|
|
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,
|
5 |
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;
|
10 |
Least,
to the puny tribe his soul abhors,
The tribe whose wigwams sprinkle Simcoe’s
shores.
With scowling brow he stoically stands by,
Watching, with haughty and defiant eye,
His captors, as they counsel o’er his fate,
|
15 |
Or
strive his boldness to intimidate.
Then fling they unto him the choice: [Page
161]
|
|
| |
“Wilt thou |
|
Walk
o’er the bed of fire that waits thee now—
Walk with uncovered feet upon the coals
Till thou dost reach the ghostly Land of Souls,
|
20 |
And
with they Mohawk death-song please our ear?
Or wilt thou with the women rest thee here?
His eyes flash like the eagle’s, and his hands
Clench at the insult. Like a god he stands.
“Prepare the fire!” he scornfully demands.
|
25 |
He knoweth not that soon this 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
|
30 |
By
Iroquois swift to annihilate
His vile, detested captors that now flaunt
Their war-clubs in his face with sneer and taunt,
Nor thinking soon that reeking, red and raw,
Their scalps will deck the belts of Iroquois.
|
35 |
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 fierce war-song—
Sings as he sang when once he used to roam
|
40 |
Throughout
the forests of his southern home, [Page
162]
Where down the Genesee the water roars,
Where gentle Mohawk purls atween its shores,—
Songs that of exploits and of prowess tell,—
Songs of the Iroquois invincible.
|
45 |
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
|
50 |
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 sounds
His voice, that leaps to Happier Hunting Grounds,
|
55 |
One
savage yell—
Then,
loyal to his race,
He bends to death—but never to disgrace.
|
|
—E. PAULINE JOHNSON.
[Page 163]
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
Webs
of silver, spun in the twilight’s travail,
Spring into sight when the
orange rim has pass’d;
Silver webs that a diamond dew-world spangles,
Webs of crystal glittering at glowing angles
Flash into flame at the
zenith, rosily massed;
|
5 |
Crowns of silver, colossal, shining, mighty,
Serenely set upon brows,
straight, bright, and bland;
Girdles that grace a priestess high in the azure,
Zones that encircle a queen in her safe embrasure,
Gleam on the verge of midnight’s
velvet strand;
|
10 |
Shields of silver, studded with fires of topaz,
Harps that are silver-strung,
rimm’d pure with pearls;
Rapiers rich with gems that the gloom encrusteth,
Scythes and scabbards that never a wet moon rusteth,
Wheels of gold that a tireless
helmsman twirls;
|
15 |
Sails of silver, spread to the silent ether,
Ships of state that ride
with a burnished keel;
Galleys grand that sparkle to magic measure,
Dipping divinely down in a radiant pleasure,
Hulls of gold that round
with the star-worlds wheel—[Page 164]
|
20 |
All go by—sails, shields, crowns, gems and
girdles.
Hearken the ring of the
mighty silvern chains!
Hearken the clang and the clash, the reverberations,
The golden din, as the shining constellations
Slowly swing and sink to
the dusky plains!
|
|
—S. FRANCES HARRISON.
(Seranus).
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
Where
close the curving mountains drew,
To clasp the stream in their
embrace,
With every outline, curve, and hue
Reflected in its placid
face,
The ploughman stopped his team to watch
|
5 |
The
train, as swift it thundered by;
Some distant glimpse of life to catch,
He strains his eager, wistful
eye.
The morning freshness lies on him,
Just wakened from his balmy
dreams;
|
10 |
The
travellers, begrimed and dim,
Think longingly of mountain
streams. [Page 165]
Oh, for the joyous mountain air,
The fresh, delightful autumn
day
Among the hills! The ploughman there
|
15 |
Must
have perpetual holiday!
And he, as all day long he guides
His steady plough, with
patient hand,
Thinks of the flying train that glides
Into some new, enchanted
land,
|
20 |
Where, day by day, no plodding round
Wearies the frame and dulls
the mind—
Where life thrills keen to sight and sound,
With ploughs and furrows
left behind.
Even so, to each the untrod ways
|
25 |
Of
life are touched by fancy’s glow,
That ever sheds its brightest rays
Upon the path we do not
know.
|
|
—AGNES MAULE MACHAR.
