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 WIBSTH.N.Y. 14SI0 
 
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 microfiches. 
 
 Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques 
 
 1981 
 
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 ©Y ARTHU'R Jc 
 
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 Author of " Watchers of Twilight," 
 "Pauline; and Other Poems." . . 
 
 LONDON, ONT. 
 
 T. H. WARREN. PRIKTRH. i8q6. 
 
 
 / 
 
 Entered, according to tlie Act of the Parliament of Canada in the year one 
 thousand eisjht hundred and ninety-six, by Arthur J. Stringer, 
 London, in the otiice of the Minister of Agriculture, at Ottawa. 
 
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 TO THE CRITIC. 
 
 Call him, whose art ye fondly blame or praise, 
 A cloven reed, whereon some Lip unknown, 
 
 God-like, — to lute ineloquent, — but plays 
 The one old ineffectual monotone. 
 
WORSHIP, 
 
 Our dream-gods wane, and strange gods come ; 
 
 We bend, where gods may once have dwelt, 
 Our puzzled knee, and find them dumb. 
 
 Enough ! — We know that we have knelt. 
 
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 ''ii» tiir iiiiiifcriiiii mi 
 
 ..^^. - 1, .nftisiaifitotti-^. 
 
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jj i Mni i «rnTiffrnirTTiTn'Tr'""ii"irr'nr''^''"-''''n~'-"''""*'^ 
 
 -icmi 
 
 
 k 
 
 THE ANARCHIST. 
 
 From out her golden palace, Fortune thrust 
 
 A maddened dog, whose mouth foamed white with hate ; 
 And loud he howled, and gnawed the courtyard dust, 
 
 And ground his teeth upon the iron gate. 
 
 irTMlW -*hi I 
 
 -^ 
 
MMHMWM 
 
 immmmrnHmmmmiHii^ 
 
 PHILOSOPHIES. 
 
 Some old-time glory haunts us evermore, 
 
 And in captivity behold us grown 
 Enamoured of our cell, in scrolling o'er 
 
 With signs and legends strange each mural stone. 
 
 
 I ,»». ,t»k.0mmmm.'m*ltMm\mllm00^*^milm^>m<^^.^^^ M.-^^tm. 
 
warn 
 
 mt<Mtm i itmmmmmmm i 'mm m mnmmr,mm i mmmtnwmm i mmmmmir: «' 
 
 PAUL VERLAINE. 
 
 Was this brown tawny-throated little bird 
 The being who flung such music down our vale ? 
 
 Then not by this, but by the song we heard, 
 Let us remember now the nightingale. 
 
 
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f 
 
 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 ' He bided not God's time ! '—Yet God took note, 
 That rather rot in such a port, 'twas best 
 
 To face the open sea, and sink or float 
 
 Beneath the stars, and leave with Him the rest. 
 
 ».iiJ»i«i^iii »«i 
 
Vf 
 
 AFTER LONG SILENCE. 
 
 Since you who ever found our Home no Home, 
 Went homeward out across the harbour foam ; 
 Ah ! how can I, so long of songs forlorn, 
 In aught but silence for your silence mourn ? 
 
y 
 
 f 
 
 ON READIN'^- HERRICK'S HESPERIDES. 
 
 In their poor heavy-hearted gaiety, 
 
 They sing their little wine-songs o'er and o'er, 
 And half-beguile their hearts they cannot see 
 
 That Shadow lurking ever at the door. 
 
 ! 
 
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 REMORSE. 
 
 Red lips that dumbly quiver for his kiss, 
 
 And now but fondly touch his graveyard stone,- 
 
 Ah ! lips he loved of old, remember this : 
 He had not died, if he had only known. 
 
 II 
 
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 THEOLOGY. 
 
 The gods dwelt nearer men in olden days, 
 
 And through our world ethereal feet once trod ; 
 
 Since now they walk their more secluded ways, 
 Men struggle nearer each exalted god. 
 
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 M«HikiMM»>iaMMMMI 
 
 12 
 
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 A TWILIGHT IN EARLY AUTUMN. 
 
 The low wind sounds a million drowsy lutes, 
 The yellowing sunlight on the hillside falls ; 
 
 Alone, aloud, a lingering robin flutes. 
 
