At Crow's Nest Pass the mountains rendThemselves apart, the rivers wendA lawless course about their feet,And breaking into torrents beatIn useless fury where they blendAt Crow's Nest Pass.
The nesting eagle, wise, discreet,Wings up the gorge's lone retreatAnd makes some barren crag her friendAt Crow's Nest Pass.
Uncertain clouds, half-high, suspendTheir shifting vapours, and contendWith rocks that suffer not defeat;And snows, and suns, and mad winds meetTo battle where the cliffs defendAt Crow's Nest Pass.
There was a man—a Jew of kingly blood,But of the people—poor and lowly born,Accused of blasphemy of God, He stoodBefore the Roman Pilate, while in scornThe multitude demanded it was fitThat one should suffer for the people, whileAnother be released, absolved, acquit,To live his life out virtuous or vile.
"Whom will ye have—Barabbas or this Jew?"Pilate made answer to the mob, "The choiceIs yours; I wash my hands of this, and you,Do as you will." With one vast ribald voiceThe populace arose and, shrieking, cried,"Give us Barabbas, we condone his deeds!"And He of Nazareth was crucified—Misjudged, condemned, dishonoured for their needs.
And down these nineteen centuries anewComes the hoarse-throated, brutalized refrain,"Give us Barabbas, crucify the Jew!"Once more a man must bear a nation's stain,—And that in France, the chivalrous, whose loreMade her the flower of knightly age gone by.Now she lies hideous with a leprous soreNo skill can cure—no pardon purify.
And an indignant world, transfixed with hateOf such disease, cries, as in Herod's time,Pointing its finger at her festering state,"Room for the leper, and her leprous crime!"And France, writhing from years of torment, criesOut in her anguish, "Let this Jew endure,Damned and disgraced, vicarious sacrifice.The honour of my army is secure."
And, vampire-like, that army sucks the bloodFrom out a martyr's veins, and strips his crownOf honour from him, and his herohoodFlings in the dust, and cuts his manhood down.Hide from your God, O! ye that did this act!With lesser crimes the halls of Hell are paved.Your army's honour may be still intact,Unstained, unsoiled, unspotted,—but unsaved.
[4] Written after Dreyfus was exiled.
Methinks I see your mirror frame,Ornate with photographs of them.Place mine therein, for, all the same,I'll have my little laughs at them.
For girls may come, and girls may go,I think I have the best of them;And yet this photograph I knowYou'll toss among the rest of them.
I cannot even hope that youWill put me in your locket, dear;Nor costly frame will I look through,Nor bide in your breast pocket, dear.
For none your heart monopolize,You favour such a nest of them.So I but hope your roving eyesSeek mine among the rest of them.
For saucy sprite, and noble dame,And many a dainty maid of themWill greet me in your mirror frame,And share your kisses laid on them.
And yet, sometimes I fancy, dear,You hold me as the best of them.So I'm content if I appearTo-night with all the rest of them.
To none the city bends a servile knee;Purse-proud and scornful, on her heights she stands,And at her feet the great white moaning seaShoulders incessantly the grey-gold sands,—One the Almighty's child since time began,And one the might of Mammon, born of clods;For all the city is the work of man,But all the sea is God's.
And she—between the ocean and the town—Lies cursed of one and by the other blest:Her staring eyes, her long drenched hair, her gown,Sea-laved and soiled and dank above her breast.She, image of her God since life began,She, but the child of Mammon, born of clods,Her broken body spoiled and spurned of man,But her sweet soul is God's.
And only where the forest fires have sped,Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands,A sweet wild flower lifts its purple head,And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed,It hides the scars with almost human hands.
And only to the heart that knows of grief,Of desolating fire, of human pain,There comes some purifying sweet belief,Some fellow-feeling beautiful, if brief.And life revives, and blossoms once again.
There's wine in the cup, Vancouver,And there's warmth in my heart for you,While I drink to your health, your youth, and your wealth,And the things that you yet will do.In a vintage rare and olden,With a flavour fine and keen,Fill the glass to the edge, while I stand up to pledgeMy faith to my western queen.
Then here's a Ho! Vancouver, in wine of the bonniest hue,With a hand on my hip and the cup at my lip,And a love in my life for you.For you are a jolly good fellow, with a great, big heart, I know;So I drink this toastTo the "Queen of the Coast."Vancouver, here's a Ho!
