Part 6

Unseen, unhindered, unpursued, I soon was in the solitude, Contending with impediments, Which every wilderness presents. Primeval forests, through which poured Rivers unknown to bridge or ford; Swamps, overgrown with weeds and moss, Almost impossible to cross; A waste of fallen trees and logs, Rank vegetation, stagnant bogs; Decaying leaves, profusely spread, Which rustled at the slightest tread, While underbrush and thicket made A thorny maze or barricade, Through which 'twas difficult to force A passage or retain one's course.

There my experience began, Along the lines of primal man; My fare, as I remember well, Was strictly aboriginal, For stupid grouse and ptarmigan Were easily approached and slain; And, as a relish for such food, I had the berries of the wood.

Through arches of umbrageous shade I journeyed onward undismayed, And undisturbed by man or beast, Made daily progress toward the east, Till viewing the Pacific shore, Northward along the coast I bore. I kept that course for many days, Where none but savage eyes might gaze; Full many a mile my footsteps led Through regions uninhabited, Till where Kamschatka's barren rocks Resist the sea's aggressive shocks, One gloomy afternoon, I stood And watched the wide and trackless flood.

'Twould make a tedious tale, I fear, Not meet for recitation here, Should I endeavor to relate The details of a hermit's fate. To all appearance I was free; A plethora of liberty Is little consolation, where One lonely recluse breathes the air; For solitary mortals find But little joy and peace of mind; When freedom is enjoyed alone, Its fondest attributes are flown; Men of companions destitute Sink to the level of the brute; Their sacred essence seems to be Dependent on community.

Each morning, in the reddening skies, Alone, I watched the sun god rise, While every evening in the west, Alone, I watched him sink to rest. To catch a passing ship, in vain I hourly scanned the watery plain, Till one fair morn a distant sail Brought the conclusion of my tale.

The whaler, such she proved to be, Steered landward through a rippling sea, And made directly for the shore; She anchored, then I saw them lower The ship's long-boat; at a command I saw them row, then saw them land. Fearing occasion might require The service of a signal fire, A mass of driftwood I had heaped; Behind that pile I hid and peeped. From that concealed position, I, Watching with closest scrutiny, Discovered that the squad of ten Were not my fellow-countrymen.

Their purpose I could now discern; One had a spade, which turn by turn Each wielded till their willing hands Had delved a grave within the sands. Six of the party I espied Returning to the long-boat's side, Where from its bottom they began To raise the body of a man, In canvas strips securely sewed, All ready for its last abode; From every motion it would seem The object of sincere esteem. From my location I could see Them balance it most tenderly, As on six shoulders broad and strong, They bore it sorrowfully along, While wind and ever-restless surge Joined in a requiem or dirge.

The sun through hazy Autumn skies Shone on the simple obsequies, As round the open grave they stood, In reverential attitude, And shovelled in the brown sea sand; One, with a prayer-book in his hand, Essayed the rôle of corybant; Omitting the accustomed chant, He read a burial service there, Concluding with its words of prayer: 'Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust!' These words of that abiding trust, In life beyond the fleeting span Which heaven has accorded man; Elysian fields, where perfect peace Succeeds life's transitory lease; The inextinguishable fire Of faith, the daughter of desire, Glows brightest, when the faltering breath Is conscious of approaching death; Bent 'neath the weight of many years, The form of hoary age appears, E'en as the failing hourglass shows That life is drawing to its close, And when the final sands are spent, The trembling limbs make their descent Into the shadows, while the ray Of faith illuminates the way. Vain introspection, which descries No light behind the mysteries Of death, engenders in the breast But vacant yearnings and unrest; Relying on the eye of hope, We look beyond our mundane scope, And with enraptured vision see The fore-gleams of futurity.

With eager eyes I watched them stand, Upon that barren waste of sand, Until the final words of prayer Had died away upon the air. Their words, euphonious and clear, Were wafted to my listening ear, Borne on a favorable breeze Which blew directly from the seas; My breast, with deep emotion stirred, I recognized their every word, An English burial ritual read, On this wild shore, above the dead. This dissipated every fear, I knew deliverance was near; My secret would be safe among The scions of the English tongue.

Forever from the light of day They laid his pallid form away, While every word and action proved Their rites were over one they loved. Soon from the level of the ground, There rose another silent mound, To teach, beside that northern sea, Its lesson of mortality.

Death on that dismal northern main, In binding with its silent chain Forever their lamented mate, Had freed me from a sterner fate. Leaving my earstwhile hiding place, I stood before them face to face; Then in their own vernacular, Gave proper salutation there. 'Twas plain that they regarded me As human salvage, which the sea Had, in some evil moment, tossed Upon that bleak and barren coast, Like broken wreckage or debris, Cast up by the capricious sea. With frank but sympathetic eyes, They watched me with no small surprise, While I rehearsed without delay, My story as a castaway.

