“Yes, sir, it’s quite a story, though you won’t believe it’s true,But such things happened often when I lived beyond the Soo.”And the trapper tilted back his chair and filled his pipe anew.“I ain’t thought of it neither fer this many ’n’ many a day,Although, it used to haunt me in the years that’s slid away;The years I spent a-trappin’ for the good old Hudson’s Bay.“Wild? You bet, ’twas wild then, an’ few an’ far betweenThe squatters’ shacks, for whites was scarce as furs when things is green,An’ only reds an’ ‘Hudson’s’ men was all the folk I seen.“No. Them old Indyans ain’t so bad, not if you treat ’em square.Why, I lived in amongst ’em all the winters I was there,An’ I never lost a copper, an’ I never lost a hair.“But I’d have lost my life the time that you’ve heard tell about;I don’t think I’d be settin’ here, but dead beyond a doubt,If that there Indyan ‘Wolverine’ jest hadn’t helped me out.“’Twas freshet time, ’way back, as long as sixty-six or eight,An’ I was comin’ to the Post that year a kind of late,For beaver had been plentiful, and trappin’ had been great.“One day I had been settin’ traps along a bit of wood,An’ night was catchin’ up to me jest faster ’an it should,When all at once I heard a sound that curdled up my blood,“It was the howl of famished wolves—I didn’t stop to thinkBut jest lit out across for home as quick as you could wink,But when I reached the river’s edge I brought up at the brink.“That mornin’ I had crossed the stream straight on a sheet of iceAn’ now, God help me! There it was, churned up an’ cracked to dice,The flood went boiling past—I stood like one shut in a vice.“No way ahead, no path aback, trapped like a rat ashore,With naught but death to follow, and with naught but death afore;The howl of hungry wolves aback—ahead, the torrents roar.“An’ then—a voice, an Indyan voice, that called out clear and clean,‘Take Indyan’s horse, I run like deer, wolf can’t catch Wolverine.’I says, ‘Thank Heaven.’ There stood the chief I’d nicknamed Wolverine.“I leapt on that there horse, an’ then jest like coward fled,An’ left that Indyan standin’ there alone, as good as dead,With the wolves a-howlin’ at his back, the swollen stream ahead.“I don’t know how them Indyans dodge from death the way they do,You won’t believe it, sir, but what I’m tellin’ you is true,But that there chap was round next day as sound as me or you.“He came to get his horse, but not a cent he’d take from me.Yes, sir, you’re right, the Indyans now ain’t like they used to be;We’ve got em sharpened up a bit an’ now they’ll take a fee.“No, sir, you’re wrong, they ain’t no ‘dogs.’ I’m not through tellin’ yet;You’ll take that name right back again, or else jest out you get!You’ll take that name right back when you hear all this yarn, I bet.“It happened that same autumn, when some Whites was cornin’ in,I heard the old Red River carts a-kickin’ up a din,So I went over to their camp to see an English skin.“They said, ‘They’d had an awful scare from Injuns,’ an’ they sworeThat savages had come around the very night beforeA-brandishing their tomahawks an’ painted up for war.“‘But when their plucky Englishmen had put a bit of leadRight through the heart of one of them, an’ rolled him over, dead,The other cowards said that they had come on peace instead.“‘That they (the Whites) had lost some stores, from off their little pack,An’ that the Red they peppered dead had followed up their track,Because he’d found the packages an’ cameto give them back.’“‘Oh!’ they said, ‘they were quite sorry, but it wasn’t like as ifThey had killed a decent Whiteman by mistake or in a tiff,It was only some old Injun dog that lay there stark an’ stiff.’“I said, ‘You are the meanest dogs that ever yet I seen,’Then I rolled the body over as it lay out on the green;I peered into the face—My God! twas poor old Wolverine.”
