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diff --git a/59940-0.txt b/59940-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a2524c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/59940-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1733 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59940 *** + + + + + + + + + + + + + Rhymes of the Survey + and Frontier + + + BY + + GEORGE BLACKSTONE FIELD + + + + Toronto + William Briggs + 1911 + + + + + Copyright. Canada, 1911 + by GEORGE B. FIELD + + + + + TO + + MY FATHER + F. B. FIELD + + AND MY FRIEND + C. D. MACKINTOSH + + THE FORMER FOR HIS INTEREST + IN HIS SON'S LIFE ABROAD AND + THE LATTER FOR HIS KIND + INDULGENCE AND SYMPATHY. + + + + +"There is no more courageous body of men than +those pioneers of civilization who, taking their lives in +their hands, penetrate savage countries in the interests +of commerce, to survey and open up the land."--Cecil +Rhodes, Rhodesia. + + + + +CONTENTS + +To You Who Will Understand + +To You Who Can Never Understand + +Men of the Line + +The Breaker of the Trail + +The Rodman's Dream + +The Mustering of the Legion + +The Deserted Coast + +The Rhyme of the Rolling Stone + +My Sentinels + +The Bonnets + +The Answer + +Recalled + +Wooden Mike + +The Spectre + +Sunny Ltd. + +Unforgotten + +The Coming of the Line + +My Pal + +The Unasked Question + +The Price of the Line + +The Home Trail + +Yesterday + +The Breed + +Forever + +L'Envoi + + + + + Rhymes of the Survey and Frontier + + + + TO YOU WHO WILL UNDERSTAND + + You, who have conquered the wilderness, + You, who are building the land, + You, whom I knew in the loneliness, + To you, who will understand, + Rhymes I have rhymed of the lonely ways, + Stories I tell o'er again-- + Wandering days by the camp-fire's blaze, + Fancy and frolic and pain. + + Far in the silence I seem to see + Shadowy forms in the mist, + Moulding the key of a land to be, + Steeled to its terrors resist; + Daring it all, where the shadows fall, + Lengthening far in the night; + Answering ever to nature's call, + Turning the darkness to light. + + Many will follow, but you must lead + The way o'er the ancient clay, + Paying the price of a nation's need; + Comrades you leave by the way. + Yet in the future you see a land + Peopled and loved as a home; + Men who will listen and understand + Your work in the great alone. + + Many have judged with a judgment stern + Your pleasures, which e'en are few; + Judging, with little desire to learn, + Of trials they never knew. + Yet you have chosen, and who shall say + Your choosing was not aright; + Willing to follow the silent way, + The way of the long, long night. + + What will it matter, when comes the call + To enter the dim unknown? + What will it matter, when, after all, + You stand at the Master's throne? + Maybe I dream, but I often seem + Man's judgment to hear reversed; + "_I judge by not what you should have been, + 'Tis strange you have not been worse._" + + So have I dreamed of the long ago, + Songs have I sung to your name; + Little of fancy, to you who know, + The cost of a nation's fame; + Memories dear to the men who roam, + Brothers I knew in the land; + Leaving the judgment to you alone, + To you, who will understand. + + + + + TO YOU WHO CAN NEVER UNDERSTAND + + You've often, by your fireside, talked of people you have known, + The soldier, p'raps the doctor, or the priest; + These verses are of fellows, most of whom are never known, + On whom the limelight falls perhaps the least. + + There's many who've forgotten, in the comfort of a home, + The boys whose lives are mingled with the wild; + Who leave the surging city, model out the great alone, + To hardness, for your pleasure, reconciled. + + * * * * * * * + + When, lying in your sleeper in a first-class Pullman car, + Or musing at the table while you dine, + The train is running swiftly on without a jolt or jar, + D'you ever think of those who made the line? + + While rushing o'er the prairies, fresh with towns all newly born, + The bush, the bridge across the Torrent's fall; + And rounding mighty canyons in the hazy early morn, + Don't quite forget the boys who did it all. + + We know you bought a ticket, and you pay for all you get, + But don't you see the shadow near the pine, + Who looks at you appealingly, with face so white and set, + For duty died, your comfort on the line. + + Just turn your eyes to Westward, to the bluff that shades the creek, + The sunset's glory setting overhead; + We found him in the bushes, he'd been frozen near a week, + His life, a pioneer, the man that's dead. + + There's some who die of hunger, and there's others rave in pain; + The fever and the scurvy claim their due. + And many go to early graves, who might have gone to fame. + Just think of us while in your family pew. + + + + + MEN OF THE LINE + + Sons of the survey, sons of the wild, sons of the + prodigal son, + Chums of the lonely and ancient pine, standing + eternally dumb; + Knowing the cost of the words "To fail," staking the + way in the gloom, + Dreaming the dream in the dim unseen, daring its + ravening doom, + Men who are known by the great alone, men who are + leading the way, + Fighting the fight in the long, lone night, loving the + lure of the fray; + Reckless and careless, but ever true, men of the track + and the mine, + Carving to-day 'midst the desert's sway, their names + on the sands of time. + + Men with a home that is all in the world, men who + are fated to stay, + Roaming the West or the mighty North, building the + future to-day; + Drawing a hand when the world began, playing the + game that is set; + Plans that were born on Creation's morn, wanderers + wandering yet. + Counting the stars in the Southern cross, sweltering + deep in the Rand; + Blanketed tight in the Arctic night, brothers reclaiming + the land. + Fighting a thirst in a land accursed, bringing it + honor and fame; + Shatt'ring its curse, and its fears disperse, men who + the wilderness tame. + + Men who have chosen the lonely way, men who have + given the gift, + Living for us in the lands to come, men who are + lifting the mist; + Draining the land on a fevered strand, damming the + torrents that pour, + Leaving their brand on the desert sand, men who have + opened the door. + + Men who have ravished the wilderness, men who have + followed the trail, + Men who are sleeping the dreamless sleep, far in the + innermost pale; + Never the chant of the abbey's choir, only the wolves + in the night, + Finding a tomb in the deathless gloom, men who have + finished the