"My soul spoke low to Discontent: Long hast thou lodged with me, Now, ere the strength of me is spent, I would be quit of thee. "Thy presence means revolt, unrest, Means labour, longing, pain; Go, leave me, thou unwelcome guest, Nor trouble me again. "Then something strong and sweet and fair Rose up and made reply: Who gave you the desire to dare And do the right? 'Twas I. "The coward soul craves pleasant things, Soft joys and dear delights-- I scourged you till you spread your wings And soared to nobler heights. "You know me but imperfectly-- My surname is Divine; God's own right hand did prison me Within this soul of thine, "Lest thou, forgetting work and strife, By human longings prest, Shouldst miss the grandest things of life, Its battles and unrest." [Illustration: Breaking Camp] Helena Coleman has much of that spiritualisation {274} of vision which was so evident in Adelaide Proctor, and which was exalted to the supremest poetic art by Mrs. Browning. From Miss Coleman's _Love's Higher Way_ these stanzas are taken: "Constrain me not! Dost thou not know That if I turn from thee my face 'Tis but to hide the overflow "Of love? We need a little space And solitude in which to kneel And thank our God for this high grace "That He hath set His holy seal Upon our lives. My heart doth burn With consciousness of all I feel "And own to thee, and if I turn For one brief moment from thy gaze, 'Tis but that I may better learn "To bear the unaccustomed blaze Of that white light that like a flame Thy love has set amidst my days." Of Isabella Valancy Crawford, who flashed like a glancing star across Canadian skies, and whose death in 1887 (at the age of thirty-six) was a signal loss to her adopted country, Mr. Garvin, at once her biographer and the editor of the complete edition of her poems, well says: "A great poet dwelt among us and we scarce knew her." William Douw Lighthall pronounces Isabella Valancy Crawford the most impressive Canadian poet next to Roberts. "This wonderful girl, living in the 'Empire' Province of Ontario, early saw the possibilities of the new field around her, and had she lived longer might have made a really matchless name. It was {275} only in 1884 that her modest volume came out. The sad story of unrecognised genius and death was re-enacted." This volume of Miss Crawford's was handicapped by an infelicitous title. _Old Spookses' Pass; Malcolm's Katie, and other Poems_, was hardly a description to invite further investigation. The book passed almost unnoticed, and within three years its author died. "She was a high-spirited, passionate girl," says Mr. Lighthall, "and there is little doubt that the neglect of her book was the cause of her death. Afterward her verse was seen to be phenomenal.... It was packed with fine stuff."