 Poems by D. M. Matheson Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachok Indian Summer Fair are fleets of white-winged prowes, swiftly sailing, or the sea. Fair are herds of homing cows, winding slowly, or the lee. Fair are orchards when replete with rich blossoms, pink and white. Fair are fields of ripening wheat, shining in the morning light. Fair is any mountain-sheet, burnishing in colors bright. Fair are all acadious lands, all at streams and wooded lakes, headlands high, and pebbly strands when the early morning breaks. Fair are its scented flowers and trees, and its many landlocked bays rippling in the summer breeze. Themes for minstrel muses lays, but far fairer than all these are acadious autumn days. Made from heavenly design by some unseen artisan, gift of architect divine, to acadious weatherman, fairest season of the year, when boon nature's at her height, robed in all her beauty sear, and fair Luna sheds her light with a more bewitching cheer, through the watches of the night, and God's lowly creatures all who the freeman's burden bore, having heeded labor's call, now have plentitude in store, and from every household hearth nightly offered up the word as a sacrifice of worth to a kind and gracious Lord, for the riches of the earth, filling thus the family board, and a thrill of peaceful joy permeates the human breast and the starry vaulted sky, seemingly is at its best, for old Saul, in all his pride, Scorpion doth then adorn midway, in his yearly ride, twixed the line and Capricorn, in this lovely autumn tide, was Wegwaltic's wedding morn. All that's blessed and good centers round that treasured word, mother love and motherhood, sweetest sounds man ever heard, mother, blessed and sweetest name, spoken by the human tongue, age and youth do the acclaim, angels have thy praises sung, and the greatness of thy fame hath through all the ages wrung, mother love, whose fountain flow feedeth man the living breath, and which burns with tensor glow, even when he's cold in death, blessed and wondrous gift divine of the master artisan, in fair Eden's holy shrine to the fallen creature man, when fell Satan did design to destroy creation's plan. Of Patubach and of its golden sea, the fairest gem of nature's fashioning, the beauty spot of beautyous acody, its summer and its winter scenes, I sing, here in primeval days great Neptune wise, conspired with fora, bounteous and free, to make a masterpiece, a paradise, where nymphs and niads might forever woo, and now by night and day it ever lies, reflecting in its waters, deep and blue, the heavenly wonders of the vaulted skies. In splendor, wild and picturesque and grand, beneath its sentinel hills, like crystal set with rarest taste, by God and nature's hand, it mirrors in its depth the silhouette of mountains, which, like heroes of romance, along its lovely shores, forever stand, to guard the waters of its vast expanse, and holds today the same bewitching charm of loveliness divine, you to entrance, as on the mourn the cry of golden arm, burst from the lips of sons of sunny frans. Lake Patubach, on summer afternoon, looks fair and lovely to the mortal gaze, and lovely too, what time the hunter's moon illuminates it with her bewitching rays, as it lies sleeping beneath its guardian hills, by flora robed in beauty, rare and boon, with foliage of variegated frills, on which the dancing beams, like fairies glint, and from dame nature's ample store distills those dyes of one and thousand autumn tents wrought by some magic hand in fairy mills. But Patubach is fairest to behold on autumn mourn, when orient sunlight breaks in radiant glory, on its arm of gold, and gentle newsock into the ripple shakes, the placid surface of its crystal sea, and to the eye a vista doth unfold, a wondrous scene of heavenly alchemy, like that told us by John in holy writ, which fills the soul with perfect ecstasy, and which once seen, though time be preterite in afterlife, in dreams you'll ever see. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Langemark by D. M. Matheson. Read for LibriVox.org. 1915. Sleep on ye brave Canadians, in Langemark's bloodstained mead, your glorious act will ever rank a truly golden deed. Sleep on with France and Britain and Belgian side by side. Sleep ye, and they, your last long sleep, the last roll call to bide. And mother nature, gentlest nurse, will ever nightly lave, your lowly grave with kindly doos, while weeping willows wave, and kindly zeffers every day and every night will sigh. A sweet memoriam for a, your tomb to sanctify, and Belgian maids and matrons too will often leave the loom, to gather wilding flowers, to beautify your tomb, and peasants when they pass your way, oft to their sons will say, Twas hear the brave Canadians, the fierce huns held at bay, and when the angel Gabriel shall sound the trumpet blast, then you shall all awaken from your seeming death at last, and standing at attention, while angel voices sing, in unison you will salute the universal king. Dear martyred maid, thy cruel death hath thrilled with loathing deep the hall of humankind against the hun who thy death sentence signed. Thy barbarous death all manly hearts hath filled with feelings such as never can be stilled. In every home thy name is hence enshrined. Thy death scene pictured clear in every mind, in thy life's blood the murderous hun hath spilled angelic maid. Could we but lift the veil which hides from mortal eyes God's holy land? With Joan of Arc and Florence Nightingale, thy wounded temple with a fillet bound, with harp in hand, thy head with glory crowned, amidst the heavenly choir we'd see thee stand. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To Cardinal Mercier by D. M. Matheson, read for LibriVox.org. 1916 illustrious shepherd of the prince of peace with priestly zeal, you watch thy Belgian fold, any a performed its duties manifold, that love and virtue did therein increase, and wanton sorrow all the while surcease, while Christian culture, her rich page enrolled, heroic men and women chased to mold, the cross, thy scepter, and the crook, thy crease. But when the robber hun assailed thy flock, then stood you forth, the patriot and priest, with clarion call, to champion the right, and met the onset of the Prussian beast and all the hosts of his embattled might, firm and immovable, as zions rock. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Bard of Air by D. M. Matheson, read for LibriVox.org. 1915 Oh, come, sweet muse, with well-tuned lyre, on this are Robbie's natal day, a rustic poet's mind inspire, that he may sing a homely lay. Of all the warblers ever born, I dearly love the Bard of Air, whose lovely songs, both night and morn, have freed my wearied mind from care. If fault he had, it was nature's fault, and man, beware that you have none, before you do yourself exalt, to cast at Robbie Burns a stone. I wish he was with us to night, to pass a pleasant hour or two, and fill all hearts with rare delight, as he was ever want to do. Me think see now, I see him sit, the centre of an eager throng, and hear his ceaseless flow of wit, or words of some soul-stirring song. His lovely songs will air be sung, and greener grow his memory, among people, whether old or young, till father time has ceased to be. And of poem, this recording is in the public domain, The Soul of Flanders, by D. M. Matheson, read for LibriVox.org. 1916 The chimes that oft from old Maline, rang out their sacred strain, at morning, noon, and even tide, shall never ring again. That voice that called the living, or sadly mourned the dead, is still and silent now, for a, the soul of Flanders flared. The peasant at his daily toil shall listen now in vain, from early morn till evening, to hear those chimes again, but never shall such silver sounds, by harmony in bread, fall on his ever-listening ears, the soul of Flanders fled. Those lovely chimes, which ere were want to sound with mourn's first beams, and wake the tourist from his sleep, will haunt his waking dreams. But nevermore those dulcet sounds will rouse him from his bed, and fill his soul with ecstasy, the soul of Flanders fled. To strangely sad such chimes as those, which seemed a heavenly dour, should fall a prey to tyranny, and war's barbaric power, a city new will rise again, up from its ashen bed. But those old chimes shall ring no more, the soul of Flanders fled. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Gardens by D. M. Matheson, read for LibriVox.org. 1914 Lovely gardens, Eden's bower, lovely in sunshine and shower, winding walks and shaded seats, babbling streams and cool retreats, flowing fountains, throwing spray, or the fishes at their play. Geese and ducklings, in the pond, by the white swan, chaperoned, grassy plots, well-trimmed and neat, decked with flowers, gay and sweet, trees and shrubs, so sweetly blending, all its beauties, never-ending, fit place for the aged to talk and for babes to learn to walk, wondering swains and straying madams, modern eaves and modern atoms, place where friend a friend may meet, lovers here, each other greet, and a groom and summer bride on their honeymoon abide. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Keep The Gardens Growing by D. M. Matheson, read for LibriVox.org. 1918 We were summoned from the playground, we were called in from the wood, and our country found us ready at the stirring call for food. Do not add unto our burden, if you have to pass along, for although our backs are breaking, you can hear us sing this song. Keep The Gardens Growing, Digging, Planting, Hoeing. If you plant and weed a rite, the crop will grow. Do not stand repining, while the sun is shining. Turn the good soil inside out, and fertilize, and sow. Mother Britain sent a message to her daughter, in the west, we need every kind of foodstuffs, so we're bound to do our best, for the soldiers in the trenches, and the homeland we must feed, and no worthy son will fail her, when his mother is in need. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Analogy Written in Richmond by D. M. Matheson, read for LibriVox.org. Low in the eastern sky the breaking light, Pails in the vault of heaven the morning star, Pressaging me the dying hour of night, And that the twilight gray is not afar, For night is slowly changing into morn, And through the gloom the forms of ships appear, Across the arm below, the bugle horn, Reveley's call, brings to my listening ear. No other sound is on the morning air, To echo back from hills and dales around. No home has man, no beast has here lair, And desolation seems to own the ground. Save me, who sit beneath an aged elm, Which someone's home at Richmond once did grace. Air fell misfortune, did it overwhelm, And left this tree alone, to mark the place. Yet here I am, beneath this hoary tree, And ruminate upon the recent past. If such events again should have to be, The ruins round their gloomy boldings cast. But still I sit, amidst these scenes of death, Which call to mind that dire December day, When fate unkindly blew his blighting breath, Reducing homes to dust and men to clay, And questioned thus, was there no law amiss, Had no official's power to prevent a devastation Dark and drear as this? Was Richmond's loss not but an accident? And in my breast a rising hate I feel, For man-made laws which oft protect the high, And leave the law their grievous wounds to heal, And bear their load of sorrow till they die. A sense of sadness passes through my soul, An earthly grief akin to humankind, But ere this sorrow's sad doth reach its goal, Celestial musings fill my troubled mind. The hatred lately felt within my breast, And which I vainly thought not could allay, Until my spirit passed to its last rest, I surely find dispeeding fast away. Some spirit sweet seems near to me abide, Who doth from me remove all earthly dread, And in most soothing ways my senses chide, That I hold counsel with the living dead. I look around to see whose is the voice, Whose cadence falls so sweetly on my ear, As thus to make my hating heart rejoice, But vain my quest, no living soul is near. A spirit voice I know, it needs must be, That sounds upon the air with silvery tone, And yet with all no fears arise in me, Though midst the ruins here I am alone. The voice now cautions me to listen well, And in harmonious tones with lightning speed, The story he narrates for me to tell, And thus I write it down that all may read. That fatal morn, when Richmond felt secure, With many more I ran to Yonder Hill To watch the burning ship, All feeling sure that nothing round Could do us harm or ill. And why should ought a round fill us with fears? Did we not know? The flag that braves the breeze on land and sea For full one thousand years, Flew or our city still, and or our seas. The scene was bright and beautiful and grand, With floored streamers shooting far on high, And none who viewed the scene from sea or land Were cognizant, they were so soon to die. Whose was the fault is not for me to tell? The judge of all shall surely justice meet To those who prematurely rang Arnell When they are come to his just judgment seat. You wonder why I wander neath the vault of heaven here, And feign would ask, Tis but to beg forgiveness of a fault, And do again another ill-done task. Though young in life, in wisdom now I'm old, For I've passed through the chastening purge of fire, My harp, though silver now, Will soon be gold, When time has passed and I have mounted higher. Along the path with slow increasing pace Into the realms of peace, where all is light, Till I have reached my time allotted seat, There to enjoy the beatific sight Of God for a, and his hosannas