 In a Belgian Garden and Other Poems by Frank Oliver Call Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachock Introduction Most of the poems contained in this collection are of recent date, though their author, who is at present Professor of Modern Languages at Bishop's College, Quebec, has written verse from his childhood. He is the first Canadian writer to be included in this series and is as affectionately loyal to the motherland as to his native country, as may be gathered from his song of the homeland. His verse has already earned a considerable reputation in Canada, in whose press much of it has appeared. Educated at Stansted College, he took his degree at the university where he now lectures, and has also studied in Paris, Marburg, and Switzerland. Several of his poems are concerned with the sorrow and the ravished beauty of Belgium, a circumstance not surprising as he has travelled much in that country, as well as in France, Switzerland, and Italy. A lover of country life and a disciple of the cult of the open road, he revels in the joys of camping and canoeing, as one of his poems, Hidden Treasure, bears witness. In this little book, and more especially in the song of the homeland, he shows us the maple leaf entwined strongly as ever with the English rose of the mother country. S. Gertrude Ford Once in a Belgian garden, all many months ago, I saw like pale Madonna's the tall white lilies blow. Great poplars swayed and trembled afar against the sky, and green with flags and rushes, the river wondered by, amid the waving wheat fields, glowed poppies, blazing red, and showering strange wild music, a lark rose overhead. The lark has ceased his singing, the wheat is trodden low, and in the bloodstained garden, no more the lilies blow. And where green poplars trembled, stand shattered trunks instead, and lines of small white crosses keep guard above the dead. For here brave lads and noble, from lands beyond the deep, beneath the small white crosses, have laid them down to sleep. They laid them down with gladness upon the alien plain, but this same Belgian garden might bud and bloom again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Lincoln Shear Maiden by Frank Oliver Call. Read for LibriVox.org. Long the eastern beaches where brown the seaweed grows, and over broad salt meadows the green tide ebbs and flows, above the low-roofed houses, two ancient towers rise, and stand like giant druids against the windswept skies. Through mist or rain or sunshine their prows festooned with foam, the fishing boats go outward or laden turn them home. She watches by the window and tearless are her eyes. She sees not church or tower or sea or windswept skies. She sees not tide or tempest or sun or mist or rain. afar her spirit wanders upon the Belgian plain, where over shell-scarred cities the mad red tempest raves, and poplars sigh and shudder above unnumbered graves. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hidden Treasure by Frank Oliver Call. Read for LibriVox.org. Sun-brown boy, with the wondering eyes, do you see the blue of the summer skies? Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream, as it winds by the shore where the birches gleam? Then come, come away from the shadowy bay, and we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play, for we are two pirates, fierce and bold, and we'll capture the horde of the morning's gold. A roving craft is our red canoe, o pirate chief, with the eyes of blue, so hoist your flag with the skull on high, and out we'll sail where the treasures lie. For in days of old came pirates bold, the Spanish galleons captured gold, and their boat was wrecked on the river Strand, and its treasures strewn on the silver sand. Now steady all as we dash along. The rapids are swift, but our paddles are strong, and soon we'll drift with the waters flow, where the treasure lies hid in the shallows below. O cool and dim, neath its foam-flect brim, is the pool where the swallows dip and skim, so we'll plunge by the prow of our red canoe, for the treasure that lies in the quivering blue. Now home once more to the shadowy bay, for we've captured the gold of the summer's day, an emerald's green from the banks along, and the silver bars of the white-throat song. No pirates bore such a glittering store from the treasureships of the days of yore, as the spoils we have won on the shining stream, while we drifted along in a golden dream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A RIVER SUNSET by Frank Oliver Call readforlibrivox.org Red sunlight fades from wood and town, the western sky is crimson-dyed, gaunt-shadow ships drift silent down upon the river's gleaming tide. Veils clear outlines melt away or veil themselves in purple light and burning thoughts that vexed the day become fair visions of the night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE MADONNA by Frank Oliver Call readforlibrivox.org She shivered and crouched in the immigrant shed in the midst of the surging crowd. Her hands were warped with the years of toil and her young form bent and bowed. Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance at the throng that round her pressed, but her face was the face of the mother of God as she looked at the babe on her breast. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. AN IDLE IN A SHOP WINDOW by Frank Oliver Call readforlibrivox.org Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass from a jumble of curios quaint and rare, and he watches the hurrying crowds that pass the whole day long through the ancient square. Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade, here by the window he patiently waits for the sound that the gongs and the conches made in the days of old at the temple gates. He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears for his heart is bronze and he does not know that his temple has been for a thousand years but a mound of dust where the bamboos grow. So here he sits through the nights and days and the sun goes up and down the sky, but he often looks with a wistful gaze at the crowds that always pass him by and his eyes half closed in a mystic dream of his poppy land of long ago. Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream and the kneeling throng he used to know, but he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd of human folk that pass him by. Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud and the sun once more goes down the sky. In a poem this recording is in the public domain Through a Long Cloister by Frank Oliver Call through a long cloister where the gloom of night lingers in somber silence all the day across worn pavements crumbling to decay we wandered blindly groping for the light. A door swung wide and splendor infinite streamed through the painted glass and drove away the lingering gloom from choir, nave, and bay and a great minster's glory met our sight blindly along life's cloister do we grope we seek a gate that leads to life immortal we see it loom before us dim and vast and doubts dark shadows veil the light of hope when low death's hand flings wide the somber portal and light unfading meets our gaze at last. The Chamblee Rapid by Frank Oliver Call there's a spirit in the rapid calling calling through the night there's a gleam upon the water burning pale and burning bright woe to him who hears the calling woe to him who sees the light my son and I had left Saint-Jean our paddles dipping in the blue and many miles to north had gone along the silent Richelieu the night came down we thought of rest a threatening cloud hung in the west no warning sound the river made save for the dense muffled roar as neath the pine trees deepening shade we camped upon that luckless shore no sound the night wind bore to me save one weird echo from Chamblee the night grew dark and darker still the pale faced moon was hid from sight when all the waters black and chill I saw a ghastly gleaming light a fitful fire pale and blue that burned my inmost spirit through and like some baleful gleaming eye it shone beneath night's heavy pall then high above the loon's lone cry afar we heard the spirit call ah Jean will never hear it more I could not seize or hold him back for while the light burned pale and blue a heavy hand from out the black held me beside my own canoe and ere I stirred the other bark had silent sped into the dark down the rivers drifting tide where the wild mad rapids run past pine trees towering on each side his frail canoe had drifted on he did not look to left or right but gazed upon that hell born light and ever swifter with the flow he drifted where the rapids play his eyes still on that awful glow and heard my life seemed snatched away I saw a gleam far up the sky and heard the echo of a cry there's a spirit in the rapid calling calling through the night there's a gleam upon the water burning pale and burning bright woe to him who sees the light end of poem this recording is in the public domain the snow drift by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org the snowflakes fell on a mountain peak where the rocks were bare and the winds were bleak and at first they clung to the mountain's breast all from its lofty crest and stained and soiled was the newborn snow when it reached the valley far down below but up on the height one drift alone still firmly clung to the rugged stone and men in the gloomy veil below looked up and gazed on the shining snow and their darken souls drank in the light from the gleaming snow on the mountain height unstained by the grime of the earthly veil its white breast firm in the strongest gale it bravely clung to its lofty height and gleamed afar with its glorious light till kissed by the sun and the summer rain it rose in mist to the skies again on Mount Royal by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org I climb its sides when the day grows old and its mighty shadow falls deep and wide and over the gleam of the sun sets gold the darkness creeps like a rising tide and higher and higher at the height past oaks that are gnarled by the winter's blast I climb till a marvelous vision of light breaks forth on my wandering sight at last dome and spire of house of prayer convent, cloister, gloomy and grey street and market and bridge lie there in the golden gleam of the dying day here on the silent mountain crest there echoes a moan and a smothered roar from the tide of life in its strange unrest as it beats below on a barren shore End of poem this recording is in the public domain The Vision by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org A vision came on to a saint of old of a fair city by a crystal stream its gates of pearl its streets of shining gold barbaric splendors of a mystic stream there upon floating wings the white-robed throng no man can number chant an endless song across the tideless sea no shadow falls to dim the glory of the sapphire walls or mar the splendor of the throne-crowned height A love the mystic's vision wakes to night with all its glittering show and kingly pride no longing in a heart unsatisfied but oh to walk with thee the river shore as in the days gone by the gold strewn oar the strand of primrose bloom the waters flow mingled with thy sweet voice in music low the angel song to touch my lips to thine to hear the whispering of thy heart to mine and burning with a fire that never dies to see once more the love light in thine eyes ah dim those far celestial splendors burn gray grow the sapphire walls and gold strewn ways before the vision of thy loves return with all the unuttered joys of bygone days and a poem this recording is in the public domain a year ago by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org