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

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Ebook has 468 lines and 16791 words, and 10 pages

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.

But up on the height one drift alone Still firmly clung to the rugged stone, And men in the gloomy vale below Looked up and gazed on the shining snow, And their darkened souls drank in the light From the gleaming snow on the mountain height.

Unstained by the grime of the earthly vale, Its white breast firm in the strongest gale, It bravely clung to its lofty height And gleamed afar with its glorious light, Till kissed by the sun and the summer rain, It rose in mist to the skies again.

On Mount Royal

I climb its sides when the day grows old And its mighty shadow falls deep and wide, And over the gleam of the sunset's gold The darkness creeps like a rising tide; And higher and higher up rocky height, Past oaks that are gnarled by the winter's blast, I climb till a marvellous vision of light Breaks forth on my wondering sight at last.

Dome and spire of house of prayer, Convent cloister gloomy and gray, Street and market and bridge lie there In the golden gleam of the dying day. Yet here on the silent mountain crest There echoes a moan and a smothered roar From the tide of life in its strange unrest, As it beats below on a barren shore.

The Vision

A vision came unto a saint of old Of a fair city by a crystal stream, Its gates of pearl, its streets of shining gold,-- Barbaric splendours of a mystic's dream. There upon floating wings the white-robed throng No man can number chant in endless song; Across the tideless sea no shadow falls To dim the glory of the sapphire walls, Or mar the splendour of the throne-crowned height.

Ah love, the mystic's vision wakes to-night, With all its glittering show and kingly pride, No longing in a heart unsatisfied. But oh, to walk with thee the river shore As in the days gone by, the gold strewn o'er The strand of primrose bloom, the water's flow, Mingled with thy sweet voice in music low, The angel song; to touch my lips to thine, To hear the whispering of thy heart to mine, And burning with a fire that never dies, To see once more the love-light in thine eyes.

Ah, dim those far celestial splendours burn, Gray grow the sapphire walls and gold-strewn ways Before the vision of thy love's return With all the unuttered joys of bygone days.

A Year Ago

The waters of the river gleamed as brightly And murmured with the same untiring flow, The branches of the birches tossed as lightly, Among them sang the breeze as soft and low, A year ago.

We sat beneath the white-stemmed birches bending To reach the gurgling waters of the bay, We saw the boats their courses seaward wending, And earth seemed fair,--before us life's long day, Night far away.

But often clouds would veil the sunlight over, A moment cast a shadow and float by; So stealthily above our hearts would hover Sad thoughts to pause a moment, pass and die, We knew not why.

We heeded not the moaning of the river, Nor did the wind a whispered message bring; Ah, now I know they murmured--part forever! For that dull gloom above us hovering, Was Death's dark wing.

Eternity

Eternity thou dark unbounded sea, Upon whose tide we drift into the night, One moment let us with our mortal sight Pierce through the fogs and know thy mystery. Voiceless thou art and voiceless wilt thou be, Across thy still, cold deeps there comes no light, While age and aeon or a moment's flight Pass on as one and vanish lost in thee.

Yet onward driven must our frail barques go, Though through the night no beacon gleams afar, And storm-clouds hide the steadfast guiding-star; The purpose of our wandering and our woe, A tide that wafts to some safe harbour bar, O God, that we might know, might only know!

The Old School Bell

I can hear it calling, calling, sounding on the morning breeze, As so often I have heard it call before, And its ringing thrills my spirit as the wind the whispering trees, But alas, I know for me it calls no more. Ah, how sweet the memory lingers! Though old Time's relentless fingers Oft have turned the glass while flowed the sands away, Yet I'd give the dearest treasure Hardly gained from Fortune's measure, Could I be a boy again for one short day.

I can see the gleaming river 'mid the willows winding blue, I can hear the schoolboys shouting by the shore, Then the bell begins its calling, echoing the valley through, And the schoolboys turn toward the chapel door: Laggard footsteps, scarcely creeping, To the bell's low tolling keeping Measured tread, as oft before my own have done; Ah, the longing ceasing never For a part in life's endeavour, And to-day I count the gains that I have won!

