
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada,
check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER
COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD
OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: Far Horizons
Author: Carman, Bliss [William Bliss] (1861-1929)
Date of first publication: 1925
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1925
Date first posted: 14 September 2010
Date last updated: 14 September 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #614

This ebook was produced by: Al Haines




  IN EXCELSIS

  The new moon hangs in the wintry tree,
  The spring rain march by the door,
  The summer comes and the roses blow,
  The mellow woods of autumn glow,
  And love is more and more.

  The seasons pass, the strong winds die,
  The sunlight steals from the wall,
  The glittering planets wheel and sink,
  The tides return to the ocean's brink,
  And love is all in all.




FAR HORIZONS


BY

BLISS CARMAN




MCCLELLAND & STEWART

PUBLISHERS : : TORONTO




Copyright, Canada, 1925

By McClelland & Stewart, Limited

Publishers,


Printed in Canada




TO HIS HONOR

WALTER C. NICHOL

LIEUTENANT GOVERNOR OF BRITISH COLUMBIA

IN HAPPY REMEMBRANCE OF A FINE FRIENDSHIP




  MIRALOMA

  There is a hill on Saanich
  And a wild grove thereby,--
  I never knew so fair a place
  This side of Arcady.

  Blue and at peace about it,
  The waters of All Bay
  As magical as those whereon
  The isle of Sappho lay.

  In spring the small wood lilies
  Go dancing on the breeze,
  Where the sun weaves its ancient spell
  Among the shadowing trees.

  The minstrel air recaptures
  The haunting melody
  Of sunlit groves and lyric days
  By the Sicilian sea,

  Where one might find at evening
  Pan's hoofprint on the shore,
  Or traces where a fleeing nymph
  Had passed an hour before;

  Where life had time to tarry
  Through golden hours all still
  Under the green arbutus shade
  With Dawn or Daffodil--

  Hearing the songs of Flaccus
  With his Falernian wine,
  Or Virgil's stately questioning,
  So human, so divine.

  O beauties of old Hellas
  And songs of yesteryear,
  Were ever in your Golden Age
  Such golden hours as here,--

  Today, in Miraloma,
  The welcome of a friend,
  By peaceful waters of the West,
  At Far Horizons' end!




CONTENTS


  MIRALOMA
  LORD OF THE FAR HORIZONS
  A MIRAGE OF THE PLAINS
  ST. GEORGE'S IN THE PINES
  SONG OF THE KICKING HORSE
  DOWN THE PASS
  DAVID THOMPSON
  MANACHABAN
  THE PLACE OF VISION
  THE TRUCE OF THE MANITOU
  WORD FROM THE MOCCASIN TRAIL
  TRAVELLER'S JOY
  MATERIA MEDICA
  IN THE OKANAGAN
  KALEEDEN ROAD
  VANCOUVER
  VICTORIA
  MALAHAT
  RIVERS OF CANADA
  MANZANITAS
  THE MOON SYMBOL
  THE THUNDER BIRD
  TECUMSEH AND THE EAGLES
  THE RETURN OF THE MAYFLOWER
  THE GREEN SCARAB
  BELLS OF YS
  THE GOOD PRIEST OF GOURIN
  THE QUEEN OF THE ANGELS
  THE BROTHERS OF ST. FRANCIS
  ST. FRANCIS AND THE BIRDS
  THE PREACHER
  MY TEACHERS
  LADY'S SLIPPER
  TWILIGHT IN EDEN
  THE VOICE IN THE GARDEN
  PRAYERS TO THE ARCHANGELS
  THE MESSENGERS
  REVELATION
  SANCTUARY
  SHAMBALLAH
  THE SPRING CALL OF WAWA




FAR HORIZONS



  LORD OF THE FAR HORIZONS

  Lord of the far horizons,
  Give us the eyes to see
  Over the verge of sundown
  The beauty that is to be.
  Give us the skill to fashion
  The task of thy command,
  Eager to follow the pattern
  We may not understand.

  Masters of ancient wisdom
  And the lore lost long ago,
  Inspire our foolish reason
  With faith to seek and know.
  When the skein of truth is tangled
  And the lead of sense is blind,
  Foster the fire to lighten
  Our unillumined mind.