fight. + + What if they're careless--are we to judge slips that + they make in the game? + If we were men of a survey crew, God help us, we'd + do the same. + What if they sin? Are we free from that: it so, let + us throw the stone, + But few are the men who have kept the ten commands + from the ancient throne. + + Men from the college or from the farm, men of the + wandering breed, + Men of the 'Varsity's honored roll, men whom the future + will need; + Men who are young, and have just begun, soon with + the wilderness blend, + Men who are grey in the work to-day, men who are + nearing the end. + + Men still living yet men who are dead, men who are + buried at home, + Living afresh in the loneliness, men who forever must + roam; + Men with a name that is not the same as once in the + days gone by, + Men who have come with a secret dumb, men who have + severed the tie. + + We who have followed the beaten track, we who have + chosen the home, + We who have never desired to stray, to fathom the + mystic zone; + Spirits who dwell in a conquered sphere, deaf to the + wandering call, + Honor the men of the wilderness, men who have given + their all. + + All for the years that are yet to come, sowers who + never will reap, + Send thro' the darkness the call of dawn, waking + eternity's sleep; + Hard in the hardness of harder things, hardness we + never have seen, + Men who have finished the Master's work, bridging the + space between. + + We, who must reap of their toil to-day, harvesting + seed they have sown, + Are we forgetting the price they paid, these heroes + we've never known? + Are we neglecting the debt we owe, the debt we can + ne'er repay, + Carelessly viewing their finished work, indifferently on + our way? + + Sons of the Survey, sons of the wild, sons of the + prodigal son, + Boys who are treading the lonely way, fellows of whom + I have sung; + Let us remember the deeds they've done, leaving + forever their name, + Lettered in gold, and the story told, for aye on the + scroll of fame. + + + + + THE BREAKER OF THE TRAIL + + (The Spirit of the Land to the Old Pioneer) + + Out of the vastness I heard a voice + That echoed from sea to sea, + Singing the song of the olden years, + The song of the years to be; + Tender and sad, as it sought its way, + Through hovel to banquet hall, + Seeking for those who would understand, + The love of the mother call. + + * * * * * * * + + I see you in turreted mansions, + My children of long ago, + I see you as derelicts drifting, + As wrecks on the rivers flow; + And I call, with a soul o'erflowing, + Forsaken, but yearning yet, + To hold you again to my bosom, + The child I can ne'er forget. + + Long have I waited for your return + As faces have come and gone, + Long have I brooded o'er silent camps, + 'Midst trails that your feet have worn: + Waiting in vain, for I see you now + Too old for the lonely trail, + And I in my sorrow must leave you, + My children, who did not fail. + + Fain would I hold you close to my breast, + My child of the vanished years, + Where is the love that is true as mine, + Mingled with sorrowing tears? + Ah, how I miss you, mid'st faces new, + True, daring, but not the same, + 'Tis you, ever you, who have left me + Alone who can soothe my pain. + + When they shall come, and shall speak your name, + In honor, amid my gloom, + Then will I fight as a she-wolf fights, + To guard them against the doom; + For you were my children before them, + Your dreams shall be theirs again, + And I, whom you followed, will cherish + The men who shall breathe your name. + + Farewell, as I leave you in sorrow, + Yet joy, for your stent is done; + Farewell, till I greet you through others + Who further your toil begun. + O'er trails where we wrought together + No more shall your footsteps wend, + But I in the silence shall wait you, + Rewarding you at the end. + + * * * * * * * + + I saw the eye that was growing dim, + Re-kindle with golden fire, + As memories wakened of long ago-- + The chords of the old desire; + I saw the figure, so bent and old, + That soon must forever fall, + Gaze wistfully thro' the vanished years, + Revering the mother call. + + She warned the ones who should seek her coasts + Of perils and shadows drear, + Of the fears undreamed that o'ershadow + The way of the pioneer; + She promised naught, but whatever + Her children had sought before, + The hunger, silence, and p'raps the grave, + Her legacies evermore. + + For the mother calls, and her sons obey, + Well knowing her love sincere, + That lures them on o'er the crag and fen, + Protecting them from the fear; + 'Tis the men who know who are faithful, + When others have cursed her trails, + That her love is but for her children, + Her anger for he who quails. + + _'Tis the mother call that lures you on, + As wanderers still you roam, + The mother call to the pioneer, + Inanimate, sad, alone; + 'Tis the mother call, and you follow + The men who have wrought and gone; + 'Tis the mother lovingly calling + The soul of her youngest born._ + + + + + THE RODMAN'S DREAM + + I dreamed that the trumpet had sounded, + The Judgment we went to on high, + By bands of the angels surrounded, + We hurried away to the sky; + Some fellows wore scared-looking faces, + And some had a wondering look, + But stood all arranged in our places, + And watched as they opened the book. + + We never had read much about it, + And seldom attended the kirk, + The judgment we heard, never doubt it, + Was, "Man should be judged by his work"; + We hadn't done much we were proud of, + Except for the road or the mine, + But Mac said, if it was allowed of, + We'd build them a heavenly line. + + The draughtsman was fitted with paper + They took from the memory book, + The transit and stand came from Peter, + Who down on the earth used to look: + The rod was supplied and a level. + With one other thing to get yet, + The chain we got loaned from the devil, + And hubs we proceeded to set. + + We hunted the children of Israel, + And ordered them out on the line, + And Aaron, with Jonah and Ishmael, + All helped us to build it on time; + We fixed up the Ark for a cookshack, + Installing the devil as cook, + We knew he could fix up the hard tack, + From reading of him in the book. + + We tore up the golden pavements, + And sighted through jasper walls, + Upsetting the angels' arrangements, + And shocking their ears with our calls. + Lot handled a back-flagging picket, + The rod Moses used at the rock, + And put a B.M. at the wicket, + Where incoming pilgrims would knock. + + Mere Eve watched, with angels beside her, + As