 And from the elm one golden oriole calls. 
 
 1 
 
 13 
 
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 CAPTIVITY. 
 
 Weep not for him, he hates his cage too well.— 
 Gnawing the very bars that bind him so. 
 
 Pity here one who grows to love his cell, 
 And when his freedom comes is loath to go. 
 
 H 
 
^■ ^wjfwiiWiiwnw^^ 
 
 
 A WOMAN AND A ROSE. 
 
 This rose, I thought, was at its rose-like best, 
 And you a girl at fault in many things ; 
 
 Yet one brief day you wore it in your breast, 
 And round it now a stranger beauty clings. 
 
 15 
 
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*"5W'«^^»*m?»^'f *l^*?lP'5iPW!!'-.- ■■" 
 
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 BESIDE THE MARTYRS' MEMORIAL. 
 
 (OXFORD. ) 
 
 Their very gods, it seems, we have forgot ; 
 
 And drawing back the riven veil once more, 
 Too late we learn that theirs the happier lot 
 
 Who had their foolish gods to perish for. 
 
 i6 
 
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 THE UNXHANGING PINES. 
 
 What drowsy-hearted dryad murmured here 
 With whisperings,— it seems old Time asleep 1 
 
 Till Spring remembers not the dreaming year, 
 And Autumn, heavy-eyed, forgets to reap? 
 
 17 
 
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 r^.Ti!;:iiia 
 
 ON RE-READING SWINBURNE'S LYRICS. 
 
 Those old-time Greeks, who sang to flute and lyre, 
 But schooled coy Melody to walk with Speech ; 
 
 'Tis only now she yields to his desire. 
 And they, grown lovers, mingle each with each. 
 
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 18 
 
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 I i jiL i I III I J ' ■ ■ »»» ■» !■ > •» « i'i I W u rn II I I I i ll | i II I "l l T I ' "IT III 
 
 MY FRIEND THE ENEMY. 
 
 Since thy fierce hate hath so befriended me, 
 Who shall, in sooth, oppose thee to the end, — 
 
 Call now no truce to break my strength, but be 
 Still in thine ancient enmity my friend. 
 
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 19 
 
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 ^■rtr ■■■ .-».- t:« .r-»->->«i^.— ^■y^-.-f!--.-,f»— ^ 
 
 WRECKAGE-WOOD. 
 
 We searched our rugged coast for wood to-day, 
 And, in our happy fire-light here, how meet 
 
 (Ah, poignant irony no tongue could say !) 
 You read your Byron, sitting at my feet. 
 
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 20 
 
 ■' — "• -"T-'iimii I nirrliimiiii i. ._ 
 
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' ' i^^i^im ir ^msmm i &mf mps i' if ^^iK ^. 
 
 ■■^ I fci W a I 
 
 A SAILOR WHO DIED AT SEA. 
 
 He knew no home except the changing deep, 
 Where he a vagrant homeling used to roam ; 
 
 We felt that one who wooed unrest, would sleep 
 The better should we leave him still at home. 
 
 21 
 
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 11 
 
 jEj3*3a«3e:'.^j«si- 
 
 THE TREE-SPARROW IN AUTUMN. 
 
 I hear blown down along the yellowing hills 
 One vernal strain that does the season wrong ; 
 
 The truer poet, thou, whose music fills 
 A bird-forsaken world in need of song. 
 
 32 
 
 miifiiit'iin- "TiTif'TniniiSi* 
 
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 pl| »rt |i> ]|MI » (>tgrai| |l l«Mll «l||<>||i;i>l|iji||i|l>i»i- 
 
■'•^■n" 'jr'ji-j<*'fJr,:>ri,- .■s,*^>--.»*.'^- 
 
 *'^?'f:'^1*^':-X'" 
 
 BEFORE MARQUESTE'S 'WAKING GALAT.€A.' 
 
 A doubtful boon is this, O waking breast ! 
 
 One moment on life's threshold linger yet 
 And learn the curse in which you shall be blest, — 
 
 The great grim gift, — or sleep and still forget. 
 