(Fidelis).
[Page 166]
|
|
—————
|
|
| |
|
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
|
5 |
Fate’s
hand to me and 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;
|
10 |
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
|
15 |
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?
|
20 |
To
hear the nearing rapids softly swirling [Page
167]
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?
|
25 |
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.
|
30 |
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,
|
35 |
| My
lone canoe and I. |
|
—E. PAULINE JOHNSON.
[Page 168]
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
The
wind of death, that softly blows
The last warm petal from the rose,
The last dry leaf from off the tree,
To-night has come to breathe on me.
There was a time I learned to hate
|
5 |
As
weaker mortals learn to love;
The passion held me fixed as fate,
Burned in my veins early and late;
But now a wind falls from
above—
The wind of death, that silently
|
10 |
Enshroudeth
friend and enemy!
There was a time my soul was thrilled
By keen ambition’s
whip and spur;
My master forced me where he willed,
And with his power my life was filled,
|
15 |
But
now the old-time pulses stir
How faintly in the wind of death,
That bloweth lightly as a breath! [Page
169]
And once, but once, at Love’s dear feet,
I yielded strength, and
life, and heart;
|
20 |
His
look turned bitter into sweet,
His smile made all the world complete;
The wind blows loves like
leaves apart—
The wind of death, that tenderly
Is blowing ’twixt my love and me.
|
25 |
O wind of death, that darkly blows
Each separate ship of human woes
Far out on a mysterious sea,
I turn, I turn my face to thee.
|
|
—ETHELWYN WETHERALD.
[Page 170]
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
I
stand within the stony, arid town,
I gaze for ever on the narrow
street;
I hear for ever passing up and down,
The ceaseless tramp of feet.
I know no brotherhood with far-lock’d woods,
|
5 |
Where
branches bourgeon from a kindred sap;
Where o’er moss’d roots, in cool, green
solitudes,
Small silver brooklets lap.
No em’rald vines creep wistfully to me
And lay their tender fingers
on my bark;
|
10 |
High
may I toss my boughs, yet never see
Dawn’s first most
glorious spark.
When to and fro my branches wave and sway,
Answ’ring the feeble
wind that faintly calls,
They kiss no kindred boughs, but touch alway
|
15 |
The
stones of climbing walls.
My heart is never pierc’d with song of bird;
My leaves know nothing of
that glad unrest
Which makes a flutter in the still woods heard,
When wild birds build a
nest. [Page 171]
|
20 |
There never glance the eyes of violets up,
Blue, into the deep splendour
of my green:
Nor falls the sunlight to the primrose cup
My quivering leaves between.
Not mine, not mine to turn from soft delight
|
25 |
Of
woodbine breathings, honey sweet, and warm;
With kin embattl’d rear my glorious height
To greet the coming storm!
Not mine to watch across the free, broad plains
The whirl of stormy cohorts
sweeping fast;
|
30 |
The
level, silver lances of great rains
Blown onward by the blast.
Not mine the clamouring tempest to defy,
Tossing the proud crest
of my dusky leaves:
Defender of small flowers that trembling lie
|
35 |
Against
my barky greaves.
Not mine to watch the wild swan drift above,
Balanced on wings that could
not choose between
The wooing sky, blue as the eye of love,
And my own tender green. |
40 |
And yet my branches spread, a kingly sight,
In the close prison of the
drooping air: [Page 172]
When sun-vex’d noons are at their fiery height,
My shade is broad, and there
Come city toilers, who their hour of ease
|
45 |
Weave
out to precious seconds as they lie
Pillow’d on horny hands, to hear the breeze
Through my great branches
die.
I see no flowers, but as the children race
With noise and clamour through
the dusty street,
|
50 |
I
see the bud of many an angel face—
I hear their merry feet.
No violets look up, but shy and grave,
The children pause and lift
their crystal eyes
To where my emerald branches call and wave—
|
55 |
| As
to the mystic skies. |
|
—ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD.
[Page 173]
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
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.
|
5 |
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
|
10 |
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.
|
|
—E. PAULINE JOHNSON.
[Page 174]
|
|
—————
|
|
Drifting Among The Thousand Islands.
|
|
Never
a ripple upon the river,
As it lies like a mirror,
beneath the moon,
—Only the shadows tremble and quiver,
’Neath the balmy breath
of a night in June!
