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Title: A "booklet of verse"

Author: Rozelle V. Myers-Funnell

Release date: July 27, 2020 [eBook #62770]

Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A "BOOKLET OF VERSE" ***

....A....

BY

———

OTTAWA:

C. J. A. Birkett, Publisher,

73 Florence Street.

1897.

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada in the year 1897, by

Rozelle V. Funnell, M.D., at the Department of Agriculture.

TO

Her Majesty’s Representative

in Canada,

and

The Countess of Aberdeen.

(By Permission.)

Contents.

Jubilee Song

7

Quinte (Song)

9

Hope do

10

Thou Art Near

11

Farewell to the Old School-house

12

At Clinics

14

Beyond

15

Introspection

16

Our Friendships

17

Bric-a-brac

18

Indifference

19

Autumn

20

Photographed

21

At Even

22

A Woman’s Because

23

Content

25

PRESS OF PAYNTER & ABBOTT,

48 Rideau St. and 68 Bank St.,

OTTAWA, CAN.

Jubilee Song.

(Air—National Anthem.)

FAIR Canada! to-day

Bring forth some worthy lay

Straight from thy heart.

To Her who brooks no wrong

Anthems of praise belong—

Do thou, in Earth’s glad song

Bear noble part.

Sing of the sturdy past,

When in thy forests vast

Watch fires were seen:

Brave hearts beat strongly then

In breasts of gallant men,

Struggling with sword and pen

For home and Queen!

Sing of the golden now,

When on thy calm pure brow

Peace laurels twine.

Tell of the hearts that thrill

Ready to do Her will—

All undivided still

Her hopes and thine.

Sing of the coming years,

As to thy view appears

The glorious day,

When Truth alone shall stand;

Justice rule every land;

Right, with impartial hand,

All men shall sway!

The good of yesterday;

All that thou art to-day,

Or yet shall be,

To thy loved Sovereign bring;

And with Earth’s millions sing,

While round the world shall ring

HER JUBILEE!

Quinte.

(Prelude). KAN-TAH.

THERE is no fairer land,

Nor spot on earth

Than the sunny wave-washed strand,

Place of our birth;

No vision half so dear

To us can come,

As the mem’ries clustering near

Our dear old home.

(Song).

Ye blue waves of Quinte,

Now dancing and gleaming,

Your weird echoes haunt me,

When waking or dreaming;

Your murmur, at even,

An angel-voice seemeth,

Low whisp’ring of Heaven,

When soft moonlight beameth.

Ye blue waves of Quinte,

When dashing and sparkling,

Half charm, and half daunt me,

Now flashing, now darkling;

The moan of your surges,

’Neath white foam wreaths sounding

Like sad fun’ral dirges

Mid snow-flakes resounding.

Ye blue waves of Quinte,

No longer beguiling,

Ye mock me, and taunt me,

Though glinting and smiling;

Of all that I cherished,

The years have bereft me—

All! All else have perished,

Ye only are left me.

(Set to Music by Cecil J. A. Birkett).

Hope.

(Song).

A snowy vessel, with gleaming sails,

I choose from the harbor there;

Not a thought give I to wintry gales,

Nor weary waves of care.

I only dream of skies of blue,

And a shimmering, summer sea;

I only think of a friendship true,

And a loved one waiting for me.

The years, the years, may intervene,

But my light-winged barque and I

Care not for the time that lies between,

Nor the slow hours creeping by.

I only see the white peace shore

That my feet shall surely press;

I only dream of the voyage o’er,

And the love that my heart will bless.

Thou Art Near.

(Song).

CRIMSON leaves are falling o’er me,

Autumn zephyrs fan my brow,

Strange weird fancies flit before me,

Surely I am dreaming now!

Woodland echoes could not whisper

Gentle words for mortal ear;

Still I hear them, sweetly, clearly,

And I know that thou art near.

CHORUS:

Thy sweet spirit lingers near me,

Oh! the joy that thought affords.

Darling, thou art come to cheer me

With thy gentle loving words.