Adam the foreman we made; + And took the Pale Horse and his rider + To drive a machine on the grade. + I've worked on the C.P. and others, + And often seen queer-looking sights; + But laughed when the Zebedee brothers + Drove mules in the heavenly heights. + + King Solomon sent us a tender, + A house for the agent to build, + And Matthew, our legal defender, + Saw specifications were filled; + We put up a gold cantilever, + O'erspanning the Valley of Rest, + And hunted up old Shalmanezar, + For laying the steel in the West. + + We worked, for we knew it depended + Where we should Eternity spend; + Our future we stoutly defended, + The line that we made at The End. + That grade never needed inspection, + Such filling we never had seen; + Pure silver and gold for a section, + With radium stuffed in between. + + We showed, when the road was completed, + Our duty we never would shirk; + And the Master who viewed it repeated: + "That man should be judged by his work." + He called up the saints of the ages, + To honor us with their esteem, + And pardoned our past-blotted pages-- + When I woke, and I found 'twas a dream. + + + + + THE MUSTERING OF THE LEGION + + (To the Legion of Frontiersmen) + + _'Twas a dream that I dreamed of to-morrow, + A shadow was cast before, + And the men who were missing had gathered + To answer the call to war. + Did ye think they were dead to the Empire? + Ah, no, though their trail is dim! + On the roll of the Legion you'll find them, + The Frontiersmen of the King._ + + I dreamed that a land was in sore distress, + I dreamed of a great review, + And the frontiersmen from across the sea + Had gathered, a motley crew; + For the word had flown to the rolling stone + That perilled was England's name; + From the North and South, to the East and West + They listened, and then they came. + + They came from the north, the Alaskan coast, + They came from the White Man's Grave, + The men of the ranch and the mounted police, + In company with the knave; + Forgetting it all at the nation's call, + Unmindful of aught beside, + They were needed there, there were none to spare, + In stemming disaster's tide. + + Not a smile was seen, as the strange array + Was mustered, and still they came + From the Southern Cross and the midnight sun, + The desert and from the plain: + They came from the mountains and Grosvenor Square, + The trapper beside the knight, + The men of the jungle and Labrador, + In eagerness for the fight. + + They came in detachments, they came alone, + They paid or they worked their way, + In moccasins, chaps, or in overalls, + The young with the old and grey: + Their law was the law of the _Forty-four_, + And grimly across the waves + They came, for the King was in need of them, + His men of the damn-fool trades. + + They came from the mist of a future dawn, + The lands of to-morrow's sun; + The lands that in exile and weariness + Had awaited the man to come. + They came from the shade of a Moslem mosque, + The desert of long ago; + These men who had welcomed the Legion's call, + Their loyalty e'en to show. + + They came from the shanty and lumber camp, + They came from a prairie shack, + The office and camp of the engineers, + The Irishman and the Mac; + They came from the land of the Golden Fleece, + And far from an Indian shore, + Obeying the word that was passed along, + The Frontiersman's call to war. + + For the call had reached, God alone knew how, + And Britons beyond the seas + Caught its wailing cry, as it passed them by, + Borne on by the evening breeze; + In the fevered zone, or the Northern home, + O'er wilderness, dark and bare, + It spoke, and its note was o'er-pregnant, + With weariness, pain, and care. + + Then I seemed to be in a land of strife, + With Britain against the wall, + Where the pride of an empire was falling + For ever beyond recall; + And the flag that had waved in its glory + Was drooping amid the gloom. + 'Twas the end, and I fancied I heard it, + The song of Britannia's doom. + + But its notes were hushed, as with, vengeance flushed, + In anger, the Legion came, + Like a surging sea, for a moment free, + Avengers of England's fame; + And the flag was saved, but the lonely graves + Recorded the price they paid, + Ere the work of the Legion was ended, + The doom of an Empire stayed. + + And, then, thro' the mist of the cordite's gloom, + I saw them return again, + But many who gathered were missing now, + And others were streaked with pain: + For the desert would grieve for her children, + The plains would resound no more + With the voices of they who were sleeping + Afar on that awful shore. + + They turned them again to the wilderness + Like shadows amid the night, + Away to the silence and lonely camp, + For ever from England's sight; + But they heard the call, and the ones to fall + Remembered throughout their pain, + When the King was in need of their service + The King had not called in vain. + + * * * * * * * + + _Would ye know them, these men of the Legion? + Then seek where the trails divide; + In the gloom they are waiting the message, + Recalling them to your side. + When the squares shall be shattered and broken. + And victory's songs are stilled, + Then the dream that I dreamed of to-morrow, + The dream shall be e'en fulfilled._ + + + + + THE DESERTED COAST + + (A Story of the Suez Canal) + + Alone, yes, alone, a deserted coast, + Though once I was lord of all; + A king, and a fear, in the Southern Sea, + To men who obeyed my call. + Yet long was my reign, and my triumphs great, + In days that are dead and gone; + And now I am waiting, my voices dumb, + A giant of my glory shorn. + + I know they are passing me in the North + By way of the great canal, + And mocking the passage around the Cape, + Where I and my victims dwell; + Forsaken, undone, but I wait my chance, + With wanderers, sorely pressed, + The ones who at last will my boundaries pass, + To fall on my waiting breast. + + Alone, but for one who will ever sail, + For aye in my mighty grasp; + The Dutchman, who, trying to round my coast, + Was felled by my raging blast; + For the story's true of the spectral crew + Who wander amid the gloom, + While my surges sing a deathless hymn, + The song of the Dutchman's doom. + + He'd a mighty ship, and he dared my wrath + With haughty contempt and pride, + And a scornful sneer, which I turned to fear + As vainly escape he tried; + Well I knew his woe, as he tried to go, + In spite of my raging storm, + With a bragging curse, which could not disperse + The fear that was in him born. + + How I drew him on, and the moonlight