Flint and Feather: Collected Verse Part 18

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 G.o.d-speeding, War and wa.s.sail, 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 gra.s.ses 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 pa.s.sing 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s 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 compa.s.s 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 j.a.p 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 s.h.i.+ps to command; So take off you cap To the brave little j.a.p 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 j.a.ps 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 j.a.ps 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.