All dark and silent, each shadowy island
|
5 |
Like
a silhouette lies on its silver ground,
While, just above us, a rocky highland
Towers, grim and dusk, with
its pine-trees crowned.
Never a sound save the wave’s soft plashing,
As the boat drifts idly
the shore along,—
|
10 |
And
the darting fire-flies, silently flashing,
Gleam, living diamonds,
the woods among;
And the night-hawk flits o’er the bay’s
deep bosom,
And the loon’s laugh
breaks through the midnight calm,
And the luscious breath of the wild vine’s
blossom
|
15 |
Wafts
from the rocks like a tide of balm.
—Drifting! Why may we not drift forever?
Let all the world and its
worries go!
Let us float and float with the flowing river,
Whither—we neither
care nor know! [Page 175]
|
20 |
Dreaming a dream, might we ne’er awaken;
There is no joy enough in
this passive bliss,—
The wrestling crowd and its cares forsaken,—
Was ever Nirvana more blest
than this?
Nay! but our hearts are ever lifting
|
25 |
The
screen of the present, however fair;
Not long, not long, can we go on drifting,—
Not long enjoy surcease
from care!
Ours is a nobler task and guerdon
Than aimless drifting, however
blest;
|
30 |
Only
the heart that can bear the burden
Shall share the joy of the
victor’s rest.
|
|
—AGNES MAULE MACHAR.
(Fidelis).
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
How
sad to gaze on thee and find
In thy stern eyes no answer kind,
No languorous liftings of those lovely lids,
That tell me love half wishes, half forbids;
To know henceforth we are estranged,
|
5 |
That
much is past and all is changed. [Page 176]
And though, for your dear sake, I know
It is but right it should be so,
How sad to gaze on thee and find
In thy stern eyes no answer kind—
|
10 |
| |
Alas! |
|
How
sad it is—Alas—how sad!
How hard to leave thy hand unclasped,
The hand which mine so oft hath grasped,
To watch thy upturned delicate white wrist,
And watching wearily, leave it unkissed!
|
15 |
To
gaze with longing evermore,
And yearn to be as once before;
O, though for your dear sake I dare
Not show my grief and my despair,
How hard it is to leave thy hand unclasped—
|
20 |
| |
Alas! |
|
| How
hard it is—Alas—how hard! |
|
—S. FRANCES HARRISON.
(Seranus).
[Page 177]
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
To-night
the west o’erbrims with warmest dyes,
Its
chalice overflows
With pools of purple coloring the skies,
Aflood
with gold and rose,
And some hot soul seems throbbing close to mine,
|
5 |
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
|
10 |
Blends
with that strain, till both accord in one,
As cloud and color blend at set of sun.
And twilight comes with gray and restful eyes,
As
ashes follow flame,
But oh! I heard a voice from those rich skies
|
15 |
Call
tenderly my name;
It was as if some priestly fingers stole
In benediction o’er my lonely soul.
I know not why, but all my being longed
And
leapt at that sweet call, [Page 178]
|
20 |
My
heart reached out 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.
|
|
—E. PAULINE JOHNSON.
|
|
—————
|
|
“O Love Builds on the Azure Sea”.
|
|
O,
Love builds on the azure sea,
And Love builds on the golden
sand;
And Love builds on the rose-wing’d cloud,
And sometimes Love builds
on the land.
O, if Love build on the sparkling sea—
|
5 |
And if Love build on golden
strand—
And if Love build on rosy cloud—
To Love these are the solid
land.
O, Love will build his lily walls,
And Love his pearly roof
will rear,—
|
10 |
On
cloud or land, or mist or sea—
Love’s solid land
is everywhere!
|
|
—ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD.
[Page 179]
|
|
—————
|
|
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!
|
5 |
I
have wooed you so,
But never a favor you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail, unship the mast:
|
10 |
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,
|
15 |
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, [Page
180]
|
20 |
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,
|
25 |
Dip,
dip,
When the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.
And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow:
|
30 |
Swirl,
swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!
And far to forward the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore;
|
35 |
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.
|
40 |
Reel,
reel.
