Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs,That waking murmur low,As some lost melody returning stirsThe love of long ago;And through the far, cool distance, zephyr fanned.The moon is sinking into shadow-land.
The troubled night-bird, calling plaintively,Wanders on restless wing;The cedars, chanting vespers to the sea,Await its answering,That comes in wash of waves along the strand,The while the moon slips into shadow-land.
O! soft responsive voices of the nightI join your minstrelsy,And call across the fading silver lightAs something calls to me;I may not all your meaning understand,But I have touched your soul in shadow-land.
A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh's brim.
The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold.
Among the wild rice in the still lagoon,In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.
The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering,Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling.
Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight,Sail up the silence with the nearing night.
And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil,Steals twilight and its shadows o'er the swale.
Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep,Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.
A meadow brown; across the yonder edgeA zigzag fence is ambling; here a wedgeOf underbush has cleft its course in twain,Till where beyond it staggers up again;The long, grey rails stretch in a broken lineTheir ragged length of rough, split forest pine,And in their zigzag tottering have reeledIn drunken efforts to enclose the field,Which carries on its breast, September born,A patch of rustling, yellow, Indian corn.Beyond its shrivelled tassels, perched uponThe topmost rail, sits Joe, the settler's son,A little semi-savage boy of nine.Now dozing in the warmth of Nature's wine,His face the sun has tampered with, and wrought,By heated kisses, mischief, and has broughtSome vagrant freckles, while from here and thereA few wild locks of vagabond brown hairEscape the old straw hat the sun looks through,And blinks to meet his Irish eyes of blue.Barefooted, innocent of coat or vest,His grey checked shirt unbuttoned at his chest,Both hardy hands within their usual nest—His breeches pockets—so, he waits to restHis little fingers, somewhat tired and worn,That all day long were husking Indian corn.His drowsy lids snap at some trivial sound,With lazy yawns he slips towards the ground,Then with an idle whistle lifts his loadAnd shambles home along the country roadThat stretches on, fringed out with stumps and weeds,And finally unto the backwoods leads,Where forests wait with giant trunk and boughThe axe of pioneer, the settler's plough.
A stream of tender gladness,Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies;Of warm midsummer air that lightly liesIn mystic rings,Where softly swingsThe music of a thousand wingsThat almost tones to sadness.
Midway 'twixt earth and heaven,A bubble in the pearly air, I seemTo float upon the sapphire floor, a dreamOf clouds of snow,Above, below,Drift with my drifting, dim and slow,As twilight drifts to even.
The little fern-leaf, bendingUpon the brink, its green reflection greets,And kisses soft the shadow that it meetsWith touch so fine,The border lineThe keenest vision can't define;So perfect is the blending.
The far, fir trees that coverThe brownish hills with needles green and gold,The arching elms o'erhead, vinegrown and old,Repictured areBeneath me far,Where not a ripple moves to marShades underneath, or over.
Mine is the undertone;The beauty, strength, and power of the landWill never stir or bend at my command;But all the shadeIs marred or made,If I but dip my paddle blade;And it is mine alone.
O! pathless world of seeming!O! pathless life of mine whose deep idealIs more my own than ever was the real.For others FameAnd Love's red flame,And yellow gold: I only claimThe shadows and the dreaming.
From out the west, where darkling storm-clouds float,The 'waking wind pipes soft its rising note.
From out the west, o'erhung with fringes grey,The wind preludes with sighs its roundelay,
Then blowing, singing, piping, laughing loud,It scurries on before the grey storm-cloud;
Across the hollow and along the hillIt whips and whirls among the maples, till
With boughs upbent, and green of leaves blown wide,The silver shines upon their underside.
A gusty freshening of humid air,With showers laden, and with fragrance rare;
And now a little sprinkle, with a dashOf great cool drops that fall with sudden splash;
Then over field and hollow, grass and grain,The loud, crisp whiteness of the nearing rain.
Lichens of green and grey on every side;And green and grey the rocks beneath our feet;Above our heads the canvas stretching wide;And over all, enchantment rare and sweet.
Fair Rosseau slumbers in an atmosphereThat kisses her to passionless soft dreams.O! joy of living we have found thee here,And life lacks nothing, so complete it seems.
The velvet air, stirred by some elfin wings,Comes swinging up the waters and then stillsIts voice so low that floating by it singsLike distant harps among the distant hills.
Across the lake the rugged islands lie,Fir-crowned and grim; and further in the viewSome shadows seeming swung 'twixt cloud and sky,Are countless shores, a symphony of blue.
Some northern sorceress, when day is done,Hovers where cliffs uplift their gaunt grey steeps,Bewitching to vermilion Rosseau's sun,That in a liquid mass of rubies sleeps.
The scent of burning leaves, the camp-fire's blaze,The great logs cracking in the brilliant flame,The groups grotesque, on which the firelight plays,Are pictures which Muskoka twilights frame.
And Night, star-crested, wanders up the mereWith opiates for idleness to quaff,And while she ministers, far off I hearThe owl's uncanny cry, the wild loon's laugh.
Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creepingWith shadowy garments, the wilderness through;All day we have carolled, and now would be sleeping,So echo the anthems we warbled to you;While we swing, swing,And your branches sing,And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.