shone + On faces so drawn and white, + And I mocked the care that was written there + Aloud in my wild delight; + There was naught to save from my grave, + I watched them, as one by one + To my rest were borne, in the early morn, + Believing their work was done. + + Then a fancy came, for my future fame, + To tell of their deathless doom, + So I sent the ship in its ceaseless trip, + A phantom amid the gloom; + And the story's spread of the restless dead-- + They call it the ship of hell-- + But I held it fast, when the others passed + Away to the great canal. + + For the Dutchman said that, alive or dead, + He'd conquer amidst the storm, + And I've heard them tell, in the depths of hell, + Of spectres that then were born; + They with me agreed he should ne'er be freed + Till proving his reckless vow; + And he's sailing yet, with his royals set. + In anguish I see him now. + + If he knew the way of the ships to-day, + From Suez they mock me still, + If he knew the passage that men have made + His boast he could e'en fulfill. + If he knew his vow could be proven now + How gladly he'd say farewell, + But he'll never know that he's free to go + By way of the Great Canal. + + + + + THE RHYME OF THE ROLLING STONE + + "The stone that rolleth ne'er shall find + The moss, no substance make," + Was written by the prophet old, + Who words of wisdom spake; + But, shadowed 'midst its shady bed, + The stone of mossy store + Is useless for the work of man, + And rotten to the core. + + The moss the hoard, and man the stone-- + Methinks the semblance good, + And rolling stones shall find no moss, + Is wisdom understood; + But where the voice of Empire calls, + The moss is parched and dry, + And we are rolling on our way + Beneath a burning sky. + + 'Twas planned and modelled from the first, + That we should pioneer, + That we should know the hunger, and + The desert's nameless fear; + And from the East unto the West, + You find the rolling stone + Is playing still a useful part + For you, who stay at home. + + You'll find us where, in purple hue, + The shadows slant the sand, + As rivetters of Empire, we're + The fellows you have damned; + You'll find us where the Islam priest + Is chanting at the dawn, + Or throwing out the challenge, on + A crystal Arctic morn. + + You'll find us running surveys on + Creation's ragged end, + Or camping in the desert, where + The past and future blend; + We're busy building railways on + The map's deserted spot, + Or staking out an empire in + The land that God forgot. + + We haven't failed, tho' p'raps we're not + As steady as the rest, + But still we play the game that's set + The player's skill to test; + We often curse the deal that made + Us wand'rers in the land, + But not a man who's known the game + Would ever change his hand. + + So spurn ye not the polished stone + For one of mossy coat, + For some must roll the wilderness, + And some must roll afloat; + And some are making of the moss-- + Your harvest p'raps was sown + By he you brand for ever as + A useless rolling stone. + + + + + MY SENTINELS + + (The Song of the Wild) + + Rugged and dark are my paths to fame, + Shadowed by men who have gone, + Buried, but rising to point the way + To he who shall seek the dawn; + Haggard and grey, be ye not afraid, + But greet with a fearless hand + The shapes that await in the silence, + My sentinels of the land. + + Hasten their rest, be ye undismayed, + For weary and tired they be, + And long have they waited your coming, + For ever to set them free; + From a vigil long in the stillness, + To you, who are of the brand, + They call, they are waiting your answer, + These Sentinels in the land. + + Don't you hear their cry? It is pregnant + With weariness; will you go? + For theirs was the price of an Empire, + And theirs was the seed to sow; + And theirs were the dreams of a nation, + Ah, will ye not understand + That ye were begotten to follow + My Sentinels in the land! + + Will ye take the hand that they offer? + Or else will ye mock their pain? + Will ye heed the wail from the silence? + For, hark, 'tis the call again; + In the land of ages and myst'ry, + Your love they will e'er requite, + And there shall ye find of my treasure, + 'Midst Sentinels of the night. + + + + + THE BONNETS + + It takes a lot to make a world, all classes and all kinds, + But where the flag is flying now, a fellow always finds + A figure that's familiar, and a work that's ever new, + A little Army bonnet and a uniform of blue. + + We've toughed it in the Yukon, and we've surveyed o'er the plain, + And been where easy comfort is a thing you'd seek in vain, + But ever where the hardest was, we'd see the worker true, + A little Army bonnet and a uniform of blue. + + 'Way up on old Bonanza, ere we surveyed out the line, + Where hell was throned in glory, ruby lights and devil's wine, + There stood a sacred cottage, and a home it was for two, + Two little Army bonnets and the uniforms of blue. + + They didn't have a fancy church, with organ and a choir, + And didn't always talk about the judgment and the fire, + But, seeking out the worst that were, they started them anew + To climb the ladder where they fell, those angels dressed in blue. + + It wasn't long before we saw a change was taking place, + And brutish looks were vanishing from many a hardened face, + And seeds were planted deep in hell, which up to heaven grew, + By little Army bonnets in Salvation Army blue. + + We play the game and never tame, and never settle down, + And on our many weaknesses our better brothers frown, + Although we seldom read the Book, we know it must be true, + For once we met its angels, _in a uniform of blue_. + + + + + THE ANSWER + + Have you ever cursed at the Master's work, when life's + been a sort of hell? + If so, then perhaps you will understand the story I'm + going to tell; + There are chaps you know who have never seen the + edge of a thing called life, + And have never known of the challenge thrown in the + darkness of the strife. + + There's a land we knew in the days of old, when we + trudged the wilderness, + 'Twas the land of pain, with the brand of Cain, the + home of the loneliness; + We had cursed it oft with the blackest curse, a + reckless and godless lot, + And headed our letters for going home, "the country + that God forgot." + + We had all been out since the early Spring, and things + had been going wrong, + And it seemed misfortune had dogged our trail each + day, as it dragged along; + It appeared to be as an alien land, forsaken by God + and man, + Till we heard the voice of the one who