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Read Ebook: Poems by Matheson D M Duncan M
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Ebook has 139 lines and 11674 words, and 3 pages
Indian Summer 3-4
Mother Love 4
Petoobok 5-6
Langemarc 7
Edith Cavell 8
Cardinal Mercier 8
The Bard of Ayr 9
The Soul of Flanders 10
The Gardens 11
Keep the Gardens Growing 12
An Elegy Written in Richmond 13-17
The Cottage School 18-21
December Sixth 1917 22-23
Life Is But One Darn Thing After Another 24
Courcellette 25-26
Vimy Ridge 27-28
God Save Our Empire 29
The Veteran 30
INDIAN SUMMER
Fair are fleets of white winged prows Swiftly sailing o'er the sea; Fair are herds of homing cows, Winding slowly o'er the lea; Fair are orchards, when replete With rich blossoms pink and white; Fair are fields of ripening wheat Shining in the morning light; Fair is any mountain sheet Burnishing in colors bright;
Fair are all Acadia's lands; All its streams and wooded lakes, Headlands high and pebbly strands, When the early morning breaks, Fair its scented flowers and trees, And its many landlocked bays, Rippling in the summer breeze; Themes for minstrel muses' lays-- But far fairer than all these Are Acadia's autumn days.
And God's lowly creatures all, Who the freeman's burden bore, Having heeded labor's call Now have plentitude in store, And from every household hearth Nightly offered up the "word". As a sacrifice of worth To a kind and gracious Lord For the riches of the earth, Filling thus the family board.
And a thrill of peaceful joy Permeates the human breast And the starry vaulted sky Seemingly is at its best, For old Sol in all his pride Scorpion doth then adorn, Midway in his yearly ride 'Twixt the Line and Capricorn. In this lovely Autumntide Was Waegwoltic's wedding morn.
MOTHER LOVE
Mother! All that's blest and good, Centres round that treasured word, Mother-love and motherhood! Sweetest sounds man ever heard, Mother! blest and sweetest name, Spoken by the human tongue, Age and youth do thee acclaim, Angels have thy praises sung, And the greatness of thy fame, Hath through all the ages rung.
Mother-love! whose fountain flow, Feedeth man the living breath, And which burns with tenser glow, Even when he's cold in death; Blest and wondrous gift divine Of the master Artisan In fair Eden's holy shrine To the fallen creature man, When fell Satan did design To destroy Creation's plan.
PETOOBOK
Of Petoobok and of its golden sea, The fairest gem of Nature's fashioning The beauty spot of beauteous Acadie, Its summer and its winter scenes I sing: Here in primeval days great Neptune wise Conspired with Fora, bounteous and free, To make a masterpiece, a paradise, Where Nymphs and Naiad's might forever woo; And now by night and day it ever lies Reflecting in its waters, deep and blue The heavenly wonders of the vaulted skies.
In splendour, wild and picturesque and grand, Beneath its sentinel hills like crystal set With rarest taste by God and Nature's hand. It mirrors in its depth the silhouette Of mountains, which, like heroes of romance, Along its lovely shores forever stand, To guard the waters of its vast expanse, And holds to-day the same bewitching charm Of loveliness divine, you to entrance, As on the morn the cry of Golden Arm, Burst from the lips of sons of sunny France.
But Petoobok is fairest to behold On Autumn morn, when orient Sunlight breaks In radiant glory on its arm of gold, And gentle noosuk into the ripples shakes, The placid surface of its crystal sea, And to the eye a vista doth unfold, A wondrous scene of heavenly alchemy, Like that told us by John in Holy Writ, Which fills the soul with perfect ecstasy, And which once seen, though time be preterit In after life in dreams you'll ever see.
West wind.s
LANGEMARC
Sleep on ye brave Canadians, In Langemarc's blood-stained mead, Your glorious act will ever rank A truly golden deed, Sleep on with France and Briton And Belgian, side by side, Sleep ye and they your last long sleep, The last roll call to bide.
And mother nature, gentlest nurse, Will ever nightly lave Your lowly grave with kindly dews While weeping willows wave; And kindly zephyrs every day, And every night will sigh, A sweet memoriam for aye, Your tomb to sanctify.
And Belgian maids and matrons, too Will often leave the loom To gather wilding flowers, To beautify your tomb; And peasants when they pass your way, Oft to their sons will say: "'Twas here the brave Canadians The fierce Huns held at bay."
And when the Angel Gabriel, Shall sound the trumpet blast, Then you shall all awaken From your seeming death at last, And, standing at attention, While angel voices sing, In unison you will salute, The universal King.
EDITH CAVELL
Dear martyred maid, thy cruel death hath thrilled With loathing deep the whole of human kind Against the Hun who thy death sentence signed; Thy barb'rous death all manly hearts hath filled With feelings such as never can be stilled; In every home thy name is hence enshrined, Thy death scene pictured clear in every mind In thy life's blood, the murd'rous Hun hath spilled Angelic maid, could we but lift the veil Which hides from mortal eyes God's holy land With Joan of Arc and Florence Nightingale, Thy wounded temple with a filet bound, With harp in hand, thy head with glory crowned, Amidst the heavenly choir we'd see thee stand.
TO CARDINAL MERCIER
Illustrious shepherd of the Prince of Peace, With priestly zeal you watched thy Belgian fold, Any aye performed its duties manifold, That love and virtue did therein increase, And want and sorrow all the while surcease, While Christian culture her rich page enrolled Heroic men and women chaste to mould; The cross, thy sceptre, and the crook, thy creese: But when the robber Hun assailed thy flock, Then stood you forth, the patriot and priest, With clarion call to champion the right, And met the onset of the Prussian beast And all the hosts of his embattled might, Firm and immovable, as Zion's Rock.
THE BARD OF AYR
Oh come sweet muse, with well tuned lyre, On this our Robbie's natal day, A rustic poet's mind inspire That he may sing a homely lay.
Of all the warblers ever born, I dearly love the bard of Ayr, Whose lovely songs both night and morn, Have freed my wearied mind from care.
If fault he had, 'twas Nature's fault, And man, beware that you have none, Before you do yourself exalt, To cast at Robbie Burns a stone.
I wish he was with us tonight, To pass a pleasant hour or two, And fill all hearts with rare delight, As he was ever wont to do.
Methinks e'en now I see him sit The centre of an eager throng, And hear his ceaseless flow of wit, Or words of some soul stirring song.
His lovely songs will e'er be sung, And greener grow his memory, 'Mong people whether old or young, Till father Time has ceased to be.
THE SOUL OF FLANDERS
The chimes that oft from old Malines, Rang out their sacred strain, At morning, noon and eventide, Shall never ring again; That voice that called the living, Or sadly mourned the dead, Is still and silent now for aye: The soul of Flanders' fled.
Those lovely chimes, which e'er were wont To sound with morn's first beams, And 'wake the tourist from his sleep, Will haunt his waking dreams; But never more those dulcet sounds Will rouse him from his bed, And fill his soul with ecstasy: The soul of Flanders' fled.
'Tis strangely sad such chimes as those, Which seemed a heavenly dow'r, Should fall a prey to tyranny, And war's barbaric pow'r, A city new will rise again Up from its ashen bed, But those old chimes shall ring no more: The soul of Flanders' fled.
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