Sing to us, cedars; the night-wind is sighing,Is wooing, is pleading, to hear you reply;And here in your arms we are restfully lying,And longing to dream to your soft lullaby;While we swing, swing,And your branches sing,And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.
Sing to us, cedars; your voice is so lowly,Your breathing so fragrant, your branches so strong;Our little nest-cradles are swaying so slowly,While zephyrs are breathing their slumberous song.And we swing, swing,While your branches sing,And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.
Sleep, with her tender balm, her touch so kind,Has passed me by;Afar I see her vesture, velvet-lined,Float silently;O! Sleep, my tired eyes had need of thee!Is thy sweet kiss not meant to-night for me?
Peace, with the blessings that I longed for so,Has passed me by;Where'er she folds her holy wings I knowAll tempests die;O! Peace, my tired soul had need of thee!Is thy sweet kiss denied alone to me?
Love, with her heated touches, passion-stirred,Has passed me by.I called, "O stay thy flight," but all unheardMy lonely cry:O! Love, my tired heart had need of thee!Is thy sweet kiss withheld alone from me?
Sleep, sister-twin of Peace, my waking eyesSo weary grow!O! Love, thou wanderer from Paradise,Dost thou not knowHow oft my lonely heart has cried to thee?But Thou, and Sleep, and Peace, come not to me.
'Tis morning now, yet silently I stand,Uplift the curtain with a weary hand,Look out while darkness overspreads the way,And long for day.
Calm peace is frighted with my mood to-night,Nor visits my dull chamber with her light,To guide my senses into her sweet restAnd leave me blest.
Long hours since the city rocked and sungItself to slumber: only the stars swungAloft their torches in the midnight skiesWith watchful eyes.
No sound awakes; I, even, breathe no sigh,Nor hear a single footstep passing by;Yet I am not alone, for now I feelA presence steal
Within my chamber walls; I turn to seeThe sweetest guest that courts humanity;With subtle, slow enchantment draws she near,And Sleep is here.
What care I for the olive branch of Peace?Kind Sleep will bring a thrice-distilled release,Nepenthes, that alone her mystic handCan understand.
And so she bends, this welcome sorceress,To crown my fasting with her light caress.Ah, sure my pain will vanish at the blissOf her warm kiss.
But still my duty lies in self-denial;I must refuse sweet Sleep, although the trialWill reawaken all my depth of pain.So once again
I lift the curtain with a weary hand,With more than sorrow, silently I stand,Look out while darkness overspreads the way,And long for day.
"Go, Sleep," I say, "before the darkness die,To one who needs you even more than I,For I can bear my part alone, but heHas need of thee.
"His poor tired eyes in vain have sought relief,His heart more tired still, with all its grief;His pain is deep, while mine is vague and dim,Go thou to him.
"When thou hast fanned him with thy drowsy wings,And laid thy lips upon the pulsing stringsThat in his soul with fret and fever burn,To me return."
She goes. The air within the quiet streetReverberates to the passing of her feet;I watch her take her passage through the gloomTo your dear home.
Beloved, would you knew how sweet to meIs this denial, and how ferventlyI pray that Sleep may lift you to her breast,And give you rest—
A privilege that she alone can claim.Would that my heart could comfort you the same,But in the censer Sleep is swinging high,All sorrows die.
She comes not back, yet all my miseriesWane at the thought of your calm sleeping eyes—Wane, as I hear the early matin bellThe dawn foretell.
And so, dear heart, still silently I stand,Uplift the curtain with a weary hand,The long, long night has bitter been and lone,But now 'tis gone.
Dawn lights her candles in the East once more,And darkness flees her chariot before;The Lenten morning breaks with holy ray,And it is day!
I may not go to-night to Bethlehem,Nor follow star-directed ways, nor treadThe paths wherein the shepherds walked, that ledTo Christ, and peace, and God's good will to men.
I may not hear the Herald Angel's songPeal through the Oriental skies, nor seeThe wonder of that Heavenly companyAnnounce the King the world had waited long.
The manger throne I may not kneel before,Or see how man to God is reconciled,Through pure St. Mary's purer, holier child;The human Christ these eyes may not adore.
I may not carry frankincense and myrrhWith adoration to the Holy One;Nor gold have I to give the Perfect Son,To be with those wise kings a worshipper.
Not mine the joy that Heaven sent to them,For ages since Time swung and locked his gates,But I may kneel without—the star still waitsTo guide me on to holy Bethlehem.
So near at hand (our eyes o'erlooked its nearnessIn search of distant things)A dear dream lay—perchance to grow in dearnessHad we but felt its wingsAstir. The air our very breathing fannedIt was so near at hand.
Once, many days ago, we almost held it,The love we so desired;But our shut eyes saw not, and fate dispelled itBefore our pulses firedTo flame, and errant fortune bade us standHand almost touching hand.
I sometimes think had we two been discerning,The by-path hid awayFrom others' eyes had then revealed its turningTo us, nor led astrayOur footsteps, guiding us into love's landThat lay so near at hand.
So near at hand, dear heart, could we have known it!Throughout those dreamy hours,Had either loved, or loving had we shown it,Response had sure been ours;We did not know that heart could heart command,And love so near at hand!