And here's to the days that are coming,And here's to the days that are gone,And here's to your gold and your spirit bold,And your luck that has held its own;And here's to your hands so sturdy,And here's to your hearts so true,And here's to the speed of the day decreedThat brings me again to you.
Then here's a Ho! Vancouver, in wine of the bonniest hue,With a hand on my hip and the cup at my lip,And a love in my life for you.For you are a jolly good fellow, with a great, big heart, I know;So I drink this toastTo the "Queen of the Coast."Vancouver, here's a Ho!
Little Lady Icicle is dreaming in the north-landAnd gleaming in the north-land, her pillow all a-glow;For the frost has come and found herWith an ermine robe around herWhere little Lady Icicle lies dreaming in the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is waking in the north-land,And shaking in the north-land her pillow to and fro;And the hurricane a-skirlingSends the feathers all a-whirlingWhere little Lady Icicle is waking in the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is laughing in the north-land,And quaffing in the north-land her wines that overflow;All the lakes and rivers crustingThat her finger-tips are dusting,Where little Lady Icicle is laughing in the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is singing in the north-land,And bringing from the north-land a music wild and low;And the fairies watch and listenWhere her silver slippers glisten,As little Lady Icicle goes singing through the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is coming from the north-land,Benumbing all the north-land where'er her feet may go;With a fringe of frost before herAnd a crystal garment o'er her,Little Lady Icicle is coming with the snow.
I am the one who loved her as my life,Had watched her grow to sweet young womanhood;Won the dear privilege to call her wife,And found the world, because of her, was good.I am the one who heard the spirit voice,Of which the paleface settlers love to tell;From whose strange story they have made their choiceOf naming this fair valley the "Qu'Appelle."
She had said fondly in my eager ear—"When Indian summer smiles with dusky lip,Come to the lakes, I will be first to hearThe welcome music of thy paddle dip.I will be first to lay in thine my hand,To whisper words of greeting on the shore;And when thou would'st return to thine own land,I'll go with thee, thy wife for evermore."
Not yet a leaf had fallen, not a toneOf frost upon the plain ere I set forth,Impatient to possess her as my own—This queen of all the women of the North.I rested not at even or at dawn,But journeyed all the dark and daylight through—Until I reached the Lakes, and, hurrying on,I launched upon their bosom my canoe.
Of sleep or hunger then I took no heed,But hastened o'er their leagues of waterways;But my hot heart outstripped my paddle's speedAnd waited not for distance or for days,But flew before me swifter than the bladeOf magic paddle ever cleaved the Lake,Eager to lay its love before the maid,And watch the lovelight in her eyes awake.
So the long days went slowly drifting past;It seemed that half my life must interveneBefore the morrow, when I said at last—"One more day's journey and I win my queen!"I rested then, and, drifting, dreamed the moreOf all the happiness I was to claim,—When suddenly from out the shadowed shore,I heard a voice speak tenderly my name.
"Who calls?" I answered; no reply; and longI stilled my paddle blade and listened. ThenAbove the night wind's melancholy songI heard distinctly that strange voice again—A woman's voice, that through the twilight cameLike to a soul unborn—a song unsung.
I leaned and listened—yes, she spoke my name,And then I answered in the quaint French tongue,"Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?" No answer, and the nightSeemed stiller for the sound, till round me fellThe far-off echoes from the far-off height—"Qu'Appelle?" my voice came back, "Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?"This—and no more; I called aloud untilI shuddered as the gloom of night increased,And, like a pallid spectre wan and chill,The moon arose in silence in the east.
I dare not linger on the moment whenMy boat I beached beside her tepee door;I heard the wail of women and of men,—I saw the death-fires lighted on the shore.No language tells the torture or the pain,The bitterness that flooded all my life,—When I was led to look on her again,That queen of women pledged to be my wife.To look upon the beauty of her face,The still closed eyes, the lips that knew no breath;To look, to learn,—to realize my placeHad been usurped by my one rival—Death.A storm of wrecking sorrow beat and brokeAbout my heart, and life shut out its lightTill through my anguish some one gently spoke,And said, "Twice did she call for thee last night."
I started up—and bending o'er my dead,Asked when did her sweet lips in silence close."She called thy name—then passed away," they said,"Just on the hour whereat the moon arose."