gave it birth + when the world began. + + We had cursed that day more than e'er before, as + fellows in anger do, + And a storm that gathered above us broke, soaking us + through and through; + As we tramped it back to the lonely camp, it seemed + that place was banned, + And Brown with an awful curse had said "The devil + controls the land." + + Then the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed, + with its wondrous lurid glow, + And we who had challenged the wilderness wandered + the earth below. + It seemed that a message was from above, the + knowledge of endless things, + The power that quickens the soul of man, and models + the hearts of kings. + + I remember as though 'twere yesterday, the lesson we + learnt that night, + The answer that broke on our startled ears, the voice + from the riven height. + The God we had challenged with angry words was + guarding and watching yet, + And loving the wilderness we had cursed, the God who + could not forget. + + He knew of the lonely location crew, away in the + shadowed past, + He knew of the road we had come to build, reserving + it to the last. + He knew we would say He had long forgot the arid + and thirsty land, + But spoke from the heavens that night to show 'twas + even as He had planned. + + + + + RECALLED + + Where the mountains rise in splendour, + And the shadows darkly fall, + And the torrent rushes o'er the silent glen, + Where the coyote's bark is wailing + With its never-ending call, + How I miss my home among the lonely men. + + Left it all because they called me, + Left it all a year ago. + Tried to think the things of home could satisfy. + Changed the silence for the glitter + Of a city's empty glow. + Tried to crush my soul of things that never die. + + Things that were and ever shall be, + Things that never, never change. + Things that men I see around can never know. + Things I know and love for ever, + Thro' my wand'ring vision range, + Things that whisper in the silence "You must go." + + You who've never heard them calling, + Pleading voices in the night,-- + You who've never known the challenge of the wild, + Cannot know the aching longing + For the freedom and the fight + When the loneliness is calling for her child. + + There's a trail that lies a-waiting + In a dim and aged land. + There are monuments unbuilded in the gloom. + There are epitaphs unwritten, + Sleeping men who understand, + There's a challenge, there's a fight against the doom. + + When the wild is closing on you, + And defiance you have hurled, + And the trail is fading dimly in the night, + As the mystic lights are dancing + On the frontier of the world + You are fighting grim and silent for your life. + + When you're staking on the limit + With a hope that's nearly gone, + Then you grit your teeth and bluff the wild again, + Till you see the lights a-gleaming + In the coulee thro' the storm, + And you shout a mocking triumph thro' your pain. + + There's an awful, awful stillness, + There's a something, God knows what. + There's a recklessness that, born, can never die. + There's a voice you try to silence + Of the thing that once you sought, + There's a longing in your heart you can't deny. + + Far away amid the shadows + Of the future and the past, + Where the Mother waits the breaking of the day + When her lands shall rise in splendour + And her love be known at last, + She is calling, and I know I must obey. + + + + + WOODEN MIKE + + (The Rhyme of the Old Cook) + + There are things you dream, + And they often seem + To have happened real and true, + And the story which + I am going to pitch + He told while he stirred the stew. + He had got his name + When at first he came + To cook on a grading pike, + He had just one leg + And a lumber peg, + So they called him Wooden Mike. + + The things he had done + With his traps and gun, + Were wonderful to relate. + But strangest of all + Was once in the fall, + This story I heard him state. + He had gone that fall, + At an urgent call, + To cook for a lumber firm, + Where he worked so quick + That he had to lick + His hands so they wouldn't burn. + + When he fried the cakes, + That a fellow makes + For breakfast, the griddle style, + To have worked the way + That they do to-day + Would have taken quite awhile. + So he hired a man + For to grease the pan, + Its size would be hard to beat; + And the guy would skate + Right across the plate + With bacon rinds on his feet. + + Now I wondered much + As I thought of such, + And asked him about the fire; + The amount it took + For the stuff to cook, + The fuel that it would require. + So he scratched his head + As he quietly said + The amount he'd clean forgot, + But he understood + That he used more wood + Than ever the comp'ny got. + + When he made his pie + He would never try + To finish them one by one; + With an oven large + As a young garage, + The baking was quickly done. + With his pies all lined, + And the man behind, + They close to the oven drew, + He would throw the pie + To the other guy, + Which baked as it travelled through. + + He'd a cycle path + That was made of lath + Where the men at dinner sat, + And the waiter rode + With a ready load + Of eatables on his back. + He was soaked with grease, + But he couldn't cease, + For washing to think about, + So he lined his bunk + With some sandy junk + To keep him from slipping out. + + He had lost his leg, + While at sea he said-- + Got wrecked on a desert isle, + Where the cannibals, + And the animals + Had given themselves the bile. + They had tried to eat + Some of Mike's own meat, + And one of his legs prepared, + But they found the stuff + Was exceeding tough, + So that's why his life was spared. + + * * * * * * * * + + Now I don't ask you. + To believe it's true, + For Mike was a bad old man. + I with him agreed, + For to get a feed, + Believing it like a lamb. + + + + + THE SPECTRE + + _They call it the Prairie Madness. + Be-ware as you enter its lair, + For many have started in gladness. + But few can the loneliness bear._ + + * * * * * * * * + + Desolate, lonely, forsaken, deserted for many a year, + The joy of a soul in its building, with its hopes, lie + buried here; + For the grim old shack has a story that few but the + winds ever know, + The man who lived for its building, the man who was + wrecked in its woe. + + Bringing his logs from the mountain, toting them + over the plain, + Never a thought of his danger, smiling again and again, + Thinking of her who would help him, watching his + work as it grew, + Speaking aloud in the silence the things that he meant + to