Songs and Sonnets

Front matter

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand nine hundred and six, by William Briggs, at the Department of Agriculture.

Within my garden, on the southern side, Where warm and strong the sun's battalions fall, The lilies grow superbly white and tall, The mignonette and phlox spread far and wide; The roses there are my perpetual pride, The ivy riots laughing up the wall, And all my flower-loves, both great and small, A daily feast of loveliness provide.

And deep within the garden of my heart, Upon that side where thou art wont to shine— And something of thy sweetness to impart— There sprang these little wandering songs of mine; I know not if they show thee what thou art, But any worthiness they have is thine.

Indian Summer

INDIAN SUMMER.

Of all Earth's varied, lovely moods. The loveliest is when she broods Among her dreaming solitudes On Indian Summer days; When on the hill the aster pales, And Summer's stress of passion fails, And Autumn looks through misty veils Along her leafy ways.

How deep the tenderness that yearns Within the silent wood that turns From green to gold, and slowly burns As by some inward fire! How dear the sense that all things wild Have been at last by love beguiled To join one chorus, reconciled In satisfied desire!

The changing hillside, wrapped in dreams, With softest opalescent gleams, Like some ethereal vision seems, Outlined against the sky; The fields that gave the harvest gold— Afar before our eyes unrolled In purple distance, fold on fold— Lovely and tranquil lie.

We linger by the crimson vine, Steeped to the heart with fragrant wine, And where the rowan-berries shine, And gentians lift their blue; We stay to hear the wind that grieves Among the oak's crisp, russet leaves, And watch the moving light, that weaves Quaint patterns, peering through.

The fires that in the maples glow, The rapture that the beeches know, The smoke-wraiths drifting to and fro, Each season more endears; Vague longings in the heart arise, A dimming mist comes to the eyes That is not sadness, though it lies Close to the place of tears.

We share the ecstasy profound That broods in everything around, And by the wilderness are crowned— Its silent worship know. O when our Indian Summer days Divide the parting of the ways, May we, too, linger here in praise Awhile before we go!

Postponement

POSTPONEMENT.

Behind their veils of clinging mist, Elusive as a dream, In changing rose and amethyst The mountains stood supreme.

Consumed as by some inward fire Of brooding mystery, They held the heart of his desire— His love and poetry.

And always, ever, some dear time— So ran his hidden hopes— He meant to leave his task and climb Their beckoning emerald slopes.

To scale their precipices bold, And watch the rose-wreaths rise, To see the gates of Heaven unrolled Before his longing eyes.

But always, always, something pressed Between him and his aim; He kept his dream, but gave the rest To meet the common claim.

He ploughed the black and fertile plain, And sowed the waiting soil, And harvested the yellow grain, And spent his days in toil;

Nor failed to give a helping hand When others stood in need; But strove to meet each new demand With patient word and deed.

So went the seasons. Wrapped in mist The mountains, blue and gold, Behind their veils of amethyst Still wait, but—he is old!

Exiled

EXILED.

Green banners just unfurled, Summer comes apace, There will be a new world At the old home place; Scarlet wing will flash by, Meadow-lark will soar high— O, and that is where I Turn my longing face!

Never days like those days, Never joy like mine; All the world a soft haze— All the world a shrine! Overhead, the blue sheen; Underneath, the new green; I with beating heart between Finding life divine!

Ah! and how the birds sang Every sunny day, All the fields and woods rang With their ecstasy; How my wanton pulse thrills, How my homesick heart fills, Thinking of those green hills Dear and far away!

Forest Tragedy

FOREST TRAGEDY.

Afloat upon the tide one summer night, Dreamily watching how the moonbeams bright Made little broken rings of fairy light,

And vaguely lost in that half-conscious mood That steals upon the sense in solitude, I drifted near a shadowy island wood

Where all was silent, scarce a leaf was stirred— So still the air—when suddenly I heard The piercing, anguished cry as of a bird

In such distress it made the echoes ring And set the startled silence quivering— The wild appeal of some sweet feathered thing

In its extremity. And then a sound, Half-muffled, faint, and all again was drowned In silence inarticulate, profound.

I went my way; but that despairing cry, Unheeded and unanswered from on high, Rang through me like the voice of Destiny.

And in my restless heart the old, deep strain— The bitter doubt and wild rebellious pain I thought were laid—came surging up again.

