Quebec

-1908 Of old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong Like Helen fair, like Helen light of word, “The spoils unto the conquerors belong. Who winneth me must win me by the sword.” Grown old,

Slumber Songs

I Sleep, little eyes That brim with childish tears amid thy play, Be comforted! No grief of night can weigh Against the joys that throng thy coming day. Sleep, little heart! There is no

The Harvest Of The Sea

The earth grows white with harvest; all day long The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves Her web of silence o’er the thankful song Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves. The wave tops

The Pilgrims

An uphill path, sun-gleams between the showers, Where every beam that broke the leaden sky Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours; Some clustered graves where half our memories lie; And one grim

The Night Cometh

Cometh the night. The wind falls low, The trees swing slowly to and fro: Around the church the headstones grey Cluster, like children strayed away But found again, and folded so. No chiding look

Upon Watts' Picture Sic Transit

“What I spent I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have.” But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life, The waving of the banners, and the rattle of

Anarchy

I saw a city filled with lust and shame, Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light; And sudden, in the midst of it, there came One who spoke boldly for the cause

The Dead Master

Amid earth’s vagrant noises, he caught the note sublime: To-day around him surges from the silences of Time A flood of nobler music, like a river deep and broad, Fit song for heroes gathered

The Oldest Drama

“It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers. And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad, Carry him to

The Warrior

He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days, But with the night his little lamp-lit room Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the

The Song Of The Derelict

Ye have sung me your songs, ye have chanted your rimes (I scorn your beguiling, O sea!) Ye fondle me now, but to strike me betimes. (A treacherous lover, the sea!) Once I saw

Eventide

The day is past and the toilers cease; The land grows dim ‘mid the shadows grey, And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace At the close of day. Each weary toiler, with
Page 2 of 212