Library Loot: November 20 to 26
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Showing posts with label Religious verse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Religious verse. Show all posts
25 December 2023
Bliss Carman's 'Christmas Song'
25 December 2022
'Christmas' by S. Frances Harrison
CHRISTMAS
Who will sing the Christ?Will he who rang his Christmas chimesOf faith and hope in Gospel ray,That pealed along the world's highway,And woke the world to purer times—Will he sing the Christ?Or that new voice which vaguely gives—One day its song for Rome—the next,In soul-destroying strife perplextFor England's faith and future livesShall he sing the Christ?Or the sweet children in the schools,That hymn their carols hand-in-handAll purely, can they understandThe wisdom that must make us fools—Can they sing the Christ?Or yearning priest who to his kindFrom carven pulpit gives the Word,Or praying mother who has erred,And blindly led her erring blind—Have they not sung the Christ?"Lord! I of sinners am the chief!"One, seated by his Christmas fires,Hearkens the bells from distant spires,But hangs his head in unbelief—He cannot sing the Christ.Grant to such, Lord, the seeing eye!Grant as the World grows old and cold,All hearts Thy beauty may behold.Grant, lest the souls of sinners die—That All may sing the Christ.
—From S. Frances Harrison's Pine, Rose and Fleur de Lis (Toronto: Hart & Co, 1891)
Merry Christmas from our home to yours!
Related posts:
16 April 2022
Ten Poems for National Poetry Month, Number 6: 'Easter, 1942' by H.C. Mason
For the month, the sixth of ten poems
I find interesting, amusing, and/or infuriating.
Unconventional Easter verse, eight decades old this year, by son of Staffordville, Ontario Harold Campbell Mason (1895-1976). The poet served as gunner in the First World War, surviving a leg wound that took him out of the fighting two months before the Armistice. After his return to Canada, he studied at the Ontario Agriculture College, turned to dairy farming, served as farming editor for the London Advertiser, and worked on adverts for Purina.
Mason wrote two books, the first, Bits o' Brass (Toronto: Thomas Allen, c.1921), being a collection of short stories and verse inspired largely by the war in which he'd fought. His second and last book, Three Things Only... (Toronto: Thomas Nelson, 1953) collects verse from the first, adding others, some of which were inspired by the Second World War.
This is one.
Mason's enlistment papers record his religion as Methodist.
EASTER, 1942
For Christ is risen, is risen indeed!
Proclaim to priest and people from every chiming steeple
That Christ is risen, is risen indeed!
Let your clamor, let your clanger, let your chime
Beating time
Praise the Lord!
Praise the risen Victor-Victim by all the saints adored.
Praise the Lord!
For Christ is risen, is risen, is risen
For Christ is risen, is risen indeed
For Christ the Lord is risen, is risen indeed!
Young Jimmy Geantley, fresh-faced fighter pilot,
Just ten months out of college
Still grilled by his commission,
His uniform and badges,
His cunning and his courage,
The thunder of his engine and the power of his guns,
Sees the tracers smoking past him,
Dives her,
Spins her,
Sees the blue and orange flame-spout
Spurt across the dizzy cockpit,
Tries to beat the horror down with bare hands,
Burned and helpless hopeless hands,
While he plummets flaring, flaming
To the earth.
There's a girl in far Toronto who will never know her mate
But such is human nature, such is fate.
Every Sunday, through the years,
Through a haze of prideful tears
She will see his name enshrined
"To the glory of our God and in loving memory"
While the boy fades out of mind
And legend grows instead,
Warrior-hero, warrior-dead,
Happy hero, happy dead,
Smiling hero, dead to save us
In the war.
Ring out, O happy Easter bells
For Christ is risen, is risen indeed!
For Christ is risen, is risen indeed!
He is risen, He is risen, He escapes this earthly prison,
He prepares us many mansions
For believers
In the skies!
"Ah lovely and blue is the sky above Naples
And lovely and blue is the sea,
And lovely and blue are the eyes of Giana
The bright one, the fair one, from fair Lombardy!"
So humming to comfort him, heartsick and lonely
To bolster his courage, alone in the night,
Antonio Rillio hears not the rustle, the only
Faint warning of peril, of heart-clutching fright-
Of the rush, of the yell, of the knives, and the Night.
