Project Gutenberg's The Magic House and Other Poems, by Duncan Campbell Scott This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: The Magic House and Other Poems Author: Duncan Campbell Scott Release Date: August 25, 2016 [EBook #52898] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGIC HOUSE AND OTHER POEMS *** Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.) THE MAGIC HOUSE THE MAGIC HOUSE A N D O T H E R P O E M S {i} {ii} {iii} BY DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT METHUEN AND CO. 18 BURY STREET, W.C. LONDON 1893 Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty TO MY MOTHER CONTENTS PAGE A LITTLE SONG The sunset in the rosy west, 1 THE HILL PATH Are the little breezes blind, 2 THE VOICE AND THE DUSK The slender moon and one pale star, 5 FOR REMEMBRANCE It would be sweet to think when we are old, 7 THE MESSAGE Wind of the gentle summer night, 8 THE SILENCE OF LOVE My heart would need the earth, 10 AN IMPROMPTU The stars are in the ebon sky, 11 FROM THE FARM ON THE HILL The night wind moves the gloom, 13 AT SCARBORO’ BEACH The wave is over the foaming reef, 15 THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble, 17 IN AN OLD QUARRY Above the lifeless pools the mist films swim, 19 TO WINTER Come, O thou conqueror of the flying year, 20 TO WINTER Come, O thou season of intense repose, 21 THE IDEAL Let your soul grow a thing apart, 22 A SUMMER STORM Last night a storm fell on the world, 23 LIFE AND DEATH I thought of death beside the lonely sea, 25 IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD {iv} {v} {vi} {vii} {viii} {ix} {x} {xi} This is the acre of unfathomed rest, 26 SONG I have done, 32 THE MAGIC HOUSE In her chamber, wheresoe’er, 33 IN THE HOUSE OF DREAMS The lady Lillian knelt upon the sward, 36 THE RIVER TOWN There’s a town where shadows run, 38 OFF THE ISLE AUX COUDRES The moon, Capella, and the Pleiades, 40 AT LES EBOULEMENTS The bay is set with ashy sails, 41 ABOVE ST. IRÉNÉE I rested on the breezy height, 42 WRITTEN IN A. LAMPMAN’S POEMS When April moved in maiden guise, 45 OFF RIVIÈRE DU LOUP O ship incoming from the sea, 48 AT THE CEDARS You had two girls—Baptiste— 50 THE END OF THE DAY I hear the bells at eventide, 54 THE REED-PLAYER By a dim shore where water darkening, 56 A FLOCK OF SHEEP Over the field the bright air clings and tingles, 58 A PORTRAIT All her hair is softly set, 60 AT THE LATTICE Good-night, Marie, I kiss thine eyes, 63 THE FIRST SNOW The field pools gathered into frosted lace, 64 IN NOVEMBER The ruddy sunset lies, 66 THE SLEEPER Touched with some divine repose, 68 A NIGHT IN JUNE The world is heated seven times, 70 MEMORY I see a schooner in the bay, 72 YOUTH AND TIME Move not so lightly, Time, away, 73 A MEMORY OF THE ‘INFERNO’ An hour before the dawn I dreamed of you, 74 LA BELLE FERONIÈRE, I never trod where Leonardo was, 75 A NOVEMBER DAY There are no clouds above the world, 76 OTTAWA City about whose brow the north winds blow, 78 SONG Here’s the last rose, 79 NIGHT AND THE PINES Here in the pine shade is the nest of night, 80 A NIGHT IN MARCH At eve the fiery sun went forth, 82 SEPTEMBER The morns are grey with haze and faintly cold, 86 BY THE WILLOW SPRING Come hither, Care, and look on this fair place, 87 A LITTLE SONG {xii} {xiii} {xiv} {1} THE sunset in the rosy west Burned soft and high; A shore-lark fell like a stone to his nest In the waving rye. A wind came over the garden beds From the dreamy lawn, The pansies nodded their purple heads, The poppies began to yawn. One pansy said: It is only sleep, Only his gentle breath: But a rose lay strewn in a snowy heap, For the rose it was only death. Heigho, we’ve only one life to live, And only one death to die: Good-morrow, new world, have you nothing to give?— Good-bye, old world, good-bye. THE HILL PATH TO H.D.S. ARE the little breezes blind, They that push me as they pass? Do they search the tangled grass For some path they want to find? Take my fingers, little wind; You are all alone, and I Am alone too. I will guide, You will follow; let us go By a pathway that I know, Leading down the steep hillside, Past the little sharp-lipped pools, Shrunken with the summer sun, Where the sparrows come to drink; And we’ll scare the little birds, Coming on them unawares; And the daisies every one We will startle on the brink Of a doze. (Gently, gently, little wind), Very soon a wood we’ll see, There my lover waits for me. (Go more gently, little wind, You should follow soft, behind.) You will hear my lover say How he loves me night and day, But his words you must not tell To the other little winds, For they all might come to hear, And might rustle through the wood, And disturb the solitude. (Blow more softly, little wind, You are tossing all my hair, Go more gently, have a care; If you lead you can’t be blind, So,—good-bye:) There he goes: I see his feet On the grass; Now