What then availed the red wine's subtle glisten?We passed it blindly by,And now what profit that we wait and listenEach for the other's heart beat? Ah! the cryOf love o'erlooked still lingers, you and ISought heaven afar, we did not understand'Twas—once so near at hand.
The sun's red pulses beat,Full prodigal of heat,Full lavish of its lustre unrepressed;But we have drifted farFrom where his kisses are,And in this landward-lying shade we let our paddles rest.
The river, deep and still,The maple-mantled hill,The little yellow beach whereon we lie,The puffs of heated breeze,All sweetly whisper—TheseAre days that only come in a Canadian July.
So, silently we twoLounge in our still canoe,Nor fate, nor fortune matters to us now:So long as we aloneMay call this dream our own,The breeze may die, the sail may droop, we care not when or how.
Against the thwart, near by,Inactively you lie,And all too near my arm your temple bends.Your indolently crude,Abandoned attitude,Is one of ease and art, in which a perfect languor blends.
Your costume, loose and light,Leaves unconcealed your mightOf muscle, half suspected, half defined;And falling well aside,Your vesture opens wide,Above your splendid sunburnt throat that pulses unconfined.
With easy unreserve,Across the gunwale's curve,Your arm superb is lying, brown and bare;Your hand just touches mineWith import firm and fine,(I kiss the very wind that blows about your tumbled hair).
Ah! Dear, I am unwiseIn echoing your eyesWhene'er they leave their far-off gaze, and turnTo melt and blur my sight;For every other lightIs servile to your cloud-grey eyes, wherein cloud shadows burn.
But once the silence breaks,But once your ardour wakesTo words that humanize this lotus-land;So perfect and completeThose burning words and sweet,So perfect is the single kiss your lips lay on my hand.
The paddles lie disused,The fitful breeze abused,Has dropped to slumber, with no after-blow;And hearts will pay the cost,For you and I have lostMore than the homeward blowing wind that died an hour ago.
To-night the west o'er-brims with warmest dyes;Its chalice overflowsWith pools of purple colouring the skies,Aflood with gold and rose;And some hot soul seems throbbing close to mine,As sinks the sun within that world of wine.
I seem to hear a bar of music floatAnd swoon into the west;My ear can scarcely catch the whispered note,But something in my breastBlends with that strain, till both accord in one,As cloud and colour blend at set of sun.
And twilight comes with grey and restful eyes,As ashes follow flame.But O! I heard a voice from those rich skiesCall tenderly my name;It was as if some priestly fingers stoleIn benedictions o'er my lonely soul.
I know not why, but all my being longedAnd leapt at that sweet call;My heart outreached its arms, all passion throngedAnd beat against Fate's wall,Crying in utter homesickness to beNear to a heart that loves and leans to me.
Soulless is all humanity to meTo-night. My keenest longing is to beAlone, alone with God's grey earth that seemsPulse of my pulse and consort of my dreams.
To-night my soul desires no fellowship,Or fellow-being; crave I but to slipThro' space on space, till flesh no more can bind,And I may quit for aye my fellow kind.
Let me but feel athwart my cheek the lashOf whipping wind, but hear the torrent dashAdown the mountain steep, 'twere more my choiceThan touch of human hand, than human voice.
Let me but wander on the shore night-stilled,Drinking its darkness till my soul is filled;The breathing of the salt sea on my hair,My outstretched hands but grasping empty air.
Let me but feel the pulse of Nature's soulAthrob on mine, let seas and thunders rollO'er night and me; sands whirl; winds, waters beat;For God's grey earth has no cheap counterfeit.
What of the days when we two dreamed together?Days marvellously fair,As lightsome as a skyward floating featherSailing on summer air—Summer, summer, that came drifting throughFate's hand to me, to you.
What of the days, my dear? I sometimes wonderIf you too wish this skyCould be the blue we sailed so softly under,In that sun-kissed July;Sailed in the warm and yellow afternoon,With hearts in touch and tune.
Have you no longing to re-live the dreaming,Adrift in my canoe?To watch my paddle blade all wet and gleamingCleaving the waters through?To lie wind-blown and wave-caressed, untilYour restless pulse grows still?
Do you not long to listen to the purlingOf foam athwart the keel?To hear the nearing rapids softly swirlingAmong their stones, to feelThe boat's unsteady tremor as it bravesThe wild and snarling waves?
What need of question, what of your replying?Oh! well I know that youWould toss the world away to be but lyingAgain in my canoe,In listless indolence entranced and lost,Wave-rocked, and passion tossed.
Ah me! my paddle failed me in the steeringAcross love's shoreless seas;All reckless, I had ne'er a thought of fearingSuch dreary days as these,When through the self-same rapids we dash by,My lone canoe and I.
Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded armBends back the brier that edges life's long way,That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.
Because I never knew your care to tire,Your hand to weary guiding me aright,Because you walk before and crush the brier,It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.
Because so often you have hearkened toMy selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now,That these harsh hands of mine add not untoThe crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.
To-night I hunger so,Beloved one, to knowIf you recall and crave again the dreamThat haunted our canoe,And wove its witchcraft throughOur hearts as 'neath the northern night we sailed the northern stream.