Ring out, O happy Easter bells
For Christ is risen, is risen indeed!
For Christ is risen, is risen indeed!
Proclaim to every nation glad tidings of salvation
For Christ the Lord is risen, is risen, is risen, is risen,
For Christ the Lord is risen, is risen indeed!
Soldier Ivan Volushenko hangs groaning on the wire.
Hangs tangled in the wire,
Holding hard his belly where the Fascist bullet got him
As if almost he hoped to stop that steady bleeding, that inward fatal bleeding,
But he knows—
He knows the thing will kill him
Here so far from far Kazan.
Little Ivan, and Katushka, and the others,
They will never know their father,
They will think of him as a hero, not as a man,
They will tell the tale with pride,
How he fought and how he died,
How he died to save his comrades
In the war.
Ring out, O happy Easter bells—
Intone, O priest, and chant, O choir!
Let your voices, soaring higher,
Join a tale of jubilation, tell the story of salvation,
Spread the story far and wide
How the Victor-Victim died,
How he died and how he rose
With a mighty, mighty triumph o'er his foes,
O'er his foes—
Alleluia, praise the Lord,
For Christ the Lord is risen, is risen indeed!
Little Gretchen Kinderkin lies dying in the rubble,
Lies dying in the rubbish where the British bomb exploded,
Twisted, torn, and flung to die
Pinned beneath the bone brickwork.
She is lucky, she is dying
Free from pain and freeform terror
After that first shrieking instant,
That brief shrieking instant,
Not again too hear the bombers, not again to bear the bombings,
Not again to shrink and shiver
And hear the children cry.
She is dying,
Luckier far than brother Hansel whom she sheltered as they fell
In the centre of the howling and the thunder-blast of hell—
He must live out his life with his arm torn off.
They will tell him, when he's older,
How his sister sought to save him,
How his sister died to save him
In the war.
For Christ is risen, is risen indeed,
And Mrs. John Jones has a new spring hat.
Let your calmer, let your clanger, let your chime
Beating time
Praise the Lord!
Doesn't Mrs. Smith look ghastly in that ghastly green creation,
I wonder what it is he sees in her?
Do you think the tartan tie is really regulation,
And the collar of that tunic—do you think it's really fur?
Proclaim to every nation glad tidings of salvation,
Tell a tale of jubilation
To the booming and clanging of the bells—
Praise the Lord,
For Christ is risen, is risen indeed!
For Christ is risen, is risen indeed?
Ah no. He hangs upon his cross
Bewildered by defeat and loss—
Worshipped. A god. A thing apart.
The nails still tearing at his tortured hands,
The doubt still tearing at his tortured heart.
Related posts:
25 December 2021
'A Child's Song of Christmas' by Marjorie Pickthall
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12 October 2020
Doctor Logan's Ode for Thanksgiving Day
Verse for the day by son of Antigonish J.D. Logan. This version is taken from his Songs of the Makers of Canada and Other Homeland Lyrics (Toronto: Briggs, 1911).
LAND BLEST WITH YOUTH
An Ode for Thanksgiving Day
Land blest with youth and strength, with wealth and peace—These are thy dower with which to rear a realmWhere men shall own their full enfranchisementIn recompense for purer purposesThan elder empires' sordid gluttonies.These are senescent now. The frosts of FateHave touched their Tree of Life: the blighted leavesAre dropping swift and yellowing in decayAutumnal:—and in His own time Who plansThe universal destiny and doom,Profoundest glacial snows shall cover themAnd no requick'ning sun shall rise to meltTheir gelid grave. Forever they shall lieWrapt up in silence in their lethal bed.But thou, young Titan of the West, whose yearsAre leafy yet, thy branches full of sap,And green already with Life's ampler deeds,Give thanks, this day, for thy predestined task!For He whose throne is everywhere, and guidesThe courses of the million million worlds,Hath consecrated thee—thy youth and strength,Thy peace and gifts of earthly plenitude—To service for our race—disquietedBy Mammon's crew—till we at length beholdThe Dayspring of the Brotherhood of Man.Give thanks, and trust thy sons, O Canada—Their prayers are with thee and their present deedsAre fateful of the nobler race to come!E'en now upon thy brow the radiance shinesOf lofty Statehood, unassorted and free,While unseen hands unfold thy destiny.
