The bed of my love I will sprinkle with attar of roses,The face of my love I will touch with the balm,With the balm of the tree from the farthermost wood,From the wood without end, in the world without end.My love holds the cup to my lips, and I drink of the cup,And the attar of roses I sprinkle will soothe like the evening dew,And the balm will be healing and sleep, and the cup I will drink,I will drink of the cup my love holds to my lips.
Fleet is thy foot: thou shalt rest by the etl tree;Water shalt thou drink from the blue-deep well;Allah send his gard'ner with the green bersim,For thy comfort, fleet one, by the etl tree.As the stars fly, have thy footsteps flown—Deep is the well, drink, and be still once more;Till the pursuing winds, panting, have found theeAnd, defeated, sink still beside thee—By the well and the etl tree.
The Tall Dakoon, the bridle rein he shook, and called aloud,His Arab steed sprang down the mists which wrapped them like ashroud;But up there rang the clash of steel, the clanking silver chain,The war-cry of the Tall Dakoon, the moaning of the slain.
And long they fought—the Tall Dakoon, the children of the mist,But he was swift with lance and shield, and supple of the wrist,Yet if he rose, or if he fell, no man hath proof to show—And wide the world beyond the mists, and deep the vales below!
For when a man, because of love, hath wrecked and burned his ships,And when a man for hate of love hath curses on his lips,Though he should be the peasant born, or be the Tall Dakoon,What matters then, of hap, or place, the mist comes none too soon!
Our ship is a beautiful lady,Friendly and ready and fine;She runs her race with the storm in her face,Like a sea-bird over the brine.
In her household work no hand does shirk,—No need of belaying-pins,—And the captain dear and the engineer,They both look after the Twins:
The Twins that drive her to do her bestWhere the Roaring Forties rageFrom the Fastnet Height to the Liberty Light,And the Customs landing-stage.
Where the crank-shafts pitch in the iron ditch,Where the main-shaft swims and glides,Where the boilers keep, in the sullen deep,A master-hand on the Tides;
Where the reeking shuttle and booming barKeep time in the hum of the toiling hive,—The men of the deep, while the travellers sleep,Their steel-clad coursers drive.
And Davy Jones' locker is fullOf the labour that moves the world;And brave they be who serve the seaTo keep our flags unfurled:
The Union Jack and the Stripes and Stars,Gallant and free and true,In a world-wide trade, and a fame well made,And humanity's work to do.
Now list, ye landsmen, as ye roam,To the voice of the men offshore,Who've sailed in the old ship Never Return,With the great First Commodore.
They fitted foreign (God keeps the sea),They stepped aboard (God breaks the wind).And the babe that held by his father's knee,He leaves, with his lass, behind.
And the lad will sail as his father sailed,And a lass she will wait again;And he'll get his scrip in his father's ship,And he'll sail to the Southern Main;
And he'll sail to the North, and he'll make to the East,And he'll overhaul the West;And he'll pass outspent as his father wentFrom his landbirds in the nest.
There are hearts that bleed, there are mouths to feed,(Now one and all, ye landsmen, list)And the rent's to pay on the quarter-day—(What ye give will never be missed)
And you'll never regret, as your whistle you wet,In Avenue Number Five,That you gave your "quid" to the lonely kidAnd the widow, to keep 'em alive.
So out with your golden shilling, my lad,And your bright bank-note, my dear!We are safe to-night near the Liberty Light,And the mariner says, What Cheer!
I ride to the tramp and shuffle of hoofsAway to the wild waste land,I can see the sun on the station roofs,And a stretch of the shifting sand;The forest of horns is a shaking sea,Where white waves tumble and pass;The cockatoo screams in the myall-tree,And the adder-head gleams in the grass.
The clouds swing out from beyond the hillsAnd valance the face of the sky,And the Spirit of Winds creeps up and fillsThe plains with a plaintive cry;A boundary-rider on lonely beatCreeps round the horizon's rim;He has little to do, and plenty to eat,And the world is a blank to him.
His friends are his pipe, and dog, and tea,His wants, they are soon supplied;And his mind, like the weeping myall-tree,May droop on his weary ride,But he lives his life in his quiet way,Forgetting,—perhaps forgot,—Till another rider will come some day,And he will have ridden, God wot!
To the Wider Plains with the measureless bounds:And I know, if I had my choice,I would rather ride in those pleasant grounds,Than to sit 'neath the spell of the voiceOf the sweetest seraph that you could findIn all the celestial place;And I hope that the Father, whose heart is kind,When I speak to Him face to face,
Will give me something to do up thereAmong all the folks that have died,That will give me freedom and change of air,If it's only to boundary ride:For I somehow think, in the Great Stampede,When the world crowds up to the Bar,The unluckiest mortals will be decreedTo camp on the luckiest star.
It was the time that the Long DivideBlooms and glows like an hour-old bride;It was the days when the cattle comeBack from their winter wand'rings home;Time when the Kicking Horse shows its teeth,Snarls and foams with a demon's breath;When the sun with a million levers liftsAbodes of snow from the rocky rifts;When the line-man's eyes, like the lynx's, scansThe lofty Bridge of the Hundred Spans.
