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Red of the Dawn!
Screams of a babe in the red-hot palms of a Moloch of Tyre,
Man with his brotherless dinner on man in the tropical wood,
Priests in the name of the Lord passing souls through fire to the fire,
Head-hunters and boats of Dahomey that float upon human blood!


Red of the Dawn!
Godless fury of peoples, and Christless frolic of kings,
And the bolt of war dashing down upon cities and blazing farms,
For Babylon was a child newborn, and Rome was a babe in arms,
And London and Paris and all the rest are as yet but in leading strings.


Dawn not Day,
While scandal is mouthing a bloodless name at her cannibal feast,
And rake-ruined bodies and souls go down in a common wreck,
And the Press of a thousand cities is prized for it smells of the beast,

The Cid is sitting, in martial state,
Within Valencia's wall;
And chiefs of high renown attend
The knightly festival.

Brave Alvar Fanez, and a troop
Of gallant men, were there;
And there came Donna Ximena,
His wife and daughters fair.

When the footpage bent on his knee,
What tidings brought he then?
Morocco's king is on the seas,
With fifty thousand men.

Now God be praised! the Cid he cried,
Let every hold be stored:
Let fly the holy Gonfalon,[195]
And give, "St James," the word.

And now, upon the turret high,
Was heard the signal drum;
And loud the watchman blew his trump,
And cried, They come! they come!

The Cid then raised his sword on high,
And by God's Mother swore,
These walls, hard-gotten, he w...

'Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone, on a piece of stone,
An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair.
Till I really felt afraid;
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:

"Oh, elderly man it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
How you can possibly be

"At once a cook, and ...

This is the day whereon, confederate
In union, was our national'ty born, -
A four-walled temple beautiful and great,
Arising like the bringer of the morn,
Now winged and buttressed, which the years adorn
With pinnacles of fame. Long may it stand,
Though realms be rent, states shattered, thrones uptorn!
Long may Canadians grasp each other's hand,
Defend their nation's rights, and love their fatherland!

The sunlight that makes of the heaven
A pathway for sylphids to throng;
The wind that makes harps of the forests
For spirits to smite into song,
Are the image and voice of a vision
That comforts my heart and makes strong.

I look in one's face, and the shadows
Are lifted: and, lo, I can see,
Through windows of evident being,
That open on eternity,
The form of the essence of Beauty
God clothes with His own mystery.

I lean to one's voice, and the wrangle
Of living hath pause: and I hear
Through doors of invisible spirit,
That open on light that is clear,
The radiant raiment of Music
In the hush of the heavens sweep near.

We bought a volume of Anacreon,
Defaced, mishandled, little to admire,
And yet its rusty clasps kept guard upon
The sweetest songs, the songs of young desire
Like that great song once sung by Solomon.

My sweetheart's cheeks were peonies on fire:
We saw by the bright message of his eyes
That Eros served us in bookseller's guise.
I keep the volume still, but She has gone . . .
Ah, for the poetry in Paradise!

There's Honey still and Roses on the earth,
And lips to kiss, and jugs to drain with mirth;
And lovers walk in pairs: but She has gone . . .
Anacreon! Anacreon!

W'at'sall dem bell a ringin' for, a can hear dem ev'ry w'ere?
W'at's bring de peop' togeder on de w'arf at Trois Rivieres,
Dat happy crowd is look so glad, w'yare dey comin' dere?
O! de reason dey're so happy w'ile dey're waitin' dere to-day
Is becos de oyster schooner she's sailin' up de bay
An' de caraquette an' malpecque will quickly melt away
Affer she wast'row de anchor on t'ree reever.

For w'y dey mak' de fuss lak dat, an' nearly broke deir neck,
Ain't dey got de noder oyster more better dan malpecque
Or caraquette, dat leetle wan from down be- low Kebeck?

Wall! ax de crowd dat question w'ile dey're waitin' dere to-day
So glad to see La Belle Marie sailin' up de bay,
An' dey 'll drown you on de water, so you 'll know about de way
She was t'rowin' out de anc...

And where is truth? On tombs? for such to thee
Has been my heart - and thy dead memory
Has lain from childhood, many a changeful year,
Unchangingly preserved and buried there.