distant shades,
Nor sought my hand for honeyed cake; and
high
A hawk sailed blackly in the clear blue sky
And kept my doves from cooing at my feet.
My lute lay there, bound with the small white
buds
Which, laughing, this bright morn thou brought
and wreathed
Around it as I sang ; but with that wail
Dying across the vines and purple slopes,
And breaking on its strings, I did not care
To waken music nor in truth could force
My voice or fingers to it. So I strayed
Where hangs thy best loved armour on the wall
And pleased myself by filling it with thee.
62
ANTHOLOGY
Tis yet the goodliest armour in proud Rome,
Say all the armourers ; all Rome and I
Know thee the lordliest bearer of a sword.
Yet, Curtius, stay, there is a rivet lost
From out the helmet, and a ruby gone
From the short sword-hilt trifles both which
can
Be righted by to-morrow s noon. To-morrow s
noon !
Was there a change, my Curtius, in my voice
When spake I these three words, "to-morrow s
noon"?
Oh, I am full of dreams methought there was.
Why, love, how darkly gaze thine eyes in mine !
If loved I dismal thoughts I well could deem
Thou sawest not the blue of my fond eyes,
But looked between the lips of that dread pit
Jove ! to name it seems to curse the air
With chills of death! We ll speak not of it,
Curtius.
When I had dimmed thy shield with kissing it
1 went between the olives to the stalls.
While Audax neighed out to me as I came,
As I had been Hippona to his eyes,
New dazzling from the one small mystic cloud
63
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
That, like a silver chariot, floated low
In the ripe blue of noon, and seemed to pause,
Stayed by the hilly round of yon aged tree.
He stretched the ivory arch of his vast neck,
Smiting sharp thunders from the marble floor
With hoofs impatient of a peaceful earth ;
Shook the long silver of his burnished mane
Until the sunbeams smote it into light
Such as a comet trails across the sky.
I love him, Curtius ! Such magnanimous fires
Leap from his eyes ! And I do truly think
That with thee seated on him, thy strong knees
Against his sides, the bridle in his jaws
In thy loved hand, to pleasure thee he d spring
Sheer from the verge of Earth into the breast
Of Death and Chaos. Of Death and Chaos!
What omens seem to strike my soul to-day!
What is there in this blossom-hour should knit
An omen in with every simple word?
Should make yon willows with their hanging
locks
Dusk sybils, muttering sorrows to the air?
The roses, clamb ring round yon marble Pan,
Wave like red banners floating o er the dead?
The dead there tis again ! My Curtius, come,
And thou shalt tell me of the Oracles
64
ANTHOLOGY
thv e
Wi:r. :u:e: ;.-.:: I hr^ri r : ..~ drivers 5.27
The bulls .vere :;r the AlT^rs. ^iie
come
Wod from the Oracles as to the Pit.
Curtras, Curtras, in my soul I s*?e
How :lAck ^ni reirrul is ::s ;lu~:" :1::;A:!
1 wfll not look !
boul, Tr r^Lr.j. Ar.c s^-6 not.
T ., - _ . . . - rt
QcXI iHc LL1CU
Waved ^^^>l^epW^,gHn ^li^yfmmtfc^wine
And plumed with broozj leaves, and each to
each
Showed the sleek beauty of the rounded sides,
The mighty curving of the lordly breasts,
65
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
The level lines of backs, the small, fine heads.
And laughed and said, "The gods will have it thus,
The choicest of the earth for sacrifice,
Let it be man or maid, or lowing bull!"
Where lay the witchcraft in their clownish
words
To shake my heart? I know not ; but it thrilled
As Daphne s leaves thrill to a wind so soft
One might not feel it on the open palm.
I cannot choose but laugh, for what have I
To do with altars and with sacrifice?
From SAID THE CANOE
My masters twain sang songs that wove
As they burnished hunting-blade and rifle-
A golden thread with a cobweb trifle,
Loud of the case and low of love :
"O Love ! art thou a silver fish,
Shy of the line and shy of gaffing,
Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing,
Casting at thee the light-winged wish?