Oh! my darling, linger near me

As I mingle with the throng;

Whisper softly, I will hear thee

When strange voices tempt to wrong.

Life for me hath hours of sorrow,

Weary days of anxious fear;

But I’ll meet them, strongly, bravely,

If I feel that thou art near.

CHORUS:

Thy sweet spirit lingers near me,

Oh! the joy that thought affords

Darling, thou art come to cheer me

With thy gentle loving words.

Farewell to the Old School-House.

THEY are bearing the forms away, Allie,

The dear old house is condemned;

Let us go and say a sad farewell,

As we would to a cherished friend.

Let us stand for a last, last time, Allie,

In the shade of the grey stone wall,

And dream one dream of the joyous past,

As the twilight shadows fall.

Remembrance brings us a sketch, Allie,

From the beautiful long ago,

When life was a cloudless summer morn,

Aflush with a crimson glow.

And down through the golden years, Allie,

Comes floating a faultless chime,

A drifting of sweetest memories

From the happy childhood time.

Faces we cannot forget, Allie,

Smile on us again, as of yore;

And voices, silent for many a year,

Ring in through the open door.

Anon to our listening ears, Allie,

In silvery tones, they bring

Even the old familiar rhymes,

And the songs we used to sing.

Bright forms that drooped in our sight, Allie,

With a well-remembered grace,

Come back once more to our out-stretched arms,

And are held in a close embrace,

Small, dimpled hands clasp ours, Allie,

That long we have sought in vain;

They lead us o’er many a well-known path,

Down many a moss-grown lane.

The turf is as soft and green, Allie,

The blue dome above as fair,

The air as fragrant with dewy flowers,

And our hearts as free from care

As when, with our child-eyes veiled, Allie,

From sin, and sorrow and woe,

We could see the flashing of Angels’ wings

And hear their whispers low.

And the violets bloom again, Allie,

As they did in the days gone by;

And heaven seems just as near as then,

Afloat in the sunny sky.

A dream? Ah! Yes, ’tis a dream, Allie,

Of the olden childhood bliss;

But who would not give, of the life we live,

Whole years, for one hour like this.

At Clinics.

(An Hospital Incident.)

Into the Hall of Death,

Death-doomed!

With all of life’s bright hopes

Entombed;

Beautiful, unforgetable face!

So pale and calm in its trusting grace,

With the shadow stealing on apace,

Death-doomed.

Eyes, full of suffering

O’ercome,

With a steadfast light within

Their gloom,

Like unto those of a martyred saint,

Patient, enduring, without complaint,

The pain-flash by a gentle restraint

O’ercome.

He of the practised hand

Stood by,

Knowing the gentle one

Must die,

Watching the face in its sweet content,

Noting the smile of glad assent,

As he spake of life as nearly spent,

Death-nigh.

* * * * * *

Only an unknown name

Enrolled

On the death-list there—none knew,

Or told

Her story—but, surely a Presence came

Into their midst, as the dear Christ’s name

Was murmured by lips, with love aflame,

Though cold.

And they who had gathered there

That day,

Young, and joyous, and brave

And gay,

To note, with critical gaze, a case,

Silently passed from the hallowed place,

Bearing rememberance of heaven-lit face

Away.

Beyond.

AND the Angel said “Nay!

“But reckon the years of your life once again,

“Not a thousand, one day,

“But one day, as a thousand years!” Then

How clear it all seemed!

I had lived, and I knew it not—Lived!

And I thought I but dreamed,

So brief a time-space I had lived.

* * * * * *

And the Angel said “Read!”

And the story of life op’ed before me;

Wakened Soul! Small the need,

Swift mem’ry the page will restore thee;

“But read! Now thou darest,

“There is nothing that thou would’st amend,

“For that hour was life’s rarest,

“When a Soul did’st thine own comprehend.”

Introspection.

(Suggested by a sermon delivered by the late Rev. Doctor W. W. Carson.)