Wishing all a happy and safe Thanksgiving.
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12 April 2020
Atypical Easter Verse by Agnes Maule Machar
For this Easter Sunday, 'In Memoriam—H.W.L., A Noble Teacher' by Agnes Maule Machar, "first of Dominion poetesses." It is a celebration of a holy day, a celebration of faith, and a memorial to a beloved teacher. The version below is taken from Lays of the 'True North' and Other Canadian Poems (Toronto: Copp, Clark, 1899), in which the poet provides a note identifying "H.W.L." as "Hannah W. Lyman, first Principal of Vassar College, New York State, and previously an esteemed teacher in Montreal, Canada."
I admit to having being confused when I first came upon this poem; it was my understanding that Agnes Maule Machar's father, Presbyterian clergyman John Machar, had been solely responsible for her education. Further investigation revealed that daughter Agnes had spent one – and only one – year at Ipswich Seminary, a Montreal boarding school run by Miss Lyman.
Though a Montrealer – born, bred, and educated – it wasn't until recently that I'd so much as heard the name Hannah W. Lyman. Henry James Morgan's wonderful two-volume Types of Canadian Women and of Women Who Are or Have Been Connected with Canada (Toronto: William Briggs, 1903) – source of the images used in this post – speaks to her importance and influence on the city:
Miss Hannah Willard Lyman, a successful and inspiring teacher of youth, was born at Old Northampton, Mass., in 1816, and died at Poughkeepsie, N.Y., where she was vice- principal of Vassar College, February 21st, 1871. She commenced to teach at Gotham Academy, Maine, and she subsequently taught in Mrs. Gray's Seminary for Young Ladies at Petersburg, Virginia. For the next twenty-two years she conducted a seminary for young ladies, in Montreal, which took the lead of all similar institutions in the Canadas. Her natural gifts, amounting almost to a genius for her profession, were enriched by an education of no ordinary range. She was a sister of Rev. Henry Lyman, a missionary, who was murdered by the natives in Sumatra in 1832, and whose life she has written {New York: 1857); also of the late Lieut.-Colonel Theodore Lyman, and the late Colonel S.J. Lyman, of Montreal. The Rev. Dr. Campbell, in his "History of the St. Gabriel Street Church, Montreal," says that "the name of Miss Lyman is yet as ointment poured forth in many hearts and homes, not only in Montreal, but all through Canada, for the blessed influences which she exerted as an instructor of young ladies." A memorial of her is preserved in McGill University by the "Hannah Willard Lyman Fund," raised by subscriptions from her former pupils, and invested as a permanent endowment to furnish annually a scholarship or prizes in a college for women affiliated to the university, or in classes for the higher education of women. Her remains were brought to Montreal and laid in Mount Royal Cemetery.Sadly, it seems the memorial preserved in McGill University is no more.
A remarkable woman. Would that I could've visited her gravesite this Easter, but in this time of crisis it's closed for all but essential services.
IN MEMORIAM
H. W. L., A NOBLE TEACHER
'Tis once again the Eastertide,
So bright, so full of summer calm;
So fair the quiet waters glide,
The air so full of fragrant balm,
That earth and sky and crystal tide
Seem chanting sweet an Easter psalm;
So, to her risen Saviour-King,
Methinks—a ransomed earth might sing.
How brightly in the sacred chain
Of thoughts that with the season blend,
Thy well-known image shines again
In memory's light, beloved friend!
Though now we seek thy smile in vain,
Our converse hath not here its end;
So linked art thou with this blest day
Thou scarcely seemest passed away!
Thine Easter song shall sweetly flow,
Unmingled now with loss or pain,
And we in shadow here below
Can almost hear the joyous strain;
For 'Worthy is the Lamb,' we know,
Is evermore the glad refrain;
How, in the sunshine of His grace,
Must thou rejoice to see His face!
We still must keep the feast below,
Partake the sacramental wine;
Thou needest no memorials now
In presence of the Living Vine.