And at the last shall we bring thee up
From the crystal darkness, under the cup
Of lily f olden
On broad leaves golden?
66
ANTHOLOGY
"O Love ! art thou a silver deer
With its feet as swift as wing of swallow,
While we with rushing arrows follow?
And at the last shall we draw near
And o er thy velvet neck cast thongs
Woven of roses, stars and songs
New chains all moulden
Of rare gems olden?"
They hung the slaughtered fish like swords
On saplings slender; like scimitars,
Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars,
Blazed in the light the scaly hordes.
They piled up boughs beneath the trees,
Of cedar web and green fir tassel.
Low did the pointed pine tops rustle,
The camp-fire blushed to the tender breeze.
The hounds laid dewlaps on the ground
With needles of pine, sweet, soft and rusty,
Dreamed of the dead stag stout and lusty;
A bat by the red flames wove its round.
The darkness built its wigwam walls
Close round the camp, and at its curtain
Pressed shapes, thin, woven and uncertain
As white locks of tall waterfalls.
67
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
From MALCOLM S KATIE
The South Wind laid his moccasins aside,
Broke his gay calumet of flowers, and cast
His useless wampum, beaded with cool dews,
Far from him northward ; his long, ruddy spear
Flung sunward, whence it came, and his soft
locks
Of warm, fine haze grew silvery as the birch.
His wigwam of green leaves began to shake ;
The crackling rice-beds scolded harsh like
squaws ;
The small ponds pouted up their silver lips;
The great lakes eyed the mountains, whispered
"Ugh!
Are ye so tall, O chiefs? Not taller than
Our plumes can reach," and rose a little way,
As panthers stretch to try their velvet limbs
And then retreat to purr and bide their time.
At morn the sharp breath of the night arose
From the wide prairies, in deep-struggling seas,
In rolling breakers, bursting to the sky ;
In tumbling surfs, all yellowed faintly thro
With the low sun ; in mad, conflicting crests,
Voiced with low thunder from the hairy throats
Of the mist-buried herds. And for a man
To stand amid the cloudy roll and moil,
68
ANTHOLOGY
The phantom waters breaking overhead,
Shades of vexed billows bursting on his breast,
Torn caves of mist walled with a sudden gold
Resealed as swift as seen broad, shaggy fronts
Fire-eyed, and tossing on impatient horns
The wave impalpable was but to think
A dream of phantoms held him as he stood.
The pulseless forest, locked and interlocked
So closely bough with bough and leaf with leaf,
So serfed by its own wealth, that while from
high,
The moons of summer kissed its green-glossed
locks,
And round its knees the merry West Wind
danced,
And round its ring, compacted emerald,
The South Wind crept on moccasins of flame,
And the red fingers of th impatient Sun
Plucked at its outmost fringes, its dim veins
Beat with no life, its deep and dusky heart
In a deep trance of shadow felt no throb
To such soft wooing answer. Thro its dream
Brown rivers of deep waters sunless stole ;
Small creeks sprang from its mosses, and
amazed,
Like children in a wigwam curtained close
69
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
Above the great, dead heart of some red chief,
Slipped on soft feet, swift stealing through the
gloom,
Eager for light and for the frolic winds.
In this shrill moon the scouts of Winter ran
From the ice-belted north, and whistling shafts
Struck maple and struck sumach, and a blaze
Ran swift from leaf to leaf, from bough to bough,
Till round the forest flashed a belt of flame,
And inward licked its tongues of red and gold
To the deep-crannied inmost heart of all.
Roused the still heart but all too late, too
late!
