The Farmer in the morning
Stood with slanted head,
In the wintry dawning
By the milking-shed;
From the camp behind the hill
He could hear the bugles shrill,
“We are here! We are here!
Soldiers all!
Good cheer! We are near!
Ontario! Ontario!
Toronto! Montreal!”

Petherick, the Huntsman grey,
Rheumatic, bent and blind,
Wheezed his joy as far away
He heard it in the wind.
“Hark the Hounds! Hark the Hounds!”
Nay, it is the bugle sounds,
“We are here! We are here!
Soldiers all!
Good cheer! We are near!

Each evening on the ethereal canvas wide
I paint new sunsets, colouring all the air.
When Turner failed and flung his brush aside,
I touched the heaven,—the longed-for tint was there.

Yet who will gaze each evening at the sky?
Who cares to contemplate my work supreme?
Unnoticed, shade by shade, the bright tints die.
Man lusts for gold, while God and poets dream.

When my sonorous thunder-pæans sound,
What audience have I in the heights of space?
When my stars fill the air for leagues around,

Woman.

Of old the river-banks were sweet. —
The waves played round my girlish feet,
As in the brook I gathered cress.
I stooped. Then, quicker than a thought,
The wicked ripples laughed and caught
The bright skirt of my Sunday dress.

Satan.

And who came through the wood that day,
With face so handsome, step so gay,
And eyes in which no evil seemed?
And who, found standing in the brook,
Blushed childlike at his laughing look
And then went home, and cried, and dreamed?

Woman.

Philosopher.

Could the good without the evil ever hold out for an hour
Never! — Every lady strutting in her grand silk down the street,
Full of pureness like an angel, full of beauty like a flower,
Were it not for the poor harlot would be never half so sweet.

Satan.

True, the Force that moulded all things is dramatic at the core;
Has its due sense of proportion; sets the good beside the base;
Flings the millionaire his nuggets; plants the beggar at his door;

O Night, to thee, to thee I cry;
Hark to my tale of misery,
How Pythias my heart doth grieve
And loves but only to deceive.
A bidden guest I watch her door
And stand without this hour or more.
Ah, may she come before my gate
And mourn to thee of her own fate!

Ah me! what envious magic thins my fold?
What mutter'd spell retards their late increase?
Such less'ning fleeces must the swain behold,
That e'er with Doric pipe essays to please.

I saw my friends in evening circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tuned my lay;
I heard them say my vocal reed was sweet:
Ah, fool! to credit what I heard them say.

Ill-fated Bard! that seeks his skill to show,
Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear;
Not the poor vet'ran, that permits his foe
To guide his doubtful step, has more to fear.

Push on, my Lord of Würtemberg, across the Flemish Fen!
See where the lure of Ypres calls you!
There's just one ragged British line of Plumer's weary men;
It's true they held you off before, but venture it again,
Come, try your luck, whatever fate befalls you!

You've been some little time, my Lord. Perhaps you scarce remember
The far-off early days of that resistance.
Was it in October last? Or was it in November?
And now the leaves are turning and you stand in mid-September

On distant heaths, beneath autumnal skies,
Pensive I saw the circling shade descend;
Weary and faint I heard the storm arise,
While the sun vanish'd, like a faithless friend.

No kind companion led my steps aright;
No friendly planet lent its glimm'ring ray;
Even the lone cot refused its wonted light,
Where Toil in peaceful slumber closed the day.

Then the dull bell had given a pleasing sound;
The village cur 'twere transport then to hear;
In dreadful silence all was hush'd around,
While the rude storm alone distress'd mine ear.

Reformer.

The world is perfect as God made
Its heights of sunlight, depths of shade:
God's image in it we restore.

Satan.

Your pupils daub the world with mud:
Or else will send a sea of blood
Circling along from shore to shore.

Reformer.

The world was perfect. Leaf and flower,
Starlight and moonlight, sun and shower,
Fulfil the high God's perfect will.

Satan.

And ye will add a starlight new

Light green of grass and richer green of bush
Slope upwards to the darkest green of fir.
How still! How deathly still! And yet the hush
Shivers and trembles with some subtle stir,
Some far-off throbbing like a muffled drum,
Beaten in broken rhythm oversea,
To play the last funereal march of some
Who die to-day that Europe may be free.

The deep-blue heaven, curving from the green,
Spans with its shimmering arch the flowery zone;
In all God's earth there is no gentler scene,
And yet I hear that awesome monotone.