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel. [Page
181]
We’ve raced the rapid; we’re far ahead:
The river slips through its silent bed.
|
45 |
Sway,
sway,
As bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.
And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
|
50 |
Swings,
swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
|
|
—E. PAULINE JOHNSON.
[Page 182]
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
Sometime,
I fear, but God alone knows when,
Mine eyes shall gaze on
your unseeing eyes,
On your unheeding ears shall
fall my cries,
Your clasp shall cease, your soul go from my ken,
Your great heart be a fire burned out; ah, then,
|
5 |
What
shall remain for me beneath the skies
Of glad or good, of beautiful
or wise,
That can relume and thrill my life again?
This shall remain, a love that cannot fail,
A life that joys in your
great joy, yet grieves
|
10 |
In
memory of sweet days fled too soon;
Sadness divine! as when November pale
Sits broken-hearted ’mong
her withered leaves,
And
feels the wind about her warm as June.
|
|
—ETHELWYN WETHERALD.
[Page 183]
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
Oh,
sounding winds, that tirelessly are blowing
Through the wide star-lit
spaces of the night!
Oh, eager rains, that sweep
the distant height,
And restless streams impetuously flowing,
And clouds that will delay not in your going,
|
5 |
And
ships that sail, and vanish from the sight,
And happy birds that stay
not in your flight,
And suns upon your skyey pathway glowing:—
Poor laggards all! One tender thought outstrips
you:
Go, little thought, and
tell my love from me
|
10 |
I
care for him to-day as yesterday;
Ah, how its strength and swiftness doth eclipse
you,
For now the answer comes
invisibly
And
instantly—and in the surest way!
|
|
—ETHELWYN WETHERALD.
[Page 184]
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
Good-by!
good-by! my soul goes after thee,
Quick as a bird that quickens
on the wing,
Softly as the winter softens
into spring,
And as the moon sways to the swaying sea,
So is my spirit drawn resistlessly;
|
5 |
Good-by!
yet closer round my life shall cling
Thy tenderness, the priceless
offering
That drifts through distance daily unto me.
O eager soul of mine, fly fast! fly fast!
Take with thee hope and
courage, thoughts that thrill
|
10 |
The
heart with gladness under somber skies;
O living tenderness! that no sharp blast
Of bitter fate or circumstance
can chill,
My
life with thine grows strong—or fails—or
dies.
|
|
—ETHELWYN WETHERALD.
[Page 185]
|
|
|
—————
|
|
|
|
In
the silence of the morning, while the dews are yet
leaf-hidden,
And all the rare pale lilies
lift their faces to the sun,
And the birds are singing madly, all unbidden, all
unchidden,
And the morning glories
echo the sweet chorus when ’tis done,—
My Heart and I sit singing too for very joy of being—
|
5 |
So
bright the yellow sunlight through the leafy boughs
above—
For very joy of knowing, and for very joy of seeing,
My Heart and I sit singing
too for very joy of love.
And one by one the bright-winged hours dally and
fly over,
And not a cloud in all the
golden day can we espy,
|
10 |
For
all the world’s in love with us, the world
that loves a lover,
And we’re in love
with all the world, my happy Heart and I.
And the lambent air is thrilling with a passionate
desire:
“To love and live,
to live and love, and this is all,” we sing;
[Page
186]
And our song is sweet with laughter and in triumph
waxes higher,
|
15 |
As
it floats across the garden where our hopes are
blossoming.
Oh, strange! A sound of measured feet that trample
on our gladness—
I will not look, I will
not know, I will not turn my head!
But my Heart will see despite me, and with sudden
sighing sadness
She tells me that the measured
feet are following the dead.
|
20 |
A hush upon the bird-notes and a shadow on the flowers,
And an ancient Grief upspeaks
to us and chides our joyous song,
And spreads abroad her mantle clouding all the golden
hours,
And sits with us, and talks
with us, so long—so long!
For love and life, for sun and flower, we have but
sorry greeting:
|
25 |
“To
love and live, to live and love!” O foolish
roundelay!
Ah, happiness! thou laggard dove, swift only in
the fleeting!
Ah, dolor! thy dark pinions
bear thee never far away!
|
|
—SARA JEANNETTE DUNCAN.
[Page 187]
|
|
|