Yet, though our tears will have their flow
We would not at thy gain repine;
For our communion still shall be
With thee—through Christ in Him with Thee!
We know not what new realms of thought
Have opened to thine eager gaze;
We know not how thy soul is taught
The knowledge of God's hidden ways;
How problems once with mystery fraught
Now fill thy heart with grateful praise,
While we must wander still and wait
In the dim light without the gate!
But well we know thy longing heart
Hath seen fulfilled its sweetest dreams;
Hath found its ever-blessed part
In that deep love whose gladsome beams
It sought afar—as seeks the hart,
Athirst, the crystal-flowing streams,
Now, bathing in that glorious tide,
At last, at last is—satisfied!
Well—though we cannot grasp the bliss
That fills thy cup of gladness there,
Nor know what we shall gain or miss
In life that tends—we know not where,
We may go forward, knowing this—
Who cared for thee for us will care—
And, in the 'many mansions,' we
At last shall share thy rest with thee.
But while on earth shall lie our lot,
We cherish still the thought of thee;
The living lesson thou hast taught
Of faith and hope and charity.
The life with patient labour fraught,
From self and selfish aims set free;
A power our slower hearts to move,
To follow in thy path of love!
We thank God for thy life below,Wishing all a Happy Easter.
We thank Him for the quiet rest
Of which such toilers only know
The sweetness, when at length possessed.
The words that here thou lovedst so,
In whose fulfilment thou art blest,
Those words of comfort, still and deep,
We softly murmur while we weep:
'He giveth His beloved sleep!'
Stay healthy.
Stay safe.
Related posts:
01 July 2019
'God Guide Thee Canada'
On the one hundred and fifty-second anniversary of the Dominion, "God Guide Thee Canada" from Harold S. Wood's Your Home and Mine (Toronto: Musson, 1932).
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'O Canada! beloved native land...'
'O Canada! our native land thou art!'
Patriotic Verse from the Garden of a Girl's Dreams
A 123-Year-Old Poem for Canada Day
'O Canada! our native land thou art!'
Patriotic Verse from the Garden of a Girl's Dreams
A 123-Year-Old Poem for Canada Day
24 June 2019
"Hommage" pour la Fête
Verse for la Fête by nineteenth-century hipster Paul de Malijay from his Saint Jean-Baptiste: L'évangile et le Canada. A "Souvenir de la fête nationale du 24 juin 1874," it was published by the wonderfully-named Presses à vapeur de la Minerve.
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21 April 2019
'The Easter Winds' by Lilian Leveridge
Easter verse written in the midst of the Great War by Anglican Lilian Leveridge from her debut collection Over the Hills of Home and Other Poems (Toronto: McClelland, Goodchild & Stewart, 1918).
THE EASTER WINDS
The little winds of dawning,
Long centuries ago,
Went straying in a garden
With bursting buds aglow.
A wondrous tale they whispered
Of One Who loved, Who died
For men whose hatred pierced Him
In hands and feet and side.
Bright angels told His story:
The winds caught up the song;
On viewless wings forever
They bear the strain along.
The flowers await His coming;
For love of Him they bloom—
The fadeless Rose of Sharon.
That blossomed from the tomb.
O little winds of Easter
That blow amid the hills,
With lily perfume laden
And breath of daffodils.
Go, blow across the ocean.
And carry to "our boys,"
Our truest and our dearest,
A gift of Easter joys—
The sweetness of the blossoms,
The music of the bells,
That, hour by hour unwearied,
The glad evangel tells—
Of life that blooms unfading,
Of love that cannot die,
Of rest and peace abiding
Beyond our shrouding sky.
O viewless Easter angels
That wander round the world,
Where, reeking red with carnage,
The bolts of hate are hurled,
Where, rank on rank, the crosses
Stand silent on the hill,
Go, plant the amaryllis.
The rose, the daflfodil.
Then all the winds of Easter
Shall bear upon their wings
To wounded hearts the essence
Of all life's sweetest things.
"The Lord is risen!" shall echo
From shore to farthest shore,
And Love shall reign eternal,
And pain shall be no more.
