Peter Gilchrist McArthur (March 10, 1866 - October 10, 1924) was a Canadian poet, writer, and farmer.
McArthur was born in Ekfrid, in Middlesex County, Upper Canada (now Ontario), to Peter and Catherine (McLennan) McArthur, immigrants from Scotland. He was educated at Strathroy Collegiate Institute and later at University College, University of Toronto. While in university he contributed to Grip magazine, and in 1889 he left to become a reporter with the Toronto Daily Mail.
McArthur became assistant editor of Truth magazine in March 1895, and editor-in-cheif that August. As editor of Truth from 1895 to 1897, he published work by Roberts, Carman, Stephen ... more »
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Peter McArthur Poems
A man! A man! There is a man loose in Canada, A man of heroic mould, a 'throwback' of earlier ages, Vigorous, public-spirited, not afraid of work! A doer of deeds, not a dreamer and babbler;
The Salt Marshes
There was a light upon the sea that made Familiar things mysterious, which to teach, With inarticulate, alluring speech, The living wind with lisping tongue essayed.
The earth is awake and the birds have come, There is life in the beat of the breeze, And the basswood tops are alive with the hum And the flash of the hungry bees;
Come, friend, there's going to be a merry meeting After the play. Our masks we'll throw aside, And after chaff and chat and friendly greeting Our glasses fill and all, like cronies tried,
To D. A. Mackellar
My cherished dead, when last your placid brow I saw through tears and ne'er on earth again, With trembling lips I made a holy vow To show our love in a remembered strain, In self-defeated discord of the streets
Toiling through ruined temple-halls, where Time Had dwelt with Havoc, eager searchers found, With shattered idols that bestrewed the ground, An image strange, of lineaments sublime.
How blest is he that can but love and do And has no skill of speech nor trick of art Wherewith to tell what faith approveth true And show for fame the treasures of his heart.
Of all that felt thy spell I envied one, A youth whose sightless eyes were dimly turned Where Tosca's soul with breathless passion burned, Or thrilled with fury, agonized, undone.
The True Evangel
Because that men were deaf, and man to man I could not speak, but inarticulate Still felt the burden and the urge of fate, The strong compulsion of the perfect plan,
If every thought shall weigh in the award, And every dream as if fulfilled shall stand, Who may complain or deem the justice hard That heaven shall deal when his account is scanned ?
My little boy is eight years old, He goes to school each day; He doesn't mind the tasks they set- They seem to him but play.
Hurled back, defeated, like a child I sought The loving shelter of my native fields, Where Fancy still her magic sceptre wields, And still the miracles of youth are wrought. '
To make perfect the heaven of mothers The little children die, For what care they for the praise of God Who have sung a lullaby?
To the Birds
HOW dare you sing such cheerful notes? You show a woful lack of taste; How dare you pour from happy throats Such merry songs with raptured haste,
Comments about Peter McArthur
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A man! A man! There is a man loose in Canada,
A man of heroic mould, a 'throwback' of earlier ages,
Vigorous, public-spirited, not afraid of work!
A doer of deeds, not a dreamer and babbler;
A man, simple, direct, unaffected.
Such a one as Walt Whitman would have gloried in,
And made immortal in rugged man-poetry–
Vast polyphloesboean verses such as erstwhile he bellowed
Through roaring storm winds to the bull-mouthed Atlantic.
And yesterday the man passed among us unnoted!
Did his deed and went his way without boasting,
Leaving his act to steak, himself ...