Chapter 6

Among the lonely Lakes I go no more, For she who made their beauty is not there; The paleface rears his tepee on the shore And says the vale is fairest of the fair. Full many years have vanished since, but still The voyageurs beside the campfire tell How, when the moonrise tips the distant hill, They hear strange voices through the silence swell. The paleface loves the haunted lakes they say, And journeys far to watch their beauty spread Before his vision; but to me the day, The night, the hour, the seasons are all dead. I listen heartsick, while the hunters tell Why white men named the valley The Qu'Appelle.

THE ART OF ALMA-TADEMA

There is no song his colours cannot sing, For all his art breathes melody, and tunes The fine, keen beauty that his brushes bring To murmuring marbles and to golden Junes.

The music of those marbles you can hear In every crevice, where the deep green stains Have sunken when the grey days of the year Spilled leisurely their warm, incessant rains

That, lingering, forget to leave the ledge, But drenched into the seams, amid the hush Of ages, leaving but the silent pledge To waken to the wonder of his brush.

And at the Master's touch the marbles leap To life, the creamy onyx and the skins Of copper-coloured leopards, and the deep, Cool basins where the whispering water wins

Reflections from the gold and glowing sun, And tints from warm, sweet human flesh, for fair And subtly lithe and beautiful, leans one-- A goddess with a wealth of tawny hair.

GOOD-BYE

Sounds of the seas grow fainter, Sounds of the sands have sped; The sweep of gales, The far white sails, Are silent, spent and dead.

Sounds of the days of summer Murmur and die away, And distance hides The long, low tides, As night shuts out the day.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

(These miscellaneous poems are all of later date.)

IN GREY DAYS

Measures of oil for others, Oil and red wine, Lips laugh and drink, but never Are the lips mine.

Worlds at the feet of others, Power gods have known, Hearts for the favoured round me Mine beats, alone.

Fame offering to others Chaplets of bays, I with no crown of laurels, Only grey days.

Sweet human love for others, Deep as the sea, God-sent unto my neighbour-- But not to me.

Sometime I'll wrest from others More than all this, I shall demand from Heaven Far sweeter bliss.

What profit then to others, Laughter and wine? I'll have what most they covet-- Death, will be mine.

BRANDON

(ACROSTIC)

Born on the breast of the prairie, she smiles to her sire--the sun, Robed in the wealth of her wheat-lands, gift of her mothering soil, Affluence knocks at her gateways, opulence waits to be won. Nuggets of gold are her acres, yielding and yellow with spoil, Dream of the hungry millions, dawn of the food-filled age, Over the starving tale of want her fingers have turned the page; Nations will nurse at her storehouse, and God gives her grain for wage.

THE INDIAN CORN PLANTER

He needs must leave the trapping and the chase, For mating game his arrows ne'er despoil, And from the hunter's heaven turn his face, To wring some promise from the dormant soil.

He needs must leave the lodge that wintered him, The enervating fires, the blanket bed-- The women's dulcet voices, for the grim Realities of labouring for bread.

So goes he forth beneath the planter's moon With sack of seed that pledges large increase, His simple pagan faith knows night and noon, Heat, cold, seedtime and harvest shall not cease.

And yielding to his needs, this honest sod, Brown as the hand that tills it, moist with rain, Teeming with ripe fulfilment, true as God, With fostering richness, mothers every grain.

THE CATTLE COUNTRY

Up the dusk-enfolded prairie, Foot-falls, soft and sly, Velvet cushioned, wild and wary, Then--the coyote's cry.

Rush of hoofs, and roar and rattle, Beasts of blood and breed, Twenty thousand frightened cattle, Then--the wild stampede.

Pliant lasso circling wider In the frenzied flight-- Loping horse and cursing rider, Plunging through the night.

Rim of dawn the darkness losing Trail of blackened soil; Perfume of the sage brush oozing On the air like oil.

Foothills to the Rockies lifting Brown, and blue, and green, Warm Alberta sunlight drifting Over leagues between.

That's the country of the ranges, Plain and prairie land, And the God who never changes Holds it in His hand.

