Peter McArthur

There was a light upon the sea that made
Familiar things mysterious, which to teach,
With inarticulate, alluring speech,
The living wind with lisping tongue essayed.
...

When snow-balls on the horses' hoofs
And the wind from the south blows warm,
When the cattle stand where the sunbeams beat
And the noon has a dreamy charm,
...

My little boy is eight years old,
He goes to school each day;
He doesn't mind the tasks they set-
They seem to him but play.
...

A man! A man! There is a man loose in Canada,
A man of heroic mould, a 'throwback' of earlier ages,
Vigorous, public-spirited, not afraid of work!
A doer of deeds, not a dreamer and babbler;
...

I may not tell what hidden springs I find
Of living beauty in this deathless page,
Lest the dull world, that chooses to be blind,
Mock me to shame or lash me in its rage.
...

Toiling through ruined temple-halls, where Time
Had dwelt with Havoc, eager searchers found,
With shattered idols that bestrewed the ground,
An image strange, of lineaments sublime.
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How blest is he that can but love and do
And has no skill of speech nor trick of art
Wherewith to tell what faith approveth true
And show for fame the treasures of his heart.
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Of all that felt thy spell I envied one,
A youth whose sightless eyes were dimly turned
Where Tosca's soul with breathless passion burned,
Or thrilled with fury, agonized, undone.
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Is life worth loafing ? Come, recline with me
And lazily this fragant afternoon
We'll weigh the idle theme. I often think,
If with protean versatility
...

The dumb earth yearns for the expressive seed,
The fruit fulfilled gives ear to her desire
And she but conscious of her bitter need,
In vernal beauty doth again aspire.
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We may not babble unto alien ears
The truth revealed, nor show to heedless eyes
The visioned beauty, lest with shame and tears
We mourn our folly—and with futile sighs.
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The dead are buried facing to the sun,
In foolish epitaphs their faith is told,
And yet they die without a victory won,
Leaving a world in folly growing old.
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Dear little boy, with wondering eyes
That for the light of knowledge yearn,
Who have such faith that I am wise
And know the things that you would learn.
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Not yet are deeds fruition of my thought,
Nor is this body symbol of my soul,
For evil ever in this life is wrought
That shuns the will and its divine control.
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Like some bewildered monster of the deep,
Groping to freedom through the baffling tide,
She blunders forth, while nuzzling at her side
The bustling harbor craft about her creep.
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HOW dare you sing such cheerful notes?
You show a woful lack of taste;
How dare you pour from happy throats
Such merry songs with raptured haste,
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To make perfect the heaven of mothers
The little children die,
For what care they for the praise of God
Who have sung a lullaby?
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My cherished dead, when last your placid brow
I saw through tears and ne'er on earth again,
With trembling lips I made a holy vow
To show our love in a remembered strain,
In self-defeated discord of the streets
...

In some strange way God understands
Her dreaming lips were fondly pressed,
The playful touch of childish hands
Her wan cheek lingeringly caressed.
...

The farm-house fire is dull and black,
The trailing smoke rolls white and low
Along the fields till by the wood
It banks and floats unshaken, slow;
...