Ah! dear, if only weAs yesternight could beAfloat within that light and lonely shell,To drift in silence tillHeart-hushed, and lulled and stillThe moonlight through the melting air flung forth its fatal spell.
The dusky summer night,The path of gold and whiteThe moon had cast across the river's breast,The shores in shadows clad,The far-away, half-sadSweet singing of the whip-poor-will, all soothed our souls to rest.
You trusted I could feelMy arm as strong as steel,So still your upturned face, so calm your breath,While circling eddies curled,While laughing rapids whirledFrom boulder unto boulder, till they dashed themselves to death.
Your splendid eyes aflamePut heaven's stars to shame,Your god-like head so near my lap was laid—My hand is burning whereIt touched your wind-blown hair,As sweeping to the rapids verge, I changed my paddle blade.
The boat obeyed my hand,Till wearied with its grandWild anger, all the river lay aswoon,And as my paddle dipped,Thro' pools of pearl it slippedAnd swept beneath a shore of shade, beneath a velvet moon.
To-night, again dream youOur spirit-winged canoeIs listening to the rapids purling past?Where, in delirium reeledOur maddened hearts that kneeledTo idolize the perfect world, to taste of love at last.
Into the rose gold westland, its yellow prairies roll,World of the bison's freedom, home of the Indian's soul.Roll out, O seas! in sunlight bathed,Your plains wind-tossed, and grass enswathed.
Farther than vision ranges, farther than eagles fly,Stretches the land of beauty, arches the perfect sky,Hemm'd through the purple mists afarBy peaks that gleam like star on star.
Fringing the prairie billows, fretting horizon's line,Darkly green are slumb'ring wildernesses of pine,Sleeping until the zephyrs throngTo kiss their silence into song.
Whispers freighted with odour swinging into the air,Russet needles as censers swing to an altar, whereThe angels' songs are less divineThan duo sung twixt breeze and pine.
Laughing into the forest, dimples a mountain stream,Pure as the airs above it, soft as a summer dream,O! Lethean spring thou'rt only foundWithin this ideal hunting ground.
Surely the great Hereafter cannot be more than this,Surely we'll see that country after Time's farewell kiss.Who would his lovely faith condole?Who envies not the Red-skin's soul,
Sailing into the cloud land, sailing into the sun,Into the crimson portals ajar when life is done?O! dear dead race, my spirit tooWould fain sail westward unto you.
I am sailing to the leeward,Where the current runs to seawardSoft and slow,Where the sleeping river grassesBrush my paddle as it passesTo and fro.
On the shore the heat is shakingAll the golden sands awakingIn the cove;And the quaint sand-piper, wingingO'er the shallows, ceases singingWhen I move.
On the water's idle pillowSleeps the overhanging willow,Green and cool;Where the rushes lift their burnishedOval heads from out the tarnishedEmerald pool.
Where the very silence slumbers,Water lilies grow in numbers,Pure and pale;All the morning they have rested,Amber crowned, and pearly crested,Fair and frail.
Here, impossible romances,Indefinable sweet fancies,Cluster round;But they do not mar the sweetnessOf this still September fleetnessWith a sound.
I can scarce discern the meetingOf the shore and stream retreating,So remote;For the laggard river, dozing,Only wakes from its reposingWhere I float.
Where the river mists are rising,All the foliage baptizingWith their spray;There the sun gleams far and faintly,With a shadow soft and saintly,In its ray.
And the perfume of some burningFar-off brushwood, ever turningTo exhaleAll its smoky fragrance dying,In the arms of evening lying,Where I sail.
My canoe is growing lazy,In the atmosphere so hazy,While I dream;Half in slumber I am guiding,Eastward indistinctly glidingDown the stream.
Night of Mid-June, in heavy vapours dying,Like priestly hands thy holy touch is lyingUpon the world's wide brow;God-like and grand all nature is commandingThe "peace that passes human understanding";I, also, feel it now.
What matters it to-night, if one life treasureI covet, is not mine! Am I to measureThe gifts of Heaven's decreeBy my desires? O! life for ever longingFor some far gift, where many gifts are thronging,God wills, it may not be.
Am I to learn that longing, lifted higher,Perhaps will catch the gleam of sacred fireThat shows my cross is gold?That underneath this cross—however lowly,A jewel rests, white, beautiful and holy,Whose worth can not be told.
Like to a scene I watched one day in wonder:—A city, great and powerful, lay underA sky of grey and gold;The sun outbreaking in his farewell hour,Was scattering afar a yellow showerOf light, that aureoled
With brief hot touch, so marvellous and shining,A hundred steeples on the sky out-lining,Like network threads of fire;Above them all, with halo far outspreading,I saw a golden cross in glory headingA consecrated spire:
I only saw its gleaming form uplifting,Against the clouds of grey to seaward drifting,And yet I surely knowBeneath the seen, a great unseen is resting,For while the cross that pinnacle is cresting,An Altar lies below.
. . . . .
Night of Mid-June, so slumberous and tender,Night of Mid-June, transcendent in thy splendourThy silent wings enfoldAnd hush my longing, as at thy desireAll colour fades from round that far-off spire,Except its cross of gold.
When each white moon, her lantern idly swinging,Comes out to join the star night-watching band,Across the grey-green sea, a ship is bringingFor me a letter, from the Motherland.
