East an6 Mest : 
 
 H Summer's JMeness. 
 
ic- 
 
 X- 
 
 .), 
 
East and West: 
 
 A SUMMERS IDLENESS, 
 
 — BY— 
 
 E. J. C. 
 
 ' We look before and after, 
 And pine for what is not,' 
 
 TORONTO: CAxMADA. 
 
 Trout & Todd, Printers, 66 & 68 Church Street. 
 November, 1887. 
 
This little poem was composed almost entirely during a brief 
 holiday passed at a summer hotel on Kempenfeldt Bay, Lake 
 Simcoe, in August of this year. To the friends whom he met 
 there, the author dedicates it with all kind wishes. 
 
 ToKONTO : October ^ist, 1887. 
 
THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 Art thou the old dream dreaming ? 
 
 Poor heart, of the morrow beware — 
 Death may hirk in the brown eyes' veil'd gleaming, 
 
 In the white throat so wondrously fair. 
 The tones that wild heart-throbs awaken — 
 
 The sheen of the gold-shower'd hair — 
 The touch that thy soul hath so shaken — 
 
 May lure thee, and leave thee — ah, where ? 
 
 Trust it not, the wild treacherous gladness — 
 
 The twin hounds of Passion and Pain 
 Are swift to arise — in their madness 
 
 They rend, and they rest not again ! 
 The day-dream is sweet in the dreaming, 
 
 But dreamless the night's dull despair, 
 When the voice, and the touch, and the gleaming. 
 
 Have lured thee, and left thee— ah, where ? 
 
EAST AND WEST. 
 
 VVt! look before and after, 
 And pine for what is not.' 
 
 THE WEST. 
 
 The sultry day is well-nigh done, 
 Aflame is all the fiery west — 
 The giant snow-peaks, one by one, 
 Are crimson'd by the great red sun 
 Whose glory gilds each gleaming crest. 
 And far — upon the golden sky, 
 A black fleck floating silently — 
 A solitary eagle sweeps 
 Its way across those trackless deeps : 
 As trackless as a frozen sea 
 Whose waves have never stir nor sound 
 In all its weird immensity. 
 Below, the foot-hills stretch around 
 Mile after mile — untrack'd, untraced, 
 A desolate and dreary waste 
 Of shattered rock and clinging pine, 
 Deep-cleft by many :\ jagged line 
 Of lonely gulch and cavern hoar. 
 Where night is in the noon of day — 
 And months and years go on alway — 
 And still, as in the days that were, 
 Those western hills are wild and bare. 
 The eagle's home, the lean wolf's lair- 
 Unchanged, and changeless evermore ! 
 
8 
 
 But deep within — the rocky core 
 Of those lone mountains, rent and old, 
 Is seam'd and vein'd with glittering ore. 
 And lurid with the gleam of gold. 
 So, to those savage wilds have come 
 A few wrecked souls, as savage. Some 
 By the fierce gold-thirst thither led, 
 And some from human vengeance fled, 
 And some world-chased by bitter wrong — 
 Rough, reckless, bearded, bold, and strong- 
 They come from far-off lands and climes, 
 But little speak of earlier times, 
 Each living as it seems him best. 
 Alone, and heedless of the rest. 
 
 The daylight softly ebbs away, 
 Though lingering still with tender ray. 
 And still the sunset's waning glow 
 Climbs slowly up those wastes of snow : 
 But here and there faint stars are seen 
 In the blue gaps that lie between 
 The glimmering peaks, and all below 
 Is gray with creeping mist. The stroke 
 Of restless pick, whose rhythmic clang 
 All day among the mountains rang 
 And many a wild weird echo woke, 
 Is silent row ; but yet no sound 
 Or stir of life is there reveal'd 
 Among the scatter'd huts around. 
 To-night they linger long a-field, 
 Those toilers of Earth's stony womb — 
 But now, slow-growing through the gloom 
 Dark forms in shadowy groups appear : 
 And two among them gently bear 
 A human burden — ghastly, wan, 
 And black with powder- -one in whom 
 The likeness of a living man 
 Is well-nigh all crush'd out. And they. 
 Those hard rough miners — tender now 
 
9 
 
 As very women — softly lay 
 With silent footsteps, sad and slow, 
 Their comrade in his lowly hut, 
 Where gaunt and grey the rocks out-jut 
 Across the jagged rift below. 
 
