This is Chap-book Number Seventy O F THIS EDITION OF THE THOUSAND ISLANDS, BY AGNES MAULE MACHAR, TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES HAVE BEEN PRINTED. THIS CHAP-BOOK IS A PRODUCT OF THE RYERSON PRESS, TORONTO, CANADA. Copyright, Canada, 1935, by The Ryerson Press, Toronto, PREFATORY F OR over half a century Agnes Maule Machar (Fidelis) was one of the leading Canadian writers in both prose and verse. In the eighties, when the Little Englanders were suggesting the break-up of the Empire, and Canadian annexationists were advocating the severance of Canada from England, Miss Machar in season and out of season held high the torch of Imperial- ism and Canadian Nationalism. As a result she produced a body of patriotic poetry in volume and power greater than any other of our writers. She is entitled to rank as Canada's supreme patriotic poet, sane in outlook and free from extravagant jingoism. As she said of herself: Canadensis sum, ei nihil Canadense alienum a me puto. As a poet Miss Machar excels as an interpreter of nature. One field she has made peculiarly her own. The Thousand Islands. In a simple, direct way, with charming lyrical insight, every aspect of this beauty- spot is revealed. She makes lake, river and woodland live, and this alone entitles her to an abiding place among Canadian poets. T. G. Marquis. TKe Thousand Islands By Agnes Maule Machar OUR CANADIAN FATHERLAND I W HAT is our young Canadian land? Is it fair Norembega’s strand? Or grey Cape Breton by the sea? Quebec? Ontario? Acadie? Or Manitoba’s flower-decked plain? Or fair Columbia’s mountain chain? Can any part, from strand to strand, Be a Canadian’s Fatherland? Nay, for our young Canadian land Is greater, grander far than these; It stretches wide on either hand Between the world’s two mighty seas. So let no hostile foot divide The fields our feet should freely roam; Gael, Norman, Saxon, side by side, And Canada our nation’s home; From sea to sea, from strand to strand. Spreads our Canadian Fatherland. II Where’er our country’s banner spreads Its folds o’er free Canadian heads — - Where’er our land’s romantic story Enshrines the memory and the glory Page One Of heroes who with blood and toil Laid deep in our Canadian soil Foundations for the future age, And wrote their names on history’s page — Our history — from strand to strand, Spreads our Canadian Fatherland! So each to each is firmly bound By ties all generous hearts should own; We cannot spare an inch of ground: No severed part can stand alone. So Nova Scotia and Quebec Shall meet in kinship real and true; New Brunswick’s hills be mirrored back In fair Ontario’s waters blue. From sea to sea, from strand to strand, Spreads our Canadian Fatherland! Ill Where’er Canadian thought breathes free. Or strikes the lyre of poesy — Where’er Canadian hearts awake To sing a song for her dear sake, Or catch the echoes, spreading far, That wake us to the noblest war Against each lurking ill and strife That weakens now our growing life, No line keep hand from clasping hand — One is our young Canadian land. McGee and Howe she counts her own ; Hers all her eastern singers’ bays; Frechette is hers, and in her crown Ontario every laurel lays: Let CANADA our watchword be, While lesser names we know no more; One nation spread from sea to sea, And fused by love from shore to shore; From sea to sea, from strand to strand, Spreads our Canadian Fatherland! Page Two DRIFTING AMONG THE THOUSAND ISLANDS N ever a ripple on all the river, As it lies like a mirror beneath the moon, Only the shadows tremble and quiver ’Neath the balmy breath of a night in June! All dark and silent, each shadowy island Like a silhouette lies on its silver ground, While just above us a rocky highland Towers grim and dusk, with its pine-trees crowned. Never a sound but the waves’ soft splashing, As the boat drifts idly the shore along. And the darting fireflies, silently flashing, Gleam — living diamonds — the woods among, And the night-hawk flits o’er the bay’s deep bosom, And the loon’s laugh breaks through the midnight calm, And the luscious breath of the wild vine’s blossom Wafts from the rocks like a tide of balm! Drifting — why may we not drift forever? Let all the world and its warfare go; Let us float and drift with the flowing river, Whither — we neither care nor know! Dreaming a dream — might we ne’er awaken! There’s