Naught would I care to live in quaint old Britain,These wilder shores are dearer far to me,Yet when I read the words that hand has written,The parent sod more precious seems to be.
Within that folded note I catch the savourOf climes that make the Motherland so fair,Although I never knew the blessed favourThat surely lies in breathing English air.
Imagination's brush before me fleeing,Paints English pictures, though my longing eyesHave never known the blessedness of seeingThe blue that lines the arch of English skies.
And yet my letter brings the scenes I covet,Framed in the salt sea winds, aye more in dreamsI almost see the face that bent above it,I almost touch that hand, so near it seems.
Near, for the very grey-green sea that dashes'Round these Canadian coasts, rolls out once moreTo Eastward, and the same Atlantic splashesHer wild white spray on England's distant shore.
Near, for the same young moon so idly swingingHer threadlike crescent bends the selfsame smileOn that old land from whence a ship is bringingMy message from the transatlantic Isle.
Thus loves my heart that far old country better,Because of those dear words that always come,With love enfolded in each English letterThat drifts into my sun-kissed Western home.
(The following poems are from the author's second book, "CanadianBorn," first published in 1903.)
We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of God;We are the pulse of Canada, its marrow and its blood:And we, the men of Canada, can face the world and bragThat we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
Few of us have the blood of kings, few are of courtly birth,But few are vagabonds or rogues of doubtful name and worth;And all have one credential that entitles us to brag—That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
We've yet to make our money, we've yet to make our fame,But we have gold and glory in our clean colonial name;And every man's a millionaire if only he can bragThat he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.
No title and no coronet is half so proudly wornAs that which we inherited as men Canadian born.We count no man so noble as the one who makes the bragThat he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.
The Dutch may have their Holland, the Spaniard have his Spain,The Yankee to the south of us must south of us remain;For not a man dare lift a hand against the men who bragThat they were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
What dream you in the night-timeWhen you whisper to the moon?What say you in the morning?What do you sing at noon?When I hear your voice uplifting,Like a breeze through branches sifting,And your ripples softly driftingTo the August airs a-tune.
Lend me your happy laughter,Ste. Marie, as you leap;Your peace that follows afterWhere through the isles you creep.Give to me your splendid dashing,Give your sparkles and your splashing,Your uphurling waves down crashing,Then, your aftermath of sleep.
Pillowed and hushed on the silent plain,Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain,
Wearied of pleasuring weeks away,Summer is lying asleep to-day,—
Where winds come sweet from the wild-rose briersAnd the smoke of the far-off prairie fires;
Yellow her hair as the goldenrod,And brown her cheeks as the prairie sod;
Purple her eyes as the mists that dreamAt the edge of some laggard sun-drowned stream;
But over their depths the lashes sweep,For Summer is lying to-day asleep.
The north wind kisses her rosy mouth,His rival frowns in the far-off south,
And comes caressing her sunburnt cheek,And Summer awakes for one short week,—
Awakes and gathers her wealth of grain,Then sleeps and dreams for a year again.
Lady Lorgnette, of the lifted lash,The curling lip and the dainty nose,The shell-like ear where the jewels flash,The arching brow and the languid pose,The rare old lace and the subtle scents,The slender foot and the fingers frail,—I may act till the world grows wild and tense,But never a flush on your features pale.The footlights glimmer between us two,—You in the box and I on the boards,—I am only an actor, Madame, to you,A mimic king 'mid his mimic lords,For you are the belle of the smartest set,Lady Lorgnette.
Little Babette, with your eyes of jet,Your midnight hair and your piquant chin,Your lips whose odours of violetDrive men to madness and saints to sin,—I see you over the footlights' glareDown in the pit 'mid the common mob,—Your throat is burning, and brown, and bare,You lean, and listen, and pulse, and throb;The viols are dreaming between us two,And my gilded crown is no make-believe,I am more than an actor, dear, to you,For you called me your king but yester eve,And your heart is my golden coronet,Little Babette.
The long red flats stretch open to the sky,Breathing their moisture on the August air.The seaweeds cling with flesh-like fingers whereThe rocks give shelter that the sands deny;And wrapped in all her summer harmoniesSt. Andrews sleeps beside her sleeping seas.
The far-off shores swim blue and indistinct,Like half-lost memories of some old dream.The listless waves that catch each sunny gleamAre idling up the waterways land-linked,And, yellowing along the harbour's breast,The light is leaping shoreward from the west.
And naked-footed children, tripping down,Light with young laughter, daily come at eveTo gather dulse and sea clams and then heaveTheir loads, returning laden to the town,Leaving a strange grey silence when they go,—The silence of the sands when tides are low.
Speak of you, sir? You bet he did. Ben Fields was far too soundTo go back on a fellow just because he weren't around.Why, sir, he thought a lot of you, and only three months backSays he, "The Squire will some time come a-snuffing out our trackAnd give us the surprise." And so I got to thinking thenThat any day you might drop down on Rove, and me, and Ben.And now you've come for nothing, for the lad has left us two,And six long weeks ago, sir, he went up beyond the blue.
