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diff --git a/old/52988-0.txt b/old/52988-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e9db656..0000000 --- a/old/52988-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3343 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Wampum, by E. Pauline Johnson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The White Wampum - -Author: E. Pauline Johnson - -Release Date: September 5, 2016 [EBook #52988] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE WAMPUM *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - THE WHITE WAMPUM - - [Illustration: - - THE WHITE WAMPVM - BY - E·PAVLINE JOHNSON - - _Tekahionwake_ - - LONDON: _John Lane 1895_ - Toronto: _The Copp Clark Co:_ - Boston: _Lamson, Wolffe & Co._] - - - “And few to-day remain; - But copper-tinted face and smouldering fire - Of wilder life, were left me by my sire - To be my proudest claim.” - - -_As wampums to the Redman, so to the Poet are his songs; chiselled alike -from that which is the purest of his possessions, woven alike with -meaning into belt and book, fraught alike with the corresponding message -of peace, the breathing of tradition, the value of more than coin, and -the seal of fellowship with all men._ - -_So do I offer this belt of verse-wampum to those two who have taught me -most of its spirit--my Mother, whose encouragement has been my mainstay -in its weaving; my Father, whose feet have long since wandered to the -Happy Hunting Grounds._ - -_E. P. J._ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - _Page_ - -Ojistoh 1 - -As Red Men Die 4 - -The Pilot of the Plains 7 - -The Cattle Thief 11 - -A Cry from an Indian Wife 16 - -Dawendine 19 - -Wolverine 24 - -The Vagabonds 30 - -The Song my Paddle Sings 32 - -The Camper 35 - -At Husking Time 36 - -Workworn 37 - -Easter 39 - -Erie Waters 41 - -The Flight of the Crows 43 - -Moonset 46 - -Marshlands 47 - -Joe 48 - -Shadow River 50 - -Rainfall 52 - -Under Canvas 53 - -The Birds’ Lullaby 55 - -Overlooked 57 - -Fasting 59 - -Christmastide 63 - -Close by 65 - -The Idlers 67 - -At Sunset 70 - -Penseroso 72 - -Re-Voyage 74 - -Brier 76 - -Wave-Won 77 - -The Happy Hunting Grounds 80 - -In the Shadows 82 - -Nocturne 85 - -My English Letter 87 - - - - - OJISTOH - - - I am Ojistoh, I am she, the wife - Of him whose name breathes bravery and life - And courage to the tribe that calls him chief. - I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he - Is land, and lake, and sky--and soul to me. - - Ah! but they hated him, those Huron braves, - Him who had flung their warriors into graves, - Him who had crushed them underneath his heel, - Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steel - To all--save me, Ojistoh, chosen wife - Of my great Mohawk, white star of his life. - - Ah! but they hated him, and councilled long - With subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong; - How to avenge their dead, and strike him where - His pride was highest, and his fame most fair. - Their hearts grew weak as women at his name: - They dared no war-path since my Mohawk came - With ashen bow, and flinten arrow-head - To pierce their craven bodies; but their dead - Must be avenged. Avenged? They dared not walk - In day and meet his deadly tomahawk; - They dared not face his fearless scalping knife; - So--Niyoh![A]--then they thought of me, his wife. - - O! evil, evil face of them they sent - With evil Huron speech: “Would I consent - To take of wealth? be queen of all their tribe? - Have wampum ermine?” Back I flung the bribe - Into their teeth, and said, “While I have life - Know this--Ojistoh is the Mohawk’s wife.” - - Wah! how we struggled! But their arms were strong. - They flung me on their pony’s back, with thong - Round ankle, wrist, and shoulder. Then upleapt - The one I hated most: his eye he swept - Over my misery, and sneering said, - “Thus, fair Ojistoh, we avenge our dead.” - - And we two rode, rode as a sea wind-chased, - I, bound with buckskin to his hated waist, - He, sneering, laughing, jeering, while he lashed - The horse to foam, as on and on we dashed. - Plunging through creek and river, bush and trail, - On, on we galloped like a northern gale. - At last, his distant Huron fires aflame - We saw, and nearer, nearer still we came. - - I, bound behind him in the captive’s place, - Scarcely could see the outline of his face. - I smiled, and laid my cheek against his back: - “Loose thou my hands,” I said. “This pace let slack. - Forget we now that thou and I are foes. - I like thee well, and wish to clasp thee close; - I like the courage of thine eye and brow; - _I like thee better than my Mohawk now_.” - - He cut the cords; we ceased our maddened haste. - I wound my arms about his tawny waist; - My hand crept up the buckskin of his belt; - His knife hilt in my burning palm I felt; - One hand caressed his cheek, the other drew - The weapon softly--“I love you, love you,” - I whispered, “love you as my life.” - And--buried in his back his scalping knife. - - Ha! how I rode, rode as a sea wind-chased, - Mad with sudden freedom, mad with haste, - Back to my Mohawk and my home, I lashed - That horse to foam, as on and on I dashed. - Plunging thro’ creek and river, bush and trail, - On, on I galloped like a northern gale. - And then my distant Mohawk’s fires aflame - I saw, as nearer, nearer still I came, - My hands all wet, stained with a life’s red dye, - But pure my soul, pure as those stars on high-- - “My Mohawk’s pure white star, Ojistoh, still am I.” - - [A] God, in the Mohawk language. - - - - - AS RED MEN DIE - - - Captive! Is there a hell to him like this? - A taunt more galling than the Huron’s hiss? - He--proud and scornful, he--who laughed at law, - He--scion of the deadly Iroquois, - He--the bloodthirsty, he--the Mohawk chief, - He--who despises pain and sneers at grief, - Here in the hated Huron’s vicious clutch, - That even captive he disdains to touch! - - Captive! But _never_ conquered; Mohawk brave - Stoops not to be to _any_ man a slave; - Least, to the puny tribe his soul abhors, - The tribe whose wigwams sprinkle Simcoe’s shores. - With scowling brow he stands and courage high, - Watching with haughty and defiant eye - His captors, as they council o’er his fate, - Or strive his boldness to intimidate. - Then fling they unto him the choice; - - “Wilt thou - Walk o’er the bed of fire that waits thee now-- - Walk with uncovered feet upon the coals - Until thou reach the ghostly Land of Souls, - And, with thy Mohawk death-song please our ear? - _Or wilt thou with the women rest thee here?