Read Ebook: In a Belgian Garden and Other Poems by Call Frank Oliver

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INTRODUCTION IN A BELGIAN GARDEN A LINCOLNSHIRE MAIDEN HIDDEN TREASURE A RIVER SUNSET THE MADONNA AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW THROUGH A LONG CLOISTER THE CHAMBLY RAPID THE SNOWDRIFT ON MOUNT ROYAL THE VISION A YEAR AGO ETERNITY THE OLD SCHOOL BELL ON A SWISS MOUNTAIN RHEIMS THE MYSTIC A SONG OF THE HOMELAND THE FROZEN BROOK THE INDIFFERENT ONES IN A FOREST THE SHIPS OF MEMORY THE OBELISK THE PARTING WAYS CALVARY THE GOLDEN BOWL THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES

Introduction

Most of the poems contained in this collection are of recent date, though their author--who is at present Professor of Modern Languages at Bishop's College, Quebec--has written verse from his childhood. He is the first Canadian writer to be included in this series, and is as affectionately loyal to the Motherland as to his native country, as may be gathered from his "Song of the Homeland." His verse has already earned a considerable reputation in Canada, in whose Press much of it has appeared. Educated at Stanstead College, he took his degree at the University where he now lectures, and has also studied in Paris, Marburg and Switzerland. Several of his poems are concerned with the sorrow and the ravished beauty of Belgium: a circumstance not surprising, as he has travelled much in that country, as well as in France, Switzerland and Italy. A lover of country life and a disciple of the cult of the open road, he revels in the joys of camping and canoeing, as one of his poems, "Hidden Treasure," bears witness. In this little book, and more especially in the "Song of the Homeland," he shows us the maple leaf entwined, strongly as ever, with the English rose of the Mother country.

S. GERTRUDE FORD.

In a Belgian Garden

Once in a Belgian garden, I saw like pale Madonnas The tall white lilies blow.

Great poplars swayed and trembled Afar against the sky, And green with flags and rushes The river wandered by.

Amid the waving wheatfields Glowed poppies blazing red, And showering strange wild music A lark rose overhead.

The lark has ceased his singing, The wheat is trodden low, And in the blood-stained garden No more the lilies blow.

And where green poplars trembled Stand shattered trunks instead, And lines of small white crosses Keep guard above the dead.

For here brave lads and noble, From lands beyond the deep, Beneath the small white crosses Have laid them down to sleep.

They laid them down with gladness Upon the alien plain, That this same Belgian garden Might bud and bloom again.

A Lincolnshire Maiden

Long the eastern beaches, Where brown the seaweed grows, And over broad salt meadows, The green tide ebbs and flows.

Above the low-roofed houses, Two ancient towers rise, And stand like giant druids, Against the wind-swept skies.

Through mist or rain or sunshine, Their prows festooned with foam, The fishing-boats go outward Or laden, turn them home.

She watches by the window, And tearless are her eyes; She sees not church or tower, Or sea or wind-swept skies.

She sees not tide or tempest, Or sun or mist or rain; Afar her spirit wanders Upon the Belgian plain.

Where over shell-scarred cities The mad, red tempest raves, And poplars sigh and shudder Above unnumbered graves.

Hidden Treasure

Sun-browned boy with the wondering eyes, Do you see the blue of the summer skies? Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream, As it winds by the shore where the birches gleam? Then come, come away From the shadowy bay, And we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play; For we are two pirates, fierce and bold, And we'll capture the hoard of the morning's gold.

A roving craft is our red canoe, O pirate chief with the eyes of blue; So hoist your flag with the skull on high, And out we'll sail where the treasures lie. For in days of old Came pirates bold, a Spanish galleon's captured gold; And their boat was wrecked on the river strand And its treasures strewn on the silver sand.

Now steady all as we dash along, The rapids are swift but our paddles are strong; And soon we'll drift with the water's flow Where the treasure lies hid in the shallows below, Oh, cool and dim, 'Neath its foam-flecked brim, Is the pool where the swallows dip and skim; So we'll plunge by the prow of our red canoe For the treasure that lies in the quivering blue.

Now home once more to the shadowy bay, For we've captured the gold of the summer's day, And emeralds green from the banks along, And the silver bars of the white-throat's song. No pirates bore Such a glittering store From the treasure ships of the days of yore, As the spoils we have won on the shining stream, While we drifted along in a golden dream.

A River Sunset

Red sunlight fades from wood and town, The western sky is crimson-dyed, Gaunt shadow-ships drift silent down Upon the river's gleaming tide.

The hills' clear outlines melt away Or veil themselves in purple light, And burning thoughts that vexed the day Become fair visions of the night.

The Madonna

She shivered and crouched in the immigrant shed In the midst of the surging crowd; Her hands were warped with the years of toil, And her young form bent and bowed.

Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance At the throng that round her pressed; But her face was the face of the Mother of God As she looked at the babe on her breast.

An Idol in a Shop Window

Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass, From a jumble of curios quaint and rare; And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass The whole day long, through the ancient square.

Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade, Here by the window he patiently waits For the sound that the gongs and the conches made, In the days of old at the temple gates.

He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears, For his heart is bronze, and he does not know That his temple has been for a thousand years But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.

So here he sits through the nights and days, And the sun goes up and down the sky; But he often looks with a wistful gaze At the crowds that always pass him by.

And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream Of his poppy-land of long ago, Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream And the kneeling throng he used to know.

But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd Of human folk that pass him by; Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,-- And the sun once more goes down the sky.

Through a Long Cloister

Through a long cloister where the gloom of night Lingers in sombre silence all the day, Across worn pavements crumbling to decay We wandered, blindly groping for the light. A door swung wide, and splendour infinite Streamed through the painted glass, and drove away The lingering gloom from choir, nave and bay, And a great minster's glory met our sight.

Blindly along life's cloister do we grope, We seek a gate that leads to life immortal, We see it loom before us dim and vast, And doubt's dark shadows veil the light of hope: When lo, Death's hand flings wide the sombre portal, And light unfading meets our gaze at last.

The Chambly Rapid

There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night, There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright. Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light!

My son and I had left St. Jean, Our paddles dipping in the blue, And many miles to north had gone Along the silent Richelieu; The night came down, we thought of rest; A threatening cloud hung in the west.

No warning sound the river made Save for the rapid's muffled roar, As 'neath the pine-trees' deepening shade We camped upon that luckless shore; No sound the night-wind bore to me Save one weird echo from Chambly.

And like some baleful gleaming eye It shone beneath night's heavy pall; Then high above the loon's lone cry Afar we heard the spirit call; It called us from the other shore. Ah, Jean will never hear it more!

I could not seize or hold him back, For while the light burned pale and blue, A heavy hand from out the black Held me beside my own canoe, And ere I stirred, the other barque Had silent sped into the dark.

Adown the river's drifting tide To where the wild, mad rapids run, Past pine-trees towering on each side His frail canoe had drifted on; He did not look to left or right But gazed upon that hell-born light.

And ever swifter with the flow He drifted where the rapids play, His eyes still on that awful glow; Ah, God! my life seemed snatched away! I saw a gleam far up the sky And heard the echo of a cry.

There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night, There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright. Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light!

The Snowdrift

The snowflakes fell on a mountain peak, Where the rocks were bare and the winds were bleak, And at first they clung to the mountain's breast, But soon they fell from its lofty crest, And stained and soiled was the new-born snow When it reached the valley far down below.

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