Who's Rove? Oh, he's the collie, and the only thing on earthThat I will ever love again. Why, Squire, that dog is worthMore than you ever handled, and that's quite a piece, I know.Ah, there the beggar is!—come here, you scalawag! and showYour broken leg all bandaged up. Yes, sir, it's pretty sore;I did it,—curse me,—and I think I feel the pain far moreThan him, for somehow I just feel as if I'd been untrueTo what my brother said before he went beyond the blue.
You see, the day before he died he says to me, "Say, Ned,Be sure you take good care of poor old Rover when I'm dead,And maybe he will cheer your lonesome hours up a bit,And when he takes to you just see that you're deserving it."Well, Squire, it wasn't any use. I tried, but couldn't getThe friendship of that collie, for I needed it, you bet.I might as well have tried to get the moon to help me through,For Rover's heart had gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.
He never seemed to take to me nor follow me about,For all I coaxed and petted, for my heart was starving outFor want of some companionship,—I thought, if only heWould lick my hand or come and put his head aside my knee,Perhaps his touch would scatter something of the gloom away.But all alone I had to live until there came a dayWhen, tired of the battle, as you'd have tired too,I wished to heaven I'd gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.
. . . . .
One morning I took out Ben's gun, and thought I'd hunt all day,And started through the clearing for the bush that forward lay,When something made me look around—I scarce believed my mind—But, sure enough, the dog was following right close behind.A feeling first of joy, and than a sharper, greater oneOf anger came, at knowing 'twas not me, but Ben's old gun,That Rove was after,—well, sir, I just don't mind telling you,But I forgot that moment Ben was up beyond the blue.
Perhaps it was but jealousy—perhaps it was despair,But I just struck him with the gun and broke the bone right there;And then—my very throat seemed choked, for he began to whineWith pain—God knows how tenderly I took that dog of mineUp in my arms, and tore my old red necktie into bandsTo bind the broken leg, while there he lay and licked my hands;And though I cursed my soul, it was the brightest day I knew,Or even cared to live, since Ben went up beyond the blue.
I tell you, Squire, I nursed him just as gently as could be,And now I'm all the world to him, and he's the world to me.Look, sir, at that big, noble soul, right in his faithful eyes,The square, forgiving honesty that deep down in them lies.Eh, Squire? What's that you say?He's got no soul?I tell you, then,He's grander and he's better than the mass of what's called men;And I guess he stands a better chance than many of us doOf seeing Ben some day again, 'way up beyond the blue.
"Wreck and stray and castaway."—SWINBURNE.
Once more adrift.O'er dappling sea and broad lagoon,O'er frowning cliff and yellow dune,The long, warm lights of afternoonLike jewel dustings sift.
Once more awake.I dreamed an hour of port and quay,Of anchorage not meant for me;The sea, the sea, the hungry seaCame rolling up the break.
Once more afloat.The billows on my moorings press't,They drove me from my moment's rest,And now a portless sea I breast,And shelterless my boat.
Once more away.The harbour lights are growing dim,The shore is but a purple rim,The sea outstretches grey and grim.Away, away, away!
Once more at sea,The old, old sea I used to sail,The battling tide, the blowing gale,The waves with ceaseless under-wailThe life that used to be.
Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest,Wrapped in your nest,Strapped in your nest,Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest;Its hands are your nest;Its bands are your nest;It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak;You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke;But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,—Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.
Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep,Winging to sleep,Singing to sleep,Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep,Shielding their sleep,Unyielding to sleep,The heron is homing, the plover is still,The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill,Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,—Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.
Hard by the Indian lodges, where the bushBreaks in a clearing, through ill-fashioned fields,She comes to labour, when the first still hushOf autumn follows large and recent yields.
Age in her fingers, hunger in her face,Her shoulders stooped with weight of work and years,But rich in tawny colouring of her race,She comes a-field to strip the purple ears.
And all her thoughts are with the days gone by,Ere might's injustice banished from their landsHer people, that to-day unheeded lie,Like the dead husks that rustle through her hands.
I swing to the sunset land—The world of prairie, the world of plain,The world of promise and hope and gain,The world of gold, and the world of grain,And the world of the willing hand.
I carry the brave and bold—The one who works for the nation's bread,The one whose past is a thing that's dead,The one who battles and beats ahead,And the one who goes for gold.
I swing to the "Land to Be,"I am the power that laid its floors,I am the guide to its western stores,I am the key to its golden doors,That open alone to me.
I swing to the land of morn;The grey old east with its grey old seas,The land of leisure, the land of ease,The land of flowers and fruits and trees,And the place where we were born.
Freighted with wealth I come;For he who many a moon has spentFar out west on adventure bent,With well-worn pick and a folded tent,Is bringing his bullion home.
I never will be renowned,As my twin that swings to the western marts,For I am she of the humbler parts,But I am the joy of the waiting hearts;For I am the Homeward-bound.
A trail upwinds from Golden;It leads to a land God only knows,To the land of eternal frozen snows,That trail unknown and olden.
And they tell a tale that is strange and wild—Of a lovely and lonely mountain childThat went up the trail from Golden.
A child in the sweet of her womanhood,Beautiful, tender, grave and goodAs the saints in time long olden.
And the days count not, nor the weeks avail;For the child that went up the mountain trailCame never again to Golden.
And the watchers wept in the midnight gloom,Where the canyons yawn and the Selkirks loom,For the love that they knew of olden.