do. + + Fretting alone through the winter, planning his plans all anew, + Wondering why in the silence shapes in his memory grew. + Trying to crush out the Spectre, still by his side it would lurk, + Humming the snatch of a chorus, hymns he had sung in the Kirk. + + Cooking his sol-a-try supper, dreaming of days that should come; + Love that his soul could not utter held him unspeakably dumb, + Trying to pierce through the shadows, oft that would darken + his brain, + Laughing because of the fancies, following on in their train. + + Working alone for the future, thinking his waiting was o'er; + Sending for her o'er the ocean, welcoming her at the door; + Cursing the mists all around him, gleefully hemming him in; + Sneaking his way round a corner, grinning the maniac's grin. + + Taken one morn by the Sheriff, cursing and raving and wild, + Songs he had sung in his schooldays, prayers he had learned + as a child, + Raving of her who awaited his message from over the sea, + Living a death in the darkness, never again to be free. + + _Far in the heart of a city, waiting a message in vain, + Asking each day of the postman, lining her forehead with pain, + Wondering why he had left her, drooping each day as it passed, + Carried one morn to the churchyard, knowing the answer at last._ + + + + + SUNNY LTD. + + Funny a fellow always sees, wherever he may stray, + The same old sun his people see, some thousand miles away. + Pity a genius can't invent--the thing would surely pay-- + A rapid transit vehicle attached to Solly's ray. + + Many a plunger would be found who'd organize the scheme, + For travelling would be quicker far than "twenty per" by steam. + It's just a fancy, but to me it seems the missing link, + To couple up the hemispheres, of which they never think. + + Professors think of radium, and devil-wagon things, + A washer that the clothing automatically wrings. + I offer this suggestion, it's a winner barring none-- + A thousand miles a minute _with a trailer on the Sun_. + + + + + UNFORGOTTEN + + Dreamer of yesterday, sleep thy sleep; + Rest, for thy stent is done! + Sower of seed, though not thine to reap-- + Harvest of years to come. + Hear us from far in Rhodesia's hills, + Echoing round Groote Schur. + Treading to-day the united way, + Briton beside the Boer. + + Rhodes, thou art sleeping, but dost thou know + Thine is a dream fulfilled? + Briton and Boer to the end shall go, + Brothers as thou hast willed. + Thine was the strife, but the sun has set + On mis'ry, hate and war; + Ours to forget and as comrades trek, + One nation for evermore. + + + + + THE COMING OF THE LINE + + 'Twas only the land when we saw it, + Unfettered, unharnessed and free, + Awaiting the will of the Master, + Who the future alone could see. + Long before ere the cold Egyptian + Had fashioned the Sphinx in the East, + Growing old ere the death of Adam, + And the flood on the Earth had ceased. + + Which survived through Jehovah's vengeance, + When the glaciers crashed and roared. + The chosen of earth in their dwelling + High over the mountain soared. + It welcomed the dove with an olive, + The herald of peace in the land, + And succored the few as a parent, + God's few from a dissolute band. + + Knowing nought of the fall of kingdoms + And palaces razed to the dust, + But awaiting through endless ages + The future with infinite trust. + Well knowing afar in the future + Were men who its beauty should see; + The men who would honor its waiting, + The men who as brothers would be. + + And knew when the Pole was a comrade, + Instead of a luring den + That guarded its mighty secret + Away from the eyes of men; + Which beckoned the brave when they sought it, + Alluring them on to their doom; + To mock them, their quest unaccomplished, + Deserting them far in the gloom. + + But welcomed the few when it saw us, + And glad that its waiting had passed. + By yielding itself to our moulding; + The first of the lands and the last. + And broke, with the song of its freedom, + The silence that long held it dumb: + "I've waited and waited and waited! + The men I awaited have come!" + + It told us of those who before us + Had sought it, abusing its trust. + But knowing the Maker's decision, + Had levelled them, dust to the dust. + And knew through the ages of dreaming, + The day we its silence should end. + Give us, as a bride to her husband, + Her honor to love and defend. + + It knew we would shatter its secret, + Forever its beauty would blight; + But knew that the promise was given, + "At evening it shall be light." + And after the ages of waiting, + Surrendered itself to our hands + To fall as a child in the making, + To rise as a king in the lands. + + Accepting the trust that it gave us, + And doing our best to fulfill + The plans that were laid in Creation, + Obeying the Master's will. + We gave it the child of its fancy, + Instructions we took at its hand. + The line we surveyed in location, + The track that we built in the land. + + Some say that the end is approaching, + The desert shall bloom as the rose; + And back it with sundry quotations, + Selected from Biblical prose. + So we further Creation's purpose, + The eve of Eternity's dawn + When the Master shall say "It is finished," + And Gabriel blows his horn. + + + + + MY PAL + + The Rhyme of the Old Pioneer + + You're old and you're dirty, I know. + You've laid in the mud and the snow. + Were you ever so old, + And whatever the cold, + Your dirt had a treasure below. + + When grub and the water was low, + You'd ever your faithfulness show. + And you'd never complain, + When again and again + The blizzards would over us blow. + + We've travelled together, I've said; + You've followed wherever I've led. + And you never have failed, + On the path we have trailed, + My dirty old comf'table bed. + + + + + THE UNASKED QUESTION + + We ask them "When?" and "Where?" but + never "Why?" + + In the land of new beginnings, there's a question never asked, + There are reasons into which we never pry. + Silent men who seek our friendship with a page forever passed, + They have come, we never seek to ask them "Why?" + + They have come, and why, no matter, they have come, + 'tis all we ask, + Where the fences fade from view we take their hand. + Vessels marred within the moulding, men we turn + them out at last, + Hard and daring, sealed forever with the brand. + + Some have drunk the dregs of pleasure, some have + stroked a winning eight-- + Drifting derelicts, they seek the lonely way. + One by one they swell the number, one by one, the toys + of fate + One by one ye knew them