 23 
 
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■ t ny -wTT-m^Mwpiwiai— r- m g r < i m « 
 
 ti er- ife**^ 
 
 ■iMMi^Bh^^r ~ mg^^^y 
 
 ART'S FUTILITIES 
 
 In youth we have the soul but not the art ; 
 
 When patient age has learned all art's demands, 
 No youthful dream within the old-grown heart 
 
 Remains to busy our perfected hands. 
 
 24 
 
 >W »i i ii« rai'< w»«ltaMBl«<lMia«i»,>_j iiM l -»Mir » « i«i ii » < ■ „mm 
 
 "'*^°'"' ^'*'i»«an. 
 
ON A CERTAIN ASCETIC. 
 
 He gnawed a crust, and flung his goodly grain 
 Full wide across earth's leagues of hungry loam, 
 
 Believing he and his should meet again. 
 Ye wanting naught— if//^/ hardest take ye home? 
 
 25 
 
 MMferfVMtalfilaiMIMMMMk^rfiMHMAiHMlMlMNMi 
 
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 1 
 
 i 
 
 * 
 
 THE JINGO. 
 
 He sat behind his roses, and he woke 
 
 With careless hands those strings that should have known 
 A subtler touch . to-day his country-folk 
 
 From old mad battlefields plough many a bone ! 
 
 26 
 
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 ^iiiii 
 
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■ * ■■■ m • 
 
 THE POET AND HIS HEART. 
 
 • What boon, should I betray my Rome to thee ? ' 
 And to the Roman girl the Sabine said : 
 
 ' From each left arm its wealth,' and laughingly 
 They flung their fatal gold, and left her— ^^^^. 
 
 
 V 
 
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 THE OLD ELUSION. 
 
 He clutched the maid Delight, and held her fast ; 
 
 Her poppied breathing blind - ' like a cloud. 
 And lo ! when down his tristful eyes he cast, 
 
 His cheated arms but held her empty shroud. 
 
 28 
 
 II I I i H iii J i ii'i ■■ » »i 
 
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 THE FINAL TEST. 
 
 You wrangle still if bard or rhymester he, 
 And poets all, you say you cannot tell ! 
 
 He was what you by hate can never be, 
 And more than rhymester, since he loved so well. 
 
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 ::^.:^ ' .js- ' , r=n.- j:A.-jer!.-mj. ' ^^MC.t, < L. im.xM.J i «- m i— ■ ■ 
 
 THE POET IN THE COUNTRY, AND LONELY. 
 
 But day by day to wander up and down, 
 And read the laughter and the tears of men, 
 
 As Shakespeare, say, once did in London town, — 
 And then what themes for my too idle pen ! 
 
 1 
 
 30 
 
 .mnmirr i i r~"'''T"'-ri""' ' ' ii'-m-..- ■ -■! ■■■■■i 
 
 i m iiiii i i MniKii i nnmiTi 
 
 i^MIIH «il|Hl»Wl«"' 
 
■n x.r"i'"w<" '*•'■■ 
 
 
 n. 
 
 THE POET IN TOWN, AND ILL AT EASE. 
 
 But once among my pine-clad hills again, 
 
 To breathe God's air, and scent the distant sea ; 
 
 Who knows, I too might find that purer strain 
 Which marks the poet I can never be. 
 
 3« 
 
 
 riMtMBaaoMHMBM 
 
 J^ 
 
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 •Ata 
 
 III. 
 THE POET, AND AT HOME. 
 
 He made us hate things loved once overmuch,- 
 Our seasons dark or glorious, as he chose. 
 
 He was our poet, and his subtle touch 
 Transformed our veriest weed into a rose. 
 
 32 
 
 
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lid 
 
 
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 THE SICK MAN. 
 
 He crawled too near the brink, and peered below, 
 For glassed in that grey face we saw chill fear, 
 
 And strange gaunt horrors, and abysmal woe ; 
 Then shrank he quaking from the grim gulfs leer. 
 
 33 
 
<■(■ 
 
 A LADY NO LONGER YOUNG. AND TIME. 
 
 ' Turn back, O Time, and bring my vanished youth 
 Once more to me ! ' And Time thereat replied : 
 
 ' What years shall I return ? ' — ' What years, forsooth ! 
 How dar'st thou stand and ask me that ? ' she cried. 
 
