Arthur Wentworth Hamilton Eaton
The Egyptian Lotus
(NYMPHÆA LOTUS)
PROUD, languid lily of the sacred Nile,
’Tis strange to see thee on our western wave,
Far from those sandy shores that, many a mile,
Papyrus-plumed, lie silent as the grave.
O’er dark, mysterious pool and sheltered bay,
And midst soft-sleeping isles thy leaves expand,
Where Alexandrian barges plow their way,
Full freighted, to the ancient Theban land.
On Karnak’s lofty columns thou wert seen,
And Luxor’s spacious temple palace walls,
Each royal Pharaoh’s emeralded queen
Chose thee to deck her glittering banquet halls;
Yet thou art blossoming in this fairy lake
As regally, amidst these common things,
As on the shores where Nile’s soft ripples break,
As in the halls of old Egyptian kings.
Thy beauty daily lures men’s curious eyes,
But he who finds in thought his richest feasts,
Looking at thee, sees stately temples rise
About him, and long lines of white-robed priests,
That chant strange music as they slowly pace
Dim, columned aisles; hears trembling over head
Echoes that lose themselves in that vast space,
Of Egypt’s solemn ritual for the dead.
Aye deeper thoughts than these, though undefined,
Wake in reflective souls at sight of thee,
For this majestic orient faith enshrined
Man’s yearning hope of immortality.
And thou wert Egypt’s symbol of the power
That under all decaying forms lies hid;
The old world worshipped thee, O Lotus flower!
Then carved its Sphinx and reared its pyramid.
Purple Asters
I HAD a garden when I was a boy
Wherein I planted fondly many a flower,
And watched it grow until I felt the joy
That every gardener feels, as Nature’s power
To make rare perfumes burst from stalks of green
And dash rich colours o’er dull earth is seen.
In that old garden, bright with varied bloom
From early tulip time till winter fell,
It seemed as if no sombre growth or gloom
Had any place, or could desire to dwell;
Yet o’er one corner wildness still held sway,
And there, I always felt, a shadow lay.
In that strange spot pale purple asters came,
When earth wore gorgeous colours on her breast,
And fields were ripe, and autumn’s flood of flame
From scarlet maples swept from east to west;
They bore no wealth of royal purple bloom,
But seemed meet products of great Nature’s gloom.
The lives of men are gardens, from whose soil
Spring rich red-petalled roses, violets blue
As heaven; where, too, the passion-flower’s strong coil
Closes round frail anemones, hearts-ease, and rue;
But in some sheltered spots, bright blooms beside,
Pale purple fringëd asters love to hide.
They tell us there are gardens always clad
With summer’s richest robes, awaiting men
Beyond the stars, where hearts at once grow glad,
And never to low levels sink again;
Perhaps even such light lands may need to see
The purple asters of despondency.
Deepening the Channel
A ROCKY channel from the harbor led
The ships to sea, a blue but shallow sound
With surging tides, upon whose treacherous bed
The keels of heavy vessels ground and ground.
The channel must be deepened, men agree,
And so great thunderous blasts of rock they blew,
And all the sleepy sands were dredged; till, free
From fear, the heaviest ships went swiftly through.
We fret and foam as if our surface tide
Was fathoms deep, and never know the truth
Till love or sorrow through the water ride
And grate its keel upon the sands of youth;
God cleaves the rock beneath the channel blue,
And then his noblest ships sail safely through.
The Phantom Light of the Baie des Chaleurs
’TIS the laughter of pines that swing and sway
Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay;
’Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide
In ripples that reach to the forest side;
’Tis the fisherman’s boat, in a track of sheen,
Plying through tangled seaweed green
O’er the Baie des Chaleurs.
Who has not heard of the phantom light
That over the moaning waves, at night,
Dances and drifts in endless play,
Close to the shore, then far away,
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
Cold as the winter light that lies
On the Baie des Chaleurs?
They tell us that many a year ago,
From lands where the palm and the olive grow,
Where vines with their purple clusters creep
Over the hillsides gray and steep,
A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold,
Famed, in that chivalrous time of old,
For valorous deeds and courage rare,
Sailed with a princess wondrous fair
To the Baie des Chaleurs.
That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea,
A murderous band as e’er could be,
With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night,
That flaunted and flew in heaven’s sight,
Sailed in the wake of the lovers there,
And sank the ship and its freight so fair
In the Baie des Chaleurs.
Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell:
They say that a ball of fire fell
Straight from the sky, with crash and roar,
Lighting the bay from shore to shore;
Then the ship, with shudder and with groan,
Sank through the waves to the caverns lone
Of the Baie des Chaleurs.
That was the last of the pirate crew;
But many a night a black flag flew
From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed
By a spectre band that wept and wailed
For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land,
For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand
Of the Baie des Chaleurs.
This is the tale of the phantom light
That fills the mariner’s heart, at night,
With dread as it gleams o’er his path on the bay,
Now by the shore, then far away,
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
Cold as the winter moon that lies
On the Baie des Chaleurs.
The Meadow Lands
THE tide flows in and out and leaves
Its richness on the meadow lands,
The furrowed surface-soil upheaves,
And sprinkles life among the sands.
Across the meadow lands of life
The tide of time flows and recedes,
Its muddy wave brings woe and strife,
But forms the soil for noble deeds.
The tide flows in and out and brings
New beauty to the meadow lands,
With lavish tenderness it flings
Fair flowers across the silver sands.
My Purest Longings Spring
MY purest longings spring
From the divine,
The sweetest songs I sing
They are not mine.
I chisel the rude stone
With trembling hand,
The statue comes alone
At God’s command.
Beyond earth’s tainted air
I sometimes fly
On wings of faith and prayer;
Yet ’tis not I.
Not I but He who lights
My flickering creeds;
The Power that writes
My broken deeds.
Not I but God; for He,
My larger life,
Fulfils Himself in me
With ceaseless strife.
I Watch the Ships
I WATCH the ships by town and lea
With sails full set glide out to sea,
Till by the distant light-house rock
The breakers beat with roar and shock
And foam fierce flying o’er their decks,
While deep below lie ocean’s wrecks;
What careth she?
I stand beside the beaten quay
And look while laden ships from sea
Come proudly home upon the tide
lake conquering kings at eventide,
Or from fierce fights with wintry gales
Steal shoreward now with tattered sails;
O cruel sea!
I pass once more the old gray pier
Where men have waited many a year
For ships that ne’er again shall glide
By town and lea on favoring tide,—
Strong ships that struggled till the gales
Of winter hid their shrouds and sails
In ocean drear.
Soft sailing spirits, how they glide
Forth on life’s fitful sea untried
To breast the waves and bear the shocks
Beyond the guarded light-house rocks,
To strive and struggle many a year;
Strong souls, indeed, if they can bear
Life’s wind and tide.
I watch beside life’s beaten quay
The tides bring back all joyously
To anchor by the sheltered shore
Some freighted full with golden store
From rich spice-fields and perfumed sands
Of soft, luxuriant tropic lands;
O kindly sea!
But some have met with wintry gales,
And come at last with shattered sails
To anchor by the old gray pier;
While loving ones in hope and fear
Wait on for some that never more
Shall anchor by a peaceful shore;
O sad, sad sea!