Frank Oliver Call

“ Of a Greek temple, white against the sky,
Carved capitals on pillars rising high
Gleam like great blossoms in the noonday's glow.
Proudly each column in the stately row
Its crown of beauty wears; the sunbeams die
Among acanthus leaves that nestling lie
Where they were carved two thousand years ago.
Eternal Beauty, thou wilt not be bound
By time-forged fetters, but dost find a home
Where Gothic pillars rise acanthus-crowned
Beneath gray northern spires or southern dome,
Eternal Beauty, Everlasting Truth,
Thou hast the secret of undying youth.
THE OLD GODS
Old gods are dead ”

“ There is much beauty to be found in walking in beaten paths or rambling in fenced-in fields and woods, but perhaps one who sails the skies in an aeroplane may see visions and feel emotions that never come to those who wander on foot along the old paths of the woods and fields below.
But it seems to me that it matters little in what form a poem is cast so long as the form suits the subject, and does not hinder the freedom of the poet's thought and emotion. And I am old-fashioned enough to expect that beauty will be revealed as well. ”

“ 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 hoard of the morning's gold.
A roving craft is our red canoe,
O pirate chief with the eyes of blue ”

“ To whisper;—Love and Life the victors are.
It seemed to them that wrong had conquered right.
O ye who watch and wait, the night is long.
A curtain of spun fire and woven gloom
Across the mighty tragedy is drawn. ”

“ On campus and river and hillside other young lives are aglow,
Dreaming the dreams that I dreamed, thinking the thoughts that I pondered
Deeming the pathway long and the swift-footed hours slow.
Rejoice young hearts in your youth, morn is the time for gladness,
Time to sow for a harvest which all too soon you must reap;
Bright be the hour of your noontide with never a shadow of sadness,
Golden the gleam of your evening with silence and rest and sleep.
Glows the west crimson and gold far down the glorious river,
Cross and tower and turret fade in the gloom of the night ”

“ In the golden gleam of the dying day.
Yet 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.
The Vision
A vision came unto a saint of old
Of a fair city by a crystal stream,
Its gates of pearl, its streets of shining gold,—
Barbaric splendours of a mystic's dream.
There upon floating wings the white-robed throng
No man can number chant in endless song ”

“ I can see the gleaming river 'mid the willows winding blue,
I can hear the schoolboys shouting by the shore,
Then the bell begins its calling, echoing the valley through,
And the schoolboys turn toward the chapel door:
Laggard footsteps, scarcely creeping,
To the bell's 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 to-day I count the gains that I have won! ”

“ That once stood in the temple pediment,
Young, naked, beautiful.
In wild freedom it climbs over the carved acanthus
leaves of the crumbling columns,
And weaves a funeral wreath over their dead beauty.
The wild bees hum and buzz
Among the grape-flowers, heavy with honeyed perfume,
Under the drowsy noonday sun,
That spills its amber wine from a full goblet over the thirsting hillside. ”

“ He drifted where the rapids play,
His eyes still on that awful glow;
Ah, God! 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 hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light! ”

“ From beds of fern roll perfumed clouds of incense;
And from the great high altar of eternal rock,
God himself looks forth
In the red glory of the dawn.
THE FOUNDRY
Two monsters,
Iron and Coal,
Sleep in the darkness.
A poisonous scarlet breath blows over them,
And they awake hissing and writhing,
And spew forth blood-red vomit
In streams like fiery serpents.
Then from the reeking pools
A monstrous brood is born,
Black, strong, beautiful.
But we turn away our tired eyes,
And try to find the sky above the smoke-clouds. ”

“ Poetry has been defined as "Thought touched by Emotion," and I know no better working definition, although no doubt more scientific and accurate ones could be found. The best poets of all ages seem to have had this ideal plainly before them, whether consciously or unconsciously, and I cannot see how modern poets can dispense with either thought or emotion if they are to write real poetry. For one is not enough without the other. ”

“ It rose in mist to the skies again.
On Mount Royal
I climb its sides when the day grows old
And its mighty shadow falls deep and wide,
And over the gleam of the sunset's gold
The darkness creeps like a rising tide ”

“ And send this clarion ringing down the sky:
"I love, I love, I love, and Love is glorious!"
The definition chosen need not hamper the most "modern" poet nor restrict his choice of subject, for there are few things that cannot awaken both thought and emotion if looked at in the right way. ”

“ The men that go to the Homeland's call,
(Ah, 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-purged nation rise. ”

“ It thrills and trembles with the old unrest,
And shakes the wild-rose petals from its breast.
THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES
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 wanders by. ”

“ The boldest of the new school would throw overboard all the old forms and write only in free verse, rythmic prose or whatever he may wish to call it. The conservative, on the other hand, clings stubbornly to the old conventions, and will have nothing to do with vers libre or anything that savours of it.
But vers libre, like the motor-car and aeroplane, has come to stay whether we like it or no. It is not really a new thing, although put to a new use, for some of the greatest poetry of the Hebrews and other Oriental nations was written in a form of free verse. ”

“ 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. ”

“ At the present time the number of those using it as medium of expression is steadily increasing. In France, Italy, the United States, and even in conservative England, the increase in the number of poems recently published in this form has been remarkable. The modernists hail this tendency as the dawn of a new era of freedom, while the conservatives see poetry falling into decadence and ruin. ”

“ An iron foundry and a Venetian palace have immense possibilities of arousing both elements, and perhaps the foundry has the greater power.
The modern poet has joined the great army of seekers after freedom, that is, he refuses to observe the old conventions in regard to his subjects and his method of treating them. He refuses to be bound by the old restrictions of rhyme and metre, and goes far afield in search of material on which to work. ”

“ So in this little book will be found some poems in the old conventional forms and some others in free rhythms, in which the author has tried in a humble way, to mingle elements of thought, emotion and beauty. ”

“ All, all are sleeping on the hill."
This sounds tragic indeed, but seems to have aroused no emotion on the part of the poet and excites none in his readers. In fact, through the whole poem, emotion is held in check with a strong hand, and only allowed to show itself in some distorted cynicism.
Let us take an example of the opposite extreme where emotion, whether real or fancied, has stifled thought. ”

“ IN A BELGIAN GARDEN AND OTHER POEMS
BY F. O. CALL
LONDON
ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD.
MCMXVII
TO E. H. G. THE BEST OF FRIENDS
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
Author's Note Many of the poems in this volume have appeared before in various publications and I wish to thank the editors of the "Canadian Magazine," the "University Magazine," the "Westminster," the "Canada West," and other periodicals for permission to reprint these verses. ”

“ For the soldiers go to war beyond the seas.
II.—CAGED BIRDS
There are yellow birds within the cage;
Beside its gilded bars there stand the women
Whom the Great Prince loves to honour.
They wear silken robes and jewels in their hair,
And live in a pretty pink and yellow house. ”