the little pools are blurred As they pass; And he must be very fleet, For I see the bushes stirred Near the wood. I hope he’ll tell, If he isn’t out of breath, That he met me on the hill. But I hope he will not say That he kissed me for good-bye Just before he flew away. {2} {3} {4} {5} THE VOICE AND THE DUSK THE slender moon and one pale star, A rose-leaf and a silver bee From some god’s garden blown afar, Go down the gold deep tranquilly. Within the south there rolls and grows A mighty town with tower and spire, From a cloud bastion masked with rose The lightning flashes diamond fire. The purple-martin darts about The purlieus of the iris fen; The king-bird rushes up and out, He screams and whirls and screams again. A thrush is hidden in a maze Of cedar buds and tamarac bloom, He throws his rapid flexile phrase, A flash of emeralds in the gloom. A voice is singing from the hill A happy love of long ago; Ah! tender voice, be still, be still, ‘’Tis sometimes better not to know.’ The rapture from the amber height Floats tremblingly along the plain, Where in the reeds with fairy light The lingering fireflies gleam again. Buried in dingles more remote, Or drifted from some ferny rise, The swooning of the golden throat Drops in the mellow dusk and dies. A soft wind passes lightly drawn, A wave leaps silverly and stirs The rustling sedge, and then is gone Down the black cavern in the firs. FOR REMEMBRANCE IT would be sweet to think when we are old Of all the pleasant days that came to pass, That here we took the berries from the grass, There charmed the bees with pans, and smoke unrolled, And spread the melon nets when nights were cold, Or pulled the blood-root in the underbrush, And marked the ringing of the tawny thrush, While all the west was broken burning gold. And so I bind with rhymes these memories; As girls press pansies in the poet’s leaves And find them afterwards with sweet surprise; Or treasure petals mingled with perfume, Loosing them in the days when April grieves,— A subtle summer in the rainy room. THE MESSAGE {6} {7} {8} WIND of the gentle summer night, Dwell in the lilac tree, Sway the blossoms clustered light, Then blow over to me. Wind, you are sometimes strong and great, You frighten the ships at sea, Now come floating your delicate freight Out of the lilac tree. Wind, you must waver a gossamer sail To ferry a scent so light, Will you carry my love a message as frail Through the hawk-haunted night? For my heart is sometimes strange and wild, Bitter and bold and free, I scare the beautiful timid child, As you frighten the ships at sea; But now when the hawks are piercing the air, With the golden stars above, The only thing my heart can bear Is a lilac message of love. Gentle wind, will you carry this Up to her window white; Give her a gentle tender kiss, Bid her good-night—good-night. THE SILENCE OF LOVE MY heart would need the earth, My voice would need the sea, To only tell the one half How dear you are to me. And if I had the winds, The stars and the planets as well, I might tell the other half, Or perhaps I would try to tell. AN IMPROMPTU THE stars are in the ebon sky, Burning, gold, alone; The wind roars over the rolling earth, Like water over a stone. We are like things in a river-bed The stream runs over, They see the iris, and arrowhead, Anemone, and clover. But they cannot touch the shining things, For all their strife, For the strong river swirls and swings— And that is much like life. For life is a plunging and heavy stream, And there’s something bright above; But the ills of breathing only seem, When we know the light is love. The stars are in the ebon sky, Burning, gold, alone; The wind roars over the rolling earth, Like water over a stone. FROM THE FARM ON THE HILL {9} {10} {11} {12} {13} TO A.P.S. THE night wind moves the gloom In the shadowy basswood; Mysteriously the leaves sway and sing; So slow, so tender is the wind, The slender elm-tree Is hardly stirred. The sky is veiled with clouds, With diaphanous tissue; Through their dissolving films The stars shine, But how infinitely removed; How inaccessible! In the distant city Under the obscure towers The lights of watchers gleam; From the dim fields At intervals in the silence A cuckoo utters A distorted cry; Through the low woods, Haunted with vain melancholy, A whip-poor-will wanders, Forcing his monotonous song. All the ancient desire Of the human spirit Has returned upon me in this hour, All the wild longing That cannot be satisfied. Break, O anguish of nature, Into some glorious sound! Let me touch the next circle of being, For I have compassed this life. AT SCARBORO’ BEACH THE wave is over the foaming reef Leaping alive in the sun, Seaward the opal sails are blown Vanishing one by one. ’Tis leagues around the blue sea curve To the sunny coast of Spain, And the ships that sail so deftly out May never come home again. A mist is