SLANDER.
He does the devil's basest work, no less, Who deals in calumnies—who throws the mire On snowy robes whose hem he dare not press His foul lips to. The pity of it! Liar, Yet half believed by such as deem the good Or evil but the outcome of a mood. That one who, with the breath lent him by Heaven, Speaks words that on some white soul do reflect, Is lost to decency, and should be driven Outside the pale of honest men's respect. O slanderer, hell's imps must say of you: "He does the work we are ashamed to do!"
ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.
"Poet by the grace of God."
You sing of winter gray and chill, Of silent stream and frozen lake, Of naked woods, and winds that wake To shriek and sob o'er vale and hill.
And straight we breathe the bracing air, And see stretched out before our eyes A white world spanned by brooding skies, And snowflakes drifting everywhere.
You sing of tender things and sweet, Of field, of brook, of flower, of bush, The lilt of bird, the sunset flush, The scarlet poppies in the wheat.