Repairing to the ship's long-boat, Which soon was in the surf afloat, I bade farewell to Russian soil In language not intensely loyal. They ministered to my distress, From ample stores of food and dress, Performed such acts of kindness then As might beseem large-hearted men; Nor was there aught perfunctory In their solicitude for me; Their acts were of their own accord, Without suspicion of reward.

Although possessed of little skill In nautical affairs, to fill [Blank Page] A seaman's watch I volunteered, As we toward Arctic waters steered, Pursuant of the spouting whale; I plied each task with rope and sail, And ere we reached a harbor bar, Was rated as a first-class tar; By sufferance of as brave a crew As ever sailed a voyage through, The two succeeding years I passed In northern seas before the mast; Two years from that eventful day We moored in San Francisco Bay. I bade the sea farewell for aye, Bade my deliverers good-bye, With fervent pressure of the hand, Then straight betook myself to land.

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Seeking a home with freedom blest, I've cast my fortunes with the West."

IX. CONCLUSION

Concluding, he resumed his seat Beside his brother, Russian Pete; Yet ever and anon expressed His views on points of interest, And details, which this narrative In its abridgment may not give, As Dad McGuire and Uncle Jim By turns interrogated him.

To say his hearers listened well, Were too self-evident to tell, For some who dozed before he spake, Woke up and then remained awake.

As all the inclination felt, To play a game, the cards were dealt; The winners, it was understood, To be exempt from chopping wood; While he who made the lowest score Must build the fire and sweep the floor. Time spread his wings, the moments flew Unheeded for an hour or two, Until at length the measured stroke Of twelve, in timely accents broke From an old clock upon the shelf, As old as Uncle Jim himself; A good old clock, as old clocks go, But usually too fast or slow, But near enough the proper time To serve the purpose of this rhyme.

The honors passed to Russian Pete, When Dad McGuire sustained defeat, As mighty warriors often do, In some Chalons, or Waterloo; The fortunes of the final game, Adding fresh laurels to his fame; Then all abstained from further play, And forthwith put the cards away.

* * * * *

'Twas passing late, the dying fire Served as the summons to retire, And soon the gentle wand of sleep, Which works the dream god's drowsy will, Laden with slumbers soft and deep, Passed over them and all was still.

* * * * * * * * * *

The storm was over, far and near, The heavens shone, so cold and clear That nebulæ and satellites, Unseen on ordinary nights, Now filled the broad expanse of sky With unaccustomed brilliancy; The astral vacuums and voids, Were filled with discs and asteroids; Dissevering the firmament, The Milky Way disclosed to sight Its pearly avenue of white With planetary crystals blent; Transparently it shone, and pale, As some celestial gauze or veil; A silvery baldric o'er the gold Of constellations manifold.

A silence, undisturbed, prevailed, The wind no longer moaned and wailed, The elements had worked their will And now were motionless and still; From forest growth or underbrush No whisper broke the solemn hush; The tempest king on airy waves, Retreated to his secret caves, And chained the winds, which his behest Had lately stirred to wild unrest.

The clouds had vanished, not a trace Remained upon the arch of space, To interpose a curtain rude Between earth and infinitude; Pellucid as the vault o'erhead, The snows a layer of beauty spread, Save where the genii of the storm Had fashioned in fantastic form, With alternating whirl and sift, The pendent comb and massive drift.

The wilderness of ice and snow, Transfigured with a mellow glow, Received from the translucent skies The stellar groups and galaxies; A record of the starry waste, By Nature's faultless pencil traced; The vernal phalanxes of pine, In cassocks clear and crystalline, Seemed as a mirror, in whose sheen The glimmering lamps of night were seen. The replica of pearl and gem, In heaven's twinkling diadem; Golconda's treasury displayed, On background of the forest shade.

Divested of their transient green, By Autumn winds in wanton rage, The aspen's leafless limbs were seen Festooned with frosty foliage; As fell upon their vestal white, The placid moon's aspiring light, The noble spruce and stately fir, Stood draped with feathery garniture; Configurated and embossed, With lace and tapestry of frost, In quaint and curious design, The willows and the underbrush, Were crystallized in silvery plush, And shimmered in the cold moonshine.

* * * * *

The azure dome of space o'erhead, With scintillating grandeur spread, Looked down with cold inquiring eyes, On earth with all her mysteries; The while reflecting in their snows, These glittering jewels of the night, The mountains lay in calm repose, Slumbering 'neath their robes of white.