wreathed round Richmond point, There’s a shadow on the land, But the sea is in the splendid sun, Plunging so careless and grand. The sandpipers trip on the glassy beach, Ready to mount and fly; Whenever a ripple reaches their feet They rise with a timorous cry. Take care, they pipe, take care, take care, For this is the treacherous main, And though you may sail so deftly out, You may never come home again. THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL TO A.L. {14} {15} {16} {17} PALLID saffron glows the broken stubble, Brimmed with silver lie the ruts, Purple the ploughed hill; Down a sluice with break and bubble Hollow falls the rill; Falls and spreads and searches, Where, beyond the wood, Starts a group of silver birches, Bursting into bud. Under Venus sings the vesper sparrow, Down a path of rosy gold Floats the slender moon; Ringing from the rounded barrow Rolls the robin’s tune; Lighter than the robin; hark! Quivering silver-strong From the field a hidden shore-lark Shakes his sparkling song. Now the dewy sounds begin to dwindle, Dimmer grow the burnished rills, Breezes creep and halt, Soon the guardian night shall kindle In the violet vault, All the twinkling tapers Touched with steady gold, Burning through the lawny vapours Where they float and fold. IN AN OLD QUARRY NOVEMBER ABOVE the lifeless pools the mist films swim, On the lowlands where sedges chaff and nod; The withered fringes of the golden-rod Hang frayed and formless at the quarry’s rim. Filled with the wine of sunset to the brim, These limestone pits are cups for the night god, Set for his lips when he strays hither, shod With shadows, all the stars following him. And as gloom grows and deepens like a psalm, This broken field which summer has passed by Has caught the ultimate lethean calm, The fabulous quiet of far Thessaly, And though the land has lost the bloom and balm, Nature is all content in liberty. TO WINTER COME, O thou conqueror of the flying year; Come from thy fastness of the Arctic suns; Mass on the purple waste and wide frontier Thy wanish hosts and silver clarions. Then heap this sombre shoulder of the world With shifting bastions; let thy storm winds blare; Drift wide thy pallid gonfalon unfurled; And arm with daggers all the desperate air. These are but raids in dreams, and friendly brawls; Thou art a gentle giant that half sleeps, And blusters grandly to his frozen thralls, The more to charm them with the wealth he keeps: We hardly hear thy bluff and hearty word, When over the first flower sings the first bird. {18} {19} {20} {21} TO WINTER COME, O thou season of intense repose; Come with thy lidded eyes and crystal breath; Come gently with thy soft release of snows; And bring thy few short months of tender death. Build a huge tomb within the desert frore, With green clear chambers in the icy rift, Carve the sleep rune above the crystal door, And trench a legend in the pallid drift. Let the large stars about the horizon lie, Watching the confines of the world’s great sleep; Spread the vast province of the purple sky, With thy wan curtains dropped from deep to deep. Then hush the stir and bid the movement cease; Pass gently, leave the tired world in peace. THE IDEAL LET your soul grow a thing apart, Untroubled by the restless day, Sublimed by some unconscious art, Controlled by some divine delay. For life is greater than they think, Who fret along its shallow bars: Swing out the boom to float or sink And front the ocean and the stars. A SUMMER STORM {22} {23} LAST night a storm fell on the world From heights of drouth and heat, The surly clouds for weeks were furled, The air could only sway and beat, The beetles clattered at the blind, The hawks fell twanging from the sky, The west unrolled a feathery wind, And the night fell sullenly. The storm leaped roaring from its lair, Like the shadow of doom, The poignard lightning searched the air, The thunder ripped the shattered gloom, The rain came down with a roar like fire, Full-voiced and clamorous and deep, The weary world had its heart’s desire, And fell asleep. And now in the morning early, The clouds are sailing by Clearly, oh! so clearly, The distant mountains lie. The wind is very mild and slow, The clouds obey his will, They part and part and onward go, Travelling together still. ’Tis very sweet to be alive, On a morning that’s so fair, For nothing seems to stir or strive, In the unconscious air. A tawny thrush is in the wood, Ringing so wild and free; Only one bird has a blither mood, The white-throat on the tree. LIFE AND DEATH I THOUGHT of death beside the lonely sea, That went beyond the limit of my sight, Seeming the image of his mastery, The semblance of his huge and gloomy might. But firm beneath the sea went the great earth, With sober bulk and adamantine hold, The water but a mantle for her girth, That played about her splendour fold on fold. And life seemed