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THOUGHTS, MOODS AND IDEALS

Crimes of Leisure

W.D. LIGHTHALL,

ADVOCATE.

Montreal: "WITNESS" PRINTING HOUSE, ST. JAMES STREET 1887

Dedicated to My Friends.

THOUGHTS, MOODS AND IDEALS.

THE CONFUSED DAWN.

YOUNG MAN What are the Vision and the Cry That haunt the new Canadian soul? Dim grandeur spreads we know not why O'er mountain, forest, tree and knoll, And murmurs indistinctly fly.-- Some magic moment sure is nigh. O Seer, the curtain roll!

The Cry thou couldst not understand, Which runs through that new realm of light, From Breton's to Vancouver's strand O'er many a lovely landscape bright, It is their waking utterance grand, The great refrain "A NATIVE LAND!"-- Thine be the ear, the sight.

NATIONAL HYMN.

We pray no sunset lull of rest, No pomp and bannered pride of war; We hold stern labor manliest, The just side real conqueror.

For strength we thank Thee: keep us strong, And grant us pride of skilful toil; For homes we thank Thee: may we long Have each some Eden rood of soil.

O, keep our mothers kind and dear, And make the fathers stern and wise; The maiden soul preserve sincere, And rise before the young man's eyes.

Crush out the jest of idle minds, That know not, jesting, when to hush; Keep on our lips the word that binds, And teach our children when to blush.

Forever constant to the good Still arm our faith, thou Guard Sublime, To scorn, like all who have understood, The atheist dangers of the time.

Thou hearest!--Lo, we feel our love Of loyal thoughts and actions free Toward all divine achievement move, Ennobled, blest, ensured, by Thee.

CANADA NOT LAST.

AT VENICE Lo! Venice, gay with color, lights and song, Calls from St. Mark's with ancient voice and strange: I am the Witch of Cities! glide along My silver streets that never wear by change Of years: forget the years, and pain, and wrong, And every sorrow reigning men among. Know I can soothe thee, please and marry thee To my illusions. Old and siren-strong, I smile immortal, while the mortals flee Who whiten on to death in wooing me.

AT FLORENCE Say, what more fair, by Arno's bridg?d gleam, Than Florence, viewed from San Miniato's slope At eventide, when west along the stream, The last of day reflects a silver hope!-- Lo, all else softened in the twilight beam:-- The city's mass blent in one hazy cream, The brown Dome midst it, and the Lily tower, And stern Old Tower more near, and hills that seem Afar, like clouds to fade, and hills of power, On this side, greenly dark with cypress, vine and bower.

AT ROME End of desire to stray I feel would come Though Italy were all fair skies to me, Though France's fields went mad with flowery foam And Blanc put on a special majesty. Not all could match the growing thought of home Nor tempt to exile. Look I not on ROME-- This ancient, modern, mediaeval queen-- Yet still sigh westward over hill and dome, Imperial ruin and villa's princely scene Lovely with pictured saints and marble gods serene.

REFLECTION Rome, Florence, Venice--noble, fair and quaint, They reign in robes of magic round me here; But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint, With spell more silent, only pleads a tear. Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim! I see the fields, I see the autumn hand Of God upon the maples! Answer Him With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst! I see the sun break over you; the mist On hills that lift from iron bases grand Their heads superb!--the dream, it is my native land.

O DONNA DI VIRTU!

How oft I read. How agonized the turning, In those my earlier days of loss and pain,-- Of eyes to space and night as though by yearning-- Some wall might yield and I behold again A certain angel, fled beyond discerning; In vain I chafed and sought--alas, in vain, From spurring though my heart's dark world returned To Dante's page, those wearied thoughts of mine; Again I read, again my longing burned.-- A voice melodious spake in every line, But from sad pleasure sorrow fresh I learned: Strange was the music of the Florentine.

LINES ON HEINE.

I saw a crowded circus once: The fool was in the middle. Loud laughed contemptuous Common-sense At every frisk and riddle.

I see another circus now-- ,-- But in the centre laughs the sane; Round sit the sons of folly.

IMITATED FROM THE JAPANESE.

".......................... I have forgotten to forget."--Japanese Song. Tr. by R.H. Stoddard.

The morning flies, the evening dies; The heat of noon, the chills of night, Are but the dull varieties Of Phoebus' and of Phoebe's flight-- Are but the dull varieties Of ruined night and ruined day; They bring no pleasure to mine eyes, For I have sent my soul away.

I am the man who cannot love, Yet once my heart was bright as thine, The suns that rove, the moons that move, No longer make its chambers shine; No more they light the spirit face That lit my night and made my day; No maiden feet with mine keep pace For I have sent my soul away.

A causeless wrath, a mood of pride, Some tears of thine, and all was done; On alien plains I travelled wide And thou wert soon a veil?d nun. Not long a veil?d nun, but soon Unveiled of linen and of clay; But I am March while thou art June, For I have sent my soul away.

