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Flint
and Feather
by
Emily Pauline Johnson
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CALGARY
OF THE PLAINS
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Not
of the seething cities with their swarming human
hives,
Their fetid airs, their reeking streets, their dwarfed
and poisoned lives,
Not of the buried yesterdays, but of the days to
be,
The glory and the gateway of the yellow West is
she.
The Northern Lights dance down her plains with soft
and silvery
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| feet,
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The
sunrise gilds her prairies when the dawn and daylight
meet;
Along her level lands the fitful southern breezes
sweep,
And beyond her western windows the sublime old mountains
sleep.
The Redman haunts her portals, and the Paleface
treads her streets,
The Indian’s stealthy footstep with the course
of commerce
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| meets, |
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And
hunters whisper vaguely of the half forgotten tales
Of phantom herds of bison lurking on her midnight
trails.
[Page
160]
Not hers the lore of olden lands, their laurels
and their bays;
But what are these, compared to one of all her perfect
days?
For naught can buy the jewel that upon her forehead
lies—
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The
cloudless sapphire Heaven of her territorial skies.
[Page
161] |
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