Comrades

COMRADES.

They hollowed her a little grave Within the cool, dark ground, The woods and winds soft welcome gave With many a murmuring sound.

The sighing pines and aspens low Joined in her funeral hymn, But they who brought her did not know— Grief made their senses dim.

And though at first they vigil kept When in the dark she fared, They come no more—the fate they wept Perchance they since have shared.

But there are other friends who stay Beside her constantly, And bear her in their humble way Sweet, steadfast company.

The kindly, patient grass hath spread A coverlet of green, And made her little lowly bed Pleasant to be seen.

Above her head the sheltering trees Have woven canopies, The nesting birds and droning bees Croon her soft lullabies.

The comradeship of field and wood Grows stronger year by year, As she becomes to Nature's mood More intimate and dear.

When Orchards Bloom

WHEN ORCHARDS BLOOM.

Now come the days when orchards bloom, And lilacs are unfolding, And Nature from the winter's tomb Fresh loveliness is moulding, When in the woods there rise anew Anemone and meadow-rue, And everywhere the violets blue High carnival are holding.

When, touched by changing sun and shower, The chestnut buds are filling, And purple hyacinths each hour Fresh fragrance are distilling, When here and there enchanting notes Come ringing from impassioned throats, And flash of blue or scarlet coats Sets all one's pulses thrilling.

And what of thee, O sullen heart— Still busy with thy grieving? Hast thou no little leaves to start, Thy barrenness retrieving? Nay, leave thy chamber, come abroad, See how the apathetic clod Awakens at the touch of God, Spring's sacrament receiving.

Wilt thou not answer to the call, Thy selfish grief forsaking, And trust the Love behind it all, Life's promises partaking? The frailest little flower that blows A higher dream of Heaven knows Than he who dully grieving goes When round him Spring is breaking.

Thy Part

THY PART.

To love and to be loved again Was all she ever asked or sought, To know a mother's joy and pain And be into life's fabric wrought; Her simple faith was satisfied With what she felt and understood, To walk in sunny ways she tried, Believing, practising the good.

To others' need and use she brought, With constant and unconscious grace, The best she had, her only thought To be of service in her place. The leisured, laughing, careless throng By her unheeded went their way, But in her eyes a silent song Grew ever deeper day by day.

Hast thou done reverence in thy heart To such as she, who serve and wait— Been mindful in thy place and part That self-forgetful souls grow great? Hast thou her narrower portion made By sympathy more large and sweet? Or ever branch of laurel laid At her unconscious, tireless feet?

Hast thou not eaten of her bread And hurried forth forgetfully? Or stood, perchance, with unbared head And smiled at her simplicity? Nay, brother, she who in her soul Has kept the altar-fires alight May all unconscious touch the goal And outrank thee in Heaven's sight.

Maturity

MATURITY.

"At life's great feast," they said to me, "The gods serve out the good wine first; Look to thy cups, drink heartily, In early hour assuage thy thirst."

Not so! Though eagerly I quaffed, Deeming it then well-spiced, good wine, To me seems now that early draught Of vintage human—this divine!

On the Trail

ON THE TRAIL.

Oh, there's nothing like the prairie When the wind is in your face, And a thunder-storm is brewing, And night comes down apace— 'Tis then you feel the wonder And immensity of space!

Far in the gathering darkness Against the dying day The ghostly hills are lying, The hills that stand for aye— How in the dusk they glimmer And palpitate away!

Behind them still there lingers A hint of sunset gold; The trail before you stretches, A long black ribbon unrolled— Long and black and narrow, Where the buffalo trod of old.

Though motionless forever, The prairies seem to keep The rolling swell and hollow Of some undulating deep, As to the edge of heaven And still beyond they sweep.

Between your knees the bronco Goes hotly o'er the plain, With rhythmic swing and measure You feel him give and strain, And on your cheek come stinging The first wild drops of rain.

How vast the world and void! No living thing in sight, As to the lonely prairie Comes down the lonely night, But in your heart what freedom— What sense of buoyant flight!

Once more the pulses quicken With life's exultant pride, With hope and high ambition, As on and on you ride, Till all the old desires Come galloping beside!

Oh, there's nothing like the prairie When the wind is in your face, And the boom of distant thunder Comes rolling up apace— 'Tis then you feel the wonder And immensity of space!