  Lord of the lilac ranges
  That lift on the flawless blue,
  Grant us the heart of rapture
  The earlier ages knew--
  The spirit glad and ungrudging,
  And light as the mountain air,
  To walk with the Sons of Morning
  Through the glory of Earth the fair.




  A MIRAGE OF THE PLAINS

  As I stood on the bank of the river that runs by Saskatoon,
  I saw the incredible happen in the sober light of noon.

  I looked out over the prairie as far as the eye could see,
  And never a stone as big as your hand, and never the sign of a tree;
  Only the golden stubble with the first light snow between,
  In the fairy light of a primal world where beauty first was seen.

  Then far on the dipped horizon where the sailing cloud-tops show,
  I saw, like a ghost in the sunlight, a prairie schooner go.
  And after her labored others in a trailing caravan--
  Lumbering, crude, ill-fitted--but they carried the hope of man.

  A marvellous train unnumbered, swinging before my gaze,
  They passed on into the sundown, and were lost in the lilac haze.
  I cleared my eyes of the vision--or the tremor of sunlit-glare--
  Only the golden stubble and the sailing clouds were there.

  Again I looked to the Northward as far as the eye could range,
  And never a rise nor a foothill, never a hint of change,
  Till a picture rose before me like a mirage at sea,
  Or those wonders of incantation from Indian jugglery.

  And I beheld no longer the voyaging clouds hull-down,
  But towers of beautiful cities and homes of many a town,
  And over them all was gladness and peace and freedom from care,
  And I heard the laughter of children ring on the frosty air.

  And over the whispering snowdrift a far-off voice said,
  "No man shall injure his neighbor, and none shall make you afraid.
  Lo, I am with you always unto the end of the world."
  Then, as the vision faded, the sails of the clouds were furled.

  And there, all round about me, real in the noonday sun,
  Stood Houses of Learning and Beauty--the vision's fulfillment begun.




  ST. GEORGE'S IN THE PINES

  St. George that savest England,
  Save us who still must go
  Where leads thy cross of scarlet
  Upon its field of snow!

  Beyond the life of cities,
  Distractions and dismays,
  Where mountain shadows measure
  The passing of the days.

  Among the lonely snow-peaks
  Where golden morning shines,
  Stands thy undaunted outpost
  Among the lodge-pole pines--

  A little stone-built chapel
  As modest as can be,
  Touched with a loving glory,
  To house thy God and thee.

  Here, where majestic beauty
  And inspiration bide,
  Be thou, to make us worthy,
  Our counsellor and guide.

  Be with us, Soul of England,
  Where the last trail puts forth,
  To keep unsoiled forever
  The honor of the North.




  SONG OF THE KICKING HORSE

  By Kicking Horse River, through Kicking Horse Pass,
  Where the Rockies guard their own,
  There's a trail that goes by a way it knows
  Through valleys wild and lone,--
  The trail of the guides and the pioneers
  Who passed--a nameless host--
  To open the gates for men to come
  Down to the Fairy Coast.

  By Kicking Horse River, through Kicking Horse Pass,
  Their wonder trail still leads,
  Though little we praise their heroic days
  And men have forgotten their deeds.
  Are you old or sad or worn or mad,
  And sick of life's too great cost?
  If you know that way, you will go that way,
  To find what you have lost.

  By Kicking Horse River, through Kicking Horse Pass,
  The Road to Tomorrow lies;
  And the guides who wait at the sundown gate
  Are Fearlessness, Faith, Surmise.
  They answer each hail and show the trail
  To all men value most.
  There is freedom and space and Heaven's grace
  In the gift of the Magical Coast.




  DOWN THE PASS

  Over the rim of the rocky pass
  I saw the sage-green moon
  Come forth and dance on the silent snow,
  Like a girl with silver shoon.

  Oh, fairy-work was the spell she wove,
  For the trees spun round with her,
  As she cast her veil of golden mist
  O'er lodge-pole pine and fir.

  And ever she sped from hill to hill,
  As down the pass we flew,
  Till hand in hand, for her saraband,
  The hills were whirling too.

  In gold and green through each ravine
  She led them dumb and fond,
  And the sparkling drift would sink and lift
  To the lure of her gleaming wand.