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 34 
 
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 I. 
 
 THE PESSIMIST. 
 
 He pines upon a maple-spray, 
 The sad-eyed, silly fellow ; 
 
 And mourns of Autumn all the day, 
 Because one leaf is yellow. 
 
 V 
 
 35 
 
 MMaHMMtMW^MMIMMIMMMMMil^ 
 
 jtiat^tn»timmMmam 
 
 1,1111 llMliirMX' 
 
V 
 
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 :'i 
 
 II. 
 
 THE OPTIMIST. 
 
 Such vernal songs were never sung 
 By April-hearted bird before ; 
 
 Since here his little cage is hung 
 Once in the sunlight at the door. 
 
 1 
 
 36 
 
 
 M*MM«WMM««MlM«MMMV«lM«*aMl 
 

 THE SHADOWING GODS. 
 
 ' I scorn your empty creeds, and bend my knee 
 To none of all the gods adored of men ; — 
 
 I worship nothing, that I may be free.' 
 • Mayhap,' said one, ' you kneel to Freedom then.' 
 
 37 
 
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 »^JKMiriHtf:»riH3UM«bMl*'i 
 
 I I iiiHiirttfcnTniriM ' 
 
 Hi I Ullilm I'll 
 
m0m 
 
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 TO ONE IN SEARCH OF SONG. 
 
 Sweep not the skies for thine ethereal theme, 
 Lest near the sun thou binge the wings of song ; 
 
 But while lorn treaders of the stars but dream, 
 
 Beat down with rhythmic wings some earthly wrong. 
 
 
 38 
 
 li«Mi>«MMI|MM 
 
 i mii ii i M i iwn ■ j wi m I ' ' ' 
 
 »m0 111 V ^vmrnamm^mrii 
 
 l r>l!^»^•J— *»' i wBitT i ■ «ii' ™ ' 
 
 ;*i... 
 
|il^i».,il «■ VWI«i< 
 
 I II iTi ii ifrnTf ■*--r~- -iiriitH-*^- ■ 
 
 I 
 
 THE DARK WOMAN OF «THE SONNETS.' 
 
 Where he such honey garnered who can tell ! 
 
 He left the perfume of the flower behind, 
 And vainly rifling every honeyed cell, — 
 
 The gods be thanked, — its name we never find. 
 
 39 
 
 
 mrn'Mttmrnaitm 
 
 Mb^LMi«jteiii>*«MBlMMMtMiiriA«iMii^ 
 
 ^.-oeigt^ 
 
>-«ai:»i a » i s M i i^ « S»« i <»i' > »r ^^it.«^ •ji.^i '^ii f i^ f'^t,^^^^ 
 
 ARS CELENDI ARTEM. 
 
 ' On this great steamer's deck, how tranquilly we float, 
 Seafaring seems so easy now, — our thanks to coal ; — 
 
 Come, join this merry-hearted crew who man the boat.' 
 Ah, dreamer, stand one moment in the stokers* hole ! 
 
 40 
 
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 > I IIMi W iii»t rt »i<«.<lpMti iili j» t »W »< < Mi|iiW»i M iWl<Wll » 'ii ■HW m ^t^ 
 
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 THE CHURCHYARD EPITAPH. 
 
 Push back the tangled grass, and read the stone,- 
 His life's one sorrow breaking into rhynic, — 
 
 Where he, the singer of a day alone, 
 Had worn our iron crown his little time. 
 
 41 
 
 „«„,««-*ii/l«^ l*'Mlii#)ihH 
 
 «iiiiiiiiii.riM<iiiiiiiiui --■ 
 
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 . ' , W(i Hii t (i l 'n # (i »»yj irf 
 
 i<Mi;^>>^»rr'Viw»&'liV<»i<iii>>>l!i»-<i'jfr^-- 
 
 AT THE TEMPLE OF THE SUMMIT. 
 
 Knock, and the door shall open : we had knocked 
 And found the inipitiable portals locked. 
 We learned us little croons to while along 
 Those dreary hours,— and ye, ye call it song ! 
 
 43 
 
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