AUTUMN'S ORCHESTRA

(INSCRIBED TO ONE BEYOND SEAS)

Know by the thread of music woven through This fragile web of cadences I spin, That I have only caught these songs since you Voiced them upon your haunting violin.

THE OVERTURE

October's orchestra plays softly on The northern forest with its thousand strings, And Autumn, the conductor wields anon The Golden-rod-- The baton that he swings.

THE FIRS

There is a lonely minor chord that sings Faintly and far along the forest ways, When the firs finger faintly on the strings Of that rare violin the night wind plays, Just as it whispered once to you and me Beneath the English pines beyond the sea.

MOSSES

The lost wind wandering, forever grieves Low overhead, Above grey mosses whispering of leaves Fallen and dead. And through the lonely night sweeps their refrain Like Chopin's prelude, sobbing 'neath the rain.

THE VINE

The wild grape mantling the trail and tree, Festoons in graceful veils its drapery, Its tendrils cling, as clings the memory stirred By some evasive haunting tune, twice heard.

THE MAPLE

I

It is the blood-hued maple straight and strong, Voicing abroad its patriotic song.

II

Its daring colours bravely flinging forth The ensign of the Nation of the North.

HARE-BELL

Elfin bell in azure dress, Chiming all day long, Ringing through the wilderness Dulcet notes of song. Daintiest of forest flowers Weaving like a spell-- Music through the Autumn hours, Little Elfin bell.

THE GIANT OAK

And then the sound of marching armies 'woke Amid the branches of the soldier oak, And tempests ceased their warring cry, and dumb The lashing storms that muttered, overcome, Choked by the heralding of battle smoke, When these gnarled branches beat their martial drum.

ASPENS

A sweet high treble threads its silvery song, Voice of the restless aspen, fine and thin It trills its pure soprano, light and long-- Like the vibretto of a mandolin.

FINALE

The cedar trees have sung their vesper hymn, And now the music sleeps-- Its benediction falling where the dim Dusk of the forest creeps. Mute grows the great concerto--and the light Of day is darkening, Good-night, Good-night. But through the night time I shall hear within The murmur of these trees, The calling of your distant violin Sobbing across the seas, And waking wind, and star-reflected light Shall voice my answering. Good-night, Good-night.

THE TRAIL TO LILLOOET

Sob of fall, and song of forest, come you here on haunting quest, Calling through the seas and silence, from God's country of the west. Where the mountain pass is narrow, and the torrent white and strong, Down its rocky-throated canyon, sings its golden-throated song.

You are singing there together through the God-begotten nights, And the leaning stars are listening above the distant heights That lift like points of opal in the crescent coronet About whose golden setting sweeps the trail to Lillooet.

Trail that winds and trail that wanders, like a cobweb hanging high, Just a hazy thread outlining mid-way of the stream and sky, Where the Fraser River canyon yawns its pathway to the sea, But half the world has shouldered up between its song and me.

Here, the placid English August, and the sea-encircled miles, There--God's copper-coloured sunshine beating through the lonely aisles Where the waterfalls and forest voice for ever their duet, And call across the canyon on the trail to Lillooet.

CANADA

(ACROSTIC)

Crown of her, young Vancouver; crest of her, old Quebec; Atlantic and far Pacific sweeping her, keel to deck. North of her, ice and arctics; southward a rival's stealth; Aloft, her Empire's pennant; below, her nation's wealth. Daughter of men and markets, bearing within her hold, Appraised at highest value, cargoes of grain and gold.

THE LIFTING OF THE MIST

All the long day the vapours played At blindfold in the city streets, Their elfin fingers caught and stayed The sunbeams, as they wound their sheets Into a filmy barricade 'Twixt earth and where the sunlight beats.

A vagrant band of mischiefs these, With wings of grey and cobweb gown; They live along the edge of seas, And creeping out on foot of down, They chase and frolic, frisk and tease At blind-man's buff with all the town.

And when at eventide the sun Breaks with a glory through their grey, The vapour-fairies, one by one, Outspread their wings and float away In clouds of colouring, that run Wine-like along the rim of day.

Athwart the beauty and the breast Of purpling airs they twirl and twist, Then float away to some far rest, Leaving the skies all colour-kiss't-- A glorious and a golden West That greets the Lifting of the Mist.