_” - His eyes flash like an eagle’s, and his hands - Clench at the insult. Like a god he stands. - “Prepare the fire!” he scornfully demands. - - He knoweth not that this same jeering band - Will bite the dust--will lick the Mohawk’s hand; - Will kneel and cower at the Mohawk’s feet; - Will shrink when Mohawk war-drums wildly beat. - - His death will be avenged with hideous hate - By Iroquois, swift to annihilate - His vile detested captors, that now flaunt - Their war clubs in his face with sneer and taunt, - Not thinking, soon that reeking, red, and raw, - Their scalps will deck the belts of Iroquois. - - The path of coals outstretches, white with heat, - A forest fir’s length--ready for his feet. - Unflinching as a rock he steps along - The burning mass, and sings his wild war song; - Sings, as he sang when once he used to roam - Throughout the forests of his southern home, - Where, down the Genesee, the water roars, - Where gentle Mohawk purls between its shores, - Songs, that of exploit and of prowess tell; - Songs of the Iroquois invincible. - - Up the long trail of fire he boasting goes, - Dancing a war dance to defy his foes. - His flesh is scorched, his muscles burn and shrink, - But still he dances to death’s awful brink. - The eagle plume that crests his haughty head - Will _never_ droop until his heart be dead. - Slower and slower yet his footstep swings, - Wilder and wilder still his death-song rings, - Fiercer and fiercer thro’ the forest bounds - His voice that leaps to Happier Hunting Grounds. - One savage yell-- - - Then loyal to his race, - He bends to death--but _never_ to disgrace. - - - - - THE PILOT OF THE PLAINS - - - “False,” they said, “thy Pale-face lover, from the land of waking morn; - Rise and wed thy Redskin wooer, nobler warrior ne’er was born; - Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming, - Show the white thine Indian scorn.” - - Thus they taunted her, declaring, “He remembers naught of thee: - Likely some white maid he wooeth, far beyond the inland sea.” - But she answered ever kindly, - “He will come again to me,” - - Till the dusk of Indian summer crept athwart the western skies; - But a deeper dusk was burning in her dark and dreaming eyes, - As she scanned the rolling prairie, - Where the foothills fall, and rise. - - Till the autumn came and vanished, till the season of the rains, - Till the western world lay fettered in midwinter’s crystal chains, - Still she listened for his coming, - Still she watched the distant plains. - - Then a night with nor’land tempest, nor’land snows a-swirling fast, - Out upon the pathless prairie came the Pale-face through the blast, - Calling, calling, “Yakonwita, - I am coming, love, at last.” - - Hovered night above, about him, dark its wings and cold and dread; - Never unto trail or tepee were his straying footsteps led; - Till benumbed, he sank, and pillowed - On the drifting snows his head, - - Saying, “O! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guide - To the lodge beyond the prairie--for I vowed ere winter died - I would come again, belovéd; - I would claim my Indian bride.” - - “Yakonwita, Yakonwita!” Oh, the dreariness that strains - Through the voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains, - “Yakonwita, Yakonwita, - I am lost upon the plains.” - - But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew, - “Save me, save me! O! beloved, I am Pale but I am true. - Yakonwita, Yakonwita, - I am dying, love, for you.” - - Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed, - Roused her kinsmen from their slumber: “He has come to-night,” she said. - “I can hear him calling, calling; - But his voice is as the dead. - - “Listen!” and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew, - And a spirit-voice called faintly, “I am dying, love, for you.” - Then they wailed, “O! Yakonwita. - He was Pale, but he was true.” - - Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door, - Saying, “I must follow, follow, though he call for evermore, - Yakonwita, Yakonwita;” - And they never saw her more. - - Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes, - Far away they see a maiden, misty as the autumn rains, - Guiding with her lamp of moonlight - Hunters lost upon the plains. - - - - - THE CATTLE THIEF - - - They were coming across the prairie, they were galloping hard and fast; - For the eyes of those desperate riders had sighted their man at last-- - Sighted him off to Eastward, where the Cree encampment lay, - Where the cotton woods fringed the river, miles and miles away. - Mistake him? Never, Mistake him? the famous Eagle Chief! - That terror to all the settlers, that desperate Cattle Thief-- - That monstrous, fearless Indian, who lorded it over the plain, - Who thieved and raided, and scouted, who rode like a hurricane! - But they’ve tracked him across the prairie; they’ve followed him - hard and fast; - For those desperate English settlers have sighted their man at last. - Up they wheeled to the tepees, all their British blood aflame, - Bent on bullets and bloodshed, bent on bringing down their game; - But they searched in vain for the Cattle Thief: that lion had - left his lair, - And they cursed like a troop of demons--for the women alone were there. - “The sneaking Indian coward,” they hissed; “he hides while yet he can; - He’ll come in the night for cattle, but he’s scared to face a _man_.” - “Never!” and up from the cotton woods, rang the voice of Eagle Chief; - And right out into the open stepped, unarmed, the Cattle Thief. - Was that the game they had coveted? Scarce fifty years had rolled - Over that fleshless, hungry frame, starved to the bone and old; - Over that wrinkled, tawny skin, unfed by the warmth of blood, - Over those hungry, hollow eyes that glared for the sight of food. - - He turned, like a hunted lion: “I know not fear,” said he; - And the words outleapt from his shrunken lips in the language of the Cree. - “I’ll fight you, white-skins, one by one, till I kill you _all_,” he said; - But the threat was scarcely uttered, ere a dozen balls of lead - Whizzed through the air about him like a shower of metal rain, - And the gaunt old Indian Cattle Thief, dropped dead on the open plain. - And that band of cursing settlers, gave one triumphant yell, - And rushed like a pack of demons on the body that writhed and fell. - “Cut the fiend up into inches, throw his carcass on the plain; - Let the wolves eat the cursed Indian, he’d have treated us the same.” - A dozen hands responded, a dozen knives gleamed high, - But the first stroke was arrested by a woman’s strange, wild cry. - And out into the open, with a courage past belief, - She dashed, and spread her blanket o’er the corpse of the Cattle Thief; - And the words outleapt from her shrunken lips in the language of the Cree, - “If you mean to touch that body, you must cut your way through _me_.” - And that band of cursing settlers dropped backward one by one, - For they knew that an Indian woman roused, was a woman to let alone. - And then she raved in a frenzy that they scarcely understood, - Raved of the wrongs she had suffered since her earliest babyhood: - “Stand back, stand back, you white-skins, touch that dead man to - your shame; - You have stolen my father’s spirit, but his body I only claim. - You have killed him, but you shall not dare to touch him now he’s dead. - You have cursed, and called him a Cattle Thief, though you robbed him - first of bread-- - Robbed him and robbed my people--look there, at that shrunken face, - Starved with a hollow hunger, we owe to you and your race. - What have you left to us of land, what have you left of game, - What have you brought but evil, and curses since you came? - How have you paid us for our game? how paid us for our land? - By a _book_, to save our souls from the sins _you_ brought in - your other hand. - Go back with your new religion, we never have understood - Your robbing an Indian’s _body_, and