If I have conquered self to-day,

If I have trod the narrow way,

Nor let my footsteps from it stray,

Then shall I have reward.

If self has conquered me to-day,

Has beckoned to the broader way,

And I have chosen thence to stray,

Have pity on me, Lord!

Thou knowest—Thou and I alone,

Within my breast the judgment throne;

Thy dear voice whispers there “Well done,”

And perfect peace I gain:

Or prone I lie, and sob “Unclean,”

Thy presence felt, though all unseen;

I dare not look—Thy sad, stern mien

Would rend my heart in twain.

Man may misjudge—Thine image bright

May flood my soul with Heaven’s own light,

Yet men may doubt, and count all night

Of gloom and guilt within.

Or, when the temple doors should close

Against me, I may find repose

In Sacred Courts, and even those

Who welcome, guess no sin.

Thou knowest, Lord, the moments sweet,

When lowly sitting at Thy feet,

My spirit shares the Angels’ meat,

And I am satisfied.

Thou knowest, too, when I would fill

The soul’s deep void with husks—and still

For lack of them I faint—Oh! will

I ne’er with Thee abide?

Our Friendships.

HOW do our friendships come to us?

As unbidden Guest to festal board,

Ere the jests pass round and the wine is poured;

When the hostess’ plan is disarranged,

And the place of each is slightly changed

To make room for the Guest unbidden.

Thus do our friendships come to us!

And the currents of life are strangely stirred,

And we never again, by glance or word,

Assign the guests to the old-time place,

Nor so lightly murmur the wonted “grace,”

Because of the Guest unbidden!

Bric-a-Brac.

THERE are hearts and hearts—Some like specimens fine

Of rare old china of classic design;

We find them when least we expect them in store,

In pawn-broker shop, and in dainty boudoir.

Oh those delicate hearts, full of love’s priceless wine,

In their beauty and fulness of grace half divine;

When cherished with reverent caring, they stand;

Or lie shattered at touch of the World’s ruthless hand.

There are hearts and hearts—Some as strong and as pure

As the thrice-heated metal in yon golden ewer;

Within them may seethe the wild passions of time,

E’en passion in such hearts must needs grow sublime.

Love may falter—then duty shall stand in its place;

Ease vanish—stern action must win in the race;

Earth’s sorrows o’erwhelm—life’s tempests sweep by—

The Soul’s beacon light still gleams brightly on high!

There are hearts and hearts—Some like commoner clay,

Of necessity chosen for use every day

By those in whose hard lives the gold would grow dim,

And the Sevres unfit for the draught at its brim.

But the Potter—He knoweth! He fashioned each one,

His the care for the vessel, the final “Well done”—

Nor fineness of texture, nor beauty, nor grace,

But fitness for service, determines its place.

Indifference.

If a soul is struggling alone in the dark,

When the flood-gates are open, and doubt waves loom high;

And you, in your white-canvassed, well balanced barque,

Should unfurl its strong sails, and calmly pass by;

And that soul be o’erwhelmed, borne ruthlessly down

’Neath the pitiless waves—what gladness or cheer

Could come to your soul, when the darkness has flown,

Though the bright golden morning, break ever so clear?

Autumn.

BONNY birds, bonny birds,

Wherefore are ye singing?

Know ye not, care ye not

That the wild-wood, ringing

With your songs, joyous songs,

Autumn’s shroud is weaving?

Better far, better far,

Were ye silent grieving.

Sunbeam bright, Sunbeam bright,

Why through brown boughs peeping?

Know ye not; heed ye not,

That the flowers are sleeping?

Northern blasts, wintry blasts,

Pitilessly brake them.

Ye are come all too late,

Ever more to wake them.

Early dreams, Early dreams

Through dim heart-aisles flaunting;

Come not now, come not now,

Ruined temples haunting.

Waken not, waken not,

Hopes, that but deceive me,

Once so dear. Ay! so dear!

Now ye only grieve me.

Photographed.

GOOD evening, Cousin! I’ve come, you see,

Just as I promised; long ago,

Don’t look so astonished—Welcome me!

