Canada, My Land Part 3

INVOCATION TO SUMMER.

Come, Summer, come, nor in the south delay; We do thee honor with a longer day; We prize thee more, we better know thy worth; We hold thee dearer in the truer north: Come, Summer, come.

Come, Summer, come, and in the early dawn Find sparkling dewdrops on the fragrant lawn; Hush all before thy majesty at noon, And hallow the long evening hours; come soon, Come, Summer, come.

Come, Summer, come, make meadow gra.s.ses long; Make all the groves exuberant with song, The pasture corners canopy with shades, And thickly roof the silent forest glades: Come, Summer, come.

Come, Summer, come, and with thy magic breath Make consummation of the death of death; Complete the work of thy sweet sister, Spring; Life more abundantly give everything: Come, Summer, come.

SIR SUMMER.

When conquering Summer stalks the street, His eyes are eyes of fire, The pavement burns beneath his feet, Men droop before his ire; But yonder, out upon the land, His manners are not these: He is a courtier mild and bland Beneath the maple trees.

He throws his buckler on the gra.s.s, Unclasps his sheathed blade; He doffs his helmet and cuira.s.s, And lounges in the shade; His pennon, fastened to a bough, Is fluttering in the breeze: He is at home and happy now Beneath the maple trees.

No furious rage disturbs his breast, No fever heats his brain; Right cheerily he takes his rest, And views his glad domain; His lady seated by his side, His children on his knees, His heart expands with joy and pride Beneath the maple trees.

He hears the happy farmer folk Who toss the fragrant hay; Blessings upon him they invoke, And beg of him to stay.

The music of the feathered choirs, The murmur of the bees, Are sounds of which he never tires Beneath the maple trees.

He hums a sweet, melodious tune, His hand a garland weaves, He talks the while he feasts at noon, His laughter shakes the leaves.

He tells of conquests in the south, Of triumphs overseas, Of realms redeemed and deeds of drouth, Beneath the maple trees.

He shouts and holds his jolly sides, And strikes his l.u.s.ty thigh, To think of how Sir Winter hides His face when he is nigh, Or how with city exquisites His swagger disagrees: Thus glad Sir Summer gaily sits Beneath the maple trees.

I know where I can find his bower Upon a wooded hill, Where I can pluck his favorite flower, And bathe within his rill; And thither I will take my flight, And loiter at my ease, And pay my homage to the Knight Beneath the maple trees.

THE NIGHT.

A tremor, a quiver, Through her ran As over the river The dawn began.

She drew her veil Over her eyes, And her face grew pale, As she watched the sun rise.

She faded, turned To a ghost, was gone, As the morning burned And the day came on.

With veiled, sad eye, And face still wan, She waited nigh When the dusk began.

With her tears of bliss The earth was wet, And soothed with her kiss, When the sun had set.

And with stately pride She sat on the throne Of her empire wide When the day had gone; And her robes she spread With their sable hem, And crowned her head With her diadem.

And the mute earth saw That a Queen was she, And gazed with awe On her majesty.

TO BEAUTY.

Beauty, beloved of all gentle hearts And pure, and cherished of the gifted tribe Whose skill to canvas and even stone imparts Such things as words are powerless to describe.

And bards, who woo thee in the silent shade And dote upon thee under moonlit skies, And lovers, who behold thee new-array'd, As our first parents did in Paradise!

These all have been thy priests. In times remote, In Athens and the cool Thessalian dells, They sung thy liturgy with dulcet note, And quaff'd thy chalice from the sacred wells Of leafy Helicon. Beneath the brows Of fam'd Olympus and among the isles Of the Aegean sea they paid their vows, And read thy lore in Nature's frowns and smiles.

Nor strange to Zion's sanctuaried hill Wast thou, embalmer of the holy page; Ambrosial odors from thy garments fill The garden where the amorous royal sage Walk'd and discours'd with his beloved; there Alluring in thy soft and sumptuous dress: And to his kinglier sire supremely fair, Companion sweet of meek-ey'd Holiness.

Thou hast no local temple, no set shrine; Thou art diffus'd o'er earth and sky and sea; In every land a thousand haunts are thine, Spirits of every race respond to thee.

Here thy Olympus and thy Zion hill, Thy silvery Aegean, I survey; Thy majesty and loveliness at will I view, and own thy tranquilizing sway.

THE DOCTOR.

He bent above our darling's bed When her life was ebbing low, And in his serious look we read The truth we feared to know.

We knew a slender thread was all That held her now; we saw The dark, portentous shadow fall, And near and nearer draw.

Our hopes were centred all in him; We stood with bated breath As, pitiful and calm and grim, He fought and fought with Death.

We hung upon the desperate fight, And saw in him combined The tiger's stealth, the lion's might, The man's superior mind.

We saw the fearful hate he bore His old, relentless foe, His beautiful compa.s.sion for The one we cherished so.

No mortal ever waged alone A conflict so severe; The high-souled, stainless champion Finds heavenly succor near.

Legions of angels to his aid His pure devotion brought; Celestial strength his spirit swayed; 'Twas Life that in him fought.

The awful stillness of the night!

The long and bitter hours!-- It seemed that Time had stayed his flight To watch the battling pow'rs.

And ere the ghastly night had fled He conquered in the strife, And gently took the slender thread, And drew her back to life.

MY VALENTINE.

O Dorothy, sweet Dorothy, You make my heart rejoice; Your presence is like Arcady, There's music in your voice; Heaven's purity is on your brow, Its light is in your eyne; I love you, and I ask you now To be my Valentine.

Your face is like the lily in The morning's ruddy light; Your dimpled cheeks and tiny chin Are blessings to my sight; Your lips are fairer than the rose And redder far than wine; Your teeth are whiter than the snows: You'll be my Valentine!

You are not quite so old as I, You've seen but summers three; And that's no doubt the reason why You are not coy with me.

I'll come to you to-morrow, And on chocolates we'll dine; And you'll have no thought of sorrow When you are my Valentine.