THE HOMING BEE

You are belted with gold, little brother of mine, Yellow gold, like the sun That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine When feasting is done.

You are gossamer-winged, little brother of mine, Tissue winged, like the mist That broods where the marshes melt into a line Of vapour sun-kissed.

You are laden with sweets, little brother of mine, Flower sweets, like the touch Of hands we have longed for, of arms that entwine, Of lips that love much.

You are better than I, little brother of mine, Than I, human-souled, For you bring from the blossoms and red summer shine, For others, your gold.

THE LOST LAGOON

It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon, And we two dreaming the dusk away, Beneath the drift of a twilight grey, Beneath the drowse of an ending day, And the curve of a golden moon.

It is dark in the Lost Lagoon, And gone are the depths of haunting blue, The grouping gulls, and the old canoe, The singing firs, and the dusk and--you, And gone is the golden moon.

O! lure of the Lost Lagoon,-- I dream to-night that my paddle blurs The purple shade where the seaweed stirs, I hear the call of the singing firs In the hush of the golden moon.

THE TRAIN DOGS

Out of the night and the north; Savage of breed and of bone, Shaggy and swift comes the yelping band, Freighters of fur from the voiceless land That sleeps in the Arctic zone.

Laden with skins from the north, Beaver and bear and raccoon, Marten and mink from the polar belts, Otter and ermine and sable pelts-- The spoils of the hunter's moon.

Out of the night and the north, Sinewy, fearless and fleet, Urging the pack through the pathless snow, The Indian driver, calling low, Follows with moccasined feet.

Ships of the night and the north, Freighters on prairies and plains, Carrying cargoes from field and flood They scent the trail through their wild red blood, The wolfish blood in their veins.

THE KING'S CONSORT

I

Love, was it yesternoon, or years agone, You took in yours my hands, And placed me close beside you on the throne Of Oriental lands?

The truant hour came back at dawn to-day, Across the hemispheres, And bade my sleeping soul retrace its way These many hundred years.

And all my wild young life returned, and ceased The years that lie between, When you were King of Egypt, and The East, And I was Egypt's queen.

II

I feel again the lengths of silken gossamer enfold My body and my limbs in robes of emerald and gold. I feel the heavy sunshine, and the weight of languid heat That crowned the day you laid the royal jewels at my feet.

You wound my throat with jacinths, green and glist'ning serpent-wise, My hot, dark throat that pulsed beneath the ardour of your eyes; And centuries have failed to cool the memory of your hands That bound about my arms those massive, pliant golden bands.

You wreathed around my wrists long ropes of coral and of jade, And beaten gold that clung like coils of kisses love-inlaid; About my naked ankles tawny topaz chains you wound, With clasps of carven onyx, ruby-rimmed and golden bound.

But not for me the Royal Pearls to bind about my hair, "Pearls were too passionless," you said, for one like me to wear, I must have all the splendour, all the jewels warm as wine, But pearls so pale and cold were meant for other flesh than mine.

But all the blood-warm beauty of the gems you thought my due Were pallid as a pearl beside the love I gave to you; O! Love of mine come back across the years that lie between, When you were King of Egypt--Dear, and I was Egypt's Queen.

WHEN GEORGE WAS KING

Cards, and swords, and a lady's love, That is a tale worth reading, An insult veiled, a downcast glove, And rapiers leap unheeding. And 'tis O! for the brawl, The thrust, the fall, And the foe at your feet a-bleeding.

Tales of revel at wayside inns, The goblets gaily filling, Braggarts boasting a thousand sins, Though none can boast a shilling. And 'tis O! for the wine, The frothing stein, And the clamour of cups a-spilling.

Tales of maidens in rich brocade, Powder and puff and patches, Gallants lilting a serenade Of old-time trolls and catches. And 'tis O! for the lips And the finger tips, And the kiss that the boldest snatches.

Tales of buckle and big rosette, The slender shoe adorning, Of curtseying through the minuet With laughter, love, or scorning. And 'tis O! for the shout Of the roustabout, As he hies him home in the morning.

Cards and swords, and a lady's love, Give to the tale God-speeding, War and wassail, and perfumed glove, And all that's rare in reading. And 'tis O! for the ways Of the olden days, And a life that was worth the leading.