 He wakes again to life at last. 
 But not to consciousness or pain — 
 The throb of agony has pass'd 
 Though life doth still awhile remain. 
 And they, who stand beside him there 
 And bathe with rough but pitying care 
 His blood-stain'd breast and fever'd brow, 
 He knows them not — his spirit now 
 Is far away from that lone spot 
 In scenes long-left, but unforgot — 
 A stately terraced walk he sees, 
 Pale-tinted by the crescent moon : 
 The odour of the summer breeze. 
 The whisper of the swaying trees, 
 Falls softly on his soul — and soon 
 A clinging form is by his side — 
 Their lips are one — the whole world wide 
 Has not so fair a form for him — 
 His heart beats fast, his senses swim 
 Under her whisper'd words. Alas ! 
 That such should be, and come, and pass, 
 Even as the wind that stayeth not. 
 
 "V\'ell may the listeners shrink — God wot ! 
 A laugh from dying lips to hear : 
 In sooth, it hath a ghastly sound 
 That well may cause a throb of fear 
 In hearts as bold as those around — 
 And bitterly, though faint and low, 
 From those pale lips the accents flow : 
 
 I told thee, when thy fantasy 
 Had sicken'd and had ceas'd to be — 
 
lO 
 
 When thou, unmoved, my name couldst hear, 
 Or hear it with a shrinking fear- 
 When hand met hand, and no quick thrill 
 Came, as of old, thy heart to fill— 
 And that one memory had become 
 A blear'd ghost, wan and wearisome — 
 Thou hadst but one brief word to say, 
 Or look— and I no more would blot 
 The brightness of thy life's young day, 
 But drop from out that life away. 
 And be as thou hadst known me not. 
 
 I told thee, when the thing was said, 
 I would go down without a cry — 
 A bubble — and the wave goes by, 
 And all the past is blurr'd and dead. 
 Why should I curse thee ? All around 
 The dead leaves drop. The wintry ground 
 Is bare and black, that once was green — 
 The song-birds of the summer's sheen 
 Where bleak winds blow no more abide — 
 All life's poor glamours wax and wane — 
 Then how shouldst thou unchanged remain, 
 In all this change of time and tide ! 
 
 The damp of death is on his brow, • 
 
 The flame but feebly flickers now — 
 A struggle for the strangled breath, 
 A gasp that faint and fainter grows : 
 And then the long, deep, calm repose. 
 The one long hush of death ! 
 They draw the hood across his face, 
 And leave him to his Maker's grace ! 
 
THE EAST. 
 
 (ONE YEAR LATKU ) 
 
 Blithe, and bright, and debonair, 
 Is Deercliffe Court this afternoon— 
 The roses in their flush of June 
 On terrace, lawn, and gay parterre. 
 In glowing masses fill the air 
 With summer fragrance. All around 
 Fair forms are floating, and the sound 
 OfJight patrician laughter blends 
 With faint-heard strains of melody — 
 And friends are gaily greeting friends — 
 And warm and bright the summer sky 
 Its cloudless azure dome extends 
 O'er all that courtly company. 
 
 Within the vast ancestral rooms. 
 The noble hosts of Deercliffe stand. 
 With winning smile and ready hand 
 To greet their throng of guests. Rich glooms 
 Upon the blazon'd arras throw 
 On Parian groups their purple glow : 
 And bowers of tropic plants, between. 
 Roll back the sunlight's rippling sheen : 
 And high above, in long array, 
 Steel-coated warriors grim and grey, 
 And ermin'd judges, stern and cold. 
 And plumed gallants, gay and bold, 
 Who many a roaring catch had troU'd 
 In those old halls, in days that were; 
 And maidens in their bloom of May, 
 White-throated, with their pearl-deck'd hair 
 And poor dead smiles, long pass'd away, 
 Look down upon as bright a scene 
 As in those halls hath ever been. 
 
12 
 
 She stands beside a marble fawn, 
 Gold-crown'd above her low pale brow 
 With sun-flush'd tresses, and a glow 
 On lips and cheek of pearly dawn. 
 Lithe as a tawny lioness. 
 Her form has still, in its slim grace. 
 A girl's young beauty. One may trace 
 In all its swaying loveliness 
 The natural pose and pride of race 
 Subdued by inborn tenderness. 
 Her picture : you may see it there — 
 It hangs upon the southern wall 
 Among the rest, more fair than all. 
 With its great waves of tawny hair. 
 And tender mouth, and gold-brown eyes 
 Wherein a wistful yearning lies. 
 