mocking his _soul_ with food. - Go back with your new religion, and find--if find you can-- - The _honest_ man you have ever made from out a _starving_ man. - You say your cattle are not ours, your meat is not our meat; - When _you_ pay for the land you live in, _we’ll_ pay for the meat we eat. - Give back our land and our country, give back our herds of game; - Give back the furs and the forests that were ours before you came; - Give back the peace and the plenty. Then come with your new belief, - And blame if you dare, the hunger that _drove_ him to be a thief.” - - - - - A CRY FROM AN INDIAN WIFE - - - My Forest Brave, my Red-skin love, farewell; - We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell - What mighty ills befall our little band, - Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand? - Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye. - No roaming bison calls for it to-day; - No hide of prairie cattle will it maim; - The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game: - ’Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host. - Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost. - Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack, - Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack - Of white-faced warriors, marching West to quell - Our fallen tribe that rises to rebel. - They all are young and beautiful and good; - Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood. - Curse to the fate that brought them from the East - To be our chiefs--to make our nation least - That breathes the air of this vast continent. - Still their new rule and council is well meant. - They but forget we Indians owned the land - From ocean unto ocean; that they stand - Upon a soil that centuries agone - Was our sole kingdom and our right alone. - They never think how they would feel to-day, - If some great nation came from far away, - Wresting their country from their hapless braves, - Giving what they gave us--but wars and graves. - Then go and strike for liberty and life, - And bring back honour to your Indian wife. - Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me? - Who pities my poor love and agony? - What white-robed priest prays for your safety here, - As prayer is said for every volunteer - That swells the ranks that Canada sends out? - Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout? - Who prays for our poor nation lying low? - None--therefore take your tomahawk and go. - My heart may break and burn into its core, - But I am strong to bid you go to war. - Yet stay, my heart is not the only one - That grieves the loss of husband and of son; - Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas; - Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees; - One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child - That marches on toward the North-West wild. - The other prays to shield her love from harm, - To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm. - Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think, - _Your_ tomahawk his life’s best blood will drink. - She never thinks of my wild aching breast, - Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest - Endangered by a thousand rifle balls, - My heart the target if my warrior falls. - O! coward self I hesitate no more; - Go forth, and win the glories of the war. - Go forth, nor bend to greed of white man’s hands, - By right, by birth we Indians own these lands, - Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low.... - Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so. - - - - - DAWENDINE - - - There’s a spirit on the river, there’s a ghost upon the shore, - They are chanting, they are singing through the starlight evermore, - As they steal amid the silence, - And the shadows of the shore. - - You can hear them when the Northern candles light the Northern sky, - Those pale, uncertain candle flames, that shiver, dart and die, - Those dead men’s icy finger tips, - Athwart the Northern sky. - - You can hear the ringing war cry of a long forgotten brave - Echo through the midnight forest, echo o’er the midnight wave, - And the Northern lanterns tremble - At the war cry of that brave. - - And you hear a voice responding, but in soft and tender song; - It is Dawendine’s spirit singing, singing all night long; - And the whisper of the night wind - Bears afar her Spirit song. - - And the wailing pine trees murmur with their voice attuned to hers, - Murmur when they ’rouse from slumber as the night wind through them stirs; - And you listen to their legend, - And their voices blend with hers. - - There was feud and there was bloodshed near the river by the hill; - And Dawendine listened, while her very heart stood still: - Would her kinsman or her lover - Be the victim by the hill? - - Who would be the great unconquered? who come boasting how he dealt - Death? and show his rival’s scalplock fresh and bleeding at his belt. - Who would say, “O Dawendine! - Look upon the death I dealt?” - - And she listens, listens, listens--till a war-cry rends the night, - Cry of her victorious lover, monarch he of all the height; - And his triumph wakes the horrors, - Kills the silence of the night. - - Heart of her! it throbs so madly, then lies freezing in her breast, - For the icy hand of death has chilled the brother she loved best; - And her lover dealt the deathblow; - And her heart dies in her breast. - - And she hears her mother saying, “Take thy belt of wampum white; - Go unto yon evil savage while he glories on the height; - Sing and sue for peace between us: - At his feet lay wampum white, - - “Lest thy kinsmen all may perish, all thy brothers and thy sire - Fall before his mighty hatred as the forest falls to fire; - Take thy wampum pale and peaceful, - Save thy brothers, save thy sire.” - - And the girl arises softly, softly slips toward the shore; - Loves she well the murdered brother, loves his hated foeman more, - Loves, and longs to give the wampum; - And she meets him on the shore. - - “Peace,” she sings, “O mighty victor, Peace! I bring thee wampum white. - Sheathe thy knife whose blade has tasted my young kinsman’s blood to-night - Ere it drink to slake its thirsting, - I have brought thee wampum white.” - - Answers he, “O Dawendine! I will let thy kinsmen be, - I accept thy belt of wampum; but my hate demands for me - That they give their fairest treasure, - Ere I let thy kinsmen be. - - “Dawendine, for thy singing, for thy suing, war shall cease; - For thy name, which speaks of dawning, _Thou_ shalt be the dawn of peace; - For thine eyes whose purple shadows tell of dawn, - My hate shall cease. - - “Dawendine, Child of Dawning, hateful are thy kin to me; - Red my fingers with their heart blood, but my heart is red for thee: - Dawendine, Child of Dawning, - Wilt thou fail or follow me?” - - And her kinsmen still are waiting her returning from the night, - Waiting, waiting for her coming with her belt of wampum white; - But forgetting all, she follows, - Where he leads through day or night. - - There’s a spirit on the river, there’s a ghost upon the shore, - And they sing of love and loving through the starlight evermore, - As they steal amid the silence, - And the shadows of the shore. - - - - - 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 between - The 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 think - But 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 ice - An’ 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 swore - That savages had come around the very night before - A-brandishing their tomahawks an’ painted up for war. - - “‘But when their plucky Englishmen had put a bit of lead - Right 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’ came _to give them back_.’ - - “‘Oh!’ they said, ‘they were quite sorry, but it wasn’t like as if - They 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.” - - - - - THE VAGABONDS - - - What saw 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 eyes - Lands where earlier suns arise? - - Saw you a lazy beck between - Trees that shadow its breast in green, - - Teased by obstinate stones that lie - Crossing the current tauntingly. - - Fields abloom on the farther side - With 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 me - Olden scenes that I long to see? - - If, O! crows, you have flown since morn - Over the place where I was born, - - Forget will I, how black you were - Since dawn, in feather and character; - - Absolve will I, your vagrant band - Ere you enter your slumberland. - - - - - THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS - - - West wind 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 uplift - On 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 flip - In 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 curl - In 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 spray - And 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. - - - - - THE CAMPER - - - Night neath 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 down - Through 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 keep - Watch o’er his hemlock bed--his sinless sleep. - - - - - AT HUSKING TIME - - - At husking time the tassel fades - To brown above the yellow blades, - Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn - That bursts its chrysalis in scorn - Longer to lie in prison shades. - - Among the merry lads and maids - The creaking ox-cart slowly wades - Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked and torn - At husking time. - - The prying pilot crow persuades - The flock to join in thieving raids; - The sly racoon with craft inborn - His portion steals; from plenty’s horn - His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades - At husking time. - - - - - WORKWORN - - - Across the street, an humble woman lives; - To her ’tis little fortune ever gives; - Denied the wines of life, it puzzles me - To know how she can laugh so cheerily. - This morn I listened to her softly sing, - And, marvelling what this effect could bring - I looked: twas but the presence of a child - Who passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled. - But self-encrusted, I had failed to see - The 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 wrong - Of 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 weep - Through 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 weight - Adversity 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 way - Work 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. - - - - - EASTER - - APRIL 1, 1888 - - - Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading - In her reluctant hands. - Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading, - As pensively she stands - Awaiting Easter’s benediction falling, - Like silver stars at night, - Before she can obey the summons calling - Her to her upward flight, - Awaiting Easter’s wings that she must borrow - Ere she can hope to fly-- - Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow - Against the far, blue sky. - Has not the purple of her vesture’s lining - Brought calm and rest to all? - Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining - Been naught but pleasure’s pall? - Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning - In youth’s light joyousness, - We’ll wear some rarer jewels we found burning - In Lent’s black-bordered dress. - So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers - To beg the crowning grace - Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers - The veil from April’s face. - Sweet, rosy April--laughing, sighing, waiting - Until the gateway swings, - And she and Lent can kiss between the grating - Of 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-morrow - Against the far blue sky. - - - - - ERIE WATERS - - - A dash of yellow sand, - Wind-scattered and sun-tanned; - Some waves that curl and cream along the margin of the strand; - And, creeping close to these - Long 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 play - At scurrying up with ragged edge, then laughing blow away, - Just leaving in their trail - Some snatches of a gale: - To whistling summer winds we lift a single daring sail. - - O! wind so sweet and swift, - O! danger-freighted gift - Bestowed on Erie with her waves that foam and fall and lift, - We laugh in your wild face, - And break into a race - With flying clouds and tossing gulls that weave and interlace. - - - - - THE FLIGHT OF THE CROWS - - - The autumn afternoon is dying o’er - The quiet western valley where I lie - Beneath the maples on the river shore, - Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair sky - Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by - - To seek their evening haven in the breast - And calm embrace of silence, while they sing - Te Deums to the night, invoking rest - For 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 alone - A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown. - - Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day, - Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend - With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away - With rivers where their sweeping waters wend - Past 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 led - Their aërial career unseen, unknown, - Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone? - - The flapping of their pinions in the air - Dies in the hush of distance, while they light - Within 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, rise - To unrestricted life where ebb and flow - Of 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 where - Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air. - - - - - MOONSET - - - Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs, - That waking murmur low, - As some lost melody returning stirs - The 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 night - I join your minstrelsy, - And call across the fading silver light - As something calls to me; - I may not all your meaning understand, - But I have touched your soul in shadow-land. - - - - - MARSHLANDS - - - 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. - - - - - JOE - - AN ETCHING - - - A Meadow brown; across the yonder edge - A zigzag fence is ambling; here a wedge - Of underbush has cleft its course in twain, - Till where beyond it staggers up again; - The long, grey rails stretch in a broken line - Their ragged length of rough, split forest pine, - And in their zigzag tottering have reeled - In 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 