DAY DAWN

All yesterday the thought of you was resting in my soul, And when sleep wandered o'er the world that very thought she stole To fill my dreams with splendour such as stars could not eclipse, And in the morn I wakened with your name upon my lips.

Awakened, my beloved, to the morning of your eyes, Your splendid eyes, so full of clouds, wherein a shadow tries To overcome the flame that melts into the world of grey, As coming suns dissolve the dark that veils the edge of day.

Cool drifts the air at dawn of day, cool lies the sleeping dew, But all my heart is burning, for it woke from dreams of you; And O! these longing eyes of mine look out and only see A dying night, a waking day, and calm on all but me.

So gently creeps the morning through the heavy air, The dawn grey-garbed and velvet-shod is wandering everywhere To wake the slumber-laden hours that leave their dreamless rest, With outspread, laggard wings to court the pillows of the west.

Up from the earth a moisture steals with odours fresh and soft, A smell of moss and grasses warm with dew, and far aloft The stars are growing colourless, while drooping in the west, A late, wan moon is paling in a sky of amethyst.

The passing of the shadows, as they waft their pinions near, Has stirred a tender wind within the night-hushed atmosphere, That in its homeless wanderings sobs in an undertone An echo to my heart that sobbing calls for you alone.

The night is gone, beloved, and another day set free, Another day of hunger for the one I may not see. What care I for the perfect dawn? the blue and empty skies? The night is always mine without the morning of your eyes.

THE ARCHERS

I

Stripped to the waist, his copper-coloured skin Red from the smouldering heat of hate within, Lean as a wolf in winter, fierce of mood-- As all wild things that hunt for foes, or food-- War paint adorning breast and thigh and face, Armed with the ancient weapons of his race, A slender ashen bow, deer sinew strung, And flint-tipped arrow each with poisoned tongue,-- Thus does the Red man stalk to death his foe, And sighting him strings silently his bow, Takes his unerring aim, and straight and true The arrow cuts in flight the forest through, A flint which never made for mark and missed, And finds the heart of his antagonist. Thus has he warred and won since time began, Thus does the Indian bring to earth his man.

II

Ungarmented, save for a web that lies In fleecy folds across his impish eyes, A tiny archer takes his way intent On mischief, which is his especial bent. Across his shoulder lies a quiver, filled With arrows dipped in honey, thrice distilled From all the roses brides have ever worn Since that first wedding out of Eden born. Beneath a cherub face and dimpled smile This youthful hunter hides a heart of guile; His arrows aimed at random fly in quest Of lodging-place within some blameless breast. But those he wounds die happily, and so Blame not young Cupid with his dart and bow: Thus has he warred and won since time began, Transporting into Heaven both maid and man.

THE WOLF

Like a grey shadow lurking in the light, He ventures forth along the edge of night; With silent foot he scouts the coulie's rim And scents the carrion awaiting him. His savage eyeballs lurid with a flare Seen but in unfed beasts which leave their lair To wrangle with their fellows for a meal Of bones ill-covered. Sets he forth to steal, To search and snarl and forage hungrily; A worthless prairie vagabond is he. Luckless the settler's heifer which astray Falls to his fangs and violence a prey; Useless her blatant calling when his teeth Are fast upon her quivering flank--beneath His fell voracity she falls and dies With inarticulate and piteous cries, Unheard, unheeded in the barren waste, To be devoured with savage greed and haste. Up the horizon once again he prowls And far across its desolation howls; Sneaking and satisfied his lair he gains And leaves her bones to bleach upon the plains.

THE MAN IN CHRYSANTHEMUM LAND

WRITTEN FOR "THE SPECTATOR"

There's a brave little berry-brown man At the opposite side of the earth; Of the White, and the Black, and the Tan, He's the smallest in compass and girth. O! he's little, and lively, and Tan, And he's showing the world what he's worth. For his nation is born, and its birth Is for hardihood, courage, and sand, So you take off your cap To the brave little Jap Who fights for Chrysanthemum Land.