like this dear familiar shore, That stretched from the wet sands’ last wavy crease, Beneath the sea’s remote and sombre roar, To inland stillness and the wilds of peace. Death seems triumphant only here and there; Life is the sovereign presence everywhere. IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER THIS is the acre of unfathomed rest, These stones, with weed and lichen bound, enclose No active grief, no uncompleted woes, But only finished work and harboured quest, And balm for ills; And the last gold that smote the ashen west Lies garnered here between the harvest hills. This spot has never known the heat of toil, {24} {25} {26} This spot has never known the heat of toil, Save when the angel with the mighty spade Has turned the sod and built the house of shade; But here old chance is guardian of the soil; Green leaf and grey, The barrows blossom with the tangled spoil, And God’s own weeds are fair in God’s own way. Sweet flowers may gather in the ferny wood: Hepaticas, the morning stars of spring; The bloodroots with their milder ministering, Like planets in the lonelier solitude; And that white throng, Which shakes the dingles with a starry brood, And tells the robin his forgotten song. These flowers may rise amid the dewy fern, They may not root within this antique wall, The dead have chosen for their coronal, No buds that flaunt of life and flare and burn; They have agreed, To choose a beauty puritan and stern, The universal grass, the homely weed. This is the paradise of common things, The scourged and trampled here find peace to grow, The frost to furrow and the wind to sow, The mighty sun to time their blossomings; And now they keep A crown reflowering on the tombs of kings, Who earned their triumph and have claimed their sleep. Yea, each is here a prince in his own right, Who dwelt disguised amid the multitude, And when his time was come, in haughty mood, Shook off his motley and reclaimed his might; His sombre throne In the vast province of perpetual night, He holds secure, inviolate, alone. The poor forgets that ever he was poor, The priest has lost his science of the truth, The maid her beauty, and the youth his youth, The statesman has forgot his subtle lure, The old his age, The sick his suffering, and the leech his cure, The poet his perplexed and vacant page. These swains that tilled the uplands in the sun Have all forgot the field’s familiar face, And lie content within this ancient place, Whereto when hands were tired their thought would run To dream of rest, When the last furrow was turned down, and won The last harsh harvest from the earth’s patient breast. O dwellers in the valley vast and fair, I would that calling from your tranquil clime, You make a truce for me with cruel time; For I am weary of this eager care That never dies; I would be born into your tranquil air, Your deserts crowned and sovereign silences. I would, but that the world is beautiful, And I am more in love with the sliding years, They have not brought me frantic joy or tears, But only moderate state and temperate rule; Not to forget This quiet beauty, not to be Time’s fool, I will be man a little longer yet. For lo, what beauty crowns the harvest hills!— The buckwheat acres gleam like silver shields; The oats hang tarnished in the golden fields; Between the elms the yellow wheat-land fills; The apples drop Within the orchard, where the red tree spills, The fragrant fruitage over branch and prop. {27} {28} {29} {30} The cows go lowing through the lovely vale; The clarion peacock warns the world of rain, Perched on the barn a gaudy weather-vane; The farm lad holloes from the shifted rail, Along the grove He beats a measure on his ringing pail, And sings the heart-song of his early love. There is a honey scent along the air; The hermit thrush has tuned his fleeting note. Among the silver birches far remote His spirit voice appeareth here and there, To fail and fade, A visionary cadence falling fair, That lifts and lingers in the hollow shade. And now a spirit in the east, unseen, Raises the moon above her misty eyes, And travels up the veiled and starless skies, Viewing the quietude of her demesne; Stainless and slow, I watch the lustre of her planet’s sheen, From burnished gold to liquid silver flow. And now I leave the dead with you, O night; You wear the semblance of their fathomless state, For you we long when the day’s fire is great, And when stern life is cruellest in his might, Of death we dream: A country of dim plain and shadowy height, Crowned with strange stars and silences supreme: Rest here, for day is hot to follow you, Rest here until the morning star has come, Until is risen aloft dawn’s rosy dome, Based deep on buried crimson into blue, And morn’s desire Has made the fragile cobweb drenched with dew A net of opals veiled with dreamy fire. SONG I HAVE done, Put by the lute; Songs and singing soon are