Chapter 4

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 re-live 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, Beloved 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 Within 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:-- A 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 selfsame 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.

CANADIAN BORN

(The following poems are from the author's second book, "Canadian Born," first published in 1903.)

CANADIAN BORN

We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of God; We are the pulse of Canada, its marrow and its blood: And we, the men of Canada, can face the world and brag That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

Few of us have the blood of kings, few are of courtly birth, But few are vagabonds or rogues of doubtful name and worth; And all have one credential that entitles us to brag-- That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

We've yet to make our money, we've yet to make our fame, But we have gold and glory in our clean colonial name; And every man's a millionaire if only he can brag That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.

No title and no coronet is half so proudly worn As that which we inherited as men Canadian born. We count no man so noble as the one who makes the brag That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.

The Dutch may have their Holland, the Spaniard have his Spain, The Yankee to the south of us must south of us remain; For not a man dare lift a hand against the men who brag That they were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

WHERE LEAPS THE STE. MARIE

I

What dream you in the night-time When you whisper to the moon? What say you in the morning? What do you sing at noon? When I hear your voice uplifting, Like a breeze through branches sifting, And your ripples softly drifting To the August airs a-tune.

II

Lend me your happy laughter, Ste. Marie, as you leap; Your peace that follows after Where through the isles you creep. Give to me your splendid dashing, Give your sparkles and your splashing, Your uphurling waves down crashing, Then, your aftermath of sleep.

HARVEST TIME

Pillowed and hushed on the silent plain, Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain,

Wearied of pleasuring weeks away, Summer is lying asleep to-day,--

Where winds come sweet from the wild-rose briers And the smoke of the far-off prairie fires;

Yellow her hair as the goldenrod, And brown her cheeks as the prairie sod;

Purple her eyes as the mists that dream At the edge of some laggard sun-drowned stream;

But over their depths the lashes sweep, For Summer is lying to-day asleep.

The north wind kisses her rosy mouth, His rival frowns in the far-off south,

And comes caressing her sunburnt cheek, And Summer awakes for one short week,--

Awakes and gathers her wealth of grain, Then sleeps and dreams for a year again.

LADY LORGNETTE

I

Lady Lorgnette, of the lifted lash, The curling lip and the dainty nose, The shell-like ear where the jewels flash, The arching brow and the languid pose, The rare old lace and the subtle scents, The slender foot and the fingers frail,-- I may act till the world grows wild and tense, But never a flush on your features pale. The footlights glimmer between us two,-- You in the box and I on the boards,-- I am only an actor, Madame, to you, A mimic king 'mid his mimic lords, For you are the belle of the smartest set, Lady Lorgnette.

II

Little Babette, with your eyes of jet, Your midnight hair and your piquant chin, Your lips whose odours of violet Drive men to madness and saints to sin,-- I see you over the footlights' glare Down in the pit 'mid the common mob,-- Your throat is burning, and brown, and bare, You lean, and listen, and pulse, and throb; The viols are dreaming between us two, And my gilded crown is no make-believe, I am more than an actor, dear, to you, For you called me your king but yester eve, And your heart is my golden coronet, Little Babette.

LOW TIDE AT ST. ANDREWS

(NEW BRUNSWICK)

The long red flats stretch open to the sky, Breathing their moisture on the August air. The seaweeds cling with flesh-like fingers where The rocks give shelter that the sands deny; And wrapped in all her summer harmonies St. Andrews sleeps beside her sleeping seas.

The far-off shores swim blue and indistinct, Like half-lost memories of some old dream. The listless waves that catch each sunny gleam Are idling up the waterways land-linked, And, yellowing along the harbour's breast, The light is leaping shoreward from the west.

And naked-footed children, tripping down, Light with young laughter, daily come at eve To gather dulse and sea clams and then heave Their loads, returning laden to the town, Leaving a strange grey silence when they go,-- The silence of the sands when tides are low.

BEYOND THE BLUE

I

Speak of you, sir? You bet he did. Ben Fields was far too sound To go back on a fellow just because he weren't around. Why, sir, he thought a lot of you, and only three months back Says he, "The Squire will some time come a-snuffing out our track And give us the surprise." And so I got to thinking then That any day you might drop down on Rove, and me, and Ben. And now you've come for nothing, for the lad has left us two, And six long weeks ago, sir, he went up beyond the blue.