  For Beauty is ever a sorceress,
  And we must dance with her,
  Whether we be the children of men
  Or the seed of the pine and fir.




  DAVID THOMPSON

  A Gray Coat boy from London
  At fourteen came over sea
  To a lonely post on Hudson's Bay,
  To serve the H. B. C.
  A seeker of knowledge, a dreamer of dreams,
  And a doer of deeds was he.

  Before his feet lay a continent
  Untrailed, unmapped, unguessed.
  The whisper of the mysterious North,
  The lure of the unknown West,
  Called to him with a siren's voice
  That would not let him rest.

  'Twas but a step from the factor's door
  And the wilderness was there,
  Rivers stretching a thousand miles,
  Lakes for his thoroughfare,
  And forests fresh from the hand of God,
  Waiting his will to dare.

  Plains that dipped to the edge of the sky
  Untracked from rim to rim,
  The sorcery when the sun was high
  On ranges far and dim,
  The summer morns and the winter nights,
  They laid their spell on him.

  Where did they lead, those waterways?
  Where did they end, those plains?
  And what is the joy of the wilderness
  Only its lover attains?
  Ask little Whitethroat, Killooleet,
  Who sings through the soft gray rains!

  Wherever they led, whatever the end,
  This lad must find and know.
  With pole and paddle and slender birch,
  On snowshoes over the snow,
  With saddle and pack and pony track,
  'Twas his dream and delight to go.

  He followed the song the rivers sang
  Over their pebbly bars;
  By spruce and larch he tallied his march;
  The moons were his calendars;
  And well he could reckon and read his path
  By the faithful shining stars.

  From the Churchill to the Assiniboine
  And up the Saskatchewan,
  Back and forth through all the North
  His purpose drove him on,
  Making a white man's trail for those
  Who should come when he was gone.

  So the days grew years, and the years a life,
  Without reward or renown,
  No heed of self, no greed for pelf
  Nor the idle ease of Town,
  Till he came at last to the barrier
  Where the wheeling sun went down.

  There the enormous ranges stood
  Forbidding against the sky,
  Where only the bear and the bighorn climbed
  And the eagle's brood could fly.
  His was the foot must find a road
  For the world to enter by.

  Up he followed the azure thread
  Of the winding branch for guide,
  By rapid and reach and shingly beach,
  Then over the great divide.
  Then he saw a river broad and strong
  Swing past in a silver tide.

  Down through a maze of canyon walls
  He watched the mighty stream
  Sweep on in conquering plenitude
  With arrowy flight and gleam,
  And knew that he had found at last
  The river of his dream.

  And here his house was builded.
  Here let us stand and say,
  Here was a man--full sized--whose fame
  Shall never pass away,
  While the stars shine and the rivers run
  In the land of the Kootenay.

  _Invermere, B. C.,_
  _August, 1922._




  MANACHABAN

  Up the Manachaban Valley the white man calls the Bow,
  When ice lay blue on the ledges and the passes were packed with snow,
  I went with my brother Assiniboines ages and ages ago.

  From rock peaks gaunt and crusted the tailing snow-banners blew,
  Like smoke from the pointed tepees in a camp of the Manitou.

  Snow on the blue-green spruces and the tapering lodge-pole pines,
  Snow on the gray-green poplars lifting their smooth slim lines,

  A smother of snow in the heavens where the cold white sun shone pale,
  And a hand that clung to our snowshoes, as we broke the knee-deep trail.

  Then down from the North came swirling the Warriors of the Sky.
  Out of the wild Lost Canyon their level charge came by.

  The tall pines swayed together moaning as if they knew,
  While driving in clouds above us the ice-barbed arrows flew.

  We heard them hiss in the willows as they sank and settled from flight,
  While still the white hosts followed hiding the sun from sight.

  We gathered our buckskins about us, and leaned to the slant of the storm,
  And thought of our far-off lodges with their fires bright and warm.

  Swift as a white owl swooping, the peril unlooked-for came,
  And fell on that band of hunters,--the shadow they feared to name.

  Lost! was the sun in the heavens; darker the short day grew.
  Strange were the passes about us, in a place we had thought we knew.

  Lost! was the trail behind us.  There in the formless vast
  The track of our snowshoes was buried almost before we had passed.