the waters of the river gleamed as brightly and murmured with the same untiring flow the branches of the birches tossed as lightly among them sang the breeze as soft and low a year ago we sat beneath the white-stemmed birches bending to reach the gurgling waters of the bay we saw the boats their courses seaward wending and earth seemed fair before us life's long day night far away but often clouds would veil the sunlight over a moment cast a shadow and float by so stealthily above our hearts would hover sad thoughts to pause a moment pass and die we knew not why we heeded not the moaning of the river nor did the wind a whispered message bring ah now I know they murmured part forever for that dull gloom above us hovering was death's dark wing and a poem this recording is in the public domain Eternity by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org Eternity thou dark unbounded sea upon whose tide we drift into the night one moment let us with our mortal sight pierce through the fogs and know thy mystery voiceless thou art and voiceless wilt thou be across thy still cold deeps there comes no light while age and eon or a moment's flight pass on as one and vanish lost in thee yet onward driven must our frail barks go though through the night no beacon gleams afar and storm clouds hide the steadfast guiding star the purpose of our wandering and our woe a tide that wafts to some safe harbor bar oh God that we might know might only know and a poem this recording is in the public domain The Old School Bell by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org I can hear it calling calling sounding on the morning breeze as so often I have heard it call before and its ringing thrills my spirit as the wind the whispering trees but alas I know for me it calls no more ah how sweet the memory lingers the old times relentless fingers oft have turned the glass while flowed the sands away yet I'd give the dearest treasure hardly gained from fortune's measure could I be a boy again for one short day I can see the gleaming river mid the willows winding blue I can hear the school boys shouting by the shore then the bell begins its calling echoing the valley through and the school boys turn toward the chapel door laggard footsteps scarcely creeping to the bells low tolling keeping measured tread as oft before my own have done ah the longing ceasing never for a part in life's endeavour and today I count the gains that I have won I can hear it calling calling though its tongue no longer swings for within my heart its notes are ringing free as with silent step before me memory the old scene brings and I think the old bell's voice is calling me then I see the old loved faces grouped about their wanted places as the boyish voices chant their song of praise gone all thought of joy or sorrow lost today or gain tomorrow and I live again the life of other days end of poem this recording is in the public domain on a Swiss mountain by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org lad the mighty hills are calling hills of promise gleaming bright and the floods of sunshine falling fill their deepest veils with light there the young dawn's golden fire beckons to a brighter day untrod paths of youth's desire heights unconquered far away steep and dark and specter haunted winds the pathway to the height sturdy youth with heart undaunted deems the toiling short and light short or long an easy master gives each tired toiler rest counts not failure or disaster if the striving be the best go lad go tis life that calls you mates of old must soothe their pain mindless of what air befalls you if but honor still remain end of poem this recording is in the public domain reams by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org in royal splendor rose the house of prayer its mystic gloom arched over by the flight of soaring vault above the nave's dim night rich gleamed the painted windows wondrous fair sweet chimes and chanting mingled in the air blue clouds of incense dimmed the vaulted height and on the altar like a beacon light the gold cross glittered in the candle's glare today no bells no choirs no incense cloud for thou o reams art prey of evil powers but with a voice a thousand times more loud than siege guns echoing round thy shattered towers do thy mute bells to all the world proclaim thy martyred glory and thy foeman's shame end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Mystic by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org The Mystic sits by the sacred stream watching the sun as it mounts the sky and life to him is a haunting dream or a dim weird pageant passing by sorrow and joy go on their way passion and lust and love and hate only a band of mummers they blindly led by the hand of fate though the pageant is real himself the dream though men are born and strive and die yet The Mystic sits by the sacred stream watching the sun go down the sky end of poem this recording is in the public domain A Song of the Homeland by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org I'll sing you a song of the homeland though the strains be of little worth a song of our own loved homeland of the noblest land upon earth where the tide of the sea from oceans three beats high in its triple might where the winds are born in a southern morn and die in a polar night I'll sing you a song of the east land of the land where our fathers died where Saxon and Frank their feuds long dead are sleeping side by side where their sons still toil on the hard-won soil of the mighty river plain where the censor swings and the Angelus rings and the old faith lives again I'll sing you a song of the west land where the magic cities rise and the prairies closed with their golden grain stretch under the azure skies where the mountains grim in the clouds grow dim