sing, Amidst the saints of his twice-chosen few, Before the treble-throne of God, our king, The vision of whose glories ever knew. The path is long, yet shorter may be made By alms and prayers and other deeds of worth. The happy day may too long be delayed By thoughtless unforgiving hearts on earth. Then do good deeds while in the flesh, my friend, And trespassers forgive, Lest you forget such charity Till you have reached the end of life With someone unforgiven yet. Take heed that you will ere remember this, Lest you, as others did so oft before, May cross that cold and ever dark abyss Which separates earth from the spirit shore, Which lieth far beyond the farthest sun, And trembling stand before high heaven's court, With unforgiven thought and task undone, No camouflage to which you can resort. Be ye a man of lore, unlearned or youth, Will there as here on earth avail you ought, Nor will forensic speech conceal the truth In your account of deed and word and thought. In stilly night I've often wondered here, Far from those realms beyond the starry sky, Or that long way so lonely, dark and drear, But now the hour of bliss for me draws nigh, For soon the pearly gates, Which now bar me, through which the sainted souls have ever trod, Will open wide, and I shall ever see The pristine glory of the throne of God. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Cottage School, by D. M. Matheson, read for LibriVox.org. Summertime was in the waning, Vesper's son was wending low, And reminiscences brought me back to school days long ago. There the schoolhouse stood before me, And I was on hallowed ground, Where each old association, Inspiration breathed around, Full in view the school was standing, Near the road, and yet aloof, Four square walls, in ochre painted, Topped off with a cottage roof. In the distance, old Atlantic, Glistened as in days of yore, While upon his glimmering bosom, White caps rolled towards the shore. On the diamond, boys were playing baseball, With a clap and shout, Saw the batter three times fanning, Heard the umpires batters out, Saw some other hitter grounder speed away, Like a winged bird, Heard the routers merry shouting, As he landed safe on third, Heard the maidens merry laughter, As they played upon the green, And the rhythm of their footfalls, Skipping o'er the hard terrain, Saw the little boys and maidens, Drinking at the nearby well, And upon the air vibrating, Heard again the master's bell, Plainly heard the footsteps sounding, On the floor with measured beats, While the boys and girls were filing, Through the aisles towards their seats, Saw the whole class sitting upright, In position one and all, Heard distinctly, here and absent, Answered to the master's call. I could see the master's visage, With its look of learned lore, While Saul's summer shadows lengthened, Slowly o'er the schoolhouse floor, O'er his head there hung a motto, With the words, God bless our school, Standing in the left-hand corner, Was the oft-used dunce's stool, Heard him from the holy Bible, Read from some New Testament, And to each and every passage, Young and old, attention-lent, Heard once more the school repeating, Ernestly, the Saviour's prayer, While around a holy stillness, Floated on the evening air, Saw the school take first position At the sound of warning gong, Heard the master's voice in toning, Some old school or college song, Saw all in position standing, With demeanor calm and still, Saw them going through the movements Of the military drill. On the walls the maps were hanging, Colored in blue, red, and gold, Ornamented with the pictures Of the noted men of old, Moral maxims plainly written On the board in plain relief, Order his first law of heaven, With some others, terse and brief, Summaries of all the homework By tomorrow to be learned, Saw two, some make interchanges When the master's back was turned, On their slates the younger pupils Strove to make their cranes and hooks, While the older ones were busy Writing in their copy books, Heard them spell and give the meaning, And pronounce in unison, Heard them to in concert reading, Reading also one by one, Saw them on the blackboard parsing, With and without formal line, Use of A and N explaining, These and those and thy and thine, Heard them drill at combinations, Learn to multiply and add, Now subtracting, now dividing, Doing as the master bad, Saw them on the map locating, Chiefest places of the earth, Heard them give events in history, For and since our Saviour's birth, Heard them too at nature lessons, Saw the card within