And April dawned, with its suns aflame,And the eagles wheeled and the vultures cameAnd poised o'er the town of Golden.
God of the white eternal peaks,Guard the dead while the vulture seeks!—God of the days so olden.
For only God in His greatness knowsWhere the mountain holly above her grows,On the trail that leads from Golden.
Music, music with throb and swing,Of a plaintive note, and long;'Tis a note no human throat could sing,No harp with its dulcet golden string,—Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring,Is sweet as the robin's song.
He sings for love of the seasonWhen the days grow warm and long,For the beautiful God-sent reasonThat his breast was born for song.
Calling, calling so fresh and clear,Through the song-sweet days of May;Warbling there, and whistling here,He swells his voice on the drinking ear,On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphereTill his music drowns the day.
He sings for love of the seasonWhen the days grow warm and long,For the beautiful God-sent reasonThat his breast was born for song.
Beyond a ridge of pine with russet tipsThe west lifts to the sun her longing lips,
Her blushes stain with gold and garnet dyeThe shore, the river and the wide far sky;
Like floods of wine the waters filter throughThe reeds that brush our indolent canoe.
I beach the bow where sands in shadows lie;You hold my hand a space, then speak good-bye.
Upwinds your pathway through the yellow plumesOf goldenrod, profuse in August blooms,
And o'er its tossing sprays you toss a kiss;A moment more, and I see only this—
The idle paddle you so lately held,The empty bow your pliant wrist propelled,
Some thistles purpling into violet,Their blossoms with a thousand thorns afret,
And like a cobweb, shadowy and grey,Far floats their down—far drifts my dream away.
Who is it lacks the knowledge? Who are the curs that dareTo whine and sneer that they do not fear the whelps in the Lion's lair?But we of the North will answer, while life in the North remains,Let the curs beware lest the whelps they dare are the Riders of the Plains;For these are the kind whose muscle makes the power of the Lion's jaw,And they keep the peace of our people and the honour of British law.
A woman has painted a picture,—'tis a neat little bit of artThe critics aver, and it roused up for her the love of the big British heart.'Tis a sketch of an English bulldog that tigers would scarce attack,And round and about and beneath him is painted the Union Jack.With its blaze of colour, and courage, its daring in every fold,And underneath is the title, "What we have we'll hold."'Tis a picture plain as a mirror, but the reflex it containsIs the counterpart of the life and heart of the Riders of the Plains;For like to that flag and that motto, and the power of that bulldog's jaw,They keep the peace of our people and the honour of British law.
These are the fearless fighters, whose life in the open lies,Who never fail on the prairie trail 'neath the Territorial skies,Who have laughed in the face of the bullets and the edge of the rebels' steel,Who have set their ban on the lawless man with his crime beneath their heel;These are the men who battle the blizzards, the suns, the rains,These are the famed that the North has named the "Riders of the Plains,"And theirs is the might and the meaning and the strength of the bulldog's jaw,While they keep the peace of the people and the honour of British law.
These are the men of action, who need not the world's renown,For their valour is known to England's throne as a gem in the British crown;These are the men who face the front, whose courage the world may scan,The men who are feared by the felon, but are loved by the honest man;These are the marrow, the pith, the cream, the best that the blood contains,Who have cast their days in the valiant ways of the Riders of the Plains;And theirs is the kind whose muscle makes the power of old England's jaw,And they keep the peace of her people and the honour of British law.
Then down with the cur that questions,—let him slink to his craven den,—For he daren't deny our hot reply as to "who are our mounted men."He shall honour them east and westward, he shall honour them south and north,He shall bare his head to that coat of red wherever that red rides forth.'Tis well that he knows the fibre that the great North-West contains,The North-West pride in her men that ride on the Territorial plains,—For of such as these are the muscles and the teeth in the Lion's jaw,And they keep the peace of our people and the honour of British law.
[2] The above is the Territorial pet name for the North-West Mounted Police, and is in general usage throughout Assiniboia, Saskatchewan and Alberta. At a dinner party in Boston the writer was asked, "Who are the North-West Mounted Police?" and when told that they were the pride of Canada's fighting men the questioner sneered and replied, "Ah! then they are only some of British Lion's whelps. We are not afraid of them." His companions applauded the remark.
The sky-line melts from russet into blue,Unbroken the horizon, saving whereA wreath of smoke curls up the far, thin air,And points the distant lodges of the Sioux.
Etched where the lands and cloudlands touch and dieA solitary Indian tepee stands,The only habitation of these lands,That roll their magnitude from sky to sky.
The tent poles lift and loom in thin relief,The upward floating smoke ascends between,And near the open doorway, gaunt and lean,And shadow-like, there stands an Indian Chief.
With eyes that lost their lustre long ago,With visage fixed and stern as fate's decree,He looks towards the empty west, to seeThe never-coming herd of buffalo.
Only the bones that bleach upon the plains,Only the fleshless skeletons that lieIn ghastly nakedness and silence, cryOut mutely that naught else to him remains.
My heart forgot its God for love of you,And you forgot me, other loves to learn;Now through a wilderness of thorn and rueBack to my God I turn.
And just because my God forgets the past,And in forgetting does not ask to knowWhy I once left His arms for yours, at lastBack to my God I go.