 Beside her stands the noble Earl, 
 In act and instinct, to the core, 
 True to his rank, if nothing more : 
 All coldly courteous. In the whirl 
 Of public life, no passing blame 
 Had ever touched his ancient name. 
 Noblesse oblige, his motto ever : 
 And so he held without endeavour 
 The world's respect, his peers' esteem. 
 His young wife's love — well, so 't was said — 
 But love, the passion and the dream, 
 Scarce troubles now a young girl's head. 
 What, if without our world it lies — 
 Shall hearts for that be void and sore ? 
 Rank, wealth, world-homage won — what more 
 Is wanted for a paradise ? 
 
 Gay goes that garden festival ! 
 Around, the glorious roses glow ; 
 Their fanfares gay the bugles blow ; 
 The tennis-lawns and pathways all 
 
13 
 
 Are bright with beauty and the gleam 
 Of radiant gems and silk and lace, 
 And many a memory-haunting face. 
 Within the rooms, in dazzling stream 
 (Fit pageant for a painter's dream) 
 The guests move onward. Some have pass'd 
 With their young hostess, free at last. 
 Through all the glittering living maze. 
 Within the noble gallery, 
 
 Where paintings of the old art-days 
 
 Of Rubens, Titian, Veronese — 
 
 Rank upon rank, un brokenly, 
 
 Enshrined in deathless glory, shone — 
 
 With many of our modern day, 
 
 Fit co-mates — so the world will say. 
 
 When Time's slow touch shall o'er them stray. 
 
 And mellowing years have come and gone. 
 
 A passing group has paus'd before 
 A strange weird painting— done by whom 
 None knew — its legend only bore 
 The picture's name : " a lonely tomb." 
 So fraught the scene with sense of pain. 
 That many a passer turns away : 
 But those who stop, perforce must stay, 
 And look, and lingering, look again. 
 
 A sunken cross — the sea— the shore 
 
 A levelled sand-heap — nothing more 
 To tell the lonely sleeper's tale — 
 A grave beside a storm- blown sea. 
 And on the land, nor leaf, nor tree. 
 And on the sea no gleam of sail 
 Or glint of wild bird's restless wing, 
 Or sight or sign of living thing — 
 A scene that doth the soul oppress 
 With its wide utter loneliness. 
 
 Between the lines the tale is read, 
 A voice amidst the silence said— 
 
Certes ! the scene is sad and drear ; 
 But in the Western wilds, last year, 
 I came across a scene as dread, 
 A grave as silent, lost, and lone — 
 The cloven ice-cliffs overhead, 
 And shatter'd rocks around it thrown ! 
 In truth, a strange titanic tomb 
 Whose walls were never built or plann'd 
 By human skill or human hand — 
 But in their silence wide and dread, 
 Those walls will hold their lonely dead 
 Close-curtain'd till the crack of doom ! 
 
 They turn'd — and in the speaker knew 
 A soldier and a traveller too, 
 A paladin of high renown 
 In all the most exclusive sets : 
 One met to-day in ducal halls, 
 At midnight crushes, masques, and balls, 
 Then heard of in some far-off town 
 Among the moslem minarets — 
 Or where the Calmuck deserts lie 
 In their untamed immensit)' — 
 Or pillar'd date-palms stately stand. 
 Green islands in a sea of sand, 
 Within the Nubian's burning land — 
 Or where the wide Marafion flows. 
 And forest upon forest grows, 
 And Cotopaxi's gleaming snows 
 Are white against the Western sky ! 
 All gathered round, and eagerly 
 The Colonel question'd — what and where 
 Was that strange tomb of which he said ? 
 And who was he, the lonely dead. 
 Who slept his last long slumber there ? 
 
 And so his tale the traveller told : 
 Last year, he said, when western woods 
 Were flush'd with autumn's red and gold, 
 
15 
 
 I cross'd the rocky solitudes 
 
 Among the cloud-girt mountain chains 
 
 That rise from Arizona's plains, 
 
 By somb*-e gorges deeply cleft, 
 
 Where Time's denuding hand has left 
 
 Stern record of ikts patient toii, 
 
 And hurrying streams in wild turmoil 
 
 Leap darkling to the distant sea. 
 
 And there, in those far wilds, did we — 
 
 I, and my silent Indian guide 
 
 And our brave mules — climb patiently, 
 
 Until one sultry eventide. 
 
 Slow toiling up the mountain side. 
 
 Across a miners' camp we came : 
 
 The topmost peaks were still aflame 
 
 With the red sunset's dying glow, 
 
 But all was grey and dark below. 
 