Too late the branches, welded fast with leaves,
Tossed, loosened, to the winds ; too late the Sun
Poured his last vigour to the deep, dark cells
Of the dim wood. The keen two-bladed Moon
Of Falling Leaves rolled up on crested mists,
And where the lush, rank boughs had foiled
the Sun
In his red prime, her pale, sharp fingers crept
After the wind and felt about the moss,
And seemed to pluck from shrinking twig and
stem
The burning leaves, while groaned the shud
dering wood.
70
ANTHOLOGY
Who journeyed where the prairies made a pause
Saw burnished ramparts flaming in the sun
With beacon fires, tall on their rustling walls.
And when the vast horned herds at sunset drew
Their sullen masses into one black cloud,
Rolling thundrous o er the quick pulsating plain
They seemed to sweep between two fierce,
red suns
Which, hunter-wise, shot at their glaring balls
Keen shafts with scarlet feathers and gold
barbs.
By round, small lakes with thinner forests
fringed
More jocund woods that sung about the feet
And crept along the shoulders of great cliffs
The warrior stags, with does and tripping fawns
Like shadows black upon the throbbing mist
Of evening s rose, flashed thro the singing
woods,
Nor tim rous sniffed the spicy cone-breathed
air;
For never had the patriarch of the herd
Seen, limned against the farthest rim of light
Of the low-dipping sky, the plume or bow
Of the red hunter ; nor, when stooped to drink,
Had from the rustling rice-bed heard the shaft
71
V.C. 6
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
Of the still hunter hidden in its spears
His bark canoe close knotted in its bronze,
His form as stirless as the brooding air,
His dusky eyes two fixed, unwinking fires,
His bow-string tightened, till it subtly sang
To the long throbs and leaping pulse that rolled
And beat within his knotted, naked breast.
There came a morn the Moon of Falling Leaves
With her twin silver blades had only hung
Above the low set cedars of the swamp
For one brief quarter, when the Sun arose
Lusty with light and full of summer heat,
And, pointing with his arrows at the blue
Closed wigwam curtains of the sleeping Moon,
Laughed with the noise of arching cataracts,
And with the dove-like cooing of the woods,
And with the shrill cry of the diving loon,
And with the wash of saltless rounded seas,
And mocked the white Moon of the Falling
Leaves :
"Esa! esa! shame upon you, Pale Face!
Shame upon you, Moon of Evil Witches !
Have you killed the happy, laughing Summer?
Have you slain the mother of the flowers
With your icy spells of might and magic?
Have you laid her dead within my arms?
79
i &
ANTHOLOGY
Wrapped her, mocking, in a rainbow blanket?
Drowned her in the frost-mist of your anger?
She is gone a little way before me ;
Gone an arrow s flight beyond my vision.
She will turn again and come to meet me
With the ghosts of all the stricken flowers
In a blue mist round her shining tresses
In a blue smoke in her naked forests.
She will linger, kissing all the branches ;
She will linger, touching all the places,
Bare and naked, with her golden fingers,
Saying, Sleep and dream of me, my children;
Dream of me, the mystic Indian Summer
I, who, slain by the cold Moon of Terror,
Can return across the path of Spirits,
Bearing still my heart of love and fire. "
Soon the great heaps of brush were builded high,
And, like a victor, Max made pause to clear
His battle-field high strewn with tangled dead.
Then roared the crackling mountains, and then-
fires
Met in high heaven, clasping flame with flame;
The thin winds swept a cosmos of red sparks
Across the bleak midnight sky ; and the sun
Walked pale behind the resinous black smoke.
And Max cared little for the blotted sun,
73
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
And nothing for the startled, outshone stars ;
For love, once set within a lover s breast,
Has its own sun, its own peculiar sky,
All one great daffodil, on which do lie
The sun, the moon, the stars, all seen at once
And never setting, but all shining straight
Into the faces of the trinity
The one beloved, the lover, and sweet love.
It was not all his own, the axe-stirred waste.
In these new days men spread about the earth
With wings at heel, and now the settler hears,
While yet the axe rings on the primal woods,
The shrieks of engines rushing o er the wastes ;
Nor parts his land to hew his fortunes out.