[THE END]

DOLORES

I will sing of a quaint old tradition, A legend romantic and strange, Which was whispered to me by the pine trees High up on the wild mountain range. Far away in the mystical Westland, From the mountain peaks crested with snow, Glides Dolores, the river of sorrow, Dolores, the river of woe.

Time was when this river of sorrow Had never a thought to be sad, But meandered in joy through the meadows, With bluebell and columbine clad. Her ripples were ripples of laughter, And the soft, dulcet voice of her flow Was suggestive of peace and affection, Not accents of anguish and woe.

Long ago, ere the foot of the white man Had left its first print on the sod, A people, both free and contented, Her mesas and cañon-ways trod. Then Dolores, the river of sorrow, Was a river of laughter and glee, As she playfully dashed through the cañons In her turbulent rush to the sea.

High up on the cliffs in their dwellings, Which were apertures walled up with rocks, Lived this people, sequestered and happy; Their dwellings now serve the wild fox. They planted the maize and potato, The kind river caused them to grow, So they worshipped the river with singing Which blent with its musical flow.

This people, so artless and peaceful, Knew nothing of carnage and war, But dwelt in such quiet and plenty They knew not what weapons were for. They gathered the maize in its season, Unmindful of famine or foe And chanted their thanks to the spirits That dwelt in the cañons below.

But one evil day from the Northland Swept an army in battle array, Which fell on this innocent people And massacred all in a day. Their bodies were cast in the river, A feast for the vultures, when lo! The laughter and song of the river Were changed to the wailing of woe.

Gone, gone are this people forever, Not a vestige nor remnant remains To gather the maize in its season And join in the harvest refrains; But the river still mourns for her people With weird and disconsolate flow, Dolores, the river of sorrow, Dolores--the river of woe.

GREAT SHEPHERD OF THE COUNTLESS FLOCKS OF STARS

Great Shepherd of the countless flocks of stars, Which range the azure province of the sky, Who marked the course for Jupiter and Mars, Nor leads the comet from its path awry; Though flaming constellations at Thy call Pass into being, or created, fall; Thou, who hast caused the firmament to be, In humbler pathways, Father, lead Thou me.

Thou, who hast framed the eagle's wing to soar Above the verdant prospects of the plain; Whose law hath shaped the pebbles on the shore, The stately forests and the bearded grain; Whose hand hath formed the silvery satellite To shed her tender moonbeams o'er the night; Thou who hast placed the islands in the sea, With that same Wisdom, Father, lead Thou me.

THE RUINED CABIN

There's a pathos in the solemn desolation Of the mountain cabin sinking in decay, With its threshold overgrown with vegetation, With its door unhinged and mouldering away. There's a weird and most disconsolate expression In the sashless windows with their vacant stare, As in mute appeal, or taciturn confession Of a wild and inconsolable despair.

With its ridgepole bent and broken in the centre, From its roof of dirt and weight of winter snows; Where the only voice to greet you as you enter Is the wind which down the crumbling fireplace blows; Where the chipmunk chatters in loquacious wonder, As unwonted steps invade his solitude; Where the mountain rat secretes his varied plunder In the chimney corners, primitive and rude.

Where the spider spins his web in grim seclusion, To entrap the fly and vacillating moth; From the rotten floor, in poisonous profusion Spring the toadstools, with their foul and fungous growth. Void of symmetry and semblance of equation, Through the chinkless cracks, the silvery moon and stars And the sun, at each matutinal invasion, Shine as through a dismal dungeon's grated bars.

But no predatory hand in wanton malice Hath in vandal hour this dereliction wrought, But the hand which crumbles pyramid and palace, The hand of Time with rust and ruin fraught; Thus the proud or unpretentious habitation Shall succumb to age and melancholy mould; All are subject to the same disintegration, For the occupant and house alike grow old.

AN IDYLL

I love to sit by the waterfall, And list to its laughing story, As it fearlessly leaps o'er the rocky wall, From the mountain peaks stern and hoary; Or watch the spray as the colors play, When the glorious sunlight kisses, And tints confuse into rainbow hues To embellish the wild abysses.

I love the rose and the columbine, Whose delicate beauty pleases; I love the breath of the fragrant pine, As it floats on the morning breezes;

I love the sound from the depths profound, When the Thunder-God is bringing His crystal showers, to the tinted flowers, In their sweet profusion springing.

I love the lake in the mountain's lap; Without a flaw or error Recording the clouds, which the peaks enwrap, And the trees, as a crystal mirror; The wild delights of the mountain heights Thrill my breast with a keen devotion, As songbirds love the blue arch above, Or the mariner loves the ocean.