 And in the camp there was no sound 
 Or stir of life ; but all appear'd 
 Lone and deserted, till we near'd 
 A distant hut in which we found 
 The miners gathered, mute, around 
 A dying comrade. As I gazed 
 Upon the dying face, its eyes 
 Turn'd upon mine with sad surprise 
 In their last lingering look. Amazed, 
 I stood, till memory found the clue. 
 And then the poor dead face I knew — 
 Poor Geoffrey ! everybody's friend ! 
 Who thought that such would be his end ? 
 Countess ! I think you knew him, too : 
 Young Geoffrey Vernon ! Was it not 
 At Deercliffe — at this very spot, 
 I met him once, two years ago ? 
 With sudden effort she suppress'd 
 The wild fierce throb that tore her breast, 
 And turn'd, and slowly answer 'd— No ! 
 
i6 
 
 I do not think it ! — all the same, 
 I do remember, now, the name — 
 I pray you, let us hear the rest. 
 
 Her voice was hard, and strange its tone, 
 As voice of one that would subdue 
 A moan's low cry. A livid hu*? 
 Came o'er her cheek, and then, anew. 
 As quickly as it came, was gone — 
 Unseen, unheeded. And again. 
 With voice that held no touch of pain, 
 She said, 1 pray you, then, say on ! 
 
 Well, there is little more to say — 
 I kept the death-watch till the day 
 Came greyly, and the stars were gone. 
 Then foUow'd the strange burial : 
 The strangest that has ever been 
 Before or since, or ever shall 
 In all the coming years be seen. 
 The hills above the camp, that night. 
 Threw back a lurid spectral light : 
 And suddenly among them shone 
 A sofatara's fiery cone, 
 Between the fissured rifts upthrown. 
 And with the dawn, a seething flood 
 Of pitch-like, black, and trailing mud 
 Pour'd from its throa' and forced its way 
 Far down the narrow gorge that lay 
 Darkly beneath it. There they placed 
 (Within a few rough boards encased) 
 The body of the silent dead. 
 And one they call'd " the preacher " there, 
 Uncover'd, and with low voice said 
 A few scant words of hurried prayer. 
 Then came the wave : a moving wall. 
 It crept around the coffin-lid, 
 And rose and rose — and all was hid 
 Beneath its black and massive pall 
 
'7 
 
 That froze to solid rock, anon ! 
 And ever as tlie years roll on 
 The secret of that silent stone 
 Lock'd darkly in its hidden core— 
 The goad that drove its tenant forth 
 From home and kin, o'er sea and earth, 
 To perish there -remains unknown. 
 And so remaineth evermore ! 
 
 It seem'd as though the cruel day 
 Would never end— and all the while 
 To force upon the face a smile, 
 And this and that, O God ! to say. 
 Whilst all the thought was far away— 
 And all the glitter and the gleam. 
 The greeting forms that came and went, 
 Seem'd but the glamour of a dream 
 That work'd to her bewilderment. 
 But now at last the day has pass'd. 
 The lingering, gleaming, ghastly day— 
 The carriages have roll'd away — 
 And she is free — at last — at last ! 
 
 She stands alone within her room — 
 The night has come : the moon, on high, 
 Sails softly through the summer sky— 
 The floor is flecked with light and gloom 
 The glory of her loosen'd hair 
 Is all about her — white and bare 
 Her shoulders and her white feet shew 
 Like marble in the pale moon-glow. 
 And light as one that moves in dream 
 She seeks the costly cabinet 
 Wherein her rarest jewels gleam, 
 And stooping, wildly takes from it 
 A few poor letters — three or four, 
 She had not dared to treasure more — 
 
28 
 
 And these, why keep them new, she said : 
 
 To keep thcni were a bitter jest 
 
 On this great He of life, at best, 
 
 And here they do but mock tlie dead! 
 
 No neeil has she to scan again 
 Those words of passionate power and pain. 
 That branded were in heart and brain. 
 One Hngering, chnging kiss— tlie last — 
 And through their leaves the swift flame pass'd, 
 And the grey ashes, one by one, 
 Dropt silently, and all was done. 
 But as the last gleam o'er them swept, 
 Through all her soul a terror crept 
 And shook with sobs her shuddering breast — 
 Her hands across her eyes she press'd. 
 But that dead face she needs must see — 
 And all the yearning Past is there — 
 And low she moans, in her despair, 
 O Jeff! poor Jeff!— it had to be ! 
 
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