POETRY.
WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND.
(Died April 6th, 1907) MAN ne'er bad kindlier comrade,
Nor earth more noble son, Earth's peoples truer singer, Than he whose race is run.
He has crossed that last dread portage, This valiant voyageur; That place of the lonely mountains, That valley where all numb fare. Not in the haunted even,
With faltering steps and slow ;— But in the noontide high, and bright, When life was all aglow.
With his burden of hope on his shoulders, Wending where all must wend ;— He came to that shoreway, dim, where earth's Longings and Borrowings end.
And the folk of the homely patois Will know his genius no more; And the joyous heart of the outdoor world Is lost to open and shore.
And "Leetle Lac Grenier " all alone, Out on the mountain brow ; You may call in vain to the heart so still.
0, who will love you now P And the peasant folk in the evenings glad, Their simple loves may tell ; And all in vain may ring again The bells of San Michel.
For out on the shining water He has launched the shadow canoe ; With Love, and the soul of his little dead son, His paddlemen safe and true.
But here on the shores behind him, Where the manly heart is still; He leaves a vacant place in our song No other singer can fill :- He, who gave us, so joyous, Amid all our doubtings and fears, Those heart-deep songs of a people, Brimming with laughter and tears.
WILFRED CIAMPI. LL.
280 O'Connor Street, Ottawa, Canada.
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