O Summer Days

O SUMMER DAYS.

O Summer Days, how shall we part! To thee I gave mine inmost heart. Swift to thy call have been my feet, I loved thy raptures and thy heat; Thy sunsets and thy evening star Have beckoned from their deeps afar. Thy winds have taught me to forget— O Summer Days, not yet, not yet! Thy veery's oft-repeated note And oriole's song I've learned by rote, Thy nights have filled me with content, Thy dawns were as a sacrament. The silence of thy forest ways Has given peace to troubled days, And all thy lovely, leafy things Have brought the joy a comrade brings. Beneath thy dome of tender blue I've learned to measure life anew; The absent hope, the lost desire Urge me again to something higher, And Beauty with her mystic gleam Has waked again the old-time dream And charmed away the vain regret— O Summer Days, not yet, not yet!

Give Me No Pity

GIVE ME NO PITY.

Destroy me not, O friend, I pray, With thy well-meaning sympathy; Give me no pity, but a place Where falls the sunlight on my face.

The race is to the swift, I know, The battle to the strong; but Oh! Full recompense there is for each When Heaven itself is in our reach.

The widow's gift of old was small, Yet was it counted more than all; 'Tis what he does, not what he can, That proves the measure of the man.

And so, if thou would'st have me strong, Dwell not on what is sad or wrong; 'Tis not in marking how they fail That men find courage to prevail.

I ask no more than just the chance To match my will with circumstance, With what I am in mind and heart To take my due and play my part.

God showeth me no special grace, And why should'st thou? Yield me my place— The right to strive—and spare me, pray. Thy well-intentioned sympathy.

Voices of the Storm

VOICES OF THE STORM.

Where sweeps the broad St. Lawrence I stood one windy day, Upon a rocky islet That faced the open bay, And watched the breakers leaping In towers of snow-white spray.

Like some invading army Upon the rocks they bore, With clamor and confusion, And vast tumultuous roar; Their mists, like smoke of battle, Rolled white along the shore.

Upon my brow in baptism Cold, stinging drops were flung, And in my ears, like music, The storm's wild chant was rung— The chorus of the waters, That knew nor speech nor tongue.

An elemental passion Was in the stress and sweep, And all at once responsive I felt my pulses leap; There seemed a subtle kinship Betwixt me and the deep.

I shared its wild commotion, The springs of its unrest, The secret of its tumult Lay hidden in my breast, And in my heart a nameless Wild exultation pressed.

Long past the day! Still often Its mood will o'er me fall; Again I hear those distant Storm-voices call and call, And know this busy getting And spending is not all.

Returning

RETURNING.

When one has journeyed far afield To see earth's varied treasure, And taste the joy fresh pastures yield— Perhaps his greatest pleasure Is when he turns his footsteps back Along the old, well-beaten track, To learn in fuller measure, Home's quiet joys and friendly cheer By absence rendered still more dear.

'Tis well to turn the wearied eyes Where foreign suns are glowing, And gain the stimulus that lies Where fresher streams are flowing; But O, the happy rush of thought With which the eager hours are fraught When we are homeward going! How good the old accustomed place— How sweet each dear familiar face!

Our Common Brotherhood

OUR COMMON BROTHERHOOD.

I never saw his face, or knew his name, But that gay morning as I loitering came Around the blossoming hillside, all aflame

With lilac spires and apple-blossoms brave, That to the rifling air their sweetness gave, I saw where they were making him his grave.

If I had chanced to meet him by the way, In all the golden sunshine of the day, No pleasant word I might have found to say;

But since he could no longer come to meet The world, love-smitten, dreaming at his feet, Nor feel within his pulse the Spring-tide beat,

Nor love again, I gave for him instead, And poured upon his low, unconscious head The sacramental love that shrives the dead.

And though I went my way with eyelids wet For grief of one whom I had never met, Because his day so soon was ended, yet

I turned my face up Heavenward again, Believing human love is not in vain; And, moved and softened by the sudden strain

Of fellowship, I touched the larger mood Of universal love, and understood The passion of our common brotherhood.

I am Content with Canada

I AM CONTENT WITH CANADA.

Of countries far and famed have I been told, And of the joys that foreign travel brings, Of wonders, beauties one would fain behold To stir the heart with fresh imaginings.