THE BORDERLAND OF SLEEP

On the margin of the mystic shores of rest, Where imagination mollifies the breast, Where the fondest dreams their pleasant vigils keep, In the vestibule of slumber, soft and deep, Lies a neutral zone, salubrious and sweet,-- Where the realms of lethargy and action meet,-- 'Tis the borderland of sleep.

Here the halcyon delights float by and fade, Or the evil visions hover and invade; Here the bosom entertains its secret guest, With the silent plaint of agony suppressed, As unwelcome thoughts rise from the dust and mould, Of the vanished years in pantomime unrolled, In this borderland of rest.

Neither wakeful, nor in sentient repose, Nor in apathy, complete and comatose; As when Lethe with her mild nepenthic surge, Doth in chaos of forgetfulness submerge, But a drowsy consciousness, a blend of dreams, With reality's extravagant extremes; Such the zone on slumber's verge.

STELLAR NOCTURNE

Speeds the day in silent flight, on the sombre wings of night, As the dying sunlight glimmers in the west; Soon the shadows cease to creep, for the sun has gone to sleep, And the scene is wrapped in somnolence and rest.

From a solitary star, in the realms of space afar, Faintly twinkling through the shadows of the night, See the stellar force increased, till the scintillating east Seems a galaxy of constellations bright.

With its glittering display, see the gorgeous Milky Way, Which in twain the vaulted universe divides, As the bridal veil serene of some fair celestial queen, Who, in jewelled state, o'er astral space presides.

All the heavens seem in tune, and the vacillating moon Bathes the landscape with her floods of silvery light; Though the scenes of day are fair, naught in splendor can compare With the grandeur of the firmament at night.

FATHER, AT THY ALTAR KNEELING

Father, at Thy altar kneeling, Sin-defiled; Seeking there the balm of healing, To Thy Fatherhood appealing, See Thy child.

I am weary of transgressions; I have sinned; Prone to vice and indiscretion, Vacillation, misimpression, As the wind.

Neither sins nor imperfections I conceal; Evil thoughts, impure reflections, Faults in manifold directions, Can I feel.

I am tired of life's illusion, I would rest; Leave its turmoil and confusion, Fain would know the blest seclusion Of Thy breast.

Through the shadows of the valley As I speed, Bid my faltering courage rally, To resist each adverse sally; Wilt Thou lead?

For I know that Thou art reigning Over all; With this confidence remaining, Let me feel Thy Hand sustaining Lest I fall.

DREAMS

A dream is the ghost of a fond delight, An echo of former smiles or tears, Wafted to us on the wings of night From the silent bourne of the vanished years.

A dream is a perished joy, restored From the mystical regions beyond our ken, Which we fain would press as a thing adored, To our breasts, ere it fades and is lost again.

A dream is a buried hope exhumed, 'Tis an iridescent thing of air, Which mocks at the spirit, by fate entombed In the catacombs of a mute despair.

A dream is a reflex view of life, A blending of fancy with solemn truth, A retrospection of mundane strife, Old age re-living the scenes of youth.

Our dreams are but mirrors for our desires; The proud ambition, the lofty aim Achieved in our sleep, but the night expires And the dull existence plods on the same.

A dream is a feeble ray of light, A rift in the shadows through which we grope, An evidence that eternal night Can never extinguish the star of hope.

NOCTURNE

As fall the dews of slumber soft and deep, On wilderness and populated town, Bound by the sweet influences of sleep, Proud reason abdicates her golden crown; Dark Lethe, of oblivious renown, Fain would I quaff from thy forgetful streams, In willing thralldom would I lay me down, To court the fair companionship of dreams, And bask within their iridescent beams.

Or linger in the vestibule of sleep, Where blow the winds of memory from the past, Ere yet the languid shades of slumber deep Have o'er the sense their dormant shadows cast; Or muse upon the infinite and vast, Till speculations various confuse, And thought, unmerciful iconoclast, With shattered images the path bestrews, Yet leads to chaos of conflicting views.

Now vanish all remembrance of the day, Complete immunity pervade the mind, Let fond imagination hold her sway, With rule uncircumscribed and unconfined; Or soaring on the wings of fancy, wind Through mystic realms of interstellar space, Where visions of supernal beauty bind The drowsy consciousness in sweet embrace; But dreamland fades, and morning comes apace.

THE TRUE FAITH

That faith is true whatever it may be, What ethics or traditions it may teach, Whose whispers soothe the secret misery And mollify with soft, persuasive speech.

That faith is true that lightens pain and care, That false, which adds one burden to the load, Whate'er its ornaments of psalm and prayer, A travesty on reason and on God.