THE CANADIAN POET

PEACE to his poet soul. Full well he knew
To sing for those who know not how to praise
The woodsman's life, the farmer's patient toil,
The peaceful drama of laborious days.

He made his own the thoughts of simple men,
And with the touch that makes the world akin,
A welcome guest of lonely cabin-homes,
Found, too, no heart he could not enter in.

The toil-worn doctor, women, children, men,
The humble heroes of the lumber drives,
Love, laugh, or weep along his peopled verse,
Blithe 'mid the pathos of their meagre lives.

While thus the poet-love interpreted,
He left us pictures no one may forget—
Courteau, Baptiste, Camille mon frère, and, best,
The good, brave curé, he of Calumette.

With nature as with man at home, he loved
The silent forest and the birches' flight
Down the white peril of the rapids' rush,
And the cold glamor of the Northern night.

Some mystery of genius haunts his page,
Some wonder-secret of the poet's spell
Died with this master of the peasant thought.
Peace to this Northland singer, and farewell!