upon - The 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 brought - Some vagrant freckles, while from here and there - A few wild locks of vagabond brown hair - Escape 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 rest - His 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 load - And shambles home along the country road - That stretches on fringed out with stumps and weeds, - And finally unto the backwoods leads, - Where forests wait with giant trunk and bough - The axe of pioneer, the settler’s plough. - - - - - SHADOW RIVER - - MUSKOKA - - - A stream of tender gladness, - Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies; - Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies - In mystic rings, - Where softly swings - The music of a thousand wings - That almost tone to sadness. - - Midway twixt earth and heaven, - A bubble in the pearly air, I seem - To float upon the sapphire floor, a dream - Of clouds of snow, - Above, below, - Drift with my drifting, dim and slow, - As twilight drifts to even. - - The little fern-leaf, bending - Upon the brink, its green reflection greets, - And kisses soft the shadow that it meets - With touch so fine, - The border line - The keenest vision can’t define; - So perfect is the blending. - - The far, fir trees that cover - The brownish hills with needles green and gold, - The arching elms o’erhead, vinegrown and old, - Repictured are - Beneath me far, - Where not a ripple moves to mar - Shades underneath, or over. - - Mine is the undertone; - The beauty, strength, and power of the land - Will never stir or bend at my command; - But all the shade - Is 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 ideal - Is more my own than ever was the real. - For others Fame - And Love’s red flame, - And yellow gold: I only claim - The shadows and the dreaming. - - - - - RAINFALL - - - From out 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 hill - It 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 dash - Of great cool drops that fall with sudden splash; - - Then over field and hollow, grass and grain, - The loud, crisp whiteness of the nearing rain. - - - - - UNDER CANVAS - - IN MUSKOKA - - - 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 atmosphere - That 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 stills - Its voice so low that floating by it sings - Like distant harps among the distant hills. - - Across the lake the rugged islands lie, - Fir-crowned and grim; and further in the view - Some 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 mere - With opiates for idleness to quaff, - And while she ministers, far off I hear - The owl’s uncanny cry, the wild loon’s laugh. - - - - - THE BIRDS’ LULLABY - - - I - - Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creeping - With 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. - - - II - - 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. - - - III - - 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. - - - - - OVERLOOKED - - - 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 know - All 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 unheard - My 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 eyes - So weary grow! - O! Love, thou wanderer from Paradise, - Dost thou not know - How oft my lonely heart has cried to thee? - But Thou, and Sleep, and Peace, come not to me. - - - - - FASTING - - - ’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 rest - And leave me blest. - - Long hours since the city rocked and sung - Itself to slumber: only the stars swung - Aloft their torches in the midnight skies - With 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 feel - A presence steal. - - Within my chamber walls; I turn to see - The 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 hand - Can understand. - - And so she bends, this welcome sorceress, - To crown my fasting with her light caress. - Ah, sure my pain will vanish at the bliss - Of her warm kiss. - - But still my duty lies in self-denial; - I must refuse sweet Sleep, although the trial - Will 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 he - Has 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 strings - That in his soul with fret and fever burn, - To me return.” - - She goes. The air within the quiet street - Reverberates to the passing of her feet; - I watch her take her passage through the gloom - To your dear home. - - Belovéd, would you knew how sweet to me - Is this denial, and how fervently - I 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 miseries - Wane at the thought of your calm sleeping eyes-- - Wane, as I hear the early matin bell - The 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! - - - - - CHRISTMASTIDE - - - I may not go to-night to Bethlehem, - Nor follow star-directed ways, nor tread - The paths wherein the shepherds walked, that led - To Christ, and peace, and God’s good will to men. - - I may not hear the Herald Angels’ song - Peal through the oriental skies, nor see - The wonder of that Heavenly company - Announce 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 myrrh - With 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 waits, - To guide me on to holy Bethlehem. - - - - - CLOSE BY - - - So near at hand (our eyes o’erlooked its nearness - In search of distant things) - A dear dream lay--perchance to grow in dearness - Had we but felt its wings - Astir. The air our very breathing fanned - It 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 it - Before our pulses fired - To flame, and errant fortune bade us stand - Hand almost touching hand. - - I sometimes think had we two been discerning, - The by-path hid away - From others’ eyes had then revealed its turning - To us, nor led astray - Our footsteps, guiding us into love’s land - That 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 listen - Each for the other’s heart beat? Ah! the cry - Of love o’erlooked still lingers, you and I - Sought heaven afar, we did not understand - Twas--once so near at hand. - - - - - THE IDLERS - - - The sun’s red pulses beat, - Full prodigal of heat, - Full lavish of its lustre unrepressed; - But we have drifted far - From 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--These - Are days that only come in a Canadian July. - - So, silently we two - Lounge in our still canoe, - Nor fate, nor fortune matters to us now: - So long as we alone - May 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 might - Of 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 mine - With import firm and fine, - (I kiss the very wind that blows about your tumbled hair). - - Ah! Dear, I am unwise - In echoing your eyes - Whene’er they leave their far off gaze, and turn - To melt and blur my sight; - For every other light - Is servile to your cloud-grey eyes, wherein cloud shadows burn. - - But once the silence breaks, - But once your ardour wakes - To words that humanize this lotus-land; - So perfect and complete - Those 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 lost, - More than the homeward blowing wind that died an hour ago. - - - - - AT SUNSET - - - To-night the west o’er-brims with warmest dyes; - Its chalice overflows - With 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 