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                         LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ




                         LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ:
                           A BOOK OF LYRICS:
                                   BY
                              BLISS CARMAN

                          [Illustration: logo]

                     CHARLES L. WEBSTER AND COMPANY
                     PUBLISHERS NEW YORK MDCCCXCIII




                            COPYRIGHT, 1893,
                            BY BLISS CARMAN.
                        (_All rights reserved._)

                                PRESS OF
                           JENKINS & MCCOWAN,
                               NEW YORK.

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    The poems in this volume have been collected with reference to their
similarity of tone. They are variations on a single theme, more or less
aptly suggested by the title, _Low Tide on Grand Pré_. It seemed better
to bring together between the same covers only those pieces of work
which happened to be in the same key, rather than to publish a larger
book of more uncertain aim.

                                                                   B. C.

    _By Grand Pré, September, 1893._




                                CONTENTS


                                                    PAGE

               LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ                  11

               WHY                                    15

               THE UNRETURNING                        18

               A WINDFLOWER                           19

               IN LYRIC SEASON                        21

               THE PENSIONERS                         23

               AT THE VOICE OF A BIRD                 27

               WHEN THE GUELDER ROSES BLOOM           31

               SEVEN THINGS                           44

               A SEA CHILD                            47

               PULVIS ET UMBRA                        48

               THROUGH THE TWILIGHT                   61

               CARNATIONS IN WINTER                   63

               A NORTHERN VIGIL                       65

               THE EAVESDROPPER                       73

               IN APPLE TIME                          77

               WANDERER                               79

               AFOOT                                  89

               WAYFARING                              94

               THE END OF THE TRAIL                  103

               THE VAGABONDS                         111

               WHITHER                               118




                                   TO

                                S. M. C.

           _Spiritus haeres sit patriae quae tristia nescit._




                         LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ


               The sun goes down, and over all
                 These barren reaches by the tide
               Such unelusive glories fall,
                 I almost dream they yet will bide
                 Until the coming of the tide.

               And yet I know that not for us,
                 By any ecstasy of dream,
               He lingers to keep luminous
                 A little while the grievous stream,
                 Which frets, uncomforted of dream—

               A grievous stream, that to and fro
                 Athrough the fields of Acadie
               Goes wandering, as if to know
                 Why one beloved face should be
                 So long from home and Acadie.

               Was it a year or lives ago
                 We took the grasses in our hands,
               And caught the summer flying low
                 Over the waving meadow lands,
                 And held it there between our hands?

               The while the river at our feet—
                 A drowsy inland meadow stream—
               At set of sun the after-heat
                 Made running gold, and in the gleam
                 We freed our birch upon the stream.

               There down along the elms at dusk
                 We lifted dripping blade to drift,
               Through twilight scented fine like musk,
                 Where night and gloom awhile uplift,
                 Nor sunder soul and soul adrift.

               And that we took into our hands
                 Spirit of life or subtler thing—
               Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands
                 Of death, and taught us, whispering,
                 The secret of some wonder-thing.

               Then all your face grew light, and seemed
                 To hold the shadow of the sun;
               The evening faltered, and I deemed
                 That time was ripe, and years had done
                 Their wheeling underneath the sun.

               So all desire and all regret,
                 And fear and memory, were naught;
               One to remember or forget
                 The keen delight our hands had caught;
                 Morrow and yesterday were naught.

               The night has fallen, and the tide....
                 Now and again comes drifting home,
               Across these aching barrens wide,
                 A sigh like driven wind or foam:
                 In grief the flood is bursting home.




                                  WHY


                        For a name unknown,
                        Whose fame unblown
                        Sleeps in the hills
                          For ever and aye;

                        For her who hears
                        The stir of the years
                        Go by on the wind
                          By night and day;

                        And heeds no thing
                        Of the needs of spring,
                        Of autumn's wonder
                          Or winter's chill;

                        For one who sees
                        The great sun freeze,
                        As he wanders a-cold
                          From hill to hill;

                        And all her heart
                        Is a woven part
                        Of the flurry and drift
                          Of whirling snow;

                        For the sake of two
                        Sad eyes and true,
                        And the old, old love
                          So long ago.




                            THE UNRETURNING


                  The old eternal spring once more
                    Comes back the sad eternal way,
                  With tender rosy light before
                    The going-out of day.

                  The great white moon across my door
                    A shadow in the twilight stirs;
                  But now forever comes no more
                    That wondrous look of Hers.




                              A WINDFLOWER


                Between the roadside and the wood,
                  Between the dawning and the dew,
                A tiny flower before the sun,
                  Ephemeral in time, I grew.

                And there upon the trail of spring,
                  Not death nor love nor any name
                Known among men in all their lands
                  Could blur the wild desire with shame.

                But down my dayspan of the year
                  The feet of straying winds came by;
                And all my trembling soul was thrilled
                  To follow one lost mountain cry.

                And then my heart beat once and broke
                  To hear the sweeping rain forebode
                Some ruin in the April world,
                  Between the woodside and the road.

                To-night can bring no healing now;
                  The calm of yesternight is gone;
                Surely the wind is but the wind,
                  And I a broken waif thereon.




                            IN LYRIC SEASON


              The lyric April time is forth
                With lyric mornings, frost and sun;
                From leaguers vast of night undone
              Auroral mild new stars are born.

              And ever at the year's return,
                Along the valleys gray with rime,
                Thou leadest as of old, where time
              Can naught but follow to thy sway.

              The trail is far through leagues of spring,
                And long the quest to the white core
                Of harvest quiet, yet once more
              I gird me to the old unrest.

