Paestum.

Paestum, your temples and your streets
Have been restored to view;
Your fadeless Grecian beauty greets
The eyes of men anew.

But where are all your roses now -
Those wonderful delights
That made such garlands for the brow
Of your fair Sybarites?

They in your time were more renown'd,
And dearer to your heart,
Than these fine works which mark the bound
And highest reach of art.

We'd see you as you look'd of old;
Though column, arch and wall
Were worth a kingdom to behold,
One rose would shame them all.

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

An Aristocrat.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

To Beauty.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

To -----.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Wolfe.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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To Beauty.

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Fragments

Troy Town is covered up with weeds,
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Pompeii And Herculaneum.

What wonder this? we ask the lympid well,
O earth! of thee and from thy solemn womb
What yieldest thou? is there life in the abyss
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Through the seven-vista'd theatre the throng!
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Ye choral Furies, with your dismal chant!
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An Antique.

Mildewed and gray the marble stairs
Rise from their balustraded urns
To where a chiseled satyr glares
From a luxuriant bed of ferns;

A pebbled walk that labyrinths
'Twixt parallels of verdant box
To where, broad-based on grotesque plinths,
'Mid cushions of moss-padded rocks,

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And here from bank, and there from bed,
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The lavish violet's odors shed
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And where, in lichened hoariness,
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The Greek Boy.

Gone are the glorious Greeks of old,
Glorious in mien and mind;
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The forms they hewed from living stone
Survive the waste of years, alone,
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Gush brightly as of yore;
Flowers blossom from the dust of kings,
As many an age before.
There nature moulds as nobly now,
As e'er of old, the human brow;
And copies still the martial form
That braved Platæa's battle storm.

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Their heaven in Hellas' skies:
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Elegy I To Charles Diodati.1

At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,
Charged with thy kindness, to their destin'd home,
They come, at length, from Deva's² Western side,
Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.³
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be,
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Must seek again so soon his wonted home.
I well content, where Thames with refluent tide
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Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impell
To reedy Cam,⁴ and my forbidden cell.⁵
Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I,
That, to the musing bard, all shade deny.
Tis time, that I, a pedant's threats⁶ disdain,
And fly from wrongs, my soul will ne'e...

John Milton