Who's Rove? Oh, he's the collie, and the only thing on earth That I will ever love again. Why, Squire, that dog is worth More than you ever handled, and that's quite a piece, I know. Ah, there the beggar is!--come here, you scalawag! and show Your broken leg all bandaged up. Yes, sir, it's pretty sore; I did it,--curse me,--and I think I feel the pain far more Than him, for somehow I just feel as if I'd been untrue To what my brother said before he went beyond the blue.

You see, the day before he died he says to me, "Say, Ned, Be sure you take good care of poor old Rover when I'm dead, And maybe he will cheer your lonesome hours up a bit, And when he takes to you just see that you're deserving it." Well, Squire, it wasn't any use. I tried, but couldn't get The friendship of that collie, for I needed it, you bet. I might as well have tried to get the moon to help me through, For Rover's heart had gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.

He never seemed to take to me nor follow me about, For all I coaxed and petted, for my heart was starving out For want of some companionship,--I thought, if only he Would lick my hand or come and put his head aside my knee, Perhaps his touch would scatter something of the gloom away. But all alone I had to live until there came a day When, tired of the battle, as you'd have tired too, I wished to heaven I'd gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.

. . . . .

One morning I took out Ben's gun, and thought I'd hunt all day, And started through the clearing for the bush that forward lay, When something made me look around--I scarce believed my mind-- But, sure enough, the dog was following right close behind. A feeling first of joy, and than a sharper, greater one Of anger came, at knowing 'twas not me, but Ben's old gun, That Rove was after,--well, sir, I just don't mind telling you, But I forgot that moment Ben was up beyond the blue.

Perhaps it was but jealousy--perhaps it was despair, But I just struck him with the gun and broke the bone right there; And then--my very throat seemed choked, for he began to whine With pain--God knows how tenderly I took that dog of mine Up in my arms, and tore my old red necktie into bands To bind the broken leg, while there he lay and licked my hands; And though I cursed my soul, it was the brightest day I knew, Or even cared to live, since Ben went up beyond the blue.

I tell you, Squire, I nursed him just as gently as could be, And now I'm all the world to him, and he's the world to me. Look, sir, at that big, noble soul, right in his faithful eyes, The square, forgiving honesty that deep down in them lies. Eh, Squire? What's that you say? _He's got no soul?_ I tell you, then, He's grander and he's better than the mass of what's called men; And I guess he stands a better chance than many of us do Of seeing Ben some day again, 'way up beyond the blue.

THE MARINER

"Wreck and stray and castaway."--SWINBURNE.

Once more adrift. O'er dappling sea and broad lagoon, O'er frowning cliff and yellow dune, The long, warm lights of afternoon Like jewel dustings sift.

Once more awake. I dreamed an hour of port and quay, Of anchorage not meant for me; The sea, the sea, the hungry sea Came rolling up the break.

Once more afloat. The billows on my moorings press't, They drove me from my moment's rest, And now a portless sea I breast, And shelterless my boat.

Once more away. The harbour lights are growing dim, The shore is but a purple rim, The sea outstretches grey and grim. Away, away, away!

Once more at sea, The old, old sea I used to sail, The battling tide, the blowing gale, The waves with ceaseless under-wail The life that used to be.

LULLABY OF THE IROQUOIS

Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest, Wrapped in your nest, Strapped in your nest, Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest; Its hands are your nest; Its bands are your nest; It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak; You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke; But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,-- Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.

Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep, Winging to sleep, Singing to sleep, Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep, Shielding their sleep, Unyielding to sleep, The heron is homing, the plover is still, The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill, Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,-- Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.

THE CORN HUSKER

Hard by the Indian lodges, where the bush Breaks in a clearing, through ill-fashioned fields, She comes to labour, when the first still hush Of autumn follows large and recent yields.

Age in her fingers, hunger in her face, Her shoulders stooped with weight of work and years, But rich in tawny colouring of her race, She comes a-field to strip the purple ears.

And all her thoughts are with the days gone by, Ere might's injustice banished from their lands Her people, that to-day unheeded lie, Like the dead husks that rustle through her hands.

PRAIRIE GREYHOUNDS

C.P.R. "NO. 1," WESTBOUND

I swing to the sunset land-- The world of prairie, the world of plain, The world of promise and hope and gain, The world of gold, and the world of grain, And the world of the willing hand.

I carry the brave and bold-- The one who works for the nation's bread, The one whose past is a thing that's dead, The one who battles and beats ahead, And the one who goes for gold.