Among the lonely Lakes I go no more,For she who made their beauty is not there;The paleface rears his tepee on the shoreAnd says the vale is fairest of the fair.Full many years have vanished since, but stillThe voyageurs beside the campfire tellHow, when the moonrise tips the distant hill,They hear strange voices through the silence swell.The paleface loves the haunted lakes they say,And journeys far to watch their beauty spreadBefore his vision; but to me the day,The night, the hour, the seasons are all dead.I listen heartsick, while the hunters tellWhy white men named the valley The Qu'Appelle.
There is no song his colours cannot sing,For all his art breathes melody, and tunesThe fine, keen beauty that his brushes bringTo murmuring marbles and to golden Junes.
The music of those marbles you can hearIn every crevice, where the deep green stainsHave sunken when the grey days of the yearSpilled leisurely their warm, incessant rains
That, lingering, forget to leave the ledge,But drenched into the seams, amid the hushOf ages, leaving but the silent pledgeTo waken to the wonder of his brush.
And at the Master's touch the marbles leapTo life, the creamy onyx and the skinsOf copper-coloured leopards, and the deep,Cool basins where the whispering water wins
Reflections from the gold and glowing sun,And tints from warm, sweet human flesh, for fairAnd subtly lithe and beautiful, leans one—A goddess with a wealth of tawny hair.
Sounds of the seas grow fainter,Sounds of the sands have sped;The sweep of gales,The far white sails,Are silent, spent and dead.
Sounds of the days of summerMurmur and die away,And distance hidesThe long, low tides,As night shuts out the day.
(These miscellaneous poems are all of later date.)
Measures of oil for others,Oil and red wine,Lips laugh and drink, but neverAre the lips mine.
Worlds at the feet of others,Power gods have known,Hearts for the favoured round meMine beats, alone.
Fame offering to othersChaplets of bays,I with no crown of laurels,Only grey days.
Sweet human love for others,Deep as the sea,God-sent unto my neighbour—But not to me.
Sometime I'll wrest from othersMore than all this,I shall demand from HeavenFar sweeter bliss.
What profit then to others,Laughter and wine?I'll have what most they covet—Death, will be mine.
Born on the breast of the prairie, she smiles to her sire—the sun,Robed in the wealth of her wheat-lands, gift of her mothering soil,Affluence knocks at her gateways, opulence waits to be won.Nuggets of gold are her acres, yielding and yellow with spoil,Dream of the hungry millions, dawn of the food-filled age,Over the starving tale of want her fingers have turned the page;Nations will nurse at her storehouse, and God gives her grain for wage.
He needs must leave the trapping and the chase,For mating game his arrows ne'er despoil,And from the hunter's heaven turn his face,To wring some promise from the dormant soil.
He needs must leave the lodge that wintered him,The enervating fires, the blanket bed—The women's dulcet voices, for the grimRealities of labouring for bread.
So goes he forth beneath the planter's moonWith sack of seed that pledges large increase,His simple pagan faith knows night and noon,Heat, cold, seedtime and harvest shall not cease.
And yielding to his needs, this honest sod,Brown as the hand that tills it, moist with rain,Teeming with ripe fulfilment, true as God,With fostering richness, mothers every grain.
Up the dusk-enfolded prairie,Foot-falls, soft and sly,Velvet cushioned, wild and wary,Then—the coyote's cry.
Rush of hoofs, and roar and rattle,Beasts of blood and breed,Twenty thousand frightened cattle,Then—the wild stampede.
Pliant lasso circling widerIn the frenzied flight—Loping horse and cursing rider,Plunging through the night.
Rim of dawn the darkness losingTrail of blackened soil;Perfume of the sage brush oozingOn the air like oil.
Foothills to the Rockies liftingBrown, and blue, and green,Warm Alberta sunlight driftingOver leagues between.
That's the country of the ranges,Plain and prairie land,And the God who never changesHolds it in His hand.
Know by the thread of music woven throughThis fragile web of cadences I spin,That I have only caught these songs since youVoiced them upon your haunting violin.
October's orchestra plays softly onThe northern forest with its thousand strings,And Autumn, the conductor wields anonThe Golden-rod— The baton that he swings.