Unknown to you, I walk the cheerless shore.The cutting blast, the hurl of biting brineMay freeze, and still, and bind the waves at war,Ere you will ever know, O! Heart of mine,That I have sought, reflected in the blueOf these sea depths, some shadow of your eyes;Have hoped the laughing waves would sing of you,But this is all my starving sight descries—
Far out at sea a sailBends to the freshening breeze,Yields to the rising galeThat sweeps the seas;
Yields, as a bird wind-tossed,To saltish waves that flingTheir spray, whose rime and frostLike crystals cling
To canvas, mast and spar,Till, gleaming like a gem,She sinks beyond the farHorizon's hem.
Lost to my longing sight,And nothing left to meSave an oncoming night,—An empty sea.
[3] For this title the author is indebted to Mr. Charles G. D.Roberts. It occurs in his sonnet, "Rain."
You didn't know Billy, did you? Well, Bill was one of the boys,The greatest fellow you ever seen to racket an' raise a noise,—An' sing! say, you never heard singing 'nless you heard Billy sing.I used to say to him, "Billy, that voice that you've got there'd bringA mighty sight more bank-notes to tuck away in your vest,If only you'd go on the concert stage instead of a-ranchin' West."An' Billy he'd jist go laughin', and say as I didn't knowA robin's whistle in springtime from a barnyard rooster's crow.But Billy could sing, an' I sometimes think that voice lives anyhow,—That perhaps Bill helps with the music in the place he's gone to now.
The last time that I seen him was the day he rode away;He was goin' acrost the plain to catch the train for the East next day.'Twas the only time I ever seen poor Bill that he didn't laughOr sing, an' kick up a rumpus an' racket around, and chaff,For he'd got a letter from his folks that said for to hurry home,For his mother was dyin' away down East an' she wanted Bill to come.Say, but the feller took it hard, but he saddled up right away,An' started across the plains to take the train for the East, next day.Sometimes I lie awake a-nights jist a-thinkin' of the rest,For that was the great big blizzard day, when the wind come down from west,An' the snow piled up like mountains an' we couldn't put foot outside,But jist set into the shack an' talked of Bill on his lonely ride.We talked of the laugh he threw us as he went at the break o' day,An' we talked of the poor old woman dyin' a thousand mile away.
Well, Dan O'Connell an' I went out to search at the end of the week,Fer all of us fellers thought a lot,—a lot that we darsn't speak.We'd been up the trail about forty mile, an' was talkin' of turnin' back,But Dan, well, he wouldn't give in, so we kep' right on to the railroad track.As soon as we sighted them telegraph wires says Dan, "Say, bless my soul!Ain't that there Bill's red handkerchief tied half way up that pole?"Yes, sir, there she was, with her ends a-flippin' an' flyin' in the wind,An' underneath was the envelope of Bill's letter tightly pinned."Why, he must a-boarded the train right here," says Dan, but I kinder knewThat underneath them snowdrifts we would find a thing or two;Fer he'd writ on that there paper, "Been lost fer hours,—all hope is past.You'll find me, boys, where my handkerchief is flyin' at half-mast."
When did you sink to your dreamless sleepOut there in your thunder bed?Where the tempests sweep,And the waters leap,And the storms rage overhead.
Were you lying there on your couch aloneEre Egypt and Rome were born?Ere the Age of Stone,Or the world had knownThe Man with the Crown of Thorn.
The winds screech down from the open west,And the thunders beat and breakOn the amethystOf your rugged breast,—But you never arise or wake.
You have locked your past, and you keep the keyIn your heart 'neath the westing sun,Where the mighty seaAnd its shores will beStorm-swept till the world is done.
Plains, plains, and the prairie land which the sunlight floods and fills,To the north the open country, southward the Cyprus Hills;Never a bit of woodland, never a rill that flows,Only a stretch of cactus beds, and the wild, sweet prairie rose;Never a habitation, save where in the far south-westA solitary tepee lifts its solitary crest,Where Neykia in the doorway, crouched in the red sunshine,Broiders her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.
Neykia, the Sioux chief's daughter, she with the foot that flies,She with the hair of midnight and the wondrous midnight eyes,She with the deft brown fingers, she with the soft, slow smile,She with the voice of velvet and the thoughts that dream the while,—"Whence come the vague to-morrows? Where do the yesters fly?What is beyond the border of the prairie and the sky?Does the maid in the Land of Morning sit in the red sunshine,Broidering her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine?"
So Neykia, in the westland, wonders and works away,Far from the fret and folly of the "Land of Waking Day."And many the pale-faced trader who stops at the tepee doorFor a smile from the sweet, shy worker, and a sigh when the hour is o'er.For they know of a young red hunter who oftentimes has stayedTo rest and smoke with her father, tho' his eyes were on the maid;And the moons will not be many ere she in the red sunshineWill broider his buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.
Halifax sits on her hills by the seaIn the might of her pride,—Invincible, terrible, beautiful, sheWith a sword at her side.
To right and to left of her, battlements rearAnd fortresses frown;While she sits on her throne without favour or fearWith her cannon as crown.
Coast guard and sentinel, watch of the wealOf a nation she keeps;But her hand is encased in a gauntlet of steel,And her thunder but sleeps.