“Yes, sir, it’s quite a story, though you won’t believe it’s true,But such things happened often when I lived beyond the Soo.”And the trapper tilted back his chair and filled his pipe anew.“I ain’t thought of it neither fer this many ’n’ many a day,Although, it used to haunt me in the years that’s slid away;The years I spent a-trappin’ for the good old Hudson’s Bay.“Wild? You bet, ’twas wild then, an’ few an’ far betweenThe squatters’ shacks, for whites was scarce as furs when things is green,An’ only reds an’ ‘Hudson’s’ men was all the folk I seen.“No. Them old Indyans ain’t so bad, not if you treat ’em square.Why, I lived in amongst ’em all the winters I was there,An’ I never lost a copper, an’ I never lost a hair.“But I’d have lost my life the time that you’ve heard tell about;I don’t think I’d be settin’ here, but dead beyond a doubt,If that there Indyan ‘Wolverine’ jest hadn’t helped me out.“’Twas freshet time, ’way back, as long as sixty-six or eight,An’ I was comin’ to the Post that year a kind of late,For beaver had been plentiful, and trappin’ had been great.“One day I had been settin’ traps along a bit of wood,An’ night was catchin’ up to me jest faster ’an it should,When all at once I heard a sound that curdled up my blood,“It was the howl of famished wolves—I didn’t stop to thinkBut jest lit out across for home as quick as you could wink,But when I reached the river’s edge I brought up at the brink.“That mornin’ I had crossed the stream straight on a sheet of iceAn’ now, God help me! There it was, churned up an’ cracked to dice,The flood went boiling past—I stood like one shut in a vice.“No way ahead, no path aback, trapped like a rat ashore,With naught but death to follow, and with naught but death afore;The howl of hungry wolves aback—ahead, the torrents roar.“An’ then—a voice, an Indyan voice, that called out clear and clean,‘Take Indyan’s horse, I run like deer, wolf can’t catch Wolverine.’I says, ‘Thank Heaven.’ There stood the chief I’d nicknamed Wolverine.“I leapt on that there horse, an’ then jest like coward fled,An’ left that Indyan standin’ there alone, as good as dead,With the wolves a-howlin’ at his back, the swollen stream ahead.“I don’t know how them Indyans dodge from death the way they do,You won’t believe it, sir, but what I’m tellin’ you is true,But that there chap was round next day as sound as me or you.“He came to get his horse, but not a cent he’d take from me.Yes, sir, you’re right, the Indyans now ain’t like they used to be;We’ve got em sharpened up a bit an’ now they’ll take a fee.“No, sir, you’re wrong, they ain’t no ‘dogs.’ I’m not through tellin’ yet;You’ll take that name right back again, or else jest out you get!You’ll take that name right back when you hear all this yarn, I bet.“It happened that same autumn, when some Whites was cornin’ in,I heard the old Red River carts a-kickin’ up a din,So I went over to their camp to see an English skin.“They said, ‘They’d had an awful scare from Injuns,’ an’ they sworeThat savages had come around the very night beforeA-brandishing their tomahawks an’ painted up for war.“‘But when their plucky Englishmen had put a bit of leadRight through the heart of one of them, an’ rolled him over, dead,The other cowards said that they had come on peace instead.“‘That they (the Whites) had lost some stores, from off their little pack,An’ that the Red they peppered dead had followed up their track,Because he’d found the packages an’ cameto give them back.’“‘Oh!’ they said, ‘they were quite sorry, but it wasn’t like as ifThey had killed a decent Whiteman by mistake or in a tiff,It was only some old Injun dog that lay there stark an’ stiff.’“I said, ‘You are the meanest dogs that ever yet I seen,’Then I rolled the body over as it lay out on the green;I peered into the face—My God! twas poor old Wolverine.”
“Yes, sir, it’s quite a story, though you won’t believe it’s true,But such things happened often when I lived beyond the Soo.”And the trapper tilted back his chair and filled his pipe anew.
“I ain’t thought of it neither fer this many ’n’ many a day,Although, it used to haunt me in the years that’s slid away;The years I spent a-trappin’ for the good old Hudson’s Bay.
“Wild? You bet, ’twas wild then, an’ few an’ far betweenThe squatters’ shacks, for whites was scarce as furs when things is green,An’ only reds an’ ‘Hudson’s’ men was all the folk I seen.
“No. Them old Indyans ain’t so bad, not if you treat ’em square.Why, I lived in amongst ’em all the winters I was there,An’ I never lost a copper, an’ I never lost a hair.
“But I’d have lost my life the time that you’ve heard tell about;I don’t think I’d be settin’ here, but dead beyond a doubt,If that there Indyan ‘Wolverine’ jest hadn’t helped me out.
“’Twas freshet time, ’way back, as long as sixty-six or eight,An’ I was comin’ to the Post that year a kind of late,For beaver had been plentiful, and trappin’ had been great.
