Chapter IV

Lost to my longing sight,
And nothing left to me
Save an oncoming night,--
An empty sea.

[3] For this title the author is indebted to Mr. Charles G. D.
Roberts. It occurs in his sonnet, "Rain."

AT HALF-MAST

You didn't know Billy, did you? Well, Bill was one of the boys, The greatest fellow you ever seen to racket an' raise a noise,-- An' sing! say, you never heard singing 'nless you heard Billy sing. I used to say to him, "Billy, that voice that you've got there'd bring A mighty sight more bank-notes to tuck away in your vest, If only you'd go on the concert stage instead of a-ranchin' West." An' Billy he'd jist go laughin', and say as I didn't know A robin's whistle in springtime from a barnyard rooster's crow. But Billy could sing, an' I sometimes think that voice lives anyhow,-- That perhaps Bill helps with the music in the place he's gone to now.

The last time that I seen him was the day he rode away; He was goin' acrost the plain to catch the train for the East next day. 'Twas the only time I ever seen poor Bill that he didn't laugh Or sing, an' kick up a rumpus an' racket around, and chaff, For he'd got a letter from his folks that said for to hurry home, For his mother was dyin' away down East an' she wanted Bill to come. Say, but the feller took it hard, but he saddled up right away, An' started across the plains to take the train for the East, next day. Sometimes I lie awake a-nights jist a-thinkin' of the rest, For that was the great big blizzard day, when the wind come down from west, An' the snow piled up like mountains an' we couldn't put foot outside, But jist set into the shack an' talked of Bill on his lonely ride. We talked of the laugh he threw us as he went at the break o' day, An' we talked of the poor old woman dyin' a thousand mile away.

Well, Dan O'Connell an' I went out to search at the end of the week, Fer all of us fellers thought a lot,--a lot that we darsn't speak. We'd been up the trail about forty mile, an' was talkin' of turnin' back, But Dan, well, he wouldn't give in, so we kep' right on to the railroad track. As soon as we sighted them telegraph wires says Dan, "Say, bless my soul! Ain't that there Bill's red handkerchief tied half way up that pole?" Yes, sir, there she was, with her ends a-flippin' an' flyin' in the wind, An' underneath was the envelope of Bill's letter tightly pinned. "Why, he must a-boarded the train right here," says Dan, but I kinder knew That underneath them snowdrifts we would find a thing or two; Fer he'd writ on that there paper, "Been lost fer hours,--all hope is past. You'll find me, boys, where my handkerchief is flyin' at half-mast."

THE SLEEPING GIANT

(THUNDER BAY, LAKE SUPERIOR)

When did you sink to your dreamless sleep Out there in your thunder bed? Where the tempests sweep, And the waters leap, And the storms rage overhead.

Were you lying there on your couch alone Ere Egypt and Rome were born? Ere the Age of Stone, Or the world had known The Man with the Crown of Thorn.

The winds screech down from the open west, And the thunders beat and break On the amethyst Of your rugged breast,-- But you never arise or wake.

You have locked your past, and you keep the key In your heart 'neath the westing sun, Where the mighty sea And its shores will be Storm-swept till the world is done.

THE QUILL WORKER

Plains, plains, and the prairie land which the sunlight floods and fills, To the north the open country, southward the Cyprus Hills; Never a bit of woodland, never a rill that flows, Only a stretch of cactus beds, and the wild, sweet prairie rose; Never a habitation, save where in the far south-west A solitary tepee lifts its solitary crest, Where Neykia in the doorway, crouched in the red sunshine, Broiders her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.

Neykia, the Sioux chief's daughter, she with the foot that flies, She with the hair of midnight and the wondrous midnight eyes, She with the deft brown fingers, she with the soft, slow smile, She with the voice of velvet and the thoughts that dream the while,-- "Whence come the vague to-morrows? Where do the yesters fly? What is beyond the border of the prairie and the sky? Does the maid in the Land of Morning sit in the red sunshine, Broidering her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine?"

So Neykia, in the westland, wonders and works away, Far from the fret and folly of the "Land of Waking Day." And many the pale-faced trader who stops at the tepee door For a smile from the sweet, shy worker, and a sigh when the hour is o'er. For they know of a young red hunter who oftentimes has stayed To rest and smoke with her father, tho' his eyes were on the maid; And the moons will not be many ere she in the red sunshine Will broider his buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.

GUARD OF THE EASTERN GATE

Halifax sits on her hills by the sea
In the might of her pride,--
Invincible, terrible, beautiful, she
With a sword at her side.

To right and to left of her, battlements rear
And fortresses frown;
While she sits on her throne without favour or fear
With her cannon as crown.

Coast guard and sentinel, watch of the weal
Of a nation she keeps;
But her hand is encased in a gauntlet of steel,
And her thunder but sleeps.

AT CROW'S NEST PASS

At Crow's Nest Pass the mountains rend
Themselves apart, the rivers wend
A lawless course about their feet,
And breaking into torrents beat
In useless fury where they blend
At Crow's Nest Pass.

The nesting eagle, wise, discreet, Wings up the gorge's lone retreat And makes some barren crag her friend At Crow's Nest Pass.

Uncertain clouds, half-high, suspend
Their shifting vapours, and contend
With rocks that suffer not defeat;
And snows, and suns, and mad winds meet
To battle where the cliffs defend
At Crow's Nest Pass.

"GIVE US BARABBAS" [4]

There was a man--a Jew of kingly blood,
But of the people--poor and lowly born,
Accused of blasphemy of God, He stood
Before the Roman Pilate, while in scorn
The multitude demanded it was fit
That one should suffer for the people, while
Another be released, absolved, acquit,
To live his life out virtuous or vile.

"Whom will ye have--Barabbas or this Jew?"
Pilate made answer to the mob, "The choice
Is yours; I wash my hands of this, and you,
Do as you will." With one vast ribald voice
The populace arose and, shrieking, cried,
"Give us Barabbas, we condone his deeds!"
And He of Nazareth was crucified--
Misjudged, condemned, dishonoured for their needs.

And down these nineteen centuries anew
Comes the hoarse-throated, brutalized refrain,
"Give us Barabbas, crucify the Jew!"
Once more a man must bear a nation's stain,--
And that in France, the chivalrous, whose lore
Made her the flower of knightly age gone by.
Now she lies hideous with a leprous sore
No skill can cure--no pardon purify.

And an indignant world, transfixed with hate
Of such disease, cries, as in Herod's time,
Pointing its finger at her festering state,
"Room for the leper, and her leprous crime!"
And France, writhing from years of torment, cries
Out in her anguish, "Let this Jew endure,
Damned and disgraced, vicarious sacrifice.
The honour of my army is secure."

And, vampire-like, that army sucks the blood
From out a martyr's veins, and strips his crown
Of honour from him, and his herohood
Flings in the dust, and cuts his manhood down.
Hide from your God, O! ye that did this act!
With lesser crimes the halls of Hell are paved.
Your army's honour may be still intact,
Unstained, unsoiled, unspotted,--but unsaved.

[4] Written after Dreyfus was exiled.

YOUR MIRROR FRAME

Methinks I see your mirror frame,
Ornate with photographs of them.
Place mine therein, for, all the same,
I'll have my little laughs at them.

For girls may come, and girls may go,
I think I have the best of them;
And yet this photograph I know
You'll toss among the rest of them.

I cannot even hope that you
Will put me in your locket, dear;
Nor costly frame will I look through,
Nor bide in your breast pocket, dear.

For none your heart monopolize,
You favour such a nest of them.
So I but hope your roving eyes
Seek mine among the rest of them.

For saucy sprite, and noble dame,
And many a dainty maid of them
Will greet me in your mirror frame,
And share your kisses laid on them.

And yet, sometimes I fancy, dear,
You hold me as the best of them.
So I'm content if I appear
To-night with all the rest of them.

THE CITY AND THE SEA

I

To none the city bends a servile knee;
Purse-proud and scornful, on her heights she stands,
And at her feet the great white moaning sea
Shoulders incessantly the grey-gold sands,--
One the Almighty's child since time began,
And one the might of Mammon, born of clods;
For all the city is the work of man,
But all the sea is God's.