There is a lonely minor chord that singsFaintly and far along the forest ways,When the firs finger faintly on the stringsOf that rare violin the night wind plays,Just as it whispered once to you and meBeneath the English pines beyond the sea.
The lost wind wandering, forever grievesLow overhead,Above grey mosses whispering of leavesFallen and dead.And through the lonely night sweeps their refrainLike Chopin's prelude, sobbing 'neath the rain.
The wild grape mantling the trail and tree,Festoons in graceful veils its drapery,Its tendrils cling, as clings the memory stirredBy some evasive haunting tune, twice heard.
It is the blood-hued maple straight and strong,Voicing abroad its patriotic song.
Its daring colours bravely flinging forthThe ensign of the Nation of the North.
Elfin bell in azure dress,Chiming all day long,Ringing through the wildernessDulcet notes of song.Daintiest of forest flowersWeaving like a spell—Music through the Autumn hours,Little Elfin bell.
And then the sound of marching armies 'wokeAmid the branches of the soldier oak,And tempests ceased their warring cry, and dumbThe lashing storms that muttered, overcome,Choked by the heralding of battle smoke,When these gnarled branches beat their martial drum.
A sweet high treble threads its silvery song,Voice of the restless aspen, fine and thinIt trills its pure soprano, light and long—Like the vibretto of a mandolin.
The cedar trees have sung their vesper hymn,And now the music sleeps—Its benediction falling where the dimDusk of the forest creeps.Mute grows the great concerto—and the lightOf day is darkening, Good-night, Good-night.But through the night time I shall hear withinThe murmur of these trees,The calling of your distant violinSobbing across the seas,And waking wind, and star-reflected lightShall voice my answering. Good-night, Good-night.
Sob of fall, and song of forest, come you here on haunting quest,Calling through the seas and silence, from God's country of the west.Where the mountain pass is narrow, and the torrent white and strong,Down its rocky-throated canyon, sings its golden-throated song.
You are singing there together through the God-begotten nights,And the leaning stars are listening above the distant heightsThat lift like points of opal in the crescent coronetAbout whose golden setting sweeps the trail to Lillooet.
Trail that winds and trail that wanders, like a cobweb hanging high,Just a hazy thread outlining mid-way of the stream and sky,Where the Fraser River canyon yawns its pathway to the sea,But half the world has shouldered up between its song and me.
Here, the placid English August, and the sea-encircled miles,There—God's copper-coloured sunshine beating through the lonely aislesWhere the waterfalls and forest voice for ever their duet,And call across the canyon on the trail to Lillooet.
Crown of her, young Vancouver; crest of her, old Quebec;Atlantic and far Pacific sweeping her, keel to deck.North of her, ice and arctics; southward a rival's stealth;Aloft, her Empire's pennant; below, her nation's wealth.Daughter of men and markets, bearing within her hold,Appraised at highest value, cargoes of grain and gold.
All the long day the vapours playedAt blindfold in the city streets,Their elfin fingers caught and stayedThe sunbeams, as they wound their sheetsInto a filmy barricade'Twixt earth and where the sunlight beats.
A vagrant band of mischiefs these,With wings of grey and cobweb gown;They live along the edge of seas,And creeping out on foot of down,They chase and frolic, frisk and teaseAt blind-man's buff with all the town.
And when at eventide the sunBreaks with a glory through their grey,The vapour-fairies, one by one,Outspread their wings and float awayIn clouds of colouring, that runWine-like along the rim of day.
Athwart the beauty and the breastOf purpling airs they twirl and twist,Then float away to some far rest,Leaving the skies all colour-kiss't—A glorious and a golden WestThat greets the Lifting of the Mist.
You are belted with gold, little brother of mine,Yellow gold, like the sunThat spills in the west, as a chalice of wineWhen feasting is done.
You are gossamer-winged, little brother of mine,Tissue winged, like the mistThat broods where the marshes melt into a lineOf vapour sun-kissed.
You are laden with sweets, little brother of mine,Flower sweets, like the touchOf hands we have longed for, of arms that entwine,Of lips that love much.
You are better than I, little brother of mine,Than I, human-souled,For you bring from the blossoms and red summer shine,For others, your gold.
It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon,And we two dreaming the dusk away,Beneath the drift of a twilight grey,Beneath the drowse of an ending day,And the curve of a golden moon.