“One day I had been settin’ traps along a bit of wood,An’ night was catchin’ up to me jest faster ’an it should,When all at once I heard a sound that curdled up my blood,
“It was the howl of famished wolves—I didn’t stop to thinkBut jest lit out across for home as quick as you could wink,But when I reached the river’s edge I brought up at the brink.
“That mornin’ I had crossed the stream straight on a sheet of iceAn’ now, God help me! There it was, churned up an’ cracked to dice,The flood went boiling past—I stood like one shut in a vice.
“No way ahead, no path aback, trapped like a rat ashore,With naught but death to follow, and with naught but death afore;The howl of hungry wolves aback—ahead, the torrents roar.
“An’ then—a voice, an Indyan voice, that called out clear and clean,‘Take Indyan’s horse, I run like deer, wolf can’t catch Wolverine.’I says, ‘Thank Heaven.’ There stood the chief I’d nicknamed Wolverine.
“I leapt on that there horse, an’ then jest like coward fled,An’ left that Indyan standin’ there alone, as good as dead,With the wolves a-howlin’ at his back, the swollen stream ahead.
“I don’t know how them Indyans dodge from death the way they do,You won’t believe it, sir, but what I’m tellin’ you is true,But that there chap was round next day as sound as me or you.
“He came to get his horse, but not a cent he’d take from me.Yes, sir, you’re right, the Indyans now ain’t like they used to be;We’ve got em sharpened up a bit an’ now they’ll take a fee.
“No, sir, you’re wrong, they ain’t no ‘dogs.’ I’m not through tellin’ yet;You’ll take that name right back again, or else jest out you get!You’ll take that name right back when you hear all this yarn, I bet.
“It happened that same autumn, when some Whites was cornin’ in,I heard the old Red River carts a-kickin’ up a din,So I went over to their camp to see an English skin.
“They said, ‘They’d had an awful scare from Injuns,’ an’ they sworeThat savages had come around the very night beforeA-brandishing their tomahawks an’ painted up for war.
“‘But when their plucky Englishmen had put a bit of leadRight through the heart of one of them, an’ rolled him over, dead,The other cowards said that they had come on peace instead.
“‘That they (the Whites) had lost some stores, from off their little pack,An’ that the Red they peppered dead had followed up their track,Because he’d found the packages an’ cameto give them back.’
“‘Oh!’ they said, ‘they were quite sorry, but it wasn’t like as ifThey had killed a decent Whiteman by mistake or in a tiff,It was only some old Injun dog that lay there stark an’ stiff.’
“I said, ‘You are the meanest dogs that ever yet I seen,’Then I rolled the body over as it lay out on the green;I peered into the face—My God! twas poor old Wolverine.”
Whatsaw you in your flight to-day,Crows, awinging your homeward way?Went you far in carrion quest,Crows, that worry the sunless west?Thieves and villains, you shameless things!Black your record as black your wings.Tell me, birds of the inky hue,Plunderous rogues—to-day have youSeen with mischievous, prying eyesLands where earlier suns arise?Saw you a lazy beck betweenTrees that shadow its breast in green,Teased by obstinate stones that lieCrossing the current tauntingly.Fields abloom on the farther sideWith purpling clover lying wide—Saw you there as you circled by,Vale-environed a cottage lie,Girt about with emerald bands,Nestling down in its meadow lands?Saw you this on your thieving raids?Speak—you rascally renegades!Thieved you also away from meOlden scenes that I long to see?If, O! crows, you have flown since mornOver the place where I was born,Forget will I, how black you wereSince dawn, in feather and character;Absolve will I, your vagrant bandEre you enter your slumberland.
Whatsaw you in your flight to-day,Crows, awinging your homeward way?Went you far in carrion quest,Crows, that worry the sunless west?Thieves and villains, you shameless things!Black your record as black your wings.Tell me, birds of the inky hue,Plunderous rogues—to-day have youSeen with mischievous, prying eyesLands where earlier suns arise?Saw you a lazy beck betweenTrees that shadow its breast in green,Teased by obstinate stones that lieCrossing the current tauntingly.Fields abloom on the farther sideWith purpling clover lying wide—Saw you there as you circled by,Vale-environed a cottage lie,Girt about with emerald bands,Nestling down in its meadow lands?Saw you this on your thieving raids?Speak—you rascally renegades!Thieved you also away from meOlden scenes that I long to see?If, O! crows, you have flown since mornOver the place where I was born,Forget will I, how black you wereSince dawn, in feather and character;Absolve will I, your vagrant bandEre you enter your slumberland.