over, Soon as airy shades that hover Up above the purple clover— I have done, put by the lute. Once I sang as early thrushes Sing about the dewy bushes, Now I’m mute; I am like a weary linnet, For my throat has no song in it, I have had my singing minute. I have done, Put by the lute. THE MAGIC HOUSE {31} {32} {33} IN her chamber, wheresoe’er Time shall build the walls of it, Melodies shall minister, Mellow sounds shall flit Through a dusk of musk and myrrh. Lingering in the spaces vague, Like the breath within a flute, Winds shall move along the stair; When she walketh mute Music meet shall greet her there. Time shall make a truce with Time, All the languid dials tell Irised hours of gossamer, Eve perpetual Shall the night or light defer. From her casement she shall see Down a valley wild and dim, Swart with woods of pine and fir; Shall the sunsets swim Red with untold gold to her. From her terrace she shall see Lines of birds like dusky motes Falling in the heated glare; How an eagle floats In the wan unconscious air. From her turret she shall see Vision of a cloudy place, Like a group of opal flowers On the verge of space, Or a town, or crown of towers. From her garden she shall hear Fall the cones between the pines; She shall seem to hear the sea, Or behind the vines Some small noise, a voice may be. But no thing shall habit there, There no human foot shall fall, No sweet word the silence stir, Naught her name shall call, Nothing come to comfort her. But about the middle night, When the dusk is loathéd most, Ancient thoughts and words long said, Like an alien host, There shall come unsummonéd. With her forehead on her wrist She shall lean against the wall And see all the dream go by; In the interval Time shall turn Eternity. But the agony shall pass— Fainting with unuttered prayer, She shall see the world’s outlines And the weary glare And the bare unvaried pines. IN THE HOUSE OF DREAMS I {34} {35} {36} THE lady Lillian knelt upon the sward, Between the arbour and the almond leaves; Beyond, the barley gathered into sheaves; A blade of gladiolus, like a sword, Flamed fierce against the gold; and down toward The limpid west, a pallid poplar wove A spell of shadow; through the meadow drove A deep unbroken brook without a ford. A fountain flung and poised a golden ball; On the soft grass a frosted serpent lay, With oval spots of opal over all; Upon the basin’s edge within the spray, Lulled by some craft of laughter in the fall, An ancient crow dreamed hours and hours away. II THE lady watched the serpent and the crow For days, then came a little naked lad, And smote the serpent with a spear he had; Then stooped and caught the coil, and straining slow, Took the lithe weight upon his shoulder, so, And tugged, but could not move the ponderous thing, Then flushing red with rage, his spear did fling, And cut the gladiolus at one blow. Then back he swung his flaming weapon high, And smote the snake and called a magic name; Then the whole garden vanished utterly, And through a mist the lightning went and came, And flooded all the caverns of the sky, A rosy gulf of unimprisoned flame. THE RIVER TOWN THERE’S a town where shadows run In the sparkle and the blue, By the river and the sun Swept and flooded thro’ and thro’. There the sailor trolls a song, There the sea-gull dips her wing, There the wind is clear and strong, There the waters break and swing. But at night with leaden sweep Come the clouds along the flood, Lifting in the vaulted deep Pinions of a giant brood. Charging by the slip, the whole River rushes black and sheer, There the great fish heave and roll In the gloom beyond the pier. All the lonely hollow town Towers above the windy quay, And the ancient tide goes down With its secret to the sea. OFF THE ISLE AUX COUDRES {37} {38} {39} {40} THE moon, Capella, and the Pleiades Silver the river’s grey uncertain floor; Only a heron haunts the grassy shore; A fox barks sharply in the cedar trees; Then comes the lift and lull of plangent seas, Swaying the light marish grasses more and more Until they float, and the slow tide brims o’er, And then a rivulet runs along the breeze. O night! thou art so beautiful, so strange, so sad; I feel that sense of scope and ancientness, Of all the mighty empires thou hast had Dreaming of power beneath thy palace dome, Of how thou art untouched by their distress, Supreme above this dreaming land, my home. AT LES EBOULEMENTS TO M. E. S. THE bay is set with ashy sails, With purple shades that fade and flee, And curling by in silver wales, The tide is straining from the sea. The grassy points are slowly drowned, The water laps and over-rolls, The wicker pêche; with shallow sound A light wave labours on the shoals. The crows are feeding in the foam, They rise in crowds tumultuously, ‘Come home,’ they cry, ‘come home, come home, And leave the marshes to the sea.’ ABOVE ST. IRÉNÉE {41} {42}