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I listened long to catch a bird-note falling

From out the sombre spaces of the sky, And only heard a grim rook hoarsely calling

As toward the woodland he went wheeling by; The sere marsh rushes seemed to breathe an echo

to my sigh.

When last I strayed this self-same pathway over

How every breeze was palpitant with song! The grass I trod was white with foamy clover,

And bees went darting by, a burdened throng; Now all was drear and desolate the whole wide

vale along.

Where is the promise of the re-awaking ?

I thought, as one that o'er dead joyance grieves Some lingering springtide symbol sweetly making

A link between the reaped and unsown sheaves; When lo, a violet still in bloom amid the withered



And turned to the bird's wild gladness as the

weary turn toward sleep. Then it came, ah! it came with a rushing and

ripple of notes that poured Like a mountain rillet gushing from a rock-fount,

pebble-floored; And I soared with the song's swift soaring, and I

fled with the song's swift flow, From that land of the sun's adoring to a land of

storm and snow; From the home of the rose and laurel, from the

olive slopes and the vines, To hills where the mad winds quarrel in the supple

tops of pines. And I said, “enough of the languor, enough of

the dreamful ease, With never a sound of anger from the slumberous

sapphire seas! Give me the din of the battle of turbulent life once

more, The clangor, the stress, the rattle, on the new

world's strenuous shore; The hearts I love and that love me, and the frank,

free, trustful eyes, And the blue of the skies above me, the blue of my

own dear skies!" A moment the strains waxed stronger, then died; –

no, it might not be; I knew I must linger longer by the strange sweet

southern sea; Linger and con from the stories of those who had

left life's ways, Linger and glean from the glories of the hallowed

and haloed days. But a moment more I tarried till the sovran moon

rose up, And the land and the heaven were married by the

wine from its gold-bright cup; Then I swiftly downward wended, and was glad

once more to be Where the laughter clear ascended by the shore of

the siren sea. Ah! the lone heart, backward turning, though fair

be the skies that dome, Must sometimes feel a yearning for the happy hills

of home.

An eddying speck the swallow flies,

The morn is full of fragrant breath, Yet, dark and dank beneath, there lies

A charnel-house of death.

Spring comes, and straightway at her smiles

The wide Campagna bursts in bloom; But naught again to life beguiles

The grave's black hecatomb.

And yet the fairest flowers have birth

In mould and darkness and decay; And here the faith that rings the earth

Flowered into endless day.


All through the sultry evening hours

The fluctuant tide's soft swell was heard,

And to the cadence sang a bird Amid the bright acacia flowers.

A bat zigzagged across the night,

And in the dark the spiders spun

Their webs, that would, at rise of sun, Be little silvery paths of light.

I WALKED afield one morn in late November,

The sun was hidden and the air was chill;
And not a sumach showed a glowing ember

Along the windy summit of the hill;
No lordly linden showered its gold above the

swollen rill.

Clear notes of song dropped down the air,

Well-rounded, perfect pearls of sound;

A star sprang eastward, and was drowned In outer ether, none knew where.


Then, as o'er Latmian leas of yore

She rose to greet Endymion,

Full-orbed and fair the moon outshone Above the wide Pacific shore.


In dreary, ceaseless monotone

The raindrops fall; The wind makes intermittent moan

In tree-tops tall.

No traveier braves the murky night,

Nor beast nor bird. Together huddle, as in fright,

The shivering herd.

Within a room where watchers weep

A maiden lies,
The seal of everlasting sleep

Upon her eyes.

Beyond the billow's briny crest

The day is born. Her lover there, hope in his breas

Smiles on the morn.


You ask why Spring's fair first-born flower is

white: Peering from out the warm earth long ago,

It saw above its head great drifts of snow,
And blanched with fright.

Athwart chill skies, as gray as steel,

The winter's barbed arrows dart;
Yet none will house regret who feel
Perennial summer in the heart.

Her eyes are like unfathomable lakes
When brightly o'er them morning radiance breaks,
And yet the mariner had best beware,
For many valiant hearts lie shipwrecked there!

- Ibid. FLORENCE. How great her gifts! her open heart

Has yielded much to bless mankind,

And in her bosom still we find
A precious treasure-house of art.

- Fiesole.
Swift comes the dusk, prophetic of the stars,
And then the stars with their inviolate arc
Of peaceful beams.

- Baalbec. HAPPINESS.

The overflow
Of joy and peace that her heart had known
In the calm sweet days that were fleet to go.

The Crucifix.

My heart is glad with life, and yet

These emerald spears that gently wave
(Alas! why can I not forget ?)
Will one day nod above my grave!

- Grass.
So when the door of dawn grew aureate,
And broken was the dim night's peaceful hush

By harvesters uprisen to greet the morn,
They knew Pomona had passed by in state,
For on the apples was a rosier blush,
And on the grapes a richer lustre born.

- Pomona.
Her heart the tear a holy angel shed,"
And lo! he smiled, and smiling passed away.

- Into a Dream Came Love.