  Heavier grew the going, more uncertain the light.
  And we thought of the Silent Walker, who appears at the edge of night,

  At the side of the daring traveller with unknown miles to go,
  A shadow out of the shadows leaving no track in the snow.

  The wisest shall not outwit him, nor the strongest outreach his stride.
  And those whom his gray hand touches must falter and turn aside.

  They shall not return to their lodges where their women and children are,
  Nor camp by their own bright rivers that flow towards the morning star.

  They must tarry in that Lost Valley of the North, which no man knows,
  Where the pale Ghost Lights go trailing over the drifting snows.

  And so we fell upon silence and were touched with cold white sleep,--
  The spell of the Shadow Walker, his eerie way to keep.

  The clean snow covered our bodies.  The spring wind bringing the rain
  Whispering over the ranges signalled to us in vain.

  The summers returned in their season to flower the prairie floor,
  And Wawa came back to his reed-bed, but we to our tribe no more.

  So did we pass from our hunting and were lost on that mountain trail,
  As the flame dies down to an ash at the end of a camp-fire tale.

  Lost?  And forever?  Then how is it all so familiar today,--
  The sifting snow in the willows, the creak of the snowshoe's play,

  The very bend of the river where Sundance Canyon lies,
  And the swaying pines in the smother as the sun pales out of the skies?

  Why should I cry to my senses in this nineteen-twenty-four,
  As up the Manachaban Valley we swing to the stride once more,
  Breasting a glorious snow storm, "I have been here before!"




  THE PLACE OF VISION

  There is a Place of Vision,
  Where the youth of the Kootenays,
  At the approach of Manhood,
  Came in the olden days,--

  Awaiting the breath of the Spirit,
  Alone with the mountains lone,
  Each through vigil and fasting
  To receive a sign of his own;

  A clearing high on a shoulder
  Of the lovely Beaverfoot Range
  Above the Columbia Valley,
  Watching the Seasons change;

  A place apart and enchanted,
  Surcharged with mystery,--
  The breath of things unuttered
  And might we cannot see.

  There where the wild deer bedded
  They trusted the wilderness way.
  There with the stars on the ranges
  They learned to watch and obey.

  Schooled in the deeper knowledge,
  Submitting body and will
  According to tribal teaching
  To a teaching older still,

  With exaltation of spirit
  And courageous heart's desire,
  Their eager souls were illumined
  With a touch of mystic fire.

  They crossed the threshold of being
  Where the cruder senses fail,
  And passed the portals of wisdom
  That lead to the Shining Trail.

  They stood on the verge of creation
  In the sweep of the wheeling sun,
  In the spell of Magian powers
  Where Maker and man are one.

  So, even so came the vision
  Of the way they must choose and take,
  Clear as dawn on the ranges
  Bidding the valleys awake.

  So, even so came the message,
  The law they must learn and keep,
  Clear as the wind of morning
  Parting the mists of sleep.

  Steeped in unnumbered summers
  And the peace that has no name,
  Lies the place of purified watching
  Where the revelation came.

  There stands a dead pine guarding
  A ring of broken stone.
  Lightly we say unheeding,
  "The gods have deserted their own!"

  Nay, it is we have forgotten
  Whence cometh wisdom and might,
  Shutting the door on vision,
  Turning our backs to the light.

  From him who desireth greatly
  No wisdom shall be concealed,
  To him the future is present,--
  All secrets shall be revealed.

  In solitude, silence and beauty,
  On many a lonely hill
  The word on the wind is waiting,
  The vision is gleaming still.




  THE TRUCE OF THE MANITOU

  Here in the cloudless Northern summer the Beaverfoot range
      lies out in the blue
  Brooding and silent, o'er each new-comer its old enchantments
      are cast anew.

  He sees in the great plain far below him lake and river
      in silver lie,
  The winds from the valley lift to blow him chants of the
      ages passing by.

  Voices mysterious wild and haunting speak today as they
      spoke of old,
  To the humble in heart and the mind un-vaunting is the message
      brought and the secret told.

  The Indian lad through lonely hours here watched and fasted
      to prove his worth,
  Till there appeared to his quickened powers one of the guides
      of the tribes of earth.