And I myself in storied Switzerland Have watched the Alps in their majestic calm, And been by jasmine-scented breezes fanned In tropic isles that bear the stately palm.

And many a fabled castle on the Rhine Has winged my fancy as we drifted by; Beside the oleander and the vine I've dreamed beneath the soft Italian sky.

But I have never been more deeply stirred By any loveliness of land or sea Than when upon Canadian shores I've heard The lonely loon or curlew call to me

Across our own unnumbered Northern lakes, And over leagues of winding water-ways Upon whose nameless shores the aspen shakes And yellows in the soft autumnal haze.

(And O to swing away where all is new, And share the haunts of shy and tameless things, To dip one's paddle in the liquid blue And skim the water lightly as with wings!)

When on the broad St. Lawrence some gray day, Among those islands wrought of mist and dreams, I drift to realms of unreality Where all the world a lovely vision seems;

Or when among the Rockies I have caught The sudden gleam of peaks above the cloud, And on the tumult of my quickened thought New visions, dreams and aspirations crowd;

Or, thinking of the future and of all That generations yet unborn shall see— The forests that for axe and ploughshare call, The wealth of golden harvests yet to be,

I am content with Canada, and ask No fairer land than has been given me, No greater joy, no more inspiring task, Than to upbuild and share her destiny.

A Thousand Joys Remain

A THOUSAND JOYS REMAIN.

Life has a thousand raptures still To crowd the common ways, For Beauty walks with him who will, Close comrade of his days.

Each season with its coming brings A store of fresh delight, For joy is at the heart of things For him who sees aright.

O eloquent the light that thrills Along the morning sky! O lovely are the dreaming hills When silent night draws nigh!

The rhythmic sun and stars reveal Our habitation wide, Cradled in mystery, still we feel Secure and satisfied;

And we may kindle when we will The light in children's eyes, And learn by loving to fulfil Our joy in sacrifice.

O, he who keeps an open mind Wins strength to master pain; Whatever be denied, he'll find A thousand joys remain!

Mother-born

MOTHER-BORN.

Since fate hath given thee no child To lie within thine arm, That by its presence undefiled Should keep thy soul from harm,

If thou wert truly mother-born Thou would'st have played the part, And found some little one forlorn To fold within thy heart.

Masqueraders

MASQUERADERS.

To my garden every day Little masqueraders gay Come to while the hours away.

Gauzy, glittering, fragile things, Jewelled as befitteth kings, Floating far on purple wings.

Voyagers of earth and air, Facing life without a care, Dainty, dashing, debonair.

Gay adventurers at ease, Sleek and happy as you please, Drifting idly with the breeze.

Warriors clad in polished mail, Fierce for battle tooth and nail— Well the stoutest heart may quail!

Spurs upon the tiny feet, Cuirass, helmet, all complete— Saw you ever aught so neat?

Little brothers in disguise, Peering forth with curious eyes, Quaintly humble, quaintly wise;

Plumy pennons half unfurled, Filmy aigrettes lightly curled— O, this marvellous, magic world!

Whither?

WHITHER?

Within the portals of my heart There lies a chamber set apart, And I to enter there Must first be purged of every sin— Be purified without, within, And girded with a prayer;

For nothing common or unclean May ever in that room be seen, No taint of sin or woe; Up from the midst there runs a stair That leads above, I know not where, But angels come and go.

I feel the fanning of their wings, I hear their low-breathed whisperings— They sometimes speak my name! And all my soul is softened, thrilled, With holy aspirations filled I touch the altar-flame.

Another chamber lies apart Within the portals of my heart, Whose easy door swings wide; And when my feet its threshold tread A tumult in my soul is bred That sweeps me like a tide.

And from it, too, there runs a stair That leads without, I know not where, But flitting forms I see, Who would my spirit fain beguile With soft beseeching look and smile To join their revelry.

And some dark presence hovering near Constrains me, whispering in my ear— Exultant, smooth and bold— The same alluring, honied word— The subtle promise Jesus heard Upon the Mount of old.

Some day the portals of my heart Shall riven be, and fall apart, Touched by a power unknown; And I, a pallid ghost, must flee Far out into eternity, Unshriven and alone.