It is dark in the Lost Lagoon,And gone are the depths of haunting blue,The grouping gulls, and the old canoe,The singing firs, and the dusk and—you,And gone is the golden moon.
O! lure of the Lost Lagoon,—I dream to-night that my paddle blursThe purple shade where the seaweed stirs,I hear the call of the singing firsIn the hush of the golden moon.
Out of the night and the north;Savage of breed and of bone,Shaggy and swift comes the yelping band,Freighters of fur from the voiceless landThat sleeps in the Arctic zone.
Laden with skins from the north,Beaver and bear and raccoon,Marten and mink from the polar belts,Otter and ermine and sable pelts—The spoils of the hunter's moon.
Out of the night and the north,Sinewy, fearless and fleet,Urging the pack through the pathless snow,The Indian driver, calling low,Follows with moccasined feet.
Ships of the night and the north,Freighters on prairies and plains,Carrying cargoes from field and floodThey scent the trail through their wild red blood,The wolfish blood in their veins.
Love, was it yesternoon, or years agone,You took in yours my hands,And placed me close beside you on the throneOf Oriental lands?
The truant hour came back at dawn to-day,Across the hemispheres,And bade my sleeping soul retrace its wayThese many hundred years.
And all my wild young life returned, and ceasedThe years that lie between,When you were King of Egypt, and The East,And I was Egypt's queen.
I feel again the lengths of silken gossamer enfoldMy body and my limbs in robes of emerald and gold.I feel the heavy sunshine, and the weight of languid heatThat crowned the day you laid the royal jewels at my feet.
You wound my throat with jacinths, green and glist'ning serpent-wise,My hot, dark throat that pulsed beneath the ardour of your eyes;And centuries have failed to cool the memory of your handsThat bound about my arms those massive, pliant golden bands.
You wreathed around my wrists long ropes of coral and of jade,And beaten gold that clung like coils of kisses love-inlaid;About my naked ankles tawny topaz chains you wound,With clasps of carven onyx, ruby-rimmed and golden bound.
But not for me the Royal Pearls to bind about my hair,"Pearls were too passionless," you said, for one like me to wear,I must have all the splendour, all the jewels warm as wine,But pearls so pale and cold were meant for other flesh than mine.
But all the blood-warm beauty of the gems you thought my dueWere pallid as a pearl beside the love I gave to you;O! Love of mine come back across the years that lie between,When you were King of Egypt—Dear, and I was Egypt's Queen.
Cards, and swords, and a lady's love,That is a tale worth reading,An insult veiled, a downcast glove,And rapiers leap unheeding.And 'tis O! for the brawl,The thrust, the fall,And the foe at your feet a-bleeding.
Tales of revel at wayside inns,The goblets gaily filling,Braggarts boasting a thousand sins,Though none can boast a shilling.And 'tis O! for the wine,The frothing stein,And the clamour of cups a-spilling.
Tales of maidens in rich brocade,Powder and puff and patches,Gallants lilting a serenadeOf old-time trolls and catches.And 'tis O! for the lipsAnd the finger tips,And the kiss that the boldest snatches.
Tales of buckle and big rosette,The slender shoe adorning,Of curtseying through the minuetWith laughter, love, or scorning.And 'tis O! for the shoutOf the roustabout,As he hies him home in the morning.
Cards and swords, and a lady's love,Give to the tale God-speeding,War and wassail, and perfumed glove,And all that's rare in reading.And 'tis O! for the waysOf the olden days,And a life that was worth the leading.
All yesterday the thought of you was resting in my soul,And when sleep wandered o'er the world that very thought she stoleTo fill my dreams with splendour such as stars could not eclipse,And in the morn I wakened with your name upon my lips.
Awakened, my beloved, to the morning of your eyes,Your splendid eyes, so full of clouds, wherein a shadow triesTo overcome the flame that melts into the world of grey,As coming suns dissolve the dark that veils the edge of day.
Cool drifts the air at dawn of day, cool lies the sleeping dew,But all my heart is burning, for it woke from dreams of you;And O! these longing eyes of mine look out and only seeA dying night, a waking day, and calm on all but me.
So gently creeps the morning through the heavy air,The dawn grey-garbed and velvet-shod is wandering everywhereTo wake the slumber-laden hours that leave their dreamless rest,With outspread, laggard wings to court the pillows of the west.