Near the house that the little man keeps, There's a Bug-a-boo building its lair; It prowls, and it growls, and it sleeps At the foot of his tiny back stair. But the little brown man never sleeps, For the Brownie will battle the Bear-- He has soldiers and ships to command; So take off you cap To the brave little Jap Who fights for Chrysanthemum Land.

Uncle Sam stands a-watching near by, With his finger aside of his nose-- John Bull with a wink in his eye, Looks round to see how the wind blows-- O! jolly old John, with his eye Ever set on the East and its woes. More than hoeing their own little rows These wary old wags understand, But they take off their caps To the brave little Japs Who fight for Chrysanthemum Land.

Now he's given us Geishas, and themes For operas, stories, and plays, His silks and his chinas are dreams, And we copy his quaint little ways; O! we look on his land in our dreams, But his value we failed to appraise, For he'll gather his laurels and bays-- His Cruisers and Columns are manned, And we take off our caps To the brave little Japs Who fight for Chrysanthemum Land.

CALGARY OF THE PLAINS

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 feet, 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 meets, And hunters whisper vaguely of the half forgotten tales Of phantom herds of bison lurking on her midnight trails.

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-- The cloudless sapphire Heaven of her territorial skies.

THE BALLAD OF YAADA [5]

(A LEGEND OF THE PACIFIC COAST)

There are fires on Lulu Island, and the sky is opalescent With the pearl and purple tinting from the smouldering of peat. And the Dream Hills lift their summits in a sweeping, hazy crescent, With the Capilano canyon at their feet.

There are fires on Lulu Island, and the smoke, uplifting, lingers In a faded scarf of fragrance as it creeps across the day, And the Inlet and the Narrows blur beneath its silent fingers, And the canyon is enfolded in its grey.

But the sun its face is veiling like a cloistered nun at vespers; As towards the alter candles of the night a censer swings, And the echo of tradition wakes from slumbering and whispers, Where the Capilano river sobs and sings.

It was Yaada, lovely Yaada, who first taught the stream its sighing, For 'twas silent till her coming, and 'twas voiceless as the shore; But throughout the great forever it will sing the song undying That the lips of lovers sing for evermore.

He was chief of all the Squamish, and he ruled the coastal waters-- And he warred upon her people in the distant Charlotte Isles; She, a winsome basket weaver, daintiest of Haida daughters, Made him captive to her singing and her smiles.

Till his hands forgot to havoc and his weapons lost their lusting, Till his stormy eyes allured her from the land of Totem Poles, Till she followed where he called her, followed with a woman's trusting, To the canyon where the Capilano rolls.

And the women of the Haidas plied in vain their magic power, Wailed for many moons her absence, wailed for many moons their prayer, "Bring her back, O Squamish foeman, bring to us our Yaada flower!" But the silence only answered their despair.

But the men were swift to battle, swift to cross the coastal water, Swift to war and swift of weapon, swift to paddle trackless miles, Crept with stealth along the canyon, stole her from her love and brought her Once again unto the distant Charlotte Isles.

But she faded, ever faded, and her eyes were ever turning Southward toward the Capilano, while her voice had hushed its song, And her riven heart repeated words that on her lips were burning: "Not to friend--but unto foeman I belong.

"Give me back my Squamish lover--though you hate, I still must love him. "Give me back the rugged canyon where my heart must ever be-- Where his lodge awaits my coming, and the Dream Hills lift above him, And the Capilano learned its song from me."

But through long-forgotten seasons, moons too many to be numbered, He yet waited by the canyon--she called across the years, And the soul within the river, though centuries had slumbered, Woke to sob a song of womanly tears.

For her little, lonely spirit sought the Capilano canyon, When she died among the Haidas in the land of Totem Poles, And you yet may hear her singing to her lover-like companion, If you listen to the river as it rolls.

But 'tis only when the pearl and purple smoke is idly swinging From the fires on Lulu Island to the hazy mountain crest, That the undertone of sobbing echoes through the river's singing, In the Capilano canyon of the West.

[5] "The Ballad of Yaada" is the last complete poem written by the author. It was placed for publication with the "Saturday Night" of Toronto, and did not appear in print until several months after Miss Johnson's death.

"AND HE SAID, FIGHT ON" [6]

(Tennyson)