And as one drop glides down the unknown rock
And the bright-threaded stream leaps after it
With welded billions, so the settler finds
His solitary footsteps beaten out
With a quick rush of panting human waves
Upheaved by throbs of angry poverty,
And, driven by keen blasts of hunger from
Their native strands, so stern, so dark, so drear !
So shanties grew
Other than his amid the blackened stumps ;
And children ran with little twigs and leaves
And flung them, shouting, on the forest pyres
74
ANTHOLOGY
Where burned the forest kings ; and in the glow
Paused men and women when the day was done.
There the lean weaver ground anew his axe,
Nor backward looked upon the vanished loom,
But forward to the ploughing of his fields,
And to the rose of plenty in the cheeks
Of wife and children; nor heeded much the
pangs
Of the roused muscles tuning to new work.
The pallid clerk looked on his blistered palms
And sighed and smiled, but girded up his loins
And found new vigour as he felt new hope.
The lab rer with trained muscles, grim and
grave,
Looked at the ground, and wondered in his soul
What joyous anguish stirred his darkened
heart
At the mere look of the familiar soil,
And found his answer in the words, "Mine
own!"
Then came smooth-coated men with eager eyes
And talked of steamers on the cliff-bound lakes,
And iron tracks across the prairie lands,
And mills to crush the quartz of wealthy hills,
And mills to saw the great wide-armed trees,
And mills to grind the singing stream of grain.
75
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
And with such busy clamour mingled still
The throbbing music of the bold, bright Axe
The steel tongue of the present ; and the wail
Of falling forests voices of the past.
O Love builds on the azure sea,
And Love builds on the golden sand,
And Love builds on the rose-winged cloud,
And sometimes Love builds on the land !
O if Love build on sparkling sea,
And if Love build on golden strand,
And if Love build on rosy cloud,
To Love, these are the solid land !
O Love will build his lily walls,
And Love his pearly roof will rear
On cloud, or land, or mist, or sea-
Love s solid land is everywhere !
GISLI, THE CHIEFTAIN
Part I
To the Goddess Lada prayed
Gisli, holding high his spear
Bound with buds of spring, and laughed
All his heart to Lada s ear.
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ANTHOLOGY
Damp his yellow beard with mead ;
Loud the harps clanged thro the day ;
With bruised breasts triumphant rode
Gisli s galleys in the bay.
Bards sang in the banquet hall,
Set in loud verse Gisli s fame ;
On their lips the war gods laid
Fire to chant their warrior s name.
To the Love Queen Gisli prayed,
Buds upon his tall spear s tip,
Laughter in his broad blue eyes,
Laughter on his bearded lip.
To the Spring Queen Gisli prayed.
She, with mystic distaff slim,
Spun her hours of love and leaves ;
Made the stony headlands dim
Dim and green with tender grass ;
Blew on ice-fields with red mouth ;
Blew on lovers hearts and lured
White swans from the blue-arched south.
To the Love Queen Gisli prayed.
Groaned far icebergs, tall and blue,
As to Lada s distaff slim
All their ice-locked fires flew.
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
To the Love Queen Gisli prayed.
She, with red hands, caught and spun
Yellow flames from crater lips,
Long flames from the waking sun.
To the Love Queen Gisli prayed.
She with loom and beam and spell
All the subtle fires of earth
Wove, and wove them strong and well.
To the Spring Queen Gisli prayed.
Low the sun the pale sky trod ;
Mute her ruddy hand she raised,
Beckoned back the parting god.
To the Love Queen Gisli prayed.
Warp and weft of flame she wove,
Lada, Goddess of the Spring,
Lada, Goddess strong of Love.
Sire of the strong chieftain s prayer,
Vict ry, with his pulse of flame ;
Mead, its mother loud he laughed,
Calling on great Lada s name :
"Goddess Lada, Queen of Love,
Here I stand and quaff to thee,
Deck for thee with buds my spear;
Give a comely wife to me !