far north in the Arctic land and the northern light in its mystic flight flares over the golden strand and I'll sing of the men of the homeland from the north and east and west the men that go to the homeland's call Oh God, we have given our best but not in vain are our heroes slain if under the darkened skies all hand in hand from strand to strand a sin-purd nation rise End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Frozen Brook by Frank Oliver Call at for LibriVox.org The winter woods lie gray and still beneath the dreary, sunless skies the brook that rippled down the hill in summer hours all silent lies and though it's breast by ice is bound by bending low and listening long I hear a faint and far-off sound the echo of a summer song Oh weary heart though cold and drear the days along thy pathway seem to nature's breast bend low thine ear and listen to its pulsing stream End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Indifferent Ones by Frank Oliver Call at for LibriVox.org Unmoved, they sit by the stream of life and its blood-red tide to the sea goes down while the hosts are born through the surging strife to a hero's death and a martyr's crown they pay no toll of their gold or blood for them tis a pageant and not beside so they calmly dream by the reeking flood while the sun goes down in the crimson tide End of poem This recording is in the public domain In a Forest by Frank Oliver Call at for LibriVox.org Silver birch and dusky pine reaching up to find the light from the forest's gloomy night from the thicket where entwine stunted shrub and creeping vine from the damp where which fire glows and the poison fungus grows high you lift your heads oh trees to the kisses of the breeze to the far off sapphire sky to the clouds that pass you by to the sun that shines on high from the dusk of earthly night strive oh soul to reach the light End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Ships of Memory by Frank Oliver Call at for LibriVox.org The Silent Ships of Memory creep across the seas of long ago like phantoms on a tidalus deep their pale prow's wonder to and fro some bear the dreams of happy years or bring a cargo all of gold some bear a freight of useless tears for love and sorrow long untold and each man takes the proffered dour for golden grain or bitter loss oh happy he that hath the power to take the gold and leave the dross End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Obelisk by Frank Oliver Call at for LibriVox.org Plastola Concorde, Paris There rise the paddus walls as fair today as when with arms and banners gleaming bright the pageantry of royal pomp and might passed through the guarded gates and went its way the blue translucent beams of mourning play an arch triumphal veiled in silver light and here where blind red fury reached its height an ancient column rises grim and gray slumbering in mystic sleep it seems to be and dreaming dreams of Egypt long ago unmindful of the ceaseless ebb and flow about its feet of life's unresting sea but mid the roar I hear it murmur low poor fools they know not all is vanity End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Parting Ways by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org We trod together pleasant ways the earth was fair and blue the sky clear were the nights and bright the days and life was joy for you were nigh today the road looks steep and grim and shadows fall on every side the sun grows strangely blurred and dim for in this place our paths divide End of poem This recording is in the public domain Calvary by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org The women stood and watched while thick black night enclosed the awful tragedy afar three crosses stood against a single bar of crimson glowing black encircled light no hint of Easter dawn in all the height of that dark heaven not a single star to whisper love and life the victors are it seemed to them that wrong had conquered right oh ye who watch and wait the night is long a curtain of spun fire and woven gloom across the mighty tragedy is drawn but soon your ears shall hear a triumph song and golden light shall touch each sacred tomb and voices shout at last the dawn the dawn End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Golden Bowl by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org on seeing a picture of a boy gazing at a golden bowl which among eastern nations was a symbol of life in a dream he seems to lie gazing at the golden bowl where dim visions passing by whisper vaguely to his soul restless phantoms come and go crowned with cypress or with bays sad or merry swift or slow tread they through the mystic maze still the pageant winds along youth and age and love and lust till at last the muttly throng fades and crumbles into dust all in vain upon the bowl gaze the wondering boyish eyes he shall read its hidden scroll only when it shattered lies for a wondrous light shall gleam from the scattered fragments born boy dream on for life's a dream followed by a golden morn End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Lace Maker of Bruges by Frank Oliver Call read for LibriVox.org Her age worn hands upon her apron lie idle and still against the sunset glow tall poplars stand and silent barges go along the green canal that wonders by a lean red finger pointing to the sky the spire of Notre Dame above a row of dim grey arches where the sunbeams die the ancient belfry guards the square below one august eve she stood in that same square and gazed and listened proud beneath her tears to see her soldier passing down the street tonight the beat of drums and trumpets blare with bursts of fiendish music smite her ears and mingle with the tread of trampling feet End of poem This recording is in the public domain End of In a Belgian Garden and Other Poems by Frank Oliver Call