I’ve had a weary journey, you know.

The Artist has done his best to please,

Touched, and retouched, and polished well;

Chosen a posture of perfect ease,

Chattered of more than I can tell.

I asked him, half jesting, to flatter me,

For I need not be told that my face is plain;

And when photos are starting ‘over the Sea’

I feel in my heart I’m a trifle vain.

He smiled, then said to my strange request,

“Beauty ’bove that of the face, for me;

“Nature has given a richer bequest

“Than perfect form of feature, to thee.”

My foolish heart felt a joyous thrill—

“He gives me credit for mental worth,”

And fancy led me on, until

I stood by the noble and true of Earth.

Said I, “Thought is better than monarch’s crown,

“Better be great and good, than fair;”

But alas! My castles came tumbling down

When I found he was talking about—my hair.

At Even.

TOO weary to dream,

Too languid to pray,

Though with dreams and with prayers

I would fill the whole day;

For I love to dream,

And I fain would pray;

But I work the whole day,

And dream when I may,

And scarcely have ever

A moment to pray.

This toiling, plodding,

Prayerless elf;

Or, this soulful, mindful,

Inner self;

Thro’ numberless hours,

Or moments few,

Which is the false,

And which the true?

For I love to dream,

And I fain would pray;

But I work the whole day,

And dream when I may,

And scarcely have ever

A moment to pray.

A Woman’s “Because.”

I think it were better to thoughtfully pause,

And consider one moment a woman’s “Because,”

Than to smile in a high supercilious way,

As though all were said, she could possibly say.

I think, if a miracle were to disclose

The thoughts, that behind this one word arose,

And marshalled themselves, each bearing its part,

Some straight from the head, some straight from the heart;

That you who can glibly and easily speak,

For utterance-word having seldom to seek,

Sometimes saying more than you mean; and again

Speaking carelessly, heedless to whom you give pain;

If such insight were granted unto you, I say

You would hush your heart in a startled way,

For behind the brief word, to your great surprise,

Reason and logical thinking would rise.

Impulses, springing from Truth’s hidden laws,

Oft underlying a woman’s “Because”!

’Tis not there is little, but so much, to tell,

That she fails to express herself clearly and well;

And the Age is so new wherein candor and grace

Dare acknowledge themselves from the selfsame place.

Adolphus is trained in the Art of Expression,

While the virtue impressed on Aileen is Repression,

Through childhood and maidenhood, taught to conceal,

The woman oft finds it hard to reveal

Most earnest conviction, and loftiest thought,

With opinions of weightiest import inwrought.

While in this New Age there are questions, involving

The fate of the race, which await her resolving,

She dare not yet speak, untutored and callow,

Lest her speaking appear pedantic or shallow.

None so keen as herself, in herself to find flaws,

Thus, though feeling and knowing, she answers—“Because!”

Then too, that is hers, which men call Intuition,

As though books alone revealed true erudition;

—What ’tis called, matters not—it exists—and its naming

Is unworthy alike either praising or blaming;

By its light, woman’s gaze pierces clouds strangely riven;

And a clearer perception unto her is given

Of all that is noble and worthily leal,

Than you have beheld in your fairest ideal.

Thus, even if language were hers, to express

Just what her soul sees, nothing more, nothing less;

It were useless to speak, for none would commend,

The many would scoff, and few comprehend!

Not till “Cause and Effect” have recognised laws,

Can you possibly fathom a woman’s “Because!”

Content.

A high steep cliff, a shelving beach,

A world of waters stretching before,

A moonbeam-path down the starry reach;

And no other soul along the shore.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A "BOOKLET OF VERSE" ***

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Table of Contents

Contents.

Jubilee Song.

Quinte.

Hope.

Thou Art Near.

Farewell to the Old School-House.

At Clinics.

Beyond.

Introspection.

Our Friendships.

Bric-a-Brac.

Indifference.

Autumn.

Photographed.

At Even.

A Woman’s “Because.”

Content.

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