float - And swoon into the west; - My ear can scarcely catch the whispered note, - But something in my breast - Blends 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 skies - Call tenderly my name; - It was as if some priestly fingers stole - In benedictions o’er my lonely soul. - - I know not why, but all my being longed - And leapt at that sweet call; - My heart outreached its arms, all passion thronged - And beat against Fate’s wall, - Crying in utter homesickness to be - Near to a heart that loves and leans to me. - - - - - PENSEROSO - - - Soulless is all humanity to me - To-night. My keenest longing is to be - Alone, alone with God’s grey earth that seems - Pulse of my pulse and consort of my dreams. - - To-night my soul desires no fellowship, - Or fellow-being; crave I but to slip - Thro’ 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 lash - Of whipping wind, but hear the torrent dash - Adown the mountain steep, twere more my choice - Than 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 soul - Athrob on mine, let seas and thunders roll - O’er night and me; sands whirl; winds, waters beat; - For God’s grey earth has no cheap counterfeit. - - - - - RE-VOYAGE - - - What of the days when we two dreamed together? - Days marvellously fair, - As lightsome as a skyward-floating feather - Sailing on summer air-- - Summer, summer, that came drifting through - Fate’s hand to me, to you. - - What of the days, my dear? I sometimes wonder - If you too wish this sky - Could 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 relive the dreaming, - Adrift in my canoe? - To watch my paddle blade all wet and gleaming - Cleaving the waters through? - To lie wind-blown and wave-caressed, until - Your restless pulse grows still? - - Do you not long to listen to the purling - Of foam athwart the keel? - To hear the nearing rapids softly swirling - Among their stones, to feel - The boat’s unsteady tremor as it braves - The wild and snarling waves? - - What need of question, what of your replying? - Oh! well I know that you - Would toss the world away to be but lying - Again in my canoe, - In listless indolence entranced and lost, - Wave-rocked, and passion-tossed. - - Ah me! my paddle failed me in the steering - Across love’s shoreless seas; - All reckless, I had ne’er a thought of fearing - Such dreary days as these, - When through the self-same rapids we dash by, - My lone canoe and I. - - - - - BRIER - -GOOD FRIDAY - - - Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm - Bends 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 to - My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now, - That these harsh hands of mine add not unto - The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow. - - - - - WAVE-WON - - - To-night I hunger so, - Belovéd one, to know - If you recall and crave again the dream - That haunted our canoe, - And wove its witchcraft through - Our hearts as neath the northern night we sailed the northern stream. - - Ah! dear, if only we - As yesternight could be - Afloat within that light and lonely shell, - To drift in silence till - Heart-hushed, and lulled and still - The moonlight through the melting air flung forth its fatal spell. - - The dusky summer night, - The path of gold and white - The moon had cast across the river’s breast, - The shores in shadows clad, - The far-away, half-sad - Sweet singing of the whip-poor-will, all soothed our souls to rest. - - You trusted I could feel, - My arm as strong as steel, - So still your upturned face, so calm your breath, - While circling eddies curled, - While laughing rapids whirled - From boulder unto boulder, till they dashed themselves to death. - - Your splendid eyes aflame - Put heaven’s stars to shame, - Your god-like head so near my lap was laid-- - My hand is burning where - It 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 grand - Wild anger, all the river lay aswoon, - And as my paddle dipped, - Thro’ pools of pearl it slipped - And swept beneath a shore of shade, beneath a velvet moon. - - To-night, again dream you - Our spirit-winged canoe - Is listening to the rapids purling past? - Where, in delirium reeled - Our maddened hearts that kneeled - To idolize the perfect world, to taste of love at last. - - - - - THE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDS - - - 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 afar - By 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 throng - To kiss their silence into song. - - Whispers freighted with odour swinging into the air, - Russet needles as censers swing to an altar, where - The angels’ songs are less divine - Than 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 found - In 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 too - Would fain sail westward unto you. - - - - - IN THE SHADOWS - - - I am sailing to the leeward, - Where the current runs to seaward - Soft and slow. - Where the sleeping river grasses - Brush my paddle as it passes - To and fro. - - On the shore the heat is shaking - All the golden sands awaking - In the cove; - And the quaint sand-piper, winging - O’er the shallows, ceases singing - When I move. - - On the water’s idle pillow - Sleeps the overhanging willow, - Green and cool; - Where the rushes lift their burnished - Oval heads from out the tarnished - Emerald 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 sweetness - Of this still September fleetness - With a sound. - - I can scarce discern the meeting - Of the shore and stream retreating, - So remote; - For the laggard river, dozing, - Only wakes from its reposing - Where I float. - - Where the river mists are rising, - All the foliage baptizing - With their spray; - There the sun gleams far and faintly, - With a shadow soft and saintly, - In its ray. - - And the perfume of some burning - Far-off brushwood, ever turning - To exhale - All 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 gliding - Down the stream. - - - - - NOCTURNE - - - Night of Mid-June, in heavy vapours dying, - Like priestly hands thy holy touch is lying - Upon the world’s wide brow; - God-like and grand all nature is commanding - The “peace that passes human understanding;” - I, also, feel it now. - - What matters it to-night, if one life treasure - I covet, is not mine! Am I to measure - The gifts of Heaven’s decree - By my desires? O! life for ever longing - For 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 fire - That 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:-- - city, great and powerful, lay under - A sky of grey and gold; - The sun outbreaking in his farewell hour, - Was scattering afar a yellow shower - Of 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 heading - A consecrated spire: - - I only saw its gleaming form uplifting, - Against the clouds of grey to seaward drifting, - And yet I surely know - Beneath 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 splendour - Thy silent wings enfold - And hush my longing, as at thy desire - All colour fades from round that far off spire, - Except its cross of gold. - - - - - MY ENGLISH LETTER - - - 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 bringing - For 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 savour - Of