S. Frances Harrison
Villanelle
SPRUNG from a sword-sheath fit for Mars,
Straight and sharp, of a gay glad green,
My jonquil lifts its yellow stars.
Barter, would I, for the dross of the Czars,
These golden flowers and buds fifteen,
Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars?
Barter, would you, these scimitars,
Among which lit by their light so keen
My jonquil lifts its yellow stars?
No, for the breast may burst its bars,
The heart its shell, at sight of sheen
Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars:
Miles away from the mad earth’s jars,
Beneath a leafy and shining screen,
My jonquil lifts its yellow stars.
And I—self-scathed with mortal scars,
I weep, when I see, in its radiant mien,
Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars
My jonquil lift its yellow stars.
Château Papineau
THE red-til’d towers of the old Château,
Perched on the cliff above our bark,
Burn in the western evening glow.
The fiery spirit of Papineau
Consumes them still with its fever spark,
The red-til’d towers of the old Château!
Drift by and mark how bright they show,
And how the mullion’d windows—mark!
Burn in the western evening glow!
Drift down, or up, where’er you go,
They flame from out the distant park,
The red-til’d towers of the old Château.
So was it once with friend, with foe;
Far off they saw the patriot’s ark
Burn in the western evening glow.
Think of him now! One thought bestow,
As, blazing against the pine trees dark,
The red-til’d towers of the old Château
Burn in the western evening glow!
September
I
BIRDS that were gray in the green are black in the yellow.
Here where the green remains rocks one little fellow.
Quaker in gray, do you know that the green is going?
More than that—do you know that the yellow is showing?
II
Singer of songs, do you know that your Youth is flying?
That Age will soon at the lock of your life be prying?
Lover of life, do you know that the brown is going?
More than that—do you know that the gray is showing?
November
THESE are the days that try us; these the hours
That find, or leave us, cowards—doubters of Heaven,
Sceptics of self, and riddled through with vain
Blind questionings as to Deity. Mute, we scan
The sky, the barren, wan, the drab, dull sky,
And mark it utterly blank. Whereas, a fool,
The flippant fungoid growth of modern mode,
Uncapped, unbelled, unshorn, but still a fool,
Fate at his fingers’ ends, and Cause in tow,
Or, wiser, say, the Yorick of his age,
The Touchstone of his period, would forecast
Better than us, the film and foam of rose
That yet may float upon the eastern grays
At dawn to-morrow.
Still, and if we could,
We would not change our gloom for glibness, lose
Our wonder in our faith. We are not worse
Than those in whom the myth was strongest, those
In whom first awe lived longest, those who found
—Dear Pagans—gods in fountain, flood and flower.
Sometimes the old Hellenic base stirs, lives
Within us, and we thrill to branch and beam
When walking where the aureoled autumn sun
Looms golden through the chestnuts. But to-day—
When sodden leaves are merged in melting mire,
And garden-plots lie pilfered, and the vines
Are strings of tangled rigging reft of green,
Crude harps whereon the winter wind shall play
His bitter music—on a day like this,
We, harboring no Hellenic images, stand
In apathy mute before our window pane,
And muse upon the blankness. Then, O, then,
If ever, should we thank our God for those
Rare spirits who have testified in faith
Of such a world as this, and straight we pray
For such an eye as Wordsworth’s, he who saw
System in anarchy, progress in ruin, peace
In devastation. Duty was his star—
May it be ours—this Star the Preacher missed.