And now when I would love thee well, There sits alone within my breast Calm guilt that dare not from its hell Look up and wish the thing thou art. I see a dreadful gulf of fright Beneath my falling life; and gray, Thy light becomes the ghost of light Above it as it falls away.

I have a life, a voice, a form, A skilful hand to lift and turn, I have emotions like a storm, A brain to throb, a heart to burn; But that which Jesus' blood can save, Which looks toward eternal day, Is gone before me to the grave.-- It was my soul I sent away.

The past is past, and o'er its woe It is no comfort to repine; But I would wage my life to know Thy feet in heaven keep pace with mine. I have no hope, I will not weep, The only wish that wish I may Is this, that I may find asleep The soul I thought I sent away.

THE KNIGHT ERRANT.

CLOUD TO WIND O blow, blow high, for I descend; Friend must go to meet his friend, If to earth you tie your feet You and I will never meet.

WIND Nay, I haste. A trifle wait; I exceed my usual gait. Ha! this hill-top is sublime, But it makes me pant to climb.

CLOUD Once again, a little space, Meet we in this Alpine place, Before you leap adown the vale Or I along my pathway sail.

CLOUD O, I from off my couch serene, Woods, meadows, towns and seas have seen; And in one wood, beside a cave, A hermit kneeling by a grave:-- The which I felt so touched to see I wept a shower of sympathy. And in one mead I saw, methought, A brave, dark-armored knight, who fought A shining-dragon in a mist, That, mixed with flames did roll and twist Out of the beast's red mouth--a breath Of choking, blinding, sulphurous death, On which I shot my thickest rain And made the conflict fair again. And from one town I heard the swell Of a loud, melancholy bell, That past me rose in flames of sound And up to Saint Cecilia wound. And on one sea I saw a ship Bend out its full-fed sails and slip So light, so gladly o'er the tide I could not help but look inside-- Its passengers were groom and bride. I floated o'er them snowily, They felt my beauty in the sky, Their eyes, their souls, their joy were one, I would not cross their happy sun. I love this life of calm and use-- No bonds but windy ribbons loose, No gifts to ask but all to give, Secure Elysium fugitive.

CLOUD Ah, yes, I catch the gleam of mail.

RANDOLPH O speak again ye voic?d ghosts! I heard afar your cheerful boasts. And, if I doubt not, ye are they That here have met me many a day.

WIND We are they.

CLOUD, We are they. But whither now doth Randolph stray, And why the mail, and why the steed?

RANDOLPH This is my father's mail indeed, Bequeathed with message to his son: "Stand straight in it and yield to none."

WIND But whither off and why away?

RANDOLPH Off to the world; I cannot stay-- That world I have so often viewed Here from this upper solitude-- This bulwark barring strife and trade. Love calls me off. I love a maid, Loving her silently and long, Learning for her to hate the wrong, Learning for her to seek the right, To hew at sloth and faint resolve And thoughts that round but self revolve, And pray for grace and virtue--wings That bear men to the highest things, Enwrapt and rising into light. For her, for her, O Cloud and Wind! I trained my limbs and taught my mind, Ran, wrestled, clomb, and learned to bend The cross-bow with each village friend; And by my hermit-guardian spent The earliest dimness morning lent, And the faint torch that evening bore, In science and in saintly lore, Reading the stars and signs of rain, Noting each tree and herb and grain; Each bird that flutters through the leaves, Each beast, each fish that green lake cleaves, The curious deeds Devotion paints In missals and in lives of saints, And every olden subtle trick Of grammar, logic, rhetoric. But most on chivalry I turned A torrent eagerness, and burned To hear of wrong repaired, or read The working of some famous deed, Like those I dreamt that I could do When what I set myself was through: Vexed lest the inward clock of fate That ticked "Too soon!" might tick "Too late!" But now that dial points the hour When I must test my gathered power, And leave my books and leave my dreams Of steeds and towers and knightly themes, Of tourney gay and woodland quest, Of Perceval and Perceforest, Of Richard, Arthur, Charlemain, Amadis and the Cid of Spain-- Must leave them all and seek alone Some grand adventure of my own.

CLOUD Yet if you seek and cannot find Or fail to work what you designed, Be it but as the steadfast sun Who bright or dim his course doth run, And last doth reach as far a spot Whether he seems to shine or not.

CLOUD You mortals are a curious race-- More whirled by passions, hot in chase Of passions, than myself am whirled When tempests tug me o'er the world; I cannot understand your ways. We clouds live our divinest days Beneath great sunny depths of sky, High above all that you think high, Drifting through sunset's surf of gold, Dawn-lakes and moonlight's clear waves cold, In realms so distant, chill and lone, That Love, impatient, leaves the throne To meditative Amity.

RANDOLPH So would my guardian have it be, So flowed his constant voice to me, Of those to make me one, he sought, Who watch from mountain towers of thought, Or wandering into paths apart Pursue the lonely star of art.

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