Whatsaw you in your flight to-day,Crows, awinging your homeward way?
Went you far in carrion quest,Crows, that worry the sunless west?
Thieves and villains, you shameless things!Black your record as black your wings.
Tell me, birds of the inky hue,Plunderous rogues—to-day have you
Seen with mischievous, prying eyesLands where earlier suns arise?
Saw you a lazy beck betweenTrees that shadow its breast in green,
Teased by obstinate stones that lieCrossing the current tauntingly.
Fields abloom on the farther sideWith purpling clover lying wide—
Saw you there as you circled by,Vale-environed a cottage lie,
Girt about with emerald bands,Nestling down in its meadow lands?
Saw you this on your thieving raids?Speak—you rascally renegades!
Thieved you also away from meOlden scenes that I long to see?
If, O! crows, you have flown since mornOver the place where I was born,
Forget will I, how black you wereSince dawn, in feather and character;
Absolve will I, your vagrant bandEre you enter your slumberland.
Westwind blow from your prairie nest?Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.The sail is idle, the sailor too;O! wind of the west, we wait for you.Blow, blow!I have wooed you so,But never a favour you bestow.You rock your cradle the hills between,But scorn to notice my white lateen.I stow the sail, unship the mast:I wooed you long but my wooing’s past;My paddle will lull you into rest.O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,Sleep, sleep,By your mountain steep,Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,For soft is the song my paddle sings.August is laughing across the sky,Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,Drift, drift,Where the hills upliftOn either side of the current swift.The river rolls in its rocky bed;My paddle is plying its way ahead;Dip, dip,While the waters flipIn foam as over their breast we slip.And oh, the river runs swifter now;The eddies circle about my bow.Swirl, swirl!How the ripples curlIn many a dangerous pool awhirl!And forward far the rapids roar,Fretting their margin for evermore.Dash, dash,With a mighty crash,They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!The reckless waves you must plunge into.Reel, reel,On your trembling keel,But never a fear my craft will feel.We’ve raced the rapid, we’re far ahead!The river slips through its silent bed.Sway, sway,As the bubbles sprayAnd fall in tinkling tunes away.And up on the hills against the sky,A fir tree rocking its lullaby,Swings, swings,Its emerald wings,Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
Westwind blow from your prairie nest?Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.The sail is idle, the sailor too;O! wind of the west, we wait for you.Blow, blow!I have wooed you so,But never a favour you bestow.You rock your cradle the hills between,But scorn to notice my white lateen.I stow the sail, unship the mast:I wooed you long but my wooing’s past;My paddle will lull you into rest.O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,Sleep, sleep,By your mountain steep,Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,For soft is the song my paddle sings.August is laughing across the sky,Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,Drift, drift,Where the hills upliftOn either side of the current swift.The river rolls in its rocky bed;My paddle is plying its way ahead;Dip, dip,While the waters flipIn foam as over their breast we slip.And oh, the river runs swifter now;The eddies circle about my bow.Swirl, swirl!How the ripples curlIn many a dangerous pool awhirl!And forward far the rapids roar,Fretting their margin for evermore.Dash, dash,With a mighty crash,They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!The reckless waves you must plunge into.Reel, reel,On your trembling keel,But never a fear my craft will feel.We’ve raced the rapid, we’re far ahead!The river slips through its silent bed.Sway, sway,As the bubbles sprayAnd fall in tinkling tunes away.And up on the hills against the sky,A fir tree rocking its lullaby,Swings, swings,Its emerald wings,Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
Westwind blow from your prairie nest?Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.The sail is idle, the sailor too;O! wind of the west, we wait for you.Blow, blow!I have wooed you so,But never a favour you bestow.You rock your cradle the hills between,But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail, unship the mast:I wooed you long but my wooing’s past;My paddle will lull you into rest.O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,Sleep, sleep,By your mountain steep,Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,For soft is the song my paddle sings.
August is laughing across the sky,Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,Drift, drift,Where the hills upliftOn either side of the current swift.
The river rolls in its rocky bed;My paddle is plying its way ahead;Dip, dip,While the waters flipIn foam as over their breast we slip.