78
ANTHOLOGY
"Blow not to my arms a flake
Of crisp snow in maiden guise,
Mist of pallid hair and tips
Of long ice-spears in her eyes.
"When my death-sail skims the foam,
Strain my oars on Death s black sea,
When my foot the Glass Hill seeks,
Such a maid may do for me.
"Now, O Lada, mate the flesh;
Mate the fire and flame of life ;
Tho the soul go still unwed,
Give the flesh its fitting wife !
"As the galley runs between
Skies with billows closely spun,
Feeling but the wave that leaps
Closest to it in the sun,
"Throbs but to the present kiss
Of the wild lips of the sea,
Thus a man joys in his life
Nought of the Beyond knows he.
"Goddess, here I cast bright buds,
Spicy pine boughs at thy feet ;
Give the flesh its fitting mate
Life is strong and lif e is sweet !"
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
To the Love Queen Gisli prayed.
Warp and weft of flame she wove,
Lada, Goddess of the Spring,
Lada, Goddess strong of love.
Part II
From harpings and sagas and mirth of the town
Great Gisli, the chieftain, strode merrily down,
His ruddy beard stretched in the loom of the
wind,
His shade like a dusky god striding behind.
Gylfag, his true hound, to his heel glided near,
Sharp-fanged, lank and red as a blood-rusted
spear.
As crests of the green bergs flame white in the
sky,
The town on its sharp hill shone brightly and
high.
In fiords roared the ice shields ; below the dumb
stroke
Of the Sun s red hammer rose blue mist like
smoke.
It clung to the black pines and clung to the bay
The galleys of Gisli grew ghosts of the day,
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ANTHOLOGY
It followed the sharp wings of swans as they
rose;
It fell to the wide jaws of swift riven floes ;
It tamed the wild shriek of the eagle ; grew dull
The cries, hi its foldings, of osprey and gull.
"Arouse thee, bold wind," shouted Gisli,
"and drive
Floe and berg out to sea, as bees from a hive !
"Chase this woman-lipped haze at top of thy
speed ;
The soul with it cloys, as the tongue cloys with
mead!
"Come, buckle thy sharp spear again to thy
breast ;
Thy galley hurl forth from the seas of the
West!
"With the long, hissing oars beat loud the
North Sea;
The sharp gaze of day give the eagles and
me!
"No cunning mists shrouding the sea and the
sky,
Or the brows of the great gods, bold wind,
love I !
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
As Gylf ag, my hound, lays his fangs in the flank
Of a grey wolf, shadowy, leather-the wed , lank,
"Bold wind, chase the blue mist, thy prow in
its hair !
Sun, speed thy keen shafts thro the breast
of the air !"
The shouting of Gisli, the chieftain,
Rocked the blue hazes, and, cloven
In twain by sharp prow of the west wind,
To north and to south fled the thick mist.
As in burnished walls of Valhalla,
In cleft of the mist stood the chieftain,
And up to the blue shield of Heaven
Flung the loud shaft of his laughter.
Smote the mist with shrill spear the swift wind ;
Grey shapes fled like ghosts on the Hel Way ;
Bayed after their long locks hoarse Gylfag;
Stared at them, triumphant, the eagles.
To mate and to eaglets the eagle
Shrieked, "Gone is my foe of the deep mist,
Rent by the vast hands of the kind gods
Who know the knife-pangs of our hunger !"
82
ANTHOLOGY
Shrill whistled the wind as his dun wings
Strove with it feather by feather ;
Loud grated the rock as his talons
Spurned slowly its breast ; and his red eyes
Like fires seemed to flame in the swift wind-
At his sides the darts of his hunger ;
At his ears the shrieks of his eaglets ;
In his breast the love of the quarry.
Unfurled to the northward and southward
His wings broke the air, and to eastward
His breast gave its iron ; and godward
Pierced the shrill voice of his hunger.