climes that make the Motherland so fair, - Although I never knew the blessed favour - That surely lies in breathing English air. - - Imagination’s brush before me fleeing, - Paints English pictures, though my longing eyes - Have never known the blessedness of seeing - The 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 dreams - I 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 more - To Eastward, and the same Atlantic splashes - Her wild white spray on England’s distant shore. - - Near, for the same young moon so idly swinging - Her threadlike crescent bends the self-same smile - On that old land from whence a ship is bringing - My 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 letter - That drifts into my sun-kissed Western home. - - - _Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. - _London & Edinburgh_ - - * * * * * - - List of Books - - IN - - Belles Lettres - - [Illustration: colophon] - - All the Books in this Catalogue - - are Published at Net Prices - - _1895_ [Illustration: symbol] - - _Telegraphic Address_ - _Bodleian, London_ - - * * * * * - -_1895._ - - - - List of Books - - IN - - _BELLES LETTRES_ - - (_Including some Transfers_) - - Published by John Lane - - The Bodley Head - - Vigo Street, London, W. - - -_N.B.--The Authors and Publisher reserve the right of reprinting any -book in this list if a new edition is called for, except in cases where -a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of printing a separate -edition of any of the books for America irrespective of the numbers to -which the English editions are limited. The numbers mentioned do not -include copies sent to the public libraries, nor those sent for review._ - -_Most of the books are published simultaneously in England and America, -and in many instances the names of the American publishers are -appended._ - - -[Illustration] - - -_ADAMS (FRANCIS)._ - - ESSAYS IN MODERNITY. Cr. 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - -[_Shortly._ - - _Chicago: Stone & Kimball._ - - A CHILD OF THE AGE. (_See_ KEYNOTES SERIES.) - - -_ALLEN (GRANT)._ - - THE LOWER SLOPES: A Volume of Verse. With title-page and cover - design by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 600 copies, cr. 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - - _Chicago: Stone & Kimball._ - - THE WOMAN WHO DID. (_See_ KEYNOTES SERIES.) - - -_BEARDSLEY (AUBREY)._ - - THE STORY OF VENUS AND TANNHÄUSER, in which is set forth an exact - account of the Manner of State held by Madam Venus, Goddess and - Meretrix, under the famous Hörselberg, and containing the - adventures of Tannhäuser in that place, his repentance, his - journeying to Rome, and return to the loving mountain. By AUBREY - BEARDSLEY. With 20 full-page illustrations, numerous ornaments, and - a cover from the same hand. Sq. 16mo. 10_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -_In preparation._ - - - - -_BEDDOES (T. L.)._ - - _See_ GOSSE (EDMUND). - - -_BEECHING (Rev. H. C.)._ - - IN A GARDEN: Poems. With title-page and cover design by ROGER FRY. - Cr. 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - - _New York: Macmillan & Co._ - - -_BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER)._ - - LYRICS. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5_s._ _net_. - - _New York: Macmillan & Co._ - - -_BROTHERTON (MARY)._ - - ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE. With title-page and cover design by - WALTER WEST. Fcap. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - -_CAMPBELL (GERALD)._ - - THE JONESES AND THE ASTERISKS. With six illustrations and - title-page by F. H. TOWNSEND. Fcap. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - _New York: The Merriam Co._ - - -_CASTLE (Mrs. EGERTON)._ - - MY LITTLE LADY ANNE: A Romance. Sq. 16mo. 2_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - _Philadelphia: Henry Altemus._ - - -_CASTLE (EGERTON)._ - - _See_ STEVENSON (ROBERT LOUIS). - - -_CROSS (VICTORIA)._ - - CONSUMMATION: A Novel. Cr. 8vo. 4_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - -_DALMON (C. W.)._ - - SONG FAVOURS. With a specially designed title-page. Sq. 16mo. 3_s._ - 6_d._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - _Chicago: Way & Williams._ - - -_D’ARCY (ELLA)._ - - MONOCHROMES. (_See_ KEYNOTES SERIES.) - - -_DAVIDSON (JOHN)._ - - PLAYS: An Unhistorical Pastoral; A Romantic Farce; Bruce, a - Chronicle Play; Smith, a Tragic Farce; Scaramouch in Naxos, a - Pantomime. With a frontispiece and cover design by AUBREY - BEARDSLEY. Printed at the Ballantyne Press. 500 copies, sm. 4to. - 7_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - _Chicago: Stone & Kimball._ - - FLEET STREET ECLOGUES. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5_s._ _net_. - -[_Out of print at present._ - - A RANDOM ITINERARY AND A BALLAD. With a frontispiece and title-page - by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. 600 copies. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 5_s._ - _net_. - - _Boston: Copeland & Day._ - - BALLADS AND SONGS. With title-page designed by WALTER WEST. Fourth - Edition. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5_s._ _net_. - - _Boston: Copeland & Day._ - - -_DAWE (W. CARLTON)._ - - YELLOW AND WHITE. (_See_ KEYNOTES SERIES.) - - -_DE TABLEY (LORD)._ - - POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. By JOHN LEICESTER WARREN (Lord De - Tabley). Illustrations and cover design by C. S. RICKETTS. 2nd - edition, cr. 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - _New York: Macmillan & Co._ - - -_DE TABLEY (LORD)._ - - POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. 2nd series, uniform in binding with - the former volume. Cr. 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - - _New York: Macmillan & Co._ - - -_DIX (GERTRUDE)._ - - THE GIRL FROM THE FARM. (_See_ KEYNOTES SERIES.) - - -_DOSTOIEVSKY (F.)._ - - (_See_ KEYNOTES SERIES, Vol. III.) - - -_ECHEGARAY (JOSÉ)._ - - _See_ LYNCH (HANNAH). - - -_EGERTON (GEORGE)._ - - KEYNOTES. (_See_ KEYNOTES SERIES.) - - DISCORDS. (_See_ KEYNOTES SERIES.) - - YOUNG OFEG’S DITTIES. A translation from the Swedish of OLA - HANSSON. Cr. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - _Boston: Roberts Bros._ - - -_FARR (FLORENCE)._ - - THE DANCING FAUN. (_See_ KEYNOTES SERIES.) - - -_FLETCHER (J. S.)._ - - THE WONDERFUL WAPENTAKE. By “A SON OF THE SOIL.” With 18 full-page - illustrations by J. A. SYMINGTON. Cr. 8vo. 5_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - _Chicago: A. C. McClurg & Co._ - - -_GALE (NORMAN)._ - - ORCHARD SONGS. With title-page and cover design by J. ILLINGWORTH - KAY. Fcap. 8vo. Irish Linen. 5_s._ _net_. - - Also a special edition limited in number on hand-made paper bound - in English vellum. £1 1_s._ _net_. - - _New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons._ - - -_GARNETT_ (_RICHARD_). - - POEMS. With title-page by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 350 copies, cr. 8vo. - 5_s._ _net_. - - _Boston: Copeland & Day._ - - DANTE, PETRARCH, CAMOENS. CXXIV Sonnets rendered in English. Cr. - 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - - - -_GEARY (NEVILL)._ - - A LAWYER’S WIFE: A Novel. Cr. 8vo. 4_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - - - -_GOSSE (EDMUND)._ - - THE LETTERS OF THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. Now first edited. Pott 8vo. - 5_s._ _net_. - - Also 25 copies large paper. 