once--'twas yesterday. + + We are men of many nations, but what matter blood or creed + When you're packing o'er a wilderness of snow? + Brothers e'en as God has made us, wanderers, 'twas so decreed, + Brothers, builders, in the lands of long ago. + + Some have spent the long vacation, some have come to + ne'er return; + Saint and sinner, fool and felon, rich or poor, + Seek the world's deserted places and the lessons there + to learn, + In the land of new beginnings evermore. + + Hard as hell, yet sweet as heaven, cursed by those who + love it best, + Grim, unyielding in its law, the law of man, + Some have said good-bye forever, shrinking e'en before + the test, + Others stay and learn to love and understand. + + We are parted for a season--in that season one has gone + For to sit beneath the upper chamber's dome. + Why he came is still his secret, but the man in him + was born + As he sought and trailed with us the great alone. + + He's the goal of seeking mammas, he's the idol of the fair, + With his past transgressions buried out of sight. + He's forgot his beans and bacon in a theatre supper's glare, + And his days he's mostly living in the night. + + Still we took him as a comrade, asking nothing, judging less, + One of many whom you send us o'er the foam. + O'er the singing sands of Egypt, to the Northland's icy breast, + In the lonely lands the past to e'en atone. + + So we never ask them questions, for the story's e'er the same, + But before the dying campfire's dusky glow + In the silence they have told us how they played and + lost the game; + Why remember? E'en forget, 'twas long ago. + + + + + THE PRICE OF THE LINE + + Only three and a starving dog, surveying, my God! my God! + And all the rest who had started were lying beneath the sod. + All gone but three, the three of us, it couldn't be very long + Before the wild would sing again its cursedly mocking song. + + It seemed as though we once had dreamed of the + careless survey crew + Who started in the summertime with cares that are ever few-- + The reckless men who tame the wild, encamping around its throne; + We tried to think, but gave it up and waited the end alone. + + We struggled when at first it came, the foe that had + dogged our trail; + But struggling turned to weariness; we knew that we + soon must fail. + The very atmosphere seemed full of death in its every form, + And one by one the fellows to Eternity's rest were borne. + + A teamster started back for help; we wondered it never came. + Found frozen in the wilderness, his horses had fallen lame. + The wolves or devil's imps from hell had scented him + in his plight; + Watching him far in the silence, fighting his desperate fight. + + Young Johnson was the first to go; we buried him by the hill, + Farewelling to endless silence, the boy lying quiet and still. + The first, I said! God in Heaven, how many have gone + since then! + An axeman made the number nine, the transitman made it ten. + + With caches burned and water bad, and fever upon our trail, + We tried to return ere winter would grip us within the veil. + Wondering who was selected, soon to have yielded the price, + The price of a nation's comfort, a deal with the loaded dice. + + At last 'twas only Joe and me with Cromarty and the pup, + With faces soft as putty and a hope we had given up. + I thought of Green whom we'd never seen since starting + away for help, + And wondered if our bones they'd find in Spring when + the snow should melt. + + When at last we could fight no more, blinded and + fevered and ill, + Envying little Johnson, who was sleeping beside the hill, + We stretched our hands and tried to speak; forever + good-bye we said, + Surrendering to the wilderness, and praying we'd soon be dead. + + Looking back over all the years, it seemed that I died that night, + Leaving the silence and anguish, the moon that was shining bright. + Found by an Indian trapper, cared for by hearts that were true, + Wresting us far from the shadow, nursed by the squaws + of the Sioux. + + Sitting to-day in a smoker, viewing the oldest survey, + Don't feel inclined to discredit things I have tried to portray. + God only knows of the hardness, blizzards that robbed + us of sight, + Stumbling on with an effort, turning the day into night. + + This is the story of fellows lying afar in the gloom, + The fellows who never faltered, e'en on the edge of the doom. + Trying to smile through the fever, knowing the finish + had come; + Giving their lives in the service, losing the fight they + had won. + + + + + THE HOME TRAIL + + _When you've tired of trails and treasure, + Drunk the dregs of pain and pleasure, + And you're camped beside the firelight all alone. + Have you heard the voices murm'ring + Things that set your soul a-yearning, + Looked a-slantways at the trail and dreamed of home? + Have you seemed to see the faces, + Midst the awful lonely places, + Of the ones you love the best grow sad and old, + Who have waited, prayed and trusted, + While you've sought and fought and lusted + For the tinselled, luring treasure men call gold?_ + + Gold you've sought, and gold you've squandered, + As the world your feet have wandered, + While your folks in nightly rev'rence breathed your name. + Now you seem to hear them speaking, + "Father, safe into Thy keeping, + Take our boy, and bring him safely home again." + As you dream, the vision's alt'ring, + And you see a figure falt'ring + To the rustic gate where last you said goodbye. + Patient eyes the years are dimming, + Through your soul her cry is ringing, + "Oh, my boy, just once again before I die!" + + Through the mist of mem'ry's waking + Things you've long forgot are breaking, + Scenes reflected in the campfire's lonely glow. + As you curse the lonely places, + Long for old familiar faces, + In the world you left a wand'rer long ago. + Calling: "Leave it all behind you, + Snap the lonely thongs that bind you, + They are waiting in the village o'er the foam."