Vacation Verse.

by W. M. MacKeracher.

TO

MR. ROBERT McDOUGALL, B.A.

My Dear Rob.--My intention when I left the country was, as you know, to publish a volume of some size, which should present among its contents the long poem which I wrote during the early part of my last vacation.

The design has dwindled until it finds its execution in the publication of this little pamphlet, containing merely pa.s.sages from that poem.

Some of these you heard recited as we strolled together through the fields of the Chateauguay Valley, and were kind enough to approve. My hope is, that, considering the stage of advancement of their author, and remembering the circ.u.mstances of his writing (during the intervals of study for a college examination), you will approve all the pieces here presented to you by him; and my further hope is, that you,--you, sweet in song as firm in friendship,--may yet have cause to regard him as one

"Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true.'

Your sincere friend, W. M. M.

_Montreal, October 10th, 1891._

A WALK IN MOUNT ROYAL PARK: CANADIAN CITIES.

Next morning in the Park I took a stroll.

A walk upon Mount Royal is a thing, Glorious at any time, but most of all At early morning in the opening spring, While yet the snow-wreaths to the rock-shelves cling, And little streamlets lash the steaming side; While on the air the April breezes fling An appetizing vigor far and wide, And make the steep ascent a pleasure and a pride.

The path ascends by stately Ravenscrag, And past the monument which marks his rest, Over whose history strange traditions drag Their spectral robes--his memory's sole behest.

Here for a moment halting, all imprest With other thoughts than find a ready tongue, I view the leopard slope, the bristling crest, The blue beyond, with cloud veils lightly hung, And glory in a dream of time when earth was young.

I follow by the winding road until, By taking at the sweep the northern arm, I reach the summit. For the topmost hill The scenery reserves her chiefest charm; The upper sky is clear and light and warm; The southern peaks that far away I wist, Seem close upon me; round their lower form A shroud is wrapped; their tops, by sunlight kiss'd, High in mid-air appear and mighty in the mist.

Beneath, the River spreads his glist'ning sheen, Spanned by not least of master workmanships, Which sits as conscious daughter of a queen.

And here art thou, my city, and thou dip'st Thy towers in the mist, whose magic strips My spirit of the pall Time weaves--in vain; Nor Time nor Disappointment can eclipse Days of young bliss--they must and will remain: Once more a wonder thou, half city of the brain.

Fair art thou, City of St. Lawrence' Isle; Fair, City of the Hundred Spires; the seat Of the Western Notre Dame, whose towered pile Rivals the first, of many a stately street And comely mansion, many a garden sweet, Of Art and Nature, envious to please!-- Thou of the mountain brow, before whose feet The Northern Amazon his tribute fees, Fraught with the waters of five mighty inland seas!

And fair art thou, whilome the Capital-- Not what thou wert, but yet a gorgeous grave-- Fortress of fame, upon whose rocky wall Records of glory awe the trembling wave, Heights where the memories of heroes pave The ancient streets and l.u.s.tre all the scene!

Fair, too, thou city where our fasces have Their present rest; none worthier I ween!

And fair, ay, very fair, thou city called "Queen!"

STUDY IN SOLITUDE.

'Tis true, in midst of all, there may arise For man's society a sudden thirst, A sense of hopeless vacancy which dries The spirit with a loneliness accurst, A longing irresistible to burst The branchy brake with other birds to sing, Or, as, from where in solemn shades immerst, The beetle comes to wanton on the wing Around my lamplight flame--alas! poor, foolish thing.

But here thou may'st a.s.sociate, though alone, With worthiest men, the best of every age, Through whom the universe of thought has grown To what it is--the n.o.ble, good, and sage.

How vain the fret, how frivolous the rage For social rank, when thus e'en monarchs deign In close communion gladly to engage!

Nay, more than monarchs--Still the Mantuan swain His fadeless laurel wears--What crowned Augustus' reign?

A thing of gold--'tis crumbled in the dust, The crowns of sovereigns and their sceptres all Decay and are forgotten. Who would trust His fame to what fleet ruin must inthral?

Tombs will obliterate and columns fall, Annals be lost, and nothing have remained Of dynasties--The Conqueror of Gaul And Lord of the World may yet have only reigned By Shakspere's suff'rance--What hath all the rest attained?

IN THE SUGAR BUSH.

I halted at the margin of the wood, For tortuous was the path, and overhead Low branches hung, and roots and fragments rude Of rock hindered the tardy foot. I led My timid horse, that started at our tread And looked about on every side in fear, Until, arising from the jocund shed, The voice of laughter broke upon our ear, And through the c.h.i.n.ks the light shone out as we drew near.