their hands, With the flora and the fauna Of our own and other lands, Heard the master talk on civics And our duties to the state, And on etiquette and hygiene, Heard him too at length dilate, Not an incident was missing, Of those school days long since fled, Though so many of its members Now were numbered with the dead, And to swiftly past the vision, Retrospective of the past, And upon my soul its setting, Fleeting specks of sadness cast. It was a clear and cool December dawn, And bright the sun in all his glory rose, And shared his radiant rays in plenty on The lovely arm which by our city flows, And on the hills and dales and distant trees, By nature robed in early winter mean. All labour was awake, The docks and keys were all a stir, And formed a busy scene, The flag flung to the breeze or citadel Gave heart to all. Last night the sentry cried, As o'er his beat he trod, That all was well, And old and young thought but of Christmas Tide. Lord God of hosts, what is that awful roar Upon all ears rolls from the Richmond shore? I'll ever hear That death-portending sound and see the dead, As side by side they lie, And see the desolation wrought around, And hear the dying's dissolution cry, And see the houses bursting into flame, And those within consumed in tongues of fire, And that long line of young and old and lame Move slowly on when ordered to retire From their wrecked homes, to seek some safe retreat, With faltering step and slow and wearied gait, And see the motor-car's world And the street fall laden with their bloody human freight. For not, till in my breast the spirit dies, Will these sad scenes vanish From my eyes, and ever see the opening hour of school, And hear the bell-sound on the morning air, And see each little one With ridicule and well-trained poise And step assembling there, And each pale-faced teacher in her place, And all the children there On bended knees with innocence imprinted on each face, And hear their prayer borne on the morning breeze, And hear the glass and falling timbers crash, And see the children through the windows leap, With blood fast flowing from each gaping gash Upon their heads and faces long and deep, And feign am I to fall into despair, That scene so sad Should follow children's prayer, And ever see the blinded lying low At Bellevue, Camp Hill, and College Hall, And ever see the corpses row on row, Their mangled faces covered with appall, And curses such as tongue could never speak, Rise in my heart And flutter through my mind Upon the man who did such ruin wreak, And leave such grief and misery behind, And then a change comes o'er my angry thought, And I can see outlined upon the cross the man of sorrows, And I think of what he did, that death be not our loss, And bowing down I cry on bended knee, My Lord, my God, I yet have faith in thee, And a poem, this recording is in the public domain, Life is but one darn thing after another, By D. M. Matheson, read for LibriVox.org Whether in childhood or when you grow older, Whether in summer or when it grows colder, Whether in sunshine or lightning and thunder, Be it on land or sea, over or under, Whether winter frosts freeze you, Or summer heat smother, This you will find until life's chord will thunder, Life is but one darn thing after another, Whether you cry from grief or smile with laughter, Think of the present or past or hereafter, Whether you're rooming or whether housekeeping, Sewing or darning or dusting or sweeping, Dreaming of yours or some other girl's brother, This you will find whether waking or sleeping, Life is but one darn thing after another. If you have peace of mind or if you worry, If things move slowly or if in a hurry, If you make hasty steps or if you tarry, If you stay single or if you marry, Whether you barren be, whether a mother, This you will find whatever hap or miscarry, Life is but one darn thing after another. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain, Cursalette by D. M. Matheson, read for LibriVox.org. Early on an autumn morning, facing famous Cursalette lay the 25th Battalion in the trenches damp and wet, far away from home and kindred, near the far famed River Somme. Here and there a man lay dying, stricken by a shell or bomb. Men of every trade and calling of each company formed apart, Downy youth and bearded manhood, from the farm and from the mart, Miners, farmers, sailors, tradesmen, from each hamlet, town and glen, Born of Nova Scotian mothers, from the breed of manly men, All alert and ever watching, on the guard both day and night, each one ever his part doing, In the struggle for the right, thinking always of the homeland, far away in acody, Of a mother, wife or sister, whom they never more might see. On the high hills overlooking all the country down below, In their deep, concreted dugouts lay the ever watchful foe, With artillery commanding all the hills for miles around, Through which, like a thread of silver, River Somme its free way wound. There were Saxons and Bavarians in the huns embattled host, And the fierce and bloody Oolongs, whom the Kaiser loves to toast, Where they stood in close formation, like a solid human block, Fronted by the famous fighters called the troops of Battleshock. When upon the morn in question, just about the break of day, Word the twenty-fifth was given to make ready for the fray, And they sprang up from their trenches, like the wild lynx with a bound, And they rushed without a falter, right across the barrage ground, And they fell upon the Germans, like an avalanche of hail, And the Teutons bent before them, like the grain before the gale. And with their resisting fury, they assailed the faltering hun, And before the day was over, famous Corselet was won. Then let mothers tell their babies, whom they nurse upon their breasts, And the teachers tell the children in our schools from east to west, How at Corselet's fierce battle an undying name was made, By the twenty-fifth battalion of the fighting fifth brigade. The cannon roaring with loud incessant peal, The terrain and the trenches had torn with lead and steel, Which told the boys in khaki of fighting near at hand, And eagerly, all waited the long wished for command. Within the first line trenches the Highland laddies lay, Their thoughts were of their mothers, or sweethearts, far away. Each one of them was thinking of home and native sod, And like a Christian soldier had made his peace with God. The morn broke dark and stormy, with hail and snow and sleet, Which made for many soldiers ere night their winding sheet. The shrapnel bits were flying like swarms of summer midge, When Borden's Highland laddies charged up the Vimy Ridge. On the top of this famed mountain, nearby the city lawns, The enemy in dugouts lay like lions in their dens, The mountain strong by nature, the Germans stronger made, With cannon and with mortar on concrete bases laid, And thousands of machine guns in their allotted place, And thousands of their snipers with rifle and with brace, And lines of barbed wire fencing of every strength and size, And ought else which their science or cunning could devise. Their seeming sense of safety, the Teutons did elate, And all were glibly chanting the Kaiser's hymn of hate, When low the peabrocks girling, their first line did astound, And Donald, Rod, and Angus came on them with a bound, And ere they had recovered from their astonishment, The foremost of their gleamon to sing elsewhere were sent, And midst the cry of comrade in broken English spoke, Both Prussian and Bavarian went down from bayonet stroke, And furious was the struggle, twixed Highlander and Hun, For hand to hand the fighting on Vimy Ridge was done. The shock troops of the Kaiser and all his proud array Fled fast before the blue-nose on that eventful day, And when the war is over and peace again is come, We'll give our gallant laddies a Highland welcome home, With flags and banners waving, with singing and with cheer, We'll celebrate the glory of Vimy Day each year. Mother and daughters be ever one family, God save the king, Grant that there will arise Beneath Canadian skies, Freedoms offspring, may we be always free From hate and bigotry, Co-heirs of liberty, God save the king. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Veteran by D. M. Matheson, read for LibriVox.org. A veteran too was there with shoulders broad, As is the marsh in Amherst's neighbourhood, Of Stature High and of Kingly Stride, And in his face there shone a noble pride, His eyes bespoke a soul to never yield, In fair-fought fight at home or battlefield, A civic man before the war began, And since its end again a civic man, Beloved by all his comrades, young and old, For wise decisions and for action bold, His head was cool but kindly was his heart In every act of war he did his part In digging in to use the lowly spade, In battlefield to wield the bloody blade, In trench in rest to eat the soldier's fare, A man of manly breed, his wounds to bear. Three years he served where coloured puppies grow, Between the wooden crosses row on row, Observing all so well could tell a tale Of Boulogne Wood or Bloody Passion Dale.