joy enough in this passive bliss, The wrestling crowd and its cares forsaking, Was ever Nirvana more blest than this? Nay! but our hearts are ever lifting The veil of the present, however fair; Not long — not long can we go on drifting, Not long enjoy surcease from care! Ours is a nobler task and guerdon Than aimless drifting, however blest; Only the heart that can bear the burden Shall share the joy of the victor’s rest! Page Thru AN INDIAN SUMMER CAROL A LL day the dreaming sunshine steeps iln gold the yellowing beeches; In softest blue the river sleeps Among the island reaches. Against the distant purple hills The autumn tints are glowing; With blood-red wine the sumach fills, Rich lines of carmine showing. Upon the glassy stream the boat Glides softly like a vision; And, with its shadow, seems to float Among the isles Elysian. About the plumy golden-rod The tireless bees are humming; The aster’s clusters star the sod And wait the rover’s coming. The birch and maple glow with dyes Of scarlet, rose, and amber; And like a flame from sunset skies, Bright tangled creepers clamber. The oaks in Tyrian purple dight Burn, where the sunlight presses; The birch stands like a Dryad bright Beneath her golden tresses. So still the air, so like a dream, We hear the acorn falling; And o’er the scarcely rippled stream The loon’s long quavered calling. The robin 1 softly o’er the lea, His farewell song is trilling; The squirrel flits from tree to tree. His winter storehouse filling. Page Four Like him we, too, may gather store From all this glorious nature. Then leave, my friend, dry bookish lore And dreary nomenclature; Let logic wintry hours beguile; Leave weary mathematics; Let Aristotle rest awhile. And all the Eleatics. O’er Plato we can talk and muse When wintry winds are blowing; Now Nature bids us not refuse The glory she is showing. For she herself has better lore Than all man’s cold dissections; Her hieroglyphs can teach us more Than volumes of reflections. Leave the old thinkers to the dreams That have been dreamed for ages; Leave dry old scientific reams, And study Nature’s pages. Her poetry is sweeter far Than all men write about her; Old Homer, though his theme was war, Had scarcely sung without her! Haste to the woods, throw books away: They’ll wait the tardy comer; For them there’s many a winter day, But brief’s our Indian summer! 1 The Canadian robin, properly a species of thrush. Page Five A SUMMER SUNSET C OME, dear, lay down your book awhile to rest. While sinks the sun behind yon wooded crest; — Leave human lore for less enchanted hours, That dull the skies and steal away the flowers; Now Nature’s face is too bewitching sweet, God’s thoughts seem writ in beauty at our feet! There, on the river, rose and opal seem To melt and mingle in the placid stream, Blent with ethereal tones of purple hue. With gleams of palest azure breaking through The softened double of those rose-flushed skies, Bathed in whose glamour all the landscape lies Like dreamland! — See how fair each mirrored isle Still fairer in its shadow seems to smile, While silently the light canoe glides o’er The enchanted river towards the farther shore! It seems that Nature’s self stands still with us. While through her temple — rings her Angelus ; Ev’n yon small bird has ceased his happy trill, On the high pine-top perched, all hushed and still, As if he listened to some sweeter strain He fain would catch and give to us again! So, let us, too, leave lower thoughts and things To catch the nobler strain that Nature sings. What boots it though we could, with curious eye, Thread all her hidden paths of mystery; See how she fashions in her inmost shrine Her myriad-featured beauty, line by line; Trace life’s long growth from earliest dawn to day, And measure all the laws its forms obey — If in our searching we should miss the soul That animates, inspires, informs the whole? Pa$s Six AN AUGUST MORNING I N gleam of pale translucent amber woke The perfect August day; Through rose-flushed bars of pearl and amber broke The sunset’s golden way. The river seemed transfigured in its flow To tide of amethyst, Save where it rippled o’er the sands below, And granite boulders kissed. The clouds of billowy woodland hung unstirred In languorous slumber deep, While, from its green recesses, one small bird Piped to its brood asleep. The clustering lichens wore a tenderer