Round a curve, down a sharp incline,If the red-eyed lantern made no sign,Swept the train, and upon the bridgeThat binds a canon from ridge to ridge.Never a watchman like old Carew;Knew his duty, and did it, too;Good at scouting when scouting paid,Saved a post from an Indian raid—Trapper, miner, and mountain guide,Less one arm in a lumber slide;Walked the line like a panther's guard,Like a maverick penned in a branding-yard."Right as rain," said the engineers,"With the old man working his eyes and ears."
"Safe with Carew on the mountain wall,"Was how they put it, in Montreal.Right and safe was it East and WestTill a demon rose on the mountain crest,And drove at its shoulders angry spears,That it rose from its sleep of a thousand years,That its heaving breast broke free the cordsOf imprisoned snow as with flaming swords;And, like a star from its frozen height,An avalanche leaped one spring-tide night;Leaped with a power not God's or man'sTo smite the Bridge of the Hundred Spans.
It smote a score of the spans; it slewWith its icy squadrons old Carew.Asleep he lay in his snow-bound grave,While the train drew on that he could not save;It would drop, doom-deep, through the trap of death,From the light above, to the dark beneath;And town and village both far and nearWould mourn the tragedy ended here.
One more hap in a hapless world,One more wreck where the tide is swirled,One more heap in a waste of sand,One more clasp of a palsied hand,One more cry to a soundless Word,One more flight of a wingless bird;The ceaseless falling, the countless groan,The waft of a leaf and the fall of a stone;Ever the cry that a Hand will save,Ever the end in a fast-closed grave;Ever and ever the useless prayer,Beating the walls of a mute despair.Doom, all doom—nay then, not all doom!Rises a hope from the fast-closed tomb.Write not "Lost," with its grinding bans,On life, or the Bridge of the Hundred Spans.
See, on the canon's western ridge,There stands a girl! She beholds the bridgeSmitten and broken; she sees the needFor a warning swift, and a daring deed.See then the act of a simple girl;Learn from it, thinker, and priest, and churl.See her, the lantern between her teeth,Crossing the quivering trap of death.Hand over hand on a swaying rail,Sharp in her ears and her heart the wailOf a hundred lives; and she has no fearSave that her prayer be not granted her.Cold is the snow on the rail, and chillThe wind that comes from the frozen hill.Her hair blows free and her eyes are fullOf the look that makes Heaven merciful—Merciful, ah! quick, shut your eyes,Lest you wish to see how a brave girl dies!Dies—not yet; for her firm hands claspedThe solid bridge, as the breach out-gasped,And the rail that had held her downward swept,Where old Carew in his snow-grave slept.
Now up and over the steep incline,She speeds with the red light for a sign;She hears the cry of the coming train,it trembles like lanceheads through her brain;And round the curve, with a foot as fleetAs a sinner's that flees from the Judgment-seat,She flies; and the signal swings, and thenShe knows no more; but the enginemenLifted her, bore her, where women broughtThe flush to her cheek, and with kisses caughtThe warm breath back to her pallid lips,The life from lives that were near eclipse;Blessed her, and praised her, and begged her nameThat all of their kindred should know her fame;Should tell how a girl from a cattle-rancheThat night defeated an avalanche.Where is the wonder the engineerOf the train she saved, in half a yearHad wooed her and won her? And here they areFor their homeward trip in a parlour car!Which goes to show that Old Nature's plansWere wrecked with the Bridge of the Hundred Spans.
Rebel? . . . I grant you,—my comrades thenWere called Old Pascal Dubois' MenHalf-breeds all of us . . . I, a scamp,The best long-shot in the Touchwood Camp;Muscle and nerve like strings of steel,Sound in the game of bit and heel—There's your guide-book. . . . But, Jeanne Amray,Telegraph-clerk at Sturgeon Bay,French and thoroughbred, proud and sweet,Sunshine down to her glancing feet,Sang one song 'neath the northern moonThat changed God's world to a tropic noon;And Love burned up on its golden floorYears of passion for Nell Latore—Nell Latore with her tawny hair,Glowing eyes and her reckless air;Lithe as an alder, straight and tall—Pride and sorrow of Rise-and-Fall!Indian blood in her veins ran wild,And a Saxon father called her child;Women feared her, and men soon foundWhen they trod on forbidden ground.Ride! there's never a cayuse knewSaddle slip of her; pistols, too,Seemed to learn in her hands a knackHow to travel a dead-sure track.Something in both alike maybe,Something kindred in ancestry,Some warm touch of an ancient prideDrew my feet to her willing side.My comrade, she, in the Touchwood Camp,To ride, hunt, trail by the fire-fly lamp;To track the moose to his moose-yard; passThe bustard's doom through the prairie grass;To hark at night to the crying loonBeat idle wings on the still lagoon;To hide from death in the drifting snow,To slay the last of the buffalo. . . .Ah, well, I speak of the days that were;And I swear to you, I was kind to her.I lost her. How are the best friends lost?The lightning lines of our souls got crossed—Crossed, and could never again be freeTill Death should call from his midnight sea.