And oh, the river runs swifter now;The eddies circle about my bow.Swirl, swirl!How the ripples curlIn many a dangerous pool awhirl!
And forward far the rapids roar,Fretting their margin for evermore.Dash, dash,With a mighty crash,They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.
Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!The reckless waves you must plunge into.Reel, reel,On your trembling keel,But never a fear my craft will feel.
We’ve raced the rapid, we’re far ahead!The river slips through its silent bed.Sway, sway,As the bubbles sprayAnd fall in tinkling tunes away.
And up on the hills against the sky,A fir tree rocking its lullaby,Swings, swings,Its emerald wings,Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
Nightneath the northern skies, lone, black, and grim:Nought but the starlight lies twixt heaven, and him.Of man no need has he, of God, no prayer;He and his Deity are brothers there.Above his bivouac the firs fling downThrough branches gaunt and black, their needles brown.Afar some mountain streams, rockbound and fleet,Sing themselves through his dreams in cadence sweet,The pine trees whispering, the heron’s cry.The plover’s passing wing, his lullaby.And blinking overhead the white stars keepWatch o’er his hemlock bed—his sinless sleep.
Nightneath the northern skies, lone, black, and grim:Nought but the starlight lies twixt heaven, and him.Of man no need has he, of God, no prayer;He and his Deity are brothers there.Above his bivouac the firs fling downThrough branches gaunt and black, their needles brown.Afar some mountain streams, rockbound and fleet,Sing themselves through his dreams in cadence sweet,The pine trees whispering, the heron’s cry.The plover’s passing wing, his lullaby.And blinking overhead the white stars keepWatch o’er his hemlock bed—his sinless sleep.
Nightneath the northern skies, lone, black, and grim:Nought but the starlight lies twixt heaven, and him.
Of man no need has he, of God, no prayer;He and his Deity are brothers there.
Above his bivouac the firs fling downThrough branches gaunt and black, their needles brown.
Afar some mountain streams, rockbound and fleet,Sing themselves through his dreams in cadence sweet,
The pine trees whispering, the heron’s cry.The plover’s passing wing, his lullaby.
And blinking overhead the white stars keepWatch o’er his hemlock bed—his sinless sleep.
Athusking time the tassel fadesTo brown above the yellow blades,Whose rustling sheath enswathes the cornThat bursts its chrysalis in scornLonger to lie in prison shades.Among the merry lads and maidsThe creaking ox-cart slowly wadesTwixt stalks and stubble, sacked and tornAt husking time.The prying pilot crow persuadesThe flock to join in thieving raids;The sly racoon with craft inbornHis portion steals; from plenty’s hornHis pouch the saucy chipmunk ladesAt husking time.
Athusking time the tassel fadesTo brown above the yellow blades,Whose rustling sheath enswathes the cornThat bursts its chrysalis in scornLonger to lie in prison shades.Among the merry lads and maidsThe creaking ox-cart slowly wadesTwixt stalks and stubble, sacked and tornAt husking time.The prying pilot crow persuadesThe flock to join in thieving raids;The sly racoon with craft inbornHis portion steals; from plenty’s hornHis pouch the saucy chipmunk ladesAt husking time.
Athusking time the tassel fadesTo brown above the yellow blades,Whose rustling sheath enswathes the cornThat bursts its chrysalis in scornLonger to lie in prison shades.
Among the merry lads and maidsThe creaking ox-cart slowly wadesTwixt stalks and stubble, sacked and tornAt husking time.
The prying pilot crow persuadesThe flock to join in thieving raids;The sly racoon with craft inbornHis portion steals; from plenty’s hornHis pouch the saucy chipmunk ladesAt husking time.
Acrossthe street, an humble woman lives;To her tis little fortune ever gives;Denied the wines of life, it puzzles meTo know how she can laugh so cheerily.This morn I listened to her softly sing,And, marvelling what this effect could bringI looked: twas but the presence of a childWho passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled.But self-encrusted, I had failed to seeThe child had also looked and laughed to me.My lowly neighbour thought the smile God-sent,And singing, through the toilsome hours she went.O! weary singer, I have learned the wrongOf taking gifts, and giving nought of song;I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few,Till I contrasted them with yours, and you;To-day I counted much, yet wished it more—While but a child’s bright smile was all your store,If I had thought of all the stormy days,That fill some lives that tread less favoured ways,How little sunshine through their shadows gleamed,My own dull life had much the brighter seemed;If I had thought of all the eyes that weepThrough desolation, and still smiling keep,That see so little pleasure, so much woe,My own had laughed more often long ago;If I had thought how leaden was the weightAdversity lays at my kinsman’s gate,Of that great cross my next door neighbour bears,My thanks had been more frequent in my prayers;If I had watched the woman o’er the wayWork worn and old, who labours day by day,Who has no rest, no joy to call her own,My tasks, my heart, had much the lighter grown.