Bared were his great sides as he laboured
Up the steep blue of the broad sky,
His gaze on the fields of his freedom ;
To the gods spake the prayers of his gyres.
Bared were his vast sides as he glided,
Black in the sharp blue of the north sky,
Black over the white of the tall cliffs,
Black over the arrow of Gisli.
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
THE SONG OF THE ARROW
What know I,
As I bite the blue veins of the throbbing sky,
To the quarry s breast,
Hot from the sides of the sleek, smooth nest?
What know I
Of the will of the tense bow from which I fly?
V/hat the need or jest
That feathers my flight to its bloody rest?
What know I
Of the will of the bow that speeds me on high?
What doth the shrill bow
Of the hand on its singing soul-string know?
Flame-swift speed I,
And the dove and the eagle shriek out and die.
Whence comes my sharp zest
For the heart of the quarry? The gods know
best.
Deep pierced the red gaze of the eagle
The breast of a cygnet below him.
Beneath his dun wing from the eastward
Shrill chanted the long shaft of Gisli ;
84
ANTHOLOGY
Beneath his dun wing from the westward
A shaft shook that laughed in its biting-
Met in the fierce breast of the eagle
The arrows of Gisli and Brynhild.
Part IV
A ghost along the Hel Way sped ;
The Hel shoes shod his misty tread ;
A phantom hound beside him sped.
Beneath the spandrels of the Way
Worlds rolled to night from night to day ;
In Space s ocean suns were spray.
Grouped worlds, eternal eagles, flew;
Swift comets fell like noiseless dew ;
Young earths slow budded in the blue.
The waves of space, inscrutable,
With awful pulses rose and fell,
Silent and godly terrible.
Electric souls of strong suns laid
Strong hands along the awful shade
That God about His God-work made.
Ever from all ripe worlds did break
Men s voices, as when children speak,
Eager and querulous and weak ;
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
And pierced to the All-worker thro
His will that veiled Him from the view :
"What hast Thou done? What dost Thou
do?"
And ever from His heart did flow,
Majestical, the answer low
The benison "Ye shall not know!"
The wan ghost on the Hel Way sped,
Nor yet Valhalla s lights were shed
Upon the white brow of the Dead.
Nor sang within his ears the roll
Of trumpets calling to his soul;
Nor shone wide portals of the goal.
His spear grew heavy on his breast;
Dropped, like a star, his golden crest;
Far, far the vast Halls of the Blest!
His heart grown faint, his feet grown weak,
He scaled the knit mists of a peak
That ever parted grey and bleak,
And, as by unseen talons nipped,
To the deep abysses slowly slipped.
Then, swift as thick smoke strongly ripped
86
ANTHOLOGY
By whirling winds from ashy ring
Of dank weeds blackly smouldering,
The peak sprang upward, quivering;
And, perdurable, set its face
Against the pulsing breast of space.
But for a moment ; to its base
Refluent rolled the crest, new sprung,
In clouds with ghastly lightnings stung;
Faint thunders to their black feet clung.
His faithful hound ran at his heel;
His thighs and breast were bright with steel ;
He saw the awful Hel Way reel.
But far along its bleak peaks rang
A distant trump its airy clang
Like light through deathly shadows sprang.
He knew the blast the voice of love
(Cleft lay the throbbing peak above)
Sailed light, winged like a silver dove.
On strove the toiling ghost, his soul
Stirred like strong mead in wassail bowl
That quivers to the shout of "Skoal!"
Strode from the mist, close-curved and cold
As is a writhing dragon s fold,
A warrior with shield of gold.
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V.C. 7
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
A sharp blade glittered at his hip ;
Flamed like a star his lance s tip;
His bugle sang at bearded lip.
Beneath his golden sandals flew
Stars from the mist, as grass flings dew,
Or red fruit falls from the dark yew.
As under sheltering wreaths of snow
The dark blue north-flowers richly blow,
Beneath long locks of silver glow
Clear eyes that, burning on a host,
Would win a field at sunset lost,
Ere stars from Odin s hand were tost.