In that dread hour of waste and woe One door shall open wide, I know, But only one, to me; One stair my hurrying feet must tread, As I go forth to join the dead— O Soul, which shall it be?

In the Garden

IN THE GARDEN.

The roses blushed a deeper red, The lilies looked more saintly, The sweet-alyssum hung its head, And smiled and frowned most quaintly; The daisies even, at my feet, Were strangely knowing, strangely sweet;

The hollyhocks against the wall, So serious and old-fashioned, Were all astir, the larkspur tall Seemed really quite impassioned. I pondered, but I could not guess What made their sudden consciousness.

Where'er I looked, their little eyes Were eager, wise and tender, As if they had some new surprise Or sympathy to render— But, turning round all unaware, I saw that she was standing there!

Caught up on Wings

CAUGHT UP ON WINGS.

Caught up on wings am I! The rapture of the sky— Is mine as in my flight Through boundless spaces bright— Delirium of light— I soar on high—on high— Till Heaven itself is nigh— Caught up on wings am I!

In bonds but yesterday A prisoner I lay, The song unguessed, unheard, The hope—the dream unstirred, As mounts the singing bird To realms of ecstasy, I mount upon my way And speed aloft to-day.

My own has come to me And set my spirit free, No more enchained I dwell, The speeding arrow fell— Wrought was the miracle, Far realms beyond I see, The best is yet to be— My own has come to me!

Invocation

INVOCATION.

The long-closed doors have opened wide, Come in, Beloved, partake, abide, Make home with me; I'll weave a chaplet for thy brow Of bitter-sweet and rue, and thou Shalt crownèd be.

The grapes hang purpling on the wall, The flagons brim, the apples fall, The hours run fast; Gray shadows lengthen, toward the west The sun is turning—be my guest While day shall last!

The fire upon the altar burns, The tide is in, the light returns Far out at sea; The heart that hath so long been dumb Speaks once again: Beloved, come, Make home with me.

Candle-flame

CANDLE-FLAME.

Hast singed thy pretty wings, poor moth? Fret not; some moths there be That wander all the weary night, Longing in vain to see The light.

Hast felt the scorching flame, poor heart? Grieve not; some hearts exist That know not, grow not to be strong, And weep not, having missed The song.

The Distant Goal

THE DISTANT GOAL.

I builded me a palace fair, Untouched of pain, remote from care, And with my dreams I tarried there.

I tarried there for one brief day, Then sorrow came and had its way— My house of hope in ruins lay.

But, girded with a strength unknown Before its joy was overthrown. My soul arose and stood alone;

And gazing past life's sore defeat, Past earth receding at its feet— With all the beauty magic-sweet—

Beyond the reach of time and chance, And wrecking tides of circumstance, It saw as in a lightning glance

The distant goal. O not in vain These earthly crucibles of pain, In every loss may still be gain!

And though we know not how or whence, Denial hath its recompense, And love its hidden, sure defence.

My Roses

MY ROSES.

Glowing, passionate, perfect, Crimson fold on fold, Packed with that exquisite beauty Only a rose can hold— Under the velvet petals Hints of hidden gold.

(And oh! the swift enchantment, Half pain, half ecstasy, When Beauty for a moment Turns and looks our way— In her eyes the haunting Old, sweet mystery!)

Others saw my roses, Thought them lovely too, Praised their form and fragrance, Marvelled at their hue— Others loved my roses— 'Twas only I that knew!

'Twas only I that fathomed Their innermost hearts of flame, To me alone their beauty A sacrament became— To me alone they whispered The secret of your name!

Love's Higher Way

LOVE'S HIGHER WAY.

Constrain me not! Dost thou not know That if I turn from thee my face 'Tis but to hide the overflow

Of love? We need a little space And solitude in which to kneel And thank our God for this high grace

That He hath set His holy seal Upon our lives. My heart doth burn With consciousness of all I feel

And own to thee, and if I turn For one brief moment from thy gaze, 'Tis but that I may better learn

To bear the unaccustomed blaze Of that white light that like a flame Thy love has set amidst my days.