Related posts:
Easter Verse by Ethel Ursula Foran
'Easter Dawn' by Jean Blewett
'The Easter Parade, 1915' by Robert Stanley Weir
'Easter Dawn' by Jean Blewett
'The Easter Parade, 1915' by Robert Stanley Weir
07 October 2018
Jean Blewett's 'Thanksgiving Song'
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| From Canadian Poets, John W. Garvin, ed (Toronto: McClelland, Goodchild & Stewart) |
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| From Jean Blewett's Poems (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1922) |
Related posts:
01 July 2018
Laura Salverson's 'For Canada' for Canada Day
A poem – and prayer – by Laura Salverson, from Wayside Gleams, her only collection of verse, published in 1925 by McClelland & Stewart.
For Canada
Grant us, O Lord, within the coming year.
Some vision of our noble destiny...
* * * *
Give unto us the strength to face anew
Adversity and sorrows... or again
Good fortune, with that valiant humbleness
Which ever marks a depth of inward grace;
Grant us, we pray, sincere, courageous hearts.
Wide sympathies, with minds that seek to see
In giving joy, and pride in honest toil,
In beauty, truth, and good for all mankind;
For every race, for every land, we pray;
Lift them, O God, from out enthralling thought
And prejudice, that they, directing, find
Thy presence manifest on land and sea.
But last, O Lord, for this is our Canada
We crave Thy blessing and eternal aid;
Keep her fair soul unflinching, aye, and true
That she, among the nations, may arise.
Made string with the greatness from the fount within,
Imbued with love that knows not any death,
This gracious land, so young, so little tried.
O'er-shadow her with Thy own righteousness.
That she may stand a New Jerusalem
Where man, by giving much, may gather more;
Where thy same speech and creed of kindliness
At last take root to flourish far and wide,
Till thereon in very truth become
The citadel of justice on earth.
* * * *
Grant us, O Lord, within the coming year,In 2014, I bought this first and only edition of Wayside Gleams for one dollar. The dust jacket features an advert for eight other McClelland & Stewart books.
The vision of our final destiny —
A nation worthy of her ancient dead —
A fabric perfected from deathless dreams.
I haven't read one.
How 'bout you?
Related posts:
'O Canada! beloved native land...'
'O Canada! our native land thou art!'
Patriotic Verse from the Garden of a Girl's Dreams
A 123-Year-Old Poem for Canada Day
'O Canada! our native land thou art!'
Patriotic Verse from the Garden of a Girl's Dreams
A 123-Year-Old Poem for Canada Day
08 October 2017
Edna Jaques' Award-Winning Thanksgiving Verse
For this Thanksgiving weekend, verse from Canada's beloved Poet Laureate of the Home. First published in 1932, "Thankful for What?" was named New York Times Outstanding Poem of the Year. She received twenty American dollars.
Thankful for What?
Not for the mighty world, O Lord, tonight,
Nations and kingdoms in their fearful might —
Let me be glad the kettle gently sings,
Let me be thankful just for the little things.
Thankful for simple food and supper spread,
Thankful for shelter and a warm, clean bed,
For little joyful feet that gladly run
To welcome me when my day's work is done.
Thankful for friends who share my woe or mirth,
Glad for the warm, sweet fragrance of the earth,
For golden pools of sunlight on the floor,
For love that sheds its peace about my door.
For little friendly days that slip away,
With only meals and bed, and work and play,
A rocking-chair and kindly firelight —
For little things let me be glad tonight.
Related posts:
16 April 2017
Easter Verse by Ethel Ursula Foran
Mature juvenilia by Ethel Ursula Foran, from her first volume, Poems: A Few Blossoms from the Garden of My Dreams (Montreal: Beauchemin, 1922):
EASTER
The holy Lenten season
At last has passed away.
And to-day we celebrate
Our glorions Easter Day.
"Reserrexit sicut dixit"
The Angels sweetly sing,
And in humble adoration
Pay homage to their King.
"He is risen," Yes, we knew it;
He had but the word to say
And His glorious, sacred Body
Rose from out the tomb that day.
Christ has risen," Alleluia,
Let us all our treasures bring
To the feet of our sweet Savior,
To our dear triumphant King.
Only one sweet tiny treasure
Jesus asks with love divine,
'Tis your heart — then won't you give it
To your risen Lord and mine?
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