Under the Pines
"LIFE is sad," says the wind in the pines
To the still soul listening,
While the pale, pale day declines
Like a white bird on the wing.
"Life is sad," says the quiet earth
5
Under the churchyard wall,
Where the spring flowers have their birth
And the autumn leaflets fall.
"Life is sad," say the daisies that blow there
And stretch out their heads to the sun;
10
"Life is sad," say the poor hearts that go there
To weep when the day's work is done.
"Life is sad," from below, from on high,
From forest and meadow and tree,
From the clouds that drift over the sky
15
And the days that die into the sea.
Then up and be brave with thy sorrow,
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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In Memoriam
TWO watchers sit beside the dead;
From hour to hour no prayer is said,
For they are dumb and he is dead;
And snows are curling round his head,
While God's white wings are overspread.
5
None heard the sad heart's stifled cry—
None, save the two dogs sitting by,
And Him that watcheth in the sky.
It passed, that agonizing cry,
In gloom as deep as Calvary!
10
None saw the last look on that face
Where men once read such love and grace;
No hand was nigh to smooth the trace
Of anguish on that pallid face.
The patient hero wins the race
15
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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Beyond
MY heart it lies beyond, dear,
In the land of the setting day,
Where the whispers are soft and fond, dear,
Of the voices that pass away;
And oft, when the night is falling,
5
And a calm is on the sea,
I fancy I hear them calling
rom that far-off land for me.
It is only idle dreaming,
But the dream is full of rest,
10
And up where that glory is streaming,
From the gates of the golden west,
I wander away in spirit,
With a mingled joy and pain,
Till I almost seem to inherit
15
The sweet dead past again.
I see the old dear faces,
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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Catholicism
HAST thou not seen the tints unfold,
From earth, sky, sea, and setting sun,
When all the glare of day was done,
And melt in one long stream of gold?
So down the dim-lit glades of time,
5
Age after age, things divers blend,
Each working for the same great end,
And in its working each sublime.
Was it in vain that Buddha taught,
Or that Mohammed lived and died?
10
Have they not, working side by side
In differing climes, God's purpose wrought?
O Christian sage, who lov'st thy creeds!
Think not the ropes that bind thee fast,
Like storm-tossed sailor, to the mast,
15
Can answer yet each brother's needs.
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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The Skylark's Message
SWEET little upturned faces,
Poor little hands and feet,
Little eyes that are careworn and anxious
From hunger and want in the street,
Hear ye that skylark singing
5
Like an angel far away?
'Tis bringing to you a message
From the Golden Gates of day.
Ah, little know ye of the meadows,
Poor little blistered feet,
10
Down in the smoke of the city,
Down in the noise of the street!
But it sings of a better country,
Where tired little hearts can rest;
Of a sun that shines for ever,
15
And the love of a Father's breast.
O poor little weary spirits,
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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Jack
YOU'RE only a dumb little dog, Jack,
About ten or twelve pounds or so,
And your wits must be all in a fog, Jack,
If you have any wits, I know.
But you've two such soft brown eyes, Jack,
5
And such long grey silky hair;
And, what very much more I prize, Jack,
Such a warm little heart in there.
They say warm hearts are rare, Jack,
And I almost believe that it's true;
10
But there ar'n't many hearts can compare, Jack,
With that staunch little heart in you.
Of course, we that speak and can read, Jack,
Have plenty of friendships sweet;
But, in spite of them all, there's a need, Jack,
15
For a friend like the friend at my feet.
This planet must seem a queer place, Jack,
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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Hymn
I HEARD a voice at midnight, and it cried,
"O weary heart, O soul for which I died,
Why wilt thou spurn My wounded hands and side?
"Is there a heart more tender, more divine,
Than that sad heart which gave itself for thine?
5
Could there be love more warm, more full than Mine?
"What other touch can still thy trembling breath?
What other hand can hold thee after death?
What bread so sweet to him that hungereth?
"Warm is thy chamber, soft and warm thy bed;
10
Bleak, howling winds are round the path I tread;—
The Son of man can nowhere lay His head.
"Wilt thou not open to Me? To and fro
I wander, weary, thro' the driving snow;
But colder still that thou wouldst spurn Me so.
15
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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The Unnamed Lake
It sleeps among the thousand hills
Where no man ever trod,
And only nature's music fills
The silences of God.
Great mountains tower above its shore,
Green rushes fringe its brim,
And over its breast for evermore
The wanton breezes skim.
Dark clouds that intercept the sun
Go there in Spring to weep,
And there, when Autumn days are done.
White mists lie down to sleep.
Sunrise and sunset crown with gold
The pinks of ageless stone,
Her winds have thundered from of old -
And storms have set their throne.
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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The Storm
O GRIP the earth, ye forest trees,
Grip well the earth to-night,
The Storm-God rides across the seas
To greet the morning light.
All clouds that wander through the skies
Are tangled in his net,
The frightened stars have shut their eyes,
The breakers fume and fret.
The birds that cheer the woods all day
Now tremble in their nests,
The giant branches round them sway,
The wild wind never rests.
The squirrel and the cunning fox
Have hurried to their holes,
Far off, like distant earthquake shocks,
The muffled thunder rolls.
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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In Memoriam
GROWING to full manhood now,
With the care-lines on our brow,
We, the youngest of the nations,
With no childish lamentations,
Weep, as only strong weep,
5
For the noble hearts that sleep,
Pillowed where they fought and bled,
The loved and lost, our glorious dead!
Toil and sorrow come with age,
Manhood's rightful heritage;
10
Toil our arms more strong shall render,
Sorrow make our hearts more tender,
In the heartlessness of time;
Honour lays a wreath sublime—
Deathless glory—where they bled,
15
Our loved and lost, with glorious dead!
Wild the prairie's grasses wave
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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