Up from the earth a moisture steals with odours fresh and soft,A smell of moss and grasses warm with dew, and far aloftThe stars are growing colourless, while drooping in the west,A late, wan moon is paling in a sky of amethyst.
The passing of the shadows, as they waft their pinions near,Has stirred a tender wind within the night-hushed atmosphere,That in its homeless wanderings sobs in an undertoneAn echo to my heart that sobbing calls for you alone.
The night is gone, beloved, and another day set free,Another day of hunger for the one I may not see.What care I for the perfect dawn? the blue and empty skies?The night is always mine without the morning of your eyes.
Stripped to the waist, his copper-coloured skinRed from the smouldering heat of hate within,Lean as a wolf in winter, fierce of mood—As all wild things that hunt for foes, or food—War paint adorning breast and thigh and face,Armed with the ancient weapons of his race,A slender ashen bow, deer sinew strung,And flint-tipped arrow each with poisoned tongue,—Thus does the Red man stalk to death his foe,And sighting him strings silently his bow,Takes his unerring aim, and straight and trueThe arrow cuts in flight the forest through,A flint which never made for mark and missed,And finds the heart of his antagonist.Thus has he warred and won since time began,Thus does the Indian bring to earth his man.
Ungarmented, save for a web that liesIn fleecy folds across his impish eyes,A tiny archer takes his way intentOn mischief, which is his especial bent.Across his shoulder lies a quiver, filledWith arrows dipped in honey, thrice distilledFrom all the roses brides have ever wornSince that first wedding out of Eden born.Beneath a cherub face and dimpled smileThis youthful hunter hides a heart of guile;His arrows aimed at random fly in questOf lodging-place within some blameless breast.But those he wounds die happily, and soBlame not young Cupid with his dart and bow:Thus has he warred and won since time began,Transporting into Heaven both maid and man.
Like a grey shadow lurking in the light,He ventures forth along the edge of night;With silent foot he scouts the coulie's rimAnd scents the carrion awaiting him.His savage eyeballs lurid with a flareSeen but in unfed beasts which leave their lairTo wrangle with their fellows for a mealOf bones ill-covered. Sets he forth to steal,To search and snarl and forage hungrily;A worthless prairie vagabond is he.Luckless the settler's heifer which astrayFalls to his fangs and violence a prey;Useless her blatant calling when his teethAre fast upon her quivering flank—beneathHis fell voracity she falls and diesWith inarticulate and piteous cries,Unheard, unheeded in the barren waste,To be devoured with savage greed and haste.Up the horizon once again he prowlsAnd far across its desolation howls;Sneaking and satisfied his lair he gainsAnd leaves her bones to bleach upon the plains.
There's a brave little berry-brown manAt the opposite side of the earth;Of the White, and the Black, and the Tan,He's the smallest in compass and girth.O! he's little, and lively, and Tan,And he's showing the world what he's worth.For his nation is born, and its birthIs for hardihood, courage, and sand,So you take off your capTo the brave little JapWho fights for Chrysanthemum Land.
Near the house that the little man keeps,There's a Bug-a-boo building its lair;It prowls, and it growls, and it sleepsAt the foot of his tiny back stair.But the little brown man never sleeps,For the Brownie will battle the Bear—He has soldiers and ships to command;So take off you capTo the brave little JapWho fights for Chrysanthemum Land.
Uncle Sam stands a-watching near by,With his finger aside of his nose—John Bull with a wink in his eye,Looks round to see how the wind blows—O! jolly old John, with his eyeEver set on the East and its woes.More than hoeing their own little rowsThese wary old wags understand,But they take off their capsTo the brave little JapsWho fight for Chrysanthemum Land.
Now he's given us Geishas, and themesFor operas, stories, and plays,His silks and his chinas are dreams,And we copy his quaint little ways;O! we look on his land in our dreams,But his value we failed to appraise,For he'll gather his laurels and bays—His Cruisers and Columns are manned,And we take off our capsTo the brave little JapsWho fight for Chrysanthemum Land.
Not of the seething cities with their swarming human hives,Their fetid airs, their reeking streets, their dwarfed and poisoned lives,Not of the buried yesterdays, but of the days to be,The glory and the gateway of the yellow West is she.
