In a Belgian Garden and Other Poems

Excerpt

Introduction

Most of the poems contained in this collection are of recent date, though their author—who is at present Professor of Modern Languages at Bishop's College, Quebec—has written verse from his childhood. He is the first Canadian writer to be included in this series, and is as affectionately loyal to the Motherland as to his native country, as may be gathered from his "Song of the Homeland." His verse has already earned a considerable reputation in Canada, in whose Press much of it has appeared. Educated at Stanstead College, he took his degree at the University where he now lectures, and has also studied in Paris, Marburg and Switzerland. Several of his poems are concerned with the sorrow and the ravished beauty of Belgium: a circumstance not surprising, as he has travelled much in that country, as well as in France, Switzerland and Italy. A lover of country life and a disciple of the cult of the open road, he revels in the joys of camping and canoeing, as one of his poems, "Hidden Treasure," bears witness. In this little book, and more especially in the "Song of the Homeland," he shows us the maple leaf entwined, strongly as ever, with the English rose of the Mother country.

S. GERTRUDE FORD.

Once in a Belgian garden,
(Ah, many months ago!)
I saw like pale Madonnas
The tall white lilies blow.

Great poplars swayed and trembled
Afar against the sky,
And green with flags and rushes
The river wandered by.

Amid the waving wheatfields
Glowed poppies blazing red,
And showering strange wild music
A lark rose overhead.

*****

The lark has ceased his singing,
The wheat is trodden low,
And in the blood-stained garden
No more the lilies blow.

And where green poplars trembled
Stand shattered trunks instead,
And lines of small white crosses
Keep guard above the dead.

For here brave lads and noble,
From lands beyond the deep,
Beneath the small white crosses
Have laid them down to sleep.

They laid them down with gladness
Upon the alien plain,
That this same Belgian garden
Might bud and bloom again.

A Lincolnshire Maiden

Long the eastern beaches,
Where brown the seaweed grows,
And over broad salt meadows,
The green tide ebbs and flows.

Above the low-roofed houses,
Two ancient towers rise,
And stand like giant druids,
Against the wind-swept skies.

Through mist or rain or sunshine,
Their prows festooned with foam,
The fishing-boats go outward
Or laden, turn them home.

She watches by the window,
And tearless are her eyes;
She sees not church or tower,
Or sea or wind-swept skies.

She sees not tide or tempest,
Or sun or mist or rain;
Afar her spirit wanders
Upon the Belgian plain.

Where over shell-scarred cities
The mad, red tempest raves,
And poplars sigh and shudder
Above unnumbered graves.

Sun-browned boy with the wondering eyes,
Do you see the blue of the summer skies?
Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream,
As it winds by the shore where the birches gleam?
Then come, come away
From the shadowy bay,
And we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play;
For we are two pirates, fierce and bold,
And we'll capture the hoard of the morning's gold....