tint, The rocks a warmer glow; The emerald dewdrops, in the sunbeam’s glint. Gemmed the rich moss below. Our birchen shallop idly stranded lay Half mirrored in the stream, Wild roses drooped, glassed in the tiny bay, Ethereal as a dream! You sat upon your rock, enthroned a queen, As on a granite throne, And all that world of loveliness serene Held but us twain alone. Nay! but we felt another presence there, Around, below, above; It breathed a poem through the fragrant air — Its name was LOVE. Page Seven SEPTEMBER AMONG THE THOUSAND ISLANDS T HE long pine branches lightly bend Above grey rocks with moss o’ergrown, And rays of golden light descend Aslant on twisted root and stone; All still and silent at our feet Lies the broad river’s glassy sheet. So calm, so tranquil its expanse; No ripple on its peaceful breast; It might be sea of fairyland By some strange magic laid to rest; And the grey, hazy islands seem The vision of a passing dream. In such soft tints their shores extend, So dim their winding outlines lie; — They do not separate, but blend The melting hues of lake and sky. Save where some light-tower’s snowy gleam Is mirrored in the placid stream. No sounds the dreamy stillness break; No echo o’er the lake is heard, Save that the leaping fishes make, Or twitter of a lonely bird; And summer sweetness seems to stray, Confused, through the September day! We watch the swift receding boat, And long we bend our patient gaze, And strive to trace it, far afloat, Through the soft mist’s uncertain haze. To catch the latest glimpse we may Of friends beloved it bears away. So, often, through the misty veil That hides from us the spiritland, We gaze and gaze, till gazing fail. As on its outer verge we stand, On cherished forms receding far To realms that undiscovered are! THE HAPPY ISLANDS P AST the Rocks in Deep Water , 1 winding its way to the sea, Sweeps our mighty St. Lawrence, grand, majestic and free; Yet methinks he tarries, as glad to linger awhile Amid the mazy channels where the happy islands smile. Fair do they seem as Eden, when Eden was newly made, To the wearied city toilers who seek their grateful shade; Far from the hurry and clamour, far from the bustle and din. See the cool and shady recesses that lure the wanderer in! Soft in the haze of morning, their shadowy masses seem To rest on the calm blue water like the phantasm of a dream; Dark in the glare of noonday their bowers of foliage stand, Spreading their deep, cool shadow like rocks in a weary land; But when at close of his journey the sun rides down the west, Trailing his crimson and purple o’er the river’s opal breast, Then, like isles of the blessed, bathed in celestial light, They float between earth and heaven like a mystic vision bright. Happy the careless paddler who steers his light canoe O’er the mingling ruby and topaz, the purple shadows through, While the stroke of the ashen paddle beneath the skilful arm Scarce clouds the magic mirror, or breaks the wondrous charm; And when the mystic moonlight, with its white unearthly spell, Like a vision of enchantment clothes river and rock and dell, How the lights and shadows tremble with a hidden mystery. And the silhouettes of the islands lie dark on the silver sea! 1 Gananoque. Page Nine THE WHIP-POOR-WILL O H, Whip-poor-Will! oh, Whip-poor- Will! When all the joyous day is still, When from the sky’s fast deepening blue Fades out the sunset’s rosy hue, We hear thy steady, measured trill From woodland shade, oh, Whip-poor-Will! In the soft dusk of dewy May, At pensive close of autumn day, All other birds may silent be, Or flood the air with minstrelsy: Thou carest not — eve brings us still Thy plaintive burden, “Whip-poor-Will!” When moonlight floods the summer night With a soft vision of delight, We listen till we fain would ask For thee, some respite from thy task. At dawn we wake, and hear it still, Thy plaintive song — oh, Whip-poor-Will! We hear thy voice, but see not thee; Thou seemest but a voice to be, A wandering spirit, breathing yet For parted joys a vain regret; So plaintive thine untiring trill At dawn or dusk — oh, Whip-poor-Will! So faithful to thy strange refrain, Is it the voice of joy or pain? We cannot know — thou wilt not tell The secret kept so long and well, What moves thee thus to warble still Thine endless plaint — oh, Whip-poor-Will! Page Ten SPRING’S UNDERTONE T HIS is