  Well he knew that the lower creatures who walk or swim or
      voyage the air,
  Whatever their likeness of form or features, gull, crow,
      caribou, seal or bear,

  After their kind have each its Master, its guiding Spirit,
      its tribal Soul,
  To save from panic and self-disaster, to temper with reason
      and self-control.

  Who drills the ducks in late September, in floating line or
      on whistling wing?
  Who bids the slumbering bear remember?  Who guides the run
      of the salmon in spring?

  Who teaches the hawk the wondrous curving that builds his spirals
      against the sun?
  Who steers the flock of sea-snipe swerving to dart and dip and
      flash as one?

  Who but a great and brooding being, taking at will the image of man,
  Endowed with memory and foreseeing, the Thought of God for his
      feckless clan!

  The youth has climbed to his lonely station, the rite is performed,
      the vigil set,
  The solemn hours of expectation pass,--never one that he will forget.

  The sun is gone, and the gold-tipped ranges are turned to mauve
      and purple and blue.
  The dusk comes on, and twilight changes to silence and stars.
      The word comes through.

  He sees in the dark between the boulders wondering eyes that
      glow and stare,
  The great horned heads and thrusting shoulders of a herd of moose
      that are watching there.

  Then a luminous Presence tall and splendid, in freedom of beauty
      and strength of days,
  Took form and spoke,--as doubt was ended,--searching the lad
      with level gaze:

  "Fear not, my son, what lies before thee.  I bring thee word
      from the moose thy kin.
  The door of their lodge is open for thee; be of good heart and
      enter in.

  "From near and far they are come to know thee,--the mightiest
      bulls of many a herd,--
  To witness the Manitou's truce and show thee they too are bound
      by the uttered word.

  "To these in loyalty and compassion shall thy protection and
      love be shown,
  And they in their simple strength and fashion shall return thee
      caring like thine own.

  "Little have they of understanding, being but folk of the
      Dawning Mind,
  Yet to the Will of the All-commanding in goodness of heart they
      are not blind.

  "Toward them thou shalt brook no hurt nor treason; they are thy
      brothers from this day forth.
  With them thou shalt share the Lesser Reason and be given the
      Knowledge of all the North.

  "I will be with thee in all thy goings, waking or sleeping
      by day or night,
  With the rain on its march and the wind in its blowings.
      Thy kinsman the moose will lend thee might.

  "Thou shalt have eyes where others see not, a heart for the
      trail where others faint.
  Ill-willed nor wanton thou shalt be not, keeping thy senses
      clean of taint.

  "In thine hour of peril when none is near thee, when evil
      threatens and help is far,
  Call on thy brothers and they shall hear thee and aid on the
      instant wherever they are.

  "The Darkness has lightened.  The Silence has spoken.  Go, and
      forget not and be strong."
  The vision faded, the spell was broken.  And the youth who had
      pondered long and long

  Arose and went down where the valley waited and the thin blue
      morning smoke up-curled
  From the silent lodges, with heart elated; a splendor lay over
      all his world.




  WORD FROM THE MOCCASIN TRAIL

  From the land of the Abanakis,--
  The rivers and hills of the East,--
  An Indian spirit sends greeting
  To the great Trail Riders' feast.

  Afoot and alone with peril
  We went with arrow and bow.
  Mounted, unarmed and jesting,
  In safety at ease you go.

  Little enough was our learning,
  Small was our craft and skill.
  But we saw the feet of the morning
  Go by,--and our hearts were still.

  We shaped the canoe and the paddle,
  We fashioned the snowshoe frame,
  And the Great Spirit was with us,
  As we kindled the council flame.

  You have circled the earth with your knowledge,
  Your magic is more and more.
  Yet must you heed our wisdom,--
  The truth of the wilderness lore.

  You ride to make good our beginnings,
  Our trails to keep clear and extend,
  Guarding the lodge and the camp fire,
  In peace at sundown's end.

  So over all we are tribesmen,
  By the law that does not swerve,--
  At home in the Tent of the Open,
  On call through the Great Reserve.

  We lift you the friendly signal,
  We send you our sign on the air.
  Look East for our smoke at evening,
  And say, "Our brothers are there!"