One spring brought me my wedding day,Brought me my bright-eyed Jeanne Amray;Brought that night to our cabin doorMy old, lost comrade, Nell Latore.Her eyes swam fire, and her cheek was red,Her full breast heaved as she darkly said:"The coyote hides from the wind and rain,The wild horse flies from the hurricane,But who can flee from the half-breed's hate,That rises soon and that watches late?"Then went; and I laughed Jeanne's fears afar,But I thought that wench was our evil star.Be sure, when a woman's heart gets hard,It works up war like a navy yard.
Half-breed and Indian troubles came—The same old story—land and game;And Dubois' Men were the first to feelThe bullet-sting and the clip of steel;And last in battle 'gainst thousands sent,With Gatling guns for our punishment.Every cause has its traitor; thenHow should it fare with Dubois' Men!Beaten their cause was, and hunted down,Like to a moose in the chase full blown,Panting they stood; and a Judas soldTheir hiding-place for a piece of gold.And while scouts searched for us night and dayJeanne telegraphed on at Sturgeon Bay.Picture her there as she stands alone,Cold, in the glow of the afternoon;Picture, I ask you, that patient wife,Numb with fear for her husband's life,When a sharp click-click awakes her brainTo life, with the needle-points of pain.A message it was to Camp Pousette—One that the half-breeds think on yet:"Dubois' gang are in Rocky Glen,Take a hundred and fifty men;Go by the next express," it said,"Bring them up here, alive or dead!" . . .
"Go by the next express!" and she,Standing there by the silent key,Said it over and over again,Thinking of one of Dubois' MenThinking in anguish, heart and head,Of him, brought up there alive or dead.Save him, and perish to save him, yes!But three hours more, and that next expressWould thunder by her, and she, alas!Must stand there still and let it pass.Duty was duty, and hers was clear;God seemed far off, and no friend near.But the truest friend and the swiftest horseMust ride that ride on a breakneck course;And with truest horse and swiftest friend,To the fast express was the winning end!And as if one pang was needed more,There stood in the doorway, Nell Latore—Nell Latore, with her mocking face,Restless eyes, and her evil grace;Quick to read in the wife's sad eyes,The deep, strange woe, and the hurt surprise.Slow she said, with piercing breath,"Rebel fighter dies rebel death!"Said, and paused; for she seemed to seeFar through the other's misery,Something that stilled her; triumph fledShamed and fast, as the young wife said—"He keeps his faith with an oath he swore,For the half-breed's freedom, Nell Latore;And, did he lie here, eyes death-dim,You, if you spoke but truth of him,Truth, truth only, should stand and say,'He never wronged me, Jeanne Amray.'"Then, for a moment, standing there,Hushed and cold as a dead man's prayer,Nell Latore, with the woman now,Scorching the past from her eyes and brow"Trust me," she said, like an angel-call,"Tell me his danger, tell me all."
Quick resolve to a quick-told tale—Nell Latore, to the glistening railFled, and on it a hand-car drew,Seized the handles, and backward threwOne swift, farewell look, and said,"You shall have him alive, not dead!"Ah, well for her that her arms were strong,And cord and nerve like a knotted thong,And well for Jeanne in her sharp distress,That Nell was racing the fast expressHer whole life bent to this one deed,And, like a soul from its prison freed,Rising, dilating, reached acrossHills of conquest from plains of loss.Gorges echoed as she passed by,Wild fowl rose with a plaintive cry;On she sped; and the white steel rang—"Save him—save him for her!" it sang.Once, a lad at a worn-out mineStrove to warn her with awe-struck sign—Turned she neither to left nor right,
Strained till the Rock Hills came in sight;"But two miles more," to herself she said,"Then she shall have him alive, not dead!"The merciful gods that moment heardHer promise, and helped her to keep her word;For, when the wheels of the fast expressSlowed through the gates of that wilderness,Round a headland and far awaySailed the husband of Jeanne Amray.While all that hundred-and-fifty then,Hot on the trail of the Dubois Men,Knew, as they stood by the pine-girt store,The girl that had foiled them—Nell Latore.Slow she moved from among them, turnedWhere the sky to the westward burned;Gazed for a moment, set her handsOver her brow, so! drew the strandsLoose and rich of her tawny hair,Once through her fingers, standing there;Then again to the rail she passed.One more look to the West she cast,And into the East she drew away:Backwards and forwards her brown arms play,Forwards and backwards, till far and dim,She grew one with the night's dun rim;Backwards and forwards, and then, was goneInto I know not what . . . alone.She came not back, she may never come;But a young wife lives in a cabin home,Who prays each night that, alive or dead,Come God's own rest for her lonely head:And I—shall I see her then no more,My comrade, my old love, Nell Latore?