For with that clearer light there came A vision of the far-off sea We mortals know not how to name,

That borders on Infinity. Since when I am not all my own, Nor wholly thine—some part of me

Responds to God, and God alone. For love makes silence in the heart As well as song, and rolls the stone

From buried selves, and makes us part Of all that was and is to be— High-priests of life; and though thou art

Revealer and revealed to me, And my desire has been fulfilled, And all my life is crowned in thee,

Yet there remains a chord that, thrilled To keener sense, doth recognize The spirit claim, and I am stilled

With deepened reverence that lies Below all speech. Behold I lay My heart in thine, O bid me rise

To find with thee Love's higher way That leads past self into the wide, Still reaches of eternal day!

The Seed

THE SEED.

Scarce had my flower bloomed when one By one its crimson petals fell; Touched by some change inscrutable Its life and loveliness were done.

And with it something in my heart Suddenly passed and was no more, As if a hand had closed the door Where Beauty, dreaming, sat apart.

O life, O loveliness, how brief! How soon the costly wine is spilled— The casket sealed, the laughter stilled! But O, how long, how endless, grief!

So musing, mourning, I complained, When lo! a seed replaced my flower; All that was drawn from sun and shower In substance still to me remained.

A voyager, this tiny barque, That breasts the sea of change and loss, What power fashioned it to cross The wide abysses of the dark?

Shall not that Power in some sphere Beyond our finite reach or ken Bring into life and bloom again The good we sought to fashion here?

But They Remember Not

BUT THEY REMEMBER NOT.

His mother wrought as only mothers can, And gave the impress to the coming man, Put all her earlier aims and hopes aside, Focussed in him her whole desire and pride, Nor spared herself, but toiling early, late, Hewed through their poverty a pathway straight For his young footsteps—gave him all she had, And sent him forth an honest, whole-souled lad.

His wife, the guardian of his later ways, The star and inspiration of his days, Relieved him of those trivial, tyrant cares That lurk about our feet like hidden snares, And set him free for higher thought and deed; Making her heart a home to meet his need As only women can, she gave surcease Of grinding stress and fenced him in with peace.

And he?—Before him burned the steadfast light Their hands had held to guide his way aright; By it he reached the summit of his aim, The goal of his endeavor, and became The idol of his day. But they who sound His fame remember not the lives uncrowned On which he stands—the narrow, obscure ways Two women trod to wreathe his name with praise.

Through the Silence

THROUGH THE SILENCE

When o'er my garden falls the night, Withholding from my ravished sight The roses red, the lilies white, Still through the dark am I aware Of how they stand in beauty there, Since to the timid, wandering air Each fragrant bloom its passion flings And to my sense fresh rapture brings From all the lovely hidden things.

So is it with my thought of thee; For through the darkness still I see That gracious look thou gavest me. And though our ways lie far apart, Yet through the distance to my heart The fragrant sense of what thou art Brings something delicate and true That thrills the shining silence through And wakens all my love anew.

Conquest

CONQUEST.

I trim to the gale, I carry my banner unfurled, I steer to a chart unseen and unknown of the world.

I challenge the fates, I laugh in the face of defeat, I look from afar and know not the sign of retreat.

The chosen went forth, I stood with them not on the roll, I stood in my place uncalled and was valiant of soul.

Denial has been my armor well-tempered and bright, From pain I have woven banners both crimson and white.

From out of the dark I forged me a trumpet and blew, From out of the dark came ringing a voice that I knew.

The victors returned, I heard them come marching in line. The victors returned—the conqueror's triumph was mine!

My vigils are filled with the sound of the trumpeter's song, I wait for the dawn content, I have seen and am strong.

Love's Seasons

LOVE'S SEASONS.

When first you came, it was perpetual Spring, Fourfold of rapture flamed in everything, And all abroad the gods went wandering.

Then followed Summer, full, luxuriant; We wrought together, and our days were spent In love's fulfilment and life's sacrament.

'Tis Autumn now, and all that went before— The joy of Spring, the Summer's golden store— We harvest in our hearts to fail no more.

To fail no more? When winter storms must sweep Across the shrines where we were wont to keep Love's sacred tryst, and soon—so soon shall sleep?

Yea, Love, whate'er betide, I know the seed Of what was wrought in faithful love and deed Shall but lie dormant waiting higher need.

Confidence

CONFIDENCE.

Flow on, flow on, wild hurrying tide, There waits for thee Fulfilment of thy dream, the wide Deep-bosomed sea.

And thou, wild heart, press on, nor fear But there shall be In some wide sphere, afar or near, A home for thee.