  "May no foot want for a stirrup,
  No prayer nor adventure fail,
  And the Master Guide go with you,"
  Is the word from the Moccasin Trail.

  _Moonshine,
  Twilight Park,
  In the Catskills,
  July, 1924._




  TRAVELLER'S JOY

  By the pass of the Coquahalla,
  Where the roadbed snakes and clings
  To the soaring perilous rockface--
  Where an eagle needs his wings;

  Down through the wooded canyons
  Of the Otter and Tulameen,
  Where first October wanders
  Pale gold through the sombre green;

  You will come to the Okanagan,
  And meet a breath of the South,
  Where the wind that brings fair weather
  Comes up from the valley's mouth.

  You may ride to the gates of morning
  On slopes of yellow pine
  And flats of sage and greasewood,
  In a country I call mine.

  You may camp in the open timber
  On the level-floored plateaus,
  When sunset dyes the tree trunks
  Cinnamon, purple and rose,

  While blued in the smoke of evening
  The pink-gray ranges rise,--
  With the piney smell in your nostrils,
  And your heart in Paradise.




  MATERIA MEDICA

  What are these unknown flowers
  That star this lovely earth
  Wasting through long sweet hours
  Their beauty and their worth?

  What are these plants unknown
  That paint the desert's floor
  With a splendor all their own,
  Unheeded o'er and o'er.

  O foolish Man and blind,
  Here is Earth's healing grace
  For thee and all thy kind
  To build the perfect race.

  There springs no smallest flower
  In all the wilderness
  But God has given it power
  To lighten some distress.

  Their truth shall make thee wise,
  Their virtues make thee whole,
  Their glory fill thine eyes
  With loveliness of soul.

  This earth is holy ground,
  And every seed and spore
  In verity is bound
  Life's harmony to restore.

  Each with its balm for pain
  Shall serve thy need, and prove
  They take God's name in vain
  Who reckon without love.




  IN THE OKANAGAN

  I hear the sweet larks crying.
  The soft wind in the pines
  Is like a great sea sighing
  For what its heart divines.
  The hills stand up in splendor;
  The dark blue shadows lean
  Against them deep and tender;
  The far-blown air is clean.

  From Skaha to Osoyoos
  The temperate days go by
  With simple life and joyous
  Under a stainless sky.
  The gray unbroken benches
  Are crowned with yellow sage,
  And ageless beauty quenches
  The fever of our age.

  Here balsam poplars capture
  The scent of Paradise,
  And strange new flowers enrapture
  Our unaccustomed eyes.
  The trees with fruit are bending,
  The gardens gay with flowers,
  A sense of peace unending
  Is over all the hours.

  Along the purple ranges
  The glow of sunset shines,
  And glory spreads and changes
  Among the red-boled pines.
  Here time takes on new leisure
  And life attains new worth.
  And wise are they who treasure
  This Eden of the North.




  KALEEDEN ROAD

  There is a road by Skaha Lake
  The cautious driver will not take,
  So narrow, steep and high in air--
  And dangerous as an open stair--
  He turns aside to easier grades
  Through stands of pine in crimson glades.

  But you who would behold the face
  Of Beauty in her dwelling-place,
  And know that she is often found
  Within a peril-guarded ground,
  Loving the fearless, who have shown
  A spirit steadfast as her own,

  Take the Kaleeden road and dare
  The danger for the glory there.
  Beauty will meet you as you fly
  Enraptured between earth and sky,
  And her own ecstasy impart
  As guerdon to your faithful heart.

  The spell of her enchanted ways
  Shall be about you all your days
  With the old thrill, as you recall
  The loveliness that held you thrall,
  And bless the stars that bade you take
  Kaleeden road by Skaha Lake.




  VANCOUVER

  Where the long steel roads run out and stop,
  And the panting engines come to rest,
  Where the streets go down to the arms of the sea,
  Stands the metropolis of the West.

  There the adventurous ships come in
  With spices and silks of the East in hold,
  And coastwise liners down from the North
  With cargoes of furs and gold.

  Traders up from the coral isles
  With tales of those lotus-eating lands,
  And smiling men from the Orient
  With idols of jade in their hands.

  Yellow and red and white and brown,
  With stories in many an outland tongue,
  They mingle and jest in her welcoming streets,
  As they did when Troy was young.