I can hear it calling, calling, though its tongue no longer swings, For within my heart its notes are ringing free, As with silent step before me, Memory the old scene brings And I think the old bell's voice is calling me. Then I see the old loved faces Grouped about their wonted places, As the boyish voices chant their song of praise; Gone all thought of joy or sorrow, Loss to-day or gain to-morrow, And I live again the life of other days.

On a Swiss Mountain

Lad, the mighty hills are calling, Hills of promise gleaming bright, And the floods of sunshine falling Fill their deepest vales with light.

There the young dawn's golden fire Beckons to a brighter day, Untrod paths of youths' desire, Heights unconquered far away.

Steep and dark and spectre-haunted Winds the pathway to the height; Sturdy youth with heart undaunted Deems the toiling short and light.

Short or long, an easy Master, Gives each tired toiler rest, Counts not failure or disaster If the striving be the best.

Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you, Mates of old must soothe their pain, Mindless of whate'er befalls you If but honour still remain.

Rheims

In royal splendour rose the house of prayer, Its mystic gloom arched over by the flight Of soaring vault; above the nave's dim night Rich gleamed the painted windows wondrous fair. Sweet chimes and chanting mingled in the air; Blue clouds of incense dimmed the vaulted height; And on the altar, like a beacon light, The gold cross glittered in the candles' glare.

To-day no bells, no choirs, no incense cloud, For thou, O Rheims, art prey of evil powers; But with a voice a thousand times more loud Than siege-guns echoing round thy shattered towers, Do thy mute bells to all the world proclaim Thy martyred glory and thy foeman's shame.

The Mystic

The mystic sits by the sacred stream Watching the sun as it mounts the sky; And life to him is a haunting dream Or a dim, weird pageant passing by.

Sorrow and joy go on their way, Passion and lust and love and hate; Only a band of mummers they, Blindly led by the hand of fate.

Though the pageant is real, himself the dream, Though men are born and strive and die, Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream Watching the sun go down the sky.

A Song of the Homeland

I'll sing you a song of the Homeland, Though the strains be of little worth, A song of our own loved Homeland, Of the noblest land upon earth; Where the tide of the sea from oceans three Beats high in its triple might, Where the winds are born in a southern morn And die in a polar night.

I'll sing you a song of the Eastland, Of the land where our fathers died, Where Saxon and Frank, their feuds long dead, Are sleeping side by side; Where their sons still toil on the hard-won soil Of the mighty river plain, Where the censer swings and the Angelus rings, And the old faith lives again.

I'll sing you a song of the Westland Where the magic cities rise, And the prairies clothed with their golden grain Stretch under the azure skies; Where the mountains grim in the clouds grow dim Far north in the arctic land, And the northern light in its mystic flight Flares over the golden strand.

The Frozen Brook

The winter woods lie gray and still Beneath the dreary sunless skies, The brook that rippled down the hill In summer hours, all silent lies.

O weary heart, though cold and drear The days along thy pathway seem, To Nature's breast bend low thine ear And listen to its pulsing stream.

The Indifferent Ones

Unmoved they sit by the stream of life And its blood-red tide to the sea goes down, While the hosts are borne through the surging strife To a hero's death and a martyr's crown.

They pay no toll of their gold or blood; For them 'tis a pageant and naught beside; So they calmly dream by the reeking flood, While the sun goes down in the crimson tide.

In a Forest

Silver birch and dusky pine, Reaching up to find the light From the forest's gloomy night, From the thicket where entwine Stunted shrub and creeping vine, From the damp where witch-fire glows And the poison fungus grows, High you lift your heads, O trees, To the kisses of the breeze, To the far-off sapphire sky, To the clouds that pass you by, To the sun that shines on high.

From the dusk of earthly night Strive, O soul, to reach the light.

The Ships of Memory

The silent ships of memory creep Across the seas of long ago; Like phantoms, on a tideless deep, Their pale prows wander to and fro.

Some bear the dreams of happy years Or bring a cargo all of gold; Some bear a freight of useless tears, For love and sorrow long untold.

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