              I know I shall not ever meet
                Thy still regard across the year,
                And yet I know thou wilt draw near,
              When the last hour of pain and loss

              Drifts out to slumber, and the deeps
                Of nightfall feel God's hand unbar
                His lyric April, star by star,
              And the lost twilight land reveal.




                             THE PENSIONERS


              We are the pensioners of Spring,
                And take the largess of her hand
              When vassal warder winds unbar
                The wintry portals of her land;

              The lonely shadow-girdled winds,
                Her seraph almoners, who keep
              This little life in flesh and bone
                With meagre portions of white sleep.

              Then all year through with starveling care
                We go on some fool's idle quest,
              And eat her bread and wine in thrall
                To a fool's shame with blind unrest.

              Until her April train goes by,
                And then because we are the kin
              Of every hill flower on the hill
                We must arise and walk therein.

              Because her heart as our own heart,
                Knowing the same wild upward stir,
              Beats joyward by eternal laws,
                We must arise and go with her;

              Forget we are not where old joys
                Return when dawns and dreams retire;
              Make grief a phantom of regret,
                And fate the henchman of desire;

              Divorce unreason from delight;
                Learn how despair is uncontrol,
              Failure the shadow of remorse,
                And death a shudder of the soul.

              Yea, must we triumph when she leads.
                A little rain before the sun,
              A breath of wind on the road's dust,
                The sound of trammeled brooks undone,

              Along red glinting willow stems
                The year's white prime, on bank and stream
              The haunting cadence of no song
                And vivid wanderings of dream,

              A range of low blue hills, the far
                First whitethroat's ecstasy unfurled:
              And we are overlords of change,
                In the glad morning of the world,

              Though we should fare as they whose life
                Time takes within his hands to wring
              Between the winter and the sea,
                The weary pensioners of Spring.




                         AT THE VOICE OF A BIRD

                    _Consurgent ad vocem volucris._


                        Call to me, thrush,
                          When night grows dim,
                        When dreams unform
                          And death is far!

                        When hoar dews flush
                          On dawn's rathe brim,
                        Wake me to hear
                          Thy wildwood charm,

                        As a lone rush
                          Astir in the slim
                        White stream where sheer
                          Blue mornings are.

                        Stir the keen hush
                          On twilight's rim
                        When my own star
                          Is white and clear.

                        Fly low to brush
                          Mine eyelids grim,
                        Where sleep and storm
                          Will set their bar;

                        For God shall crush
                          Spring balm for him,
                        Stark on his bier
                          Past fault or harm,

                        Who once, as flush
                          Of day might skim
                        The dusk, afar
                          In sleep shall hear

                        Thy song's cool rush
                          With joy rebrim
                        The world, and calm
                          The deep with cheer.

                        Then, Heartsease, hush!
                          If sense grow dim,
                        Desire shall steer
                          Us home from far.




                      WHEN THE GUELDER ROSES BLOOM


                  When the Guelder roses bloom,
                  Love, the vagrant, wanders home.

                  Love, that died so long ago,
                  As we deemed, in dark and snow,

                  Comes back to the door again,
                  Guendolen, Guendolen.

                  In his hands a few bright flowers,
                  Gathered in the earlier hours,

                  Speedwell-blue, and poppy-red,
                  Withered in the sun and dead,

                  With a history to each,
                  Are more eloquent than speech.

                  In his eyes the welling tears
                  Plead against the lapse of years.

                  And that mouth we knew so well,
                  Hath a pilgrim's tale to tell.

                  Hear his litany again:
                  "Guendolen, Guendolen!"

                  "No, love, no, thou art a ghost!
                  Love long since in night was lost.

                  "Thou art but the shade of him,
                  For thine eyes are sad and dim."

                  "Nay, but they will shine once more,
                  Glad and brighter than before,

                  "If thou bring me but again
                  To my mother Guendolen!

                  "These dark flowers are for thee,
                  Gathered by the lonely sea.

                  "And these singing shells for her
                  Who first called me wanderer,

                  "In whose beauty glad I grew,
                  When this weary life was new."

                  Hear him raving! "It is I.
                  Love once born can never die."

                  "Thou, poor love, thou art gone mad
                  With the hardships thou hast had.

                  "True, it is the spring of year,
                  But thy mother is not here.

                  "True, the Guelder roses bloom
                  As long since about this room,

                  "Where thy blessed self was born
                  In the early golden morn

                  "But the years are dead, good lack!
                  Ah, love, why hast thou come back,

                  "Pleading at the door again,
                  'Guendolen, Guendolen'?"

                  When the Guelder roses bloom,
                  And the vernal stars resume

                  Their old purple sweep and range,
                  I can hear a whisper strange

                  As the wind gone daft again,
                  "Guendolen, Guendolen!"

                  "When the Guelder roses blow,
                  Love that died so long ago,

                  "Why wilt thou return so oft,
                  With that whisper sad and soft

                  "On thy pleading lips again,
                  'Guendolen, Guendolen'!"

                  Still the Guelder roses bloom,
                  And the sunlight fills the room,

                  Where love's shadow at the door
                  Falls upon the dusty floor.

                  And his eyes are sad and grave
                  With the tenderness they crave,

                  Seeing in the broken rhyme
                  The significance of time,

                  Wondrous eyes that know not sin
                  From his brother death, wherein

                  I can see thy look again,
                  Guendolen, Guendolen.

                  And love with no more to say,
                  In this lovely world to-day

                  Where the Guelder roses bloom,
                  Than the record on a tomb,

                  Only moves his lips again,
                  "Guendolen, Guendolen!"

                  Then he passes up the road
                  From this dwelling, where he b