no day for sadness; — let me breathe The sweet, pure air beneath the clear blue sky. While visions, lovely in their vagueness, wreathe Their misty forms before the dreaming eye, Entranced to look upon their witchery! This is no day for sadness ! When the sun Is draped in weeping clouds of sullen gray, Or when the tranquil autumn day is done, And early twilight sleeps upon the bay — Then may we sigh for blessings passed away! And yet, why is it that on days like these. When Nature wears her sweetest, sunniest face, When all the air is sweet with budding trees. And flowers bloom softly in each sunny place. And clothe the waking earth with tender grace, And joyous birds their merry carols sing, Our hearts can never rise to notes like theirs — A strain of sadness wanders through the spring — The very perfectness of Nature bears A spell that weighs our hearts down unawares? Is it that budding woods and opening flowers, All the fresh life that gladdens our dull earth, Seem but to flout this fleeting life of ours, That here, at least, knows no new vernal birth, And seemeth oft to us so little worth? Or is it that fair Nature’s unstained face Wakes yearnings for the purity we prize And cannot reach? — that Spring’s fresh, undimmed grace Wakes sadness in us most when to the skies, In unchecked gladness, all her anthems rise? Yet may our restless souls in this rejoice, That every unchecked aspiration here, Each vague, half-conscious yearning is a voice Calling us onward — if we will but hear — To higher life and growth in nobler sphere! Page Eleven IN THE FOREST M ID the cloistered forest arches, ’Neath the quivering hemlock shade, Where the tassels of the larches Toss their incense through the glade, Where the bracken’s clustered masses Wave beneath the sheltering pines. And the sumach interlaces With a tangle of wild vines, There — like touch of fairy fingers, Parting light the leafy screen — Every ray of sunlight lingers Mid the mystery of green, Many a web of shadow tracing O’er green stones and mosses bright, Through the beechen covert threading Quivering skeins of golden light. Low amid the bending beeches Many a wilding blossom blows; Scarce its tiny life outreaches The safe covert where it grows. Waxen -pure or tender-tinted, In the solitude they bloom; Scarcely is their presence hinted By their subtle, faint perfume. Through the boughs light forms are winging, And — unseen but sweetly heard — In a burst of low, sweet singing Comes the carol of a bird. So, amid the silence dreaming, Many a vagrant fancy wakes, Like the blossoms shyly gleaming Mid the tangled forest brakes; And we listen to the murmur Of the wandering summer breeze, Till we feel our kinship firmer With the birds, and flowers, and trees; Till we reach its living centre — Till to us its heart is bare, And the souls that reverent enter Meet God in His temple there! Page Twelve UNTRODDEN WAYS; OR, TWO VISIONS W HERE close the curving mountains drew To clasp the stream in their embrace, With every outline, shade and hue Reflected in its placid face, The ploughman stops his team to watch The train, as swift it thunders by; Some distant glimpse of life to catch, He strains his eager, wistful eye. His waiting horses patient stand With wonder in their gentle eyes. As through the tranquil mountain land The snorting engine onward flies. The morning freshness is on him. Just wakened from his balmy dreams; The wayfarers, all soiled and dim, Think longingly of mountain streams. Oh, for the joyous mountain air, The long, delightful autumn day Among the hills! — the ploughman there Must have perpetual holiday! And he, as all day long he guides His steady plough with patient hand. Thinks of the train that onward glides Into some new enchanted land, Where, day by day, no plodding round Wearies the frame and dulls the mind, Where life thrills keen to sight and sound, With ploughs and furrows left behind. Page Thirteen A BURNS ANNIVERSARY (Lines suggested by a lecture on the poet by Principal G. M. Grant at a birthday celebration.) W ITHOUT, the “blast of Janwar’ wind” Seemed in our ears and hearts to linger, That on a wintry night lang syne Blew hansel in on Scotland’s singer. Within we listened, all intent On words inspired by tenderest feeling; The music of the poet’s soul Seemed softly o’er our pulses stealing. We saw the eager ploughman lad, As by the banks of Ayr he