I tied the bridle rain about a tree, And on the ample flatness of a stone Awhile I lay. 'Tis very sweet to be In social mirth's domain, unseen, alone, Sweet to make others' happiness one's own: And he who views the dance from still recess, Or reads a love tale in a meadow, p.r.o.ne, Secures the joy without the weariness.

And fills with love's delight, nor feels its sore distress.

This mind detained me in the night, but soon Far other thoughts usurped my regal soul, With the Supreme made fitter to commune When human sympathy illumes the scroll And points the secrets of the mighty Whole.

I've spurned the earth to roam the Universe, And with the Eternal deadened Time's control, For refuge from the shadow of a curse, Or l.u.s.t of curious lore--than maddest motive worse.

And Thou, Great Essence of all things that are, Hast been to me most prodigal of grace, Thou'st smiled on me in many a twinkling star, The morn hath showered kisses on my face, In Nature's arms, thy bodily embrace, Not purest poet hath more fondled been.

'Tis true that I have often thought to trace, Instead of peace, a harshness in thy mien, And where I beauty sought, discordant sights obscene.

But not with aching heart I sought thee now, That thou might'st numb with thy narcotic night The restless pulse, oblivious balm bestow, Infuse this frailty with thy glorious might, And blind with beauty to the mortal blight.

Not even wilful love possessed me, when, Behold, thy spirit stole upon my sight And ravished me--What wonder that my ken Forsook this little world of vanity and men?

And howsoe'er it seemed at other times To my imperfect and diseased mind, Which darkened with the shadow of men's crimes Thy virtue, fancying in thee to find Reflection of the ills that shake mankind, Though on me now a tempest broke and war Convulsed the elements, I would perceive behind, Law, harmony, and purpose--That falling star Seems sped to be the sun of new-formed worlds afar.

And yet the scene was such as often shares The obscurest soul--no wondrous rarity,-- The slender maples holding to the stars Their outstretched arms, as praying silently-- A sea of stars--a dancing, dazzling sea, Tremendous, mighty, infinite, supreme, Emblem of Might, Eternity's decree, Half crediting the mythologic dream And making of heaven th' abode that vulgar fancies deem.

A common scene, perchance, but, to the mind Which Nature hath enlightened with her ray Nothing in her is common.--Not confined, Her beauty, to the sparkle and the play Of solitary spring, or rare bouquet Of tropic flowers; she hath grandeur more Than crowns the mighty peaks of Himalay, Or hurtles in the great Niagara's roar.

To me one beam of light can bring a priceless store.

Nay, more; the mind wherein her fulness dwells Can beauty and sublimity instil In all created things, till it excels Even herself, though nurtured at her rill.

The mind may be a monarch if it will, And that of which great Nature is the nurse May rule itself, subjecting every ill, And be the Sun, all phantoms to disperse, And scatter glory round--Lord of the Universe.

What matter whether mortals own his sway?

He knows his kingdom is not of this world; It is within--perchance some purer day Will see the standard of his soul unfurled, When Good, surviving, sees the Evil hurled To final dissolution, and the force Of worlds no longer round their centres whirled Shall all combine and gather to the source, To serve some n.o.bler end--if such shall have recourse.

Rapt in the purple transport of a G.o.d, Pacing the ether with star-treading stride, With conscious power, imperial purpose shod, And iris-crowned with radiating pride, I seemed to move--nay, move--what throbbing side, Intenses immortality! what brow Thrills with severe conception!--deified, As Pallas sprung.--Such did the G.o.ds allow-- I fear 'tis half a sin to tell what I do now.

If fire be stolen from Heaven, it is not The theft consigns the mortal to the shock Of the Olympian vengeance; such the lot Of him whose earthly pride prepares the rock And taints the air where the penal vultures flock, Whose after-weakness welds the fettering chain; Then G.o.ds despise and fellow mortals mock.

And here return me to the theme I've ta'en, And sing the simple labors of the humble swain.

Their voices told they gave me welcome warm, Though oft their faces I can scarcely see, For steam-clouds now atween us rise and swarm, And, rolling upward, find their vent in glee, Like more--alas!--too eager to be free, Who fear to go, yet shudder to remain.

Shall mortal spirits then be lost like ye?

'Tis ours, the burning heart, the boiling brain, Which yield the vapor life.--But, then, ye fall in rain!

Ye fall in rain; ye change, but are not lost; Ye reach the ocean, and the mighty sea Absorbs you in her bosom with the host Who have attested their eternity.

And, if this world we quicken, so shall we, When this dim, fluttering earthly scene is through, Commingle with the heroic and the free, The pure, the good, the beautiful, the true, Whose influence earth surrounds, and sheds its freshening dew.