12_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - _New York: Macmillan & Co._ - - -_GRAHAME (KENNETH)._ - - PAGAN PAPERS: A VOLUME OF ESSAYS. With title-page by AUBREY - BEARDSLEY. Fcap. 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - - _Chicago: Stone & Kimball._ - - THE GOLDEN AGE. Cr. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - _Chicago: Stone & Kimball._ - - -_GREENE (G. A.)._ - - ITALIAN LYRISTS OF TO-DAY. Translations in the original metres from - about 35 living Italian poets with bibliographical and biographical - notes. Cr. 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - - _New York: Macmillan & Co._ - - -_GREENWOOD (FREDERICK)._ - - IMAGINATION IN DREAMS. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - - _New York: Macmillan & Co._ - - -_HAKE (T. GORDON)._ - - A SELECTION FROM HIS POEMS. Edited by Mrs. MEYNELL. With a portrait - after D. G. ROSSETTI, and a cover design by GLEESON WHITE. Cr. 8vo. - 5_s._ _net_. - - _Chicago: Stone & Kimball._ - - -_HANSSON (LAURA MARHOLM)._ - - MODERN WOMEN: Six Psychological Sketches. [SOPHIA KOVALEVSKY, - GEORGE EGERTON, ELEONORA DUSE, AMALIE SKRAM, MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, A. - EDGREN LEFFLER.] Translated from the German by HERMIONE RAMSDEN. - Cr. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - - - -_HANSSON (OLA)._ - - _See_ EGERTON. - - -_HARLAND (HENRY)._ - - GREY ROSES. (_See_ KEYNOTES SERIES.) - - -_HAYES (ALFRED)._ - - THE VALE OF ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS. With a title-page and cover - design by E. H. NEW. Fcap. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - Also 25 copies large paper. 15_s._ _net_. - - -_HEINEMANN (WILLIAM)._ - - THE FIRST STEP: A Dramatic Moment. Sm. 4to. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - -_HOPPER (NORA)._ - - BALLADS IN PROSE. With a title-page and cover by WALTER WEST. Sq. - 16mo. 5_s._ _net_. - - _Boston: Roberts Bros._ - - -_HOUSMAN (LAURENCE)._ - - GREEN ARRAS: Poems. With illustrations by the Author. Cr. 8vo. - 5_s._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - - - -_IRVING (LAURENCE)._ - - GODEFROI AND YOLANDE: A Play. With 3 illustrations by AUBREY - BEARDSLEY. Sm. 4to. 5_s._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - - - -_JAMES (W. P.)._ - - ROMANTIC PROFESSIONS: A volume of Essays. With title-page designed - by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. Cr. 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - - _New York: Macmillan & Co._ - - -_JOHNSON (LIONEL)._ - - THE ART OF THOMAS HARDY. Six Essays, with etched portrait by WM. - STRANG, and Bibliography by JOHN LANE. Second edition, cr. 8vo. - Buckram. 5_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - Also 150 copies, large paper, with proofs of the portrait. £1_s._ - 1_s._ _net_. - -_New York: Dodd, Mead & Co._ - - -_JOHNSON (PAULINE)._ - - THE WHITE WAMPUM: Poems. With title-page and cover designs by E. H. - NEW. Cr. 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - - _Boston: Lamson, Wolffe & Co._ - - -_JOHNSTONE (C. E.)._ - - BALLADS OF BOY AND BEAK. Sq. 32mo. 2_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - - - -_KEYNOTES SERIES._ - - Each volume with specially designed title-page by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. - Cr. 8vo, cloth. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -Vol. I. KEYNOTES. By GEORGE EGERTON. - -[_Seventh edition now ready._ - -Vol. II. THE DANCING FAUN. By FLORENCE FARR. - - Vol. III. POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of F. DOSTOIEVSKY - by LENA MILMAN, with a preface by GEORGE MOORE. - -Vol. IV. A CHILD OF THE AGE. By FRANCIS ADAMS. - - Vol. V. THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST LIGHT. By ARTHUR MACHEN. - -[_Second edition now ready._ - -Vol. VI. DISCORDS. By GEORGE EGERTON. - -[_Fourth edition now ready._ - -Vol. VII. PRINCE ZALESKI. By M. P. SHIEL. - -Vol. VIII. THE WOMAN WHO DID. By GRANT ALLEN. - -[_Fifteenth edition now ready._ - - Vol. IX. WOMEN’S TRAGEDIES. By H. D. LOWRY. - - Vol. X. GREY ROSES. By HENRY HARLAND. - - Vol. XI. AT THE FIRST CORNER, AND OTHER STORIES. By H. B. MARRIOTT - WATSON. - - Vol. XII. MONOCHROMES. By ELLA D’ARCY. - - Vol. XIII. AT THE RELTON ARMS. By EVELYN SHARP. - - Vol. XIV. THE GIRL FROM THE FARM. By GERTRUDE DIX. - - Vol. XV. THE MIRROR OF MUSIC. By STANLEY V. MAKOWER. - - Vol. XVI. YELLOW AND WHITE. By W. CARLTON DAWE. - - Vol. XVII. THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS. By FIONA MACLEOD. - - Vol. XVIII. THE THREE IMPOSTORS. By ARTHUR MACHEN. - -_Boston: Roberts Bros._ - -[_In preparation._ - - -_LANDER (HARRY)._ - - WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE: A Novel. Cr. 8vo. 4_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - - - -_LANG (ANDREW)._ - - _See_ STODDART. - - -_LEATHER (R. K.)._. - - VERSES. 250 copies, fcap. 8vo. 3_s._ _net_. - - _Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher._ - - -_LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD)._ - - PROSE FANCIES. With portrait of the Author by WILSON STEER. Fourth - edition, cr. 8vo, purple cloth. 5_s._ _net_. - - Also a limited large paper edition. 12_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -_New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons._ - -THE BOOK BILLS OF NARCISSUS. An account rendered by RICHARD LE -GALLIENNE. Third edition, with a new chapter and a frontispiece, cr. -8vo, purple cloth. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -Also 50 copies on large paper. 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -_New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons._ - -ENGLISH POEMS. Fourth edition, revised, cr. 8vo, purple cloth. 4_s._ -6_d._ _net_. - -_Boston: Copeland & Day._ - - GEORGE MEREDITH: some Characteristics; with a Bibliography (much - enlarged) by JOHN LANE, portrait, &c. 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Second edition, sq. 16mo, buckram. - 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - _New York: Macmillan & Co._ - - EXCURSIONS IN CRITICISM; BEING SOME PROSE RECREATIONS OF A RHYMER. - Second edition, cr. 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - - _New York: Macmillan Co._ - - THE PRINCE’S QUEST, AND OTHER POEMS. With a bibliographical note - added. Second edition, fcap. 8vo. 4_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - -_WATT (FRANCIS)._ - - THE LAW’S LUMBER ROOM. Fcap. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - - - -_WATTS (THEODORE)._ - - POEMS. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ _net_. - -[_In preparation._ - - _There will also be an_ Edition de Luxe _of this volume, printed at - the Kelmscott Press_. - - -_WELLS (H. G.)._ - - SELECT CONVERSATIONS WITH AN UNCLE, NOW EXTINCT. With a title-page - designed by F. H. TOWNSEND. Fcap. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net_. - - _New York: The Merriam Co._ - - -_WHARTON (H. T.)._ - - SAPPHO. Memoir, text, selected renderings, and a literal - translation by HENRY THORNTON WHARTON. 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