wandered, With burning eyes and swelling heart, And first on song and Scotland pondered, And thought of Bruce and W’allace Wight, Who freed his land from tyrant’s fetter, And longed to make, for her dear sake, A “sang’’ at least, if nothing better! We saw him, as from Nature’s hand His own drew draughts of joy o’erflowing; — The plover’s voice, the briar-rose, The tiny harebell lightly growing, The blue sky o’er, the gowaned lea, The foxglove’s bell, the hawthorn blossom Unsealed the fount of love that rose So strongly in his youthful bosom. The wounded hare that “hirpled past,’* The “tim’rous mousie’s” ruined dwelling, The cattle cowering ’neath the blast, The dying sheep her sorrows telling— All touched the heart that kept so strong Its kinship with all sentient being, And saw in simplest things of life The poetry that waits the seeing. Page Fourteen We saw him ’mid the golden grain, Conning the oldest of romances, As, first, his boyish pulses stirred A bonnie lassie’s gentle glances. We saw the birk and hawthorn shade Droop o’er the tiny rippling river, Where he and his dear Highland maid Sobbed their farewell, alas! for ever! There he the poet’s wish fulfilled, That “simmer ever langest tarry’’; For all who love the poet’s song Must love his gentle “Highland Mary.’’ Alas! that other things than these Were written on the later pages, Which made that tortured soul of his A byword to the coming ages. For many see the marring sins They lightly judge on slight acquaintance; But not the agony of grief That proved his passionate repentance. ’Twas his to feel the anguish keen Of noblest powers to mortals given, While tyrant passions chained to earth The soul that might have soared to heaven. ’Twas his to feel in one poor heart Such war of strong conflicting feeling As makes this life of ours too deep A mystery for our unsealing: The longing for the nobler course, The doing of the thing abhorrent, Because the lower impulse rose Resistless as a mountain torrent — Resistless to a human will, But not to that which had been given Had he but grasped the anchor true Of “correspondence fixed wi’ heaven.’’ Ah well! he failed; but let us look Through tears upon our sinning brother, As thankful that we are not called To hold the balance for each other. And never lips than his have pled More tenderly and pitifully To leave the erring heart with Him Who loves it, and will judge it truly. And yet, it is not all a dream That we have heard a voice from heaven: Behold this heart hath loved much, And much to it shall be forgiven ! M ' Page Sixteen 1 til'S 3 The Ryerson Poetry Chap-Books Lome Pierce — Editor Number 1. THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR* 5. THE EAR TRUMPET* 12. SHEEPFOLD 22. TWELVE POEMS 23. SONGS FOR SWIFT FEET 36. COSMIC ORATORY 40. THE IMMIGRANTS 45. MONSERRAT AND OTHER POEMS 46. THE AULD FOWK 47. BITTERSWEET 51. TAO 54. PENNIES ON MY PALM 55. ARGOSIES AT DAWN 58. THE COQUIHALLA WRECK 61. TWENTY SONNETS 63. EARTHBOUND 64. RICH MAN, POOR MAN 65. UNCERTAIN GLORY 69. HARVEST OF DREAMS 70. THE THOUSAND ISLANDS Sir Charles Roberts Annie Char loti e Dalton Leo Cox Esme Isles-Brown Gosiwick Roberts ‘ 'Regis ’ ' Marie Zibeth Co [mart W. E. Collin William P. McKenzie Elsie Woodley Alfred Goldsworthy Bailey Mary Ellen Guise Aubrey Dean Hughes Francis Cecil Whilchouse M Uriel M iller H umphrey Audrey Silcox E. hi Burr Regina Lenore Shoolman Frances Ebbs-Canatan Agnes Maule Machcr Fifty Cents 4. THE CAPTIVE GYP SY* Constance Davies Woodrow 7. THE LOST SHIPMATE Theodore Good ridge Roberts 14. VAGRANT* Frederick. B. Watt 15. WHAT-NOTS Geoffrey War burton Cox 20. THE CRY OF INSURGENT YOUTH Guy Mason 27. THE POET CONFIDES H. T. /. Coleman 33. LATER POEMS AND NEW VILLANELLES S. Frances Harrison ( Seranus ) 41. THE FOUNTAIN H. L. Huxtable 56. THE ROSE OF THE SEA Lionel Stevenson 60. RHYME AND RHYTHM Sister Maura 66. THE SAINT JOHN AND OTHER POEMS George Frederick Clarke Sixty Cents 16. OTHER SONGS* John Hanlon 67. FROM THE WINEPRESS Murdoch Charles Macknnon 68. SONGS OF THE WEST AND OTHER POEMS Marion E.Moodie Seventy-five Cents 49. THE WANDERER AND OTHER POEMS 50. UNDER THE MAPLE 57. THE BLOSSOM TRAIL* 59. THE WIND IN THE FIELD* One Dollar Nathaniel Benson Kathryn Munro Lilian Leveridge Leo Cox 52. THE NAIAD AND FIVE OTHER POEMS* Marjorie Piekthall A complete list of these Chap-Books sent on request. •Out of Print