Acrossthe street, an humble woman lives;To her tis little fortune ever gives;Denied the wines of life, it puzzles meTo know how she can laugh so cheerily.This morn I listened to her softly sing,And, marvelling what this effect could bringI looked: twas but the presence of a childWho passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled.But self-encrusted, I had failed to seeThe child had also looked and laughed to me.My lowly neighbour thought the smile God-sent,And singing, through the toilsome hours she went.O! weary singer, I have learned the wrongOf taking gifts, and giving nought of song;I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few,Till I contrasted them with yours, and you;To-day I counted much, yet wished it more—While but a child’s bright smile was all your store,If I had thought of all the stormy days,That fill some lives that tread less favoured ways,How little sunshine through their shadows gleamed,My own dull life had much the brighter seemed;If I had thought of all the eyes that weepThrough desolation, and still smiling keep,That see so little pleasure, so much woe,My own had laughed more often long ago;If I had thought how leaden was the weightAdversity lays at my kinsman’s gate,Of that great cross my next door neighbour bears,My thanks had been more frequent in my prayers;If I had watched the woman o’er the wayWork worn and old, who labours day by day,Who has no rest, no joy to call her own,My tasks, my heart, had much the lighter grown.
Acrossthe street, an humble woman lives;To her tis little fortune ever gives;Denied the wines of life, it puzzles meTo know how she can laugh so cheerily.This morn I listened to her softly sing,And, marvelling what this effect could bringI looked: twas but the presence of a childWho passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled.But self-encrusted, I had failed to seeThe child had also looked and laughed to me.My lowly neighbour thought the smile God-sent,And singing, through the toilsome hours she went.O! weary singer, I have learned the wrongOf taking gifts, and giving nought of song;I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few,Till I contrasted them with yours, and you;To-day I counted much, yet wished it more—While but a child’s bright smile was all your store,
If I had thought of all the stormy days,That fill some lives that tread less favoured ways,How little sunshine through their shadows gleamed,My own dull life had much the brighter seemed;If I had thought of all the eyes that weepThrough desolation, and still smiling keep,That see so little pleasure, so much woe,My own had laughed more often long ago;If I had thought how leaden was the weightAdversity lays at my kinsman’s gate,Of that great cross my next door neighbour bears,My thanks had been more frequent in my prayers;If I had watched the woman o’er the wayWork worn and old, who labours day by day,Who has no rest, no joy to call her own,My tasks, my heart, had much the lighter grown.
Lentgathers up her cloak of sombre shadingIn her reluctant hands.Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,As pensively she standsAwaiting Easter’s benediction falling,Like silver stars at night,Before she can obey the summons callingHer to her upward flight,Awaiting Easter’s wings that she must borrowEre she can hope to fly—Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrowAgainst the far, blue sky.Has not the purple of her vesture’s liningBrought calm and rest to all?Has her dark robe had naught of golden shiningBeen naught but pleasure’s pall?Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returningIn youth’s light joyousness,We’ll wear some rarer jewels we found burningIn Lent’s black-bordered dress.So hand in hand with fitful March she lingersTo beg the crowning graceOf lifting with her pure and holy fingersThe veil from April’s face.Sweet, rosy April—laughing, sighing, waitingUntil the gateway swings,And she and Lent can kiss between the gratingOf Easter’s tissue wings.Too brief the bliss—the parting comes with sorrow.Goodbye dear Lent, goodbye!We’ll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrowAgainst the far blue sky.