The Northern Lights dance down her plains with soft and silvery feet,The sunrise gilds her prairies when the dawn and daylight meet;Along her level lands the fitful southern breezes sweep,And beyond her western windows the sublime old mountains sleep.
The Redman haunts her portals, and the Paleface treads her streets,The Indian's stealthy footstep with the course of commerce meets,And hunters whisper vaguely of the half forgotten talesOf phantom herds of bison lurking on her midnight trails.
Not hers the lore of olden lands, their laurels and their bays;But what are these, compared to one of all her perfect days?For naught can buy the jewel that upon her forehead lies—The cloudless sapphire Heaven of her territorial skies.
There are fires on Lulu Island, and the sky is opalescentWith the pearl and purple tinting from the smouldering of peat.And the Dream Hills lift their summits in a sweeping, hazy crescent,With the Capilano canyon at their feet.
There are fires on Lulu Island, and the smoke, uplifting, lingersIn a faded scarf of fragrance as it creeps across the day,And the Inlet and the Narrows blur beneath its silent fingers,And the canyon is enfolded in its grey.
But the sun its face is veiling like a cloistered nun at vespers;As towards the alter candles of the night a censer swings,And the echo of tradition wakes from slumbering and whispers,Where the Capilano river sobs and sings.
It was Yaada, lovely Yaada, who first taught the stream its sighing,For 'twas silent till her coming, and 'twas voiceless as the shore;But throughout the great forever it will sing the song undyingThat the lips of lovers sing for evermore.
He was chief of all the Squamish, and he ruled the coastal waters—And he warred upon her people in the distant Charlotte Isles;She, a winsome basket weaver, daintiest of Haida daughters,Made him captive to her singing and her smiles.
Till his hands forgot to havoc and his weapons lost their lusting,Till his stormy eyes allured her from the land of Totem Poles,Till she followed where he called her, followed with a woman's trusting,To the canyon where the Capilano rolls.
And the women of the Haidas plied in vain their magic power,Wailed for many moons her absence, wailed for many moons their prayer,"Bring her back, O Squamish foeman, bring to us our Yaada flower!"But the silence only answered their despair.
But the men were swift to battle, swift to cross the coastal water,Swift to war and swift of weapon, swift to paddle trackless miles,Crept with stealth along the canyon, stole her from her love and brought herOnce again unto the distant Charlotte Isles.
But she faded, ever faded, and her eyes were ever turningSouthward toward the Capilano, while her voice had hushed its song,And her riven heart repeated words that on her lips were burning:"Not to friend—but unto foeman I belong.
"Give me back my Squamish lover—though you hate, I still must love him."Give me back the rugged canyon where my heart must ever be—Where his lodge awaits my coming, and the Dream Hills lift above him,And the Capilano learned its song from me."
But through long-forgotten seasons, moons too many to be numbered,He yet waited by the canyon—she called across the years,And the soul within the river, though centuries had slumbered,Woke to sob a song of womanly tears.
For her little, lonely spirit sought the Capilano canyon,When she died among the Haidas in the land of Totem Poles,And you yet may hear her singing to her lover-like companion,If you listen to the river as it rolls.
But 'tis only when the pearl and purple smoke is idly swingingFrom the fires on Lulu Island to the hazy mountain crest,That the undertone of sobbing echoes through the river's singing,In the Capilano canyon of the West.
[5] "The Ballad of Yaada" is the last complete poem written by theauthor. It was placed for publication with the "Saturday Night" ofToronto, and did not appear in print until several months afterMiss Johnson's death.
(Tennyson)
Time and its ally, Dark Disarmament,Have compassed me about,Have massed their armies, and on battle bentMy forces put to rout;But though I fight alone, and fall, and die,Talk terms of Peace? Not I.
They war upon my fortress, and their gunsAre shattering its walls;My army plays the cowards' part, and runs,Pierced by a thousand balls;They call for my surrender. I reply,"Give quarter now? Not I."
They've shot my flag to ribbons, but in rentsIt floats above the height;Their ensign shall not crown my battlementsWhile I can stand and fight.I fling defiance at them as I cry,"Capitulate? Not I."
[6] E. Pauline Johnson died March 7th, 1913. Shortly after the doctors told her that her illness would be her final one, she wrote the above poem, taking a line from Tennyson as her theme.