He stretched his hand, he bowed his head ;
The wan ghost to his bosom sped
Dead kissed the bearded lips of Dead.
"What dost thou here, my youngest born?
Thou, scarce yet fronted with life s storm,
Why art thou from the dark earth torn?
"When high Valhalla pulsed and rang
With harps that shook as grey bards sang,
Mid the loud joy I heard the clang
"Of Death s dark doors; to me alone
Smote in thine awful dying groan
My soul recalled its blood and bone.
ANTHOLOGY
"Viewless the cord which draws from far,
To the round sun, some mighty star;
Viewless the strong knit soul cords are.
"I felt thy dying gasp thy soul
Toward mine a kindred wave in roll ;
I left the harps, I left the bowl,
"I sought the Hel Way I, the blest
That thou, new death-born son, should rest
Upon the strong rock of my breast.
"What dost thou here, young, fair and bold?
Sleek with youth s gloss thy locks of gold ;
Thy years by flowers might yet be told.
"What dost thou at the ghostly goal,
While yet thy years were to thy soul
As mead yet shallow in the bowl?"
His arm about the pale ghost cast,
The warrior blew a clear, loud blast ;
Like frightened wolves the mists fled past.
Grew firm the Way; worlds flamed to light
The awful peak that thrust its height
With swift throbs upward ; like a flight
Of arrows from a host close set
Long meteors pierced its breast of jet.
Again the trump his strong lips met,
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
And, at its blast, blew all the day
In broad winds on the awful Way ;
Sun smote at sun across the gray.
As reindeer smite the high-piled snow
To find the green moss far below,
They struck the mists, thro which did glow
Bright vales ; and on a sea afar
Lay, at a sunlit harbour bar,
A galley gold-sailed like a star.
Spake the pale ghost as onward sped,
Heart pressed to heart, the valiant dead
(Soft the green paths beneath their tread) :
"I loved this is my tale and died.
The fierce chief hungered for my bride :
The spear of Gisli pierced my side.
"And she her love filled all my need ;
Her vows were sweet and strong as mead ;
Look, father ! doth my heart still bleed?
"I built her round with shaft and spear;
I kept her mine for one brief year
She laughed above my blood-stained bier !
"Upon a far and ice-peaked coast
My galleys by long winds were tost :
There Gisli feasted with his host
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ANTHOLOGY
"Of warriors triumphant. He
Strode out from harps and revelry,
And sped his shaft above the sea.
"Look, father! doth my heart bleed yet?
His arrow Brynhild s arrow met
My galleys anchored in their net.
"Again their arrows meet swift lies
That pierced me from their smiling eyes.
How fiercely hard a man s heart dies !
"She false he false ! There came a day
Pierced by the fierce chief s spear I lay
My ghost rose shrieking from its clay.
"I saw on Brynhild s golden vest
The shining locks of Gisli rest
I sought the Hel Way to the Blest.
"Father, put forth thy hand and tear
Their twin shafts from my heart, all bare
To thee they rankle death-like there."
Said the voice of Evil to the ear of Good,
"Clasp thou my strong right hand,
Nor shall our clasp be known or understood
By any in the land.
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ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
"I, the dark giant, rule strong on the earth;
Yet thou, bright one, and I
Sprang from the one great mystery at one
birth
We looked upon the sky.
"I labour at my bleak, stern toil, accursed
Of all mankind ; nor stay
To rest, to murmur I hunger ! or I thirst !
Nor for my joy delay.
"My strength pleads strong with thee; doth
any beat
With hammer and with stone,
Past tools, to use them to his deep defeat,
To turn them on his throne,
"Then I, of God the mystery toil with me,
Brother ; but in the sight
Of men who know not, I stern son shall be
Of Darkness thou of Light!"
92
Isabella Valancy Crawford - Ontario Poet Part 3 Appreciation
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