Lentgathers up her cloak of sombre shadingIn her reluctant hands.Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,As pensively she standsAwaiting Easter’s benediction falling,Like silver stars at night,Before she can obey the summons callingHer to her upward flight,Awaiting Easter’s wings that she must borrowEre she can hope to fly—Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrowAgainst the far, blue sky.Has not the purple of her vesture’s liningBrought calm and rest to all?Has her dark robe had naught of golden shiningBeen naught but pleasure’s pall?Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returningIn youth’s light joyousness,We’ll wear some rarer jewels we found burningIn Lent’s black-bordered dress.So hand in hand with fitful March she lingersTo beg the crowning graceOf lifting with her pure and holy fingersThe veil from April’s face.Sweet, rosy April—laughing, sighing, waitingUntil the gateway swings,And she and Lent can kiss between the gratingOf Easter’s tissue wings.Too brief the bliss—the parting comes with sorrow.Goodbye dear Lent, goodbye!We’ll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrowAgainst the far blue sky.
Lentgathers up her cloak of sombre shadingIn her reluctant hands.Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,As pensively she standsAwaiting Easter’s benediction falling,Like silver stars at night,Before she can obey the summons callingHer to her upward flight,Awaiting Easter’s wings that she must borrowEre she can hope to fly—Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrowAgainst the far, blue sky.Has not the purple of her vesture’s liningBrought calm and rest to all?Has her dark robe had naught of golden shiningBeen naught but pleasure’s pall?Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returningIn youth’s light joyousness,We’ll wear some rarer jewels we found burningIn Lent’s black-bordered dress.So hand in hand with fitful March she lingersTo beg the crowning graceOf lifting with her pure and holy fingersThe veil from April’s face.Sweet, rosy April—laughing, sighing, waitingUntil the gateway swings,And she and Lent can kiss between the gratingOf Easter’s tissue wings.Too brief the bliss—the parting comes with sorrow.Goodbye dear Lent, goodbye!We’ll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrowAgainst the far blue sky.
A dashof yellow sand,Wind-scattered and sun-tanned;Some waves that curl and cream along the margin of the strand;And, creeping close to theseLong shores that lounge at ease,Old Erie rocks and ripples to a fresh sou’-western breeze.A sky of blue and gray;Some stormy clouds that playAt scurrying up with ragged edge, then laughing blow away,Just leaving in their trailSome snatches of a gale:To whistling summer winds we lift a single daring sail.O! wind so sweet and swift,O! danger-freighted giftBestowed on Erie with her waves that foam and fall and lift,We laugh in your wild face,And break into a raceWith flying clouds and tossing gulls that weave and interlace.
A dashof yellow sand,Wind-scattered and sun-tanned;Some waves that curl and cream along the margin of the strand;And, creeping close to theseLong shores that lounge at ease,Old Erie rocks and ripples to a fresh sou’-western breeze.A sky of blue and gray;Some stormy clouds that playAt scurrying up with ragged edge, then laughing blow away,Just leaving in their trailSome snatches of a gale:To whistling summer winds we lift a single daring sail.O! wind so sweet and swift,O! danger-freighted giftBestowed on Erie with her waves that foam and fall and lift,We laugh in your wild face,And break into a raceWith flying clouds and tossing gulls that weave and interlace.
A dashof yellow sand,Wind-scattered and sun-tanned;Some waves that curl and cream along the margin of the strand;And, creeping close to theseLong shores that lounge at ease,Old Erie rocks and ripples to a fresh sou’-western breeze.
A sky of blue and gray;Some stormy clouds that playAt scurrying up with ragged edge, then laughing blow away,Just leaving in their trailSome snatches of a gale:To whistling summer winds we lift a single daring sail.
O! wind so sweet and swift,O! danger-freighted giftBestowed on Erie with her waves that foam and fall and lift,We laugh in your wild face,And break into a raceWith flying clouds and tossing gulls that weave and interlace.
Theautumn afternoon is dying o’erThe quiet western valley where I lieBeneath the maples on the river shore,Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair skyEnviron all; and far above some birds are flying byTo seek their evening haven in the breastAnd calm embrace of silence, while they singTe Deums to the night, invoking restFor busy chirping voice and tired wing—And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping cradles swing.In forest arms the night will soonest creep,Where sombre pines a lullaby intone,Where Nature’s children curl themselves to sleep,And all is still at last, save where aloneA band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day,Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blendWith fields of yellow maize, and leagues awayWith rivers where their sweeping waters wendPast velvet banks to rocky shores, in cañons bold to end.O’er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead,Till lashed to life by storm clouds, have they flown?In what wild lands, in laggard flight have ledTheir aërial career unseen, unknown,Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?The flapping of their pinions in the airDies in the hush of distance, while they lightWithin the fir tops, weirdly black and bare,That stand with giant strength and peerless height,To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the closing night.Strange black and princely pirates of the skies,Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know!Would that my soul could see, and, seeing, riseTo unrestricted life where ebb and flowOf Nature’s pulse would constitute a wider life below!Could I but live just here in Freedom’s arms,A kingly life without a sovereign’s care!Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms,And all is cradled in repose, save whereYon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.