-- + Ghostly voices softly murm'ring, + As from wilderness you're turning, + And your snowshoes print the backward trail for home. + + 'Twas a dream, but now you're speeding, + For you've heard the whispered pleading, + And all else is fading far into the gloom. + With your pulses madly throbbing, + "Mother, don't, ah, don't be sobbing, + I've remembered, and I'm coming to you soon." + Trail by day, far in the twilight, + Camping, still, beneath the starlight, + Leaving far behind a dim and lonely land, + Till you see the white cliffs gleaming, + Where it's home, and past the dreaming, + As you watch the wavelets breaking on the sand. + + As you see the ivy clinging, + Hear the robin-redbreast singing, + And the land you left is still the same to-day; + Midst the scenes you've dreamed of often, + As the whisp'ring breezes soften, + For a moment desp'rate years are rolled away. + While the crimson sun is setting, + Trails and hardness you're forgetting, + For beside the rose-wreathed cottage on the hill, + 'Neath the locks that years are whit'ning + Loving eyes are softly bright'ning, + In the home land there's a welcome for you still. + + _P'r'aps you know that back you'll wander, + To the lone land over yonder, + In the birth of nations still a part you'll play. + And perhaps be glad to listen, + When the voice demands submission, + Turn again and wander exiled on your way. + But you catch a whispered murm'ring, + "Dad, thank God our boy's returning," + Closely clasp the feeble figures to your breast. + God, it's all that really matters, + And her voice the fancy shatters, + For the trail has led you home, a-while to rest._ + + + + + YESTERDAY + + There's a land we knew in the days gone by, + And builded our castles there. + There are trails we trod in the dawning light, + With never a thought of care. + There were dreams we dreamed, there were plans we planned. + But lingered upon our way. + As we trod midst a halo of glory + The morning of yesterday. + + For our hearts were light, and the way was bright, + What matter the day was long. + Cloudless years were ours, and the shady bowers + Re-echoed our blithesome song. + At the warning cry, as they passed us by, + We mocked, for our hearts were gay-- + Solemn plodders who passed us at noontide, + The noontide of yesterday. + + Did we linger long, ah, 'twas sweet to do + To-morrow, we said with pride. + For the way was steep, and we laid to sleep + And dream where the trails divide. + But the sun was low, as we rose to go, + And ah, it was cold and grey, + While the shadows of even were falling-- + The evening of yesterday. + + For the land of dreams is the long ago, + Where shadowy phantoms tread + Of a task undone and a prize unwon, + The gift that at noonday fled. + Though we turn again to its sunlit plain, + The glories are dimmed for aye, + And our castles are mingled with ashes. + The ashes of yesterday. + + + + + THE BREED + + (A Song of the Brand) + + _They who bear the brand of the lonely land + Must follow its lonely way + Through the long, long night, till the dawning light + Shall herald the break of day. + Cross the Arctic snows, where the north wind blows, + Or parched 'neath a burning sky, + To a call that was theirs since creation + They answer and know not why._ + + I chain with the fetters that bind the soul, + I link with the links of time + And speak ere the cradle shall yield its child; + I claim thee and thou art mine. + From palatial pomp to the reeking slum, + Midst classes and kinds I roam. + And I trust to their keeping mine honour, + Midst trails of the great alone. + + How they smile with joy o'er the baby boy, + And plan him a future grand. + But I watch unseen, as I stand between, + To letter him with the brand. + Then I creep away to await the day + When idols and hopes shall fall, + And a wanderer turns to the desert, + Obeying my deathless call. + + There are those who try to my power deny, + Defying my ancient law. + Who would e'en be free, as they turn to flee + Again to the paths of yore. + As I watch them go, in my heart I know + 'Tis but to return again. + For the things that are, and the things that were + To them are no more the same. + + They are mine for aye till their bones decay, + And others shall fill their trail. + They are mine to seek by the gorge and creek, + The South, or the Northland's veil. + They are mine to live, they are mine to die, + Predestined by fate's decree + To a choice that is not of their choosing, + Yet willing my sons to be. + + For the seed is sown and they e'en must roam + My boundaries wild and wide + Till I bid them rest from an endless quest, + And sleep where the trails divide. + In the nameless graves where the big grass waves + And shadows of empire fall + They are sleeping the sleep of the ages, + Awaiting the last great call. + + _'Twas so at the first, 'twill be to the last, + The wanderer still must roam. + For the fates decreed that the gypsy breed + Forever must trail alone. + In the silent land by the lonely fire, + Midst wilderness old and grey, + They are blending with dreams of to-morrow + "What might have been" yesterday._ + + + + + FOREVER + + Do I dream, dear love, of the years that live + In memory's sacred bower? + Do I vision again in the twilight, + Midst quiet of the evening hour, + That I hold you close as in days that fled, + And whisper "Dear love, dear love," + While I fancy you murmur "Forever," + My girl, from your home above? + + Do I speak to you vainly, my darling, + And fancy I see you yet? + Do I dream, as the shadows are falling. + Of words I can ne'er forget? + Do I cling to a hope that was broken, + The wreck of what might have been: + Then, my darling, may God in His mercy + Forever just let me dream. + + + + + L'ENVOI + + And now to you whose story I have vainly tried to tell, + With lisping tongue and faltering pen, wherever you may dwell, + O'ershadowed by the Southern Cross, or camping in the wild, + The fellows who the city's rush and cares have ne'er defiled. + + In weary lands I've seemed to roam again as yesterday, + And pierced the shadowed silence of the fallen in the fray. + O'er coulee, camp and mountain trail, I've dreamed + with strange delight + And known again the wilderness, the hunger and the night. + + You've known the luring of the East, the Himalayan Heights, + You've known the fevered Gold Coast, or the mystic + Northern Lights. + You've played the game without the gain, but love the + tie that binds, + The God above, the loneliness, ye makers of the lines. + + I've spoken of the ones who pay, a grave out in the plain; + You tread the path they all have trod, and follow in their train; + From Egypt and the Upper Nile, to where the Rockies stand, + You've seen it all, you've heard the call, to civilize the land. + + I bid farewell, for I have known, or seemed to for a spell, + Your faces in the wilderness, I seem to know you well; + I stretch again an eager hand to you, both far and near, + And thank you with a nation's thanks--the Civil Engineer. + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rhymes of the Survey and Frontier, by +George Blackstone Field + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59940 *** |