A SEA of blossoms, golden as the glow

Of morning sunlight on a wind-rocked bay,

Beneath the breeze of this rare autumn day Heaves in soft undulation to and fro; Like incense, floating o'er the marsh below,

Come fragrant odors of the late-mown hay:

Beyond, in harmony of green and gray, The tapering tamaracks tower in stately row.

And wading through the shimmering waves with

song Upon his lips, a fair-haired youth I see,

Who swings off the saffron blossom-bells: Back roll the years,- a melancholy throng,And I behold, in sea-girt Sicily,

Theocritus amid the asphodels!

Last night a mighty poet passed away:

" Who now will sing our songs?" men cried at


Faint hearts, fear not! Somewhere, though far

away, At that same hour another bard was born.





was born on January 1oth, 1860, at the old parsonage of Douglas, a parish on the east side of the St. John River, only a few miles above Fredericton, the capital of New Brunswick. His father, the Rev. G. G. Roberts, had been appointed rector of the parish soon after his marriage with Emma W. Bliss, one of that Loyalist family which traces its descent through a line of lawyers back to the Rev. Daniel Bliss, Emerson's progenitor and the first pastor of Concord. In less than a year after the birth of their son, Mr. Roberts was transferred to Westcock, in Westmoreland County. Here, in that charmed land of wind and meadows and dikes and seafaring folk, which has lent its enchantment of flying color and bending grass to ". In the Afternoon,” “ Tantramar Revisited” and many another bit of inspired realism,

"the long strong wind, thro' the lonesome

Golden afternoon" blew rough and blithe under the youngster's hair. “ Inspired realism," indeed, is only a make-shift term. There is a quality in these poems and their fellows, which teaches everyday things, pasture lands and fishing boats and the common work of men, and enables them,- sets them in their higher more subtile relations with the beauty and sweep and pathos of those shadows on the face of Nature which man calls life and death.

In 1874 Mr. Roberts, père, again removed his family, this time to Fredericton, where he undertook the responsibilities of the rectorship whose duties he continues to discharge, with an unfailing kindliness, with a thorough goodness and gentleness of heart that have secured a large share of love among his townsmen. Mr. Roberts, poet, entered the College School in that town, upon a two years' course of preparation for college. His only teacher up to this time had been his father; he now passed into the hands of Mr. George N. Parkin, head master of the school (whose predecessor, by the way, was Dr. Roberts, Professor Roberts' grandfather) a teacher of remarkable quickening power, whose ideas on English public school life and on “ The Reorganization of the British Empire" we have just been reading in The Century. Roberts remained at this school until 1876. In that year he won the silver medal of the school for proficiency in classics, and matriculated at the University of New Brunswick, also in Fredericton. Here he won a Classical Scholarship at the end of his freshman year, a gold medal for Latin prose at the end of his second year, and graduated with honors in Mental and Moral Philosophy and Political Economy in June, 1879. At the end of his summer vacation after graduation he was placed in charge of the grammar school at hatham, N. B. In the summer

of 1880, Roberts's first volume, “ Orion and Other Poems,” was published. Towards the end of the same year, on December 29th, Mr. Roberts was married to Mary Isabel Fenety, daughter of George E. Fenety, Esq., of Fredericton.

In 1881 Prof. Roberts received the degree of M. A. from his Alma Mater, and in 1882 was appointed master of one of the public schools in this “ Shadowy town of the tall elm trees," a position he retained for a little more than a year. In December of the same year, 1883, The Week was started in Toronto, Ont.,-a new departure in Canadian journalism, whose subsequent unqualified success in work of a high grade gives interest to the fact that Roberts was its first editor. His connection with it, however, was not a long one; and in 1885 he was called to the chair of English and French in King's College, Windsor, Nova Scotia, where he now lives. His second volume of verse, “In Divers Tones," appeared in the first months of 1887. “ Poems of Wild Life,” edited by him has just been added to the series of Canterbury Poets, and a college text-book of Shelley's “ Alastor and Adonais," with critical introduction and notes, will soon be in press.

Not to speak of the original work of Professor Roberts, it is safe to say that his marked success as a teacher is due to an unswerving and strongly individualized energy of purpose, coupled with wide sympathy and an unusually inspiriting enthusiasm for literature, and directing a penetrating critical faculty. He is a strenuous lover of his native land, (one almost says, of his native soil,) sturdy, virile, patriotic, easy of approach, a good friend, and (if one may venture a hazarded opinion) butan indifferent enemy. It is upon the loyal, uncompromising and unquestioning patriotism of such men that Canada,- the true Canada, mindful of her history, loving her heroes, keeping faith with the greatness of her destiny, rests her bid for fame and honor among the Nations.

B. C.


WHITE as fleeces blown across the hollow heaven, Fold on fold thy garment wraps thy shining

limbs; Deep thy gaze as morning's flamed thro' vapors

riven, Bright thine hair as day's that up the ether

swims. Surely I have seen the majesty and wonder,

Beauty, might, and splendor of the soul of song;
Surely I have felt the spell that lifts asunder
Soul irom body, when lips faint and thought is

Surely I have heard
The ample silence stirred

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