Theautumn afternoon is dying o’erThe quiet western valley where I lieBeneath the maples on the river shore,Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair skyEnviron all; and far above some birds are flying byTo seek their evening haven in the breastAnd calm embrace of silence, while they singTe Deums to the night, invoking restFor busy chirping voice and tired wing—And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping cradles swing.In forest arms the night will soonest creep,Where sombre pines a lullaby intone,Where Nature’s children curl themselves to sleep,And all is still at last, save where aloneA band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day,Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blendWith fields of yellow maize, and leagues awayWith rivers where their sweeping waters wendPast velvet banks to rocky shores, in cañons bold to end.O’er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead,Till lashed to life by storm clouds, have they flown?In what wild lands, in laggard flight have ledTheir aërial career unseen, unknown,Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?The flapping of their pinions in the airDies in the hush of distance, while they lightWithin the fir tops, weirdly black and bare,That stand with giant strength and peerless height,To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the closing night.Strange black and princely pirates of the skies,Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know!Would that my soul could see, and, seeing, riseTo unrestricted life where ebb and flowOf Nature’s pulse would constitute a wider life below!Could I but live just here in Freedom’s arms,A kingly life without a sovereign’s care!Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms,And all is cradled in repose, save whereYon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.
Theautumn afternoon is dying o’erThe quiet western valley where I lieBeneath the maples on the river shore,Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair skyEnviron all; and far above some birds are flying by
To seek their evening haven in the breastAnd calm embrace of silence, while they singTe Deums to the night, invoking restFor busy chirping voice and tired wing—And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping cradles swing.
In forest arms the night will soonest creep,Where sombre pines a lullaby intone,Where Nature’s children curl themselves to sleep,And all is still at last, save where aloneA band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.
Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day,Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blendWith fields of yellow maize, and leagues awayWith rivers where their sweeping waters wendPast velvet banks to rocky shores, in cañons bold to end.
O’er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead,Till lashed to life by storm clouds, have they flown?In what wild lands, in laggard flight have ledTheir aërial career unseen, unknown,Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?
The flapping of their pinions in the airDies in the hush of distance, while they lightWithin the fir tops, weirdly black and bare,That stand with giant strength and peerless height,To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the closing night.
Strange black and princely pirates of the skies,Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know!Would that my soul could see, and, seeing, riseTo unrestricted life where ebb and flowOf Nature’s pulse would constitute a wider life below!
Could I but live just here in Freedom’s arms,A kingly life without a sovereign’s care!Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms,And all is cradled in repose, save whereYon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.
Idlesthe 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.
Idlesthe 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.
Idlesthe 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 thinwet 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 goldAmong 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 thinwet 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 goldAmong 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 thinwet 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 Meadowbrown; 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 Meadowbrown; 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 Meadowbrown; 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 streamof 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 tone 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.
A streamof 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 tone 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.
A streamof 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 tone 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.
Fromout the west, where darkling storm-clouds float,The waking wind pipes soft its rising note.From out the west, o’er hung 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, tillWith 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.
Fromout the west, where darkling storm-clouds float,The waking wind pipes soft its rising note.From out the west, o’er hung 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, tillWith 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.
Fromout the west, where darkling storm-clouds float,The waking wind pipes soft its rising note.
From out the west, o’er hung 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.
Lichensof 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 fire-light 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.
Lichensof 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 fire-light 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.
Lichensof 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 fire-light 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.
Singto 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.
Singto 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.
Singto 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.
Singto 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.
Singto 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.
Singto 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.
Singto 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.
Singto 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.
Singto 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 ere 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.
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 ere 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.
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 ere 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.
’Tismorning 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 againI 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.Belovéd, 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!
’Tismorning 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 againI 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.Belovéd, 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!
’Tismorning 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.
Belovéd, 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!