  The sceptre passes and glory fades,
  Only the things of the heart stand sure.
  Fame and fortune are blown away,
  Friendship and love endure.

  Here is friendship steady of hand,
  Loving-kindness fearless and free--
  Men and women who understand,
  And romance as old as the sea.

  Tyre and Sidon, where are they?
  Where is the trade of Carthage now?
  Here is Vancouver on English Bay,
  With tomorrow's light on her brow!




  VICTORIA

  Where the traveller looks from Saanich,
  Fair is the sight he sees,
  A gracious imperial city
  Guarding the gates of the seas,
  With a robe of golden English broom
  Spreading about her knees.

  Lovely, with old-world leisure
  Gracing her modest state,
  In youthful pride of dominion
  She sits by the Western gate,
  Watching the liners come and go
  Through Juan de Fuca Strait.

  She is crowned with ivy and laurel
  Fresh with an ageless spring;
  Tales of the East and news of the North
  Her sheltered sea-lanes bring;
  And all her beauteous days go by,
  Soft as a gray gull's wing.

  Child of the strong adventure,
  Bred to the clean and fine,
  With touch of the velvet tropics
  And eyes with the Northern shine,
  Never to be forgotten--
  Last of the Sea-Kings' line.




  MALAHAT

  As we went up on Malahat,
  The green hill-road on Malahat,
  The foaming river ran beside,
  As if in haste to tell the tide
  The latest news of Malahat.

  Too young to wait, too glad to stay,
  Where giant firs met overhead,
  Through the dark aisles it flashed and sped
  In silver mist with flying spray
  Along the way to Malahat.

  As on we went through shade and gleam,
  We raised the gray-winged gulls from rest
  In eddies on the river's breast,
  Ice-blue and clear as ocean stream--
  Safe in the heart of Malahat.

  There, as we mounted, fjord and hill
  Unrolled, with wooded isles between,
  A paradise in blue and green
  That made the amazed heart stand still
  Beneath the spell of Malahat.

  Far-off, beyond the last sea-line,
  Lo, like a floating cloud of rose,
  One peak in its eternal snows,
  The high-heart's everlasting sign--
  A glimpse of heaven from Malahat.




  RIVERS OF CANADA

  O all the little rivers that run to Hudson's Bay,
  They call me and call me to follow them away.

  Missinaibi, Abitibi, Little Current--where they run
  Dancing and sparkling I see them in the sun.

  I hear the brawling rapid, the thunder of the fall,
  And when I think upon them I cannot stay at all.

  At the far end of the carry, where the wilderness begins,
  Set me down with my canoe-load--and forgiveness of my sins.

  O all the mighty rivers beneath the Polar Star,
  They call me and call me to follow them afar.

  Peace and Athabasca and Coppermine and Slave,
  And Yukon and Mackenzie--the highroads of the brave.

  Saskatchewan, Assiniboine, the Bow and the Qu'Appelle,
  And many a prairie river whose name is like a spell.

  They rumor through the twilight at the edge of the unknown,
  "There's a message waiting for you, and a kingdom all your own.

  "The wilderness shall feed you, her gleam shall be your guide.
  Come out from desolations, our path of hope is wide."

  O all the headlong rivers that hurry to the West,
  They call me and lure me with the joy of their unrest.

  Columbia and Fraser and Bear and Kootenay,
  I love their fearless reaches where winds untarnished play--

  The rush of glacial water across the pebbly bar
  To polished pools of azure where the hidden boulders are.

  Just there, with heaven smiling, any morning I would be,
  Where all the silver rivers go racing to the sea.

  O well remembered rivers that sing of long ago,
  A-journeying through summer or dreaming under snow.

  Among their meadow islands through placid days they glide,
  And where the peaceful orchards are diked against the tide.

  Tobique and Madawaska and shining Gaspereaux,
  St. Croix and Nashwaak and St. John whose haunts I used to know.

  And all the pleasant rivers that seek the Fundy foam,
  They call me and call me to follow them home.




  MANZANITAS

  From the majesty and mystery and might of all the North
  In its silence and its honor and its pride,
  When south again you turn,
  You are like enough to learn
  This world is very long as well as wide.

  When you meet the Sacramento in the copper-colored hills,
  Its Iron Canyon washed in morning gold,
  What perhaps you did not know
  May strike you like a blow,--
  This world is very new as well as old.

  There is mystery in cedar, there is music in the pine,
  There is magic where the scarlet maples run.
  But as strange a spell will hold you
  All unreasoned and enfold you
  From the blue-green manzanitas in the sun.

  The apple trees of Grand Pr and the orchards of the North
  May charm you where the tide of Fundy spills,
  Yet another magic takes you
  When another morning wakes you,
  Where the manzanitas dot their barren hills.

  When you sight the open valley where the palms and oaks begin
  And snowy Lassen rises from the plain,
  There is something in your heart
  That will make it stop and start,
  At the sight of manzanitas once again.

  They will sing you songs of passes where the high Sierras lift,
  They will tell you old-time stories of the trail.
  No day will be too long
  As you listen to their song,
  And find a new enchantment in each tale.

  There is rapture waiting for you at the rim of all the world,
  There is medicine no pharmacy distills,
  There is all of time before you
  And only heaven o'er you,
  Where the manzanitas call you to the hills.

  You shall see the desert sunrise, and the skies of turquoise blue
  On mountains made of lavender and rose,
  And the fever of the quest
  Shall be quieted to rest
  In a spaciousness that only freedom knows.

  You shall watch the starry splendor from a blanket on the ground,
  The hosts of glory marching by your fire,
  And the stillness and the vast
  Will reveal to you at last
  How simple in the end is soul's desire.




  THE MOON SYMBOL

  This is the sign of the moon
  Worn by the tribes of the West,
  The sacred symbol of Night
  Guarding the love in the breast.

  This is the mystical charm
  Out of soft moon-metal wrought,
  With all of its magic intact,
  The Navajo silversmith caught,

  When he beheld in the dusk
  That marvellous sickle of light
  Hang o'er the desert to guide
  The footsteps of lovers aright.

  Was not a sorcerer here
  Casting a silvery spell,
  Calling the Manitou down
  In the wrought symbol to dwell?

  Surely a poet was he,
  Seeking a word of his own
  For the enchantment of night
  He too had seen and known!

  Bidding the silver assume
  The language of beauty, and be
  Witness of love for the dumb
  Yet impassioned--even as he.

  He too a lover had been,
  (Does not his handicraft say?)
  Touched with the glamour of life,
  And giving his heart away.

  See where the hammer-marks prove
  The faith of the artist sublime--
  Love and its work must abide,
  Outlasting the sand storms of time.

  Yours be this talisman too,
  Lovers of beauty and light,
  Leaving your hearts to the care
  Of the great spirit of night!




  THE THUNDER BIRD

  What of our Lord of the sky,
  Whose mighty pinion
  Over the void of the blue
  Swept in dominion?

  When the slow beat of his wings
  Rustled with thunder,
  All the tribes knew it and stood
  Spellbound in wonder.

  Far in the canyon of day
  Was his rock-dwelling,
  When he would go or return
  Was no foretelling.

  Trackless untamed and aloof
  Dwelt the Far-seeing,
  Giver of life-giving rain,
  Quick death decreeing.

  Then came the greedy of heart,
  The white destroyer,
  Casting his noose in the air,--
  Reckless decoyer.

  Taking the god in a trap,
  Taming his power,
  Harnessed and broken to toil,
  Sold by the hour.

  What of the Lord of the storm,--
  The desert's vastness,--
  Once we revered in our hearts,
  Safe in his fastness?

  See where the palefaces still
  Cower in panic,
  Knowing their master at bay,
  Instant, titanic,

  When, dealing beauty and death,
  From the crossed wire
  Crashes the god over all--
  Thunder and fire.




  TECUMSEH AND THE EAGLES

  I

  Tecumseh of the Shawnees
  He dreamed a noble dream,--
  A league to hold their freedom old
  And make their peace supreme.
  He drew the tribes together
  And bound them to maintain
  Their sacred pact to stand and act
  For common good and gain.


  II

  The eagles taught Tecumseh
  The secret of their clan,--
  A way to keep o'er plain and steep
  The liberty of Man.
  The champions of freedom
  They may not weary soon,
  Nor lay aside in foolish pride
  The