Give me love, for time is pressing, Doubt's red sands grow hot, distressing; Send thy love's rain, sweet caressing; There is none can save but thee. Dear, the sands are round me burning, Thus to thee, sweetheart, I'm turning; For thy saving love I'm yearning, Say thou lov'st me, or I burn. THE CALL OF THE OPEN I turn my face from the city, the City of Siren Songs, I am going back to the prairie to where my heart belongs; Her smile is true and gentle, there is peace in her ample breast, And I know there's a welcome waiting with my love of the golden West. It is years since I watched the shadows across her bosom roll, Ere the luring voice of the city my boyish senses stole; It is long since with swelling bosom I watched the sunbeams glide Or the waving, far-flung reaches of her hills and valleys wide. I am done with the sham and glitter where the huddled millions toil, Lured with the money mirage, 'mid the din and the mad turmoil; I am sick of the man-made temples that gloss the reeking sod, So I take my course to the open, to the glorious temples of God. I hear the voice of the mountains, they are singing the oldtime strains, The lure of the land is o'er me, the lure of the virgin plains; The voice of rivers murmur, "Come back to your boyhood home", So I turn my face from the city, I am going back to my own. THE LOVING CUP PRESENTED TO MY FATHER, ON THE OCCASION OF THE CELEBRATION OF HIS EIGHTIETH CHRISTMAS, 1914 Born of the noblest impulse of the heart, Love comes with joy to worship at a shrine, Seeking the dear one, yearning to impart A benediction drawn from wells divine. So with a heartfelt tribute to your worth, We gather round you in your life's decline, To honour you, the author of our birth, And ask a blessing on our lives and thine. Rich is your life with honest effort filled, And though your path with trials was beset, You bravely fought and counselled and instilled The noblest, and our hearts do not forget. It is not wealth that marks life's crowning goal, Nor power and place, nor tawdry pomp and fame; But worth and true nobility of soul, The white-robed years, the fair, untarnished name. This is your priceless heritage, we hold, May we bequeath it thus from sire to son, Down generations, while the years unfold; This is your children's wish, their prayer, each one, And from this loving cup may ever flow The vintage of our hearts, a glowing stream, Winding beside you, singing soft and low Of tender memories, with love adream. We pledge you in its bowl with gladsome song, And toast the happiness of days to be. May life be joyous, and your years be long, And every hour from care and ills be free. T. H. BEST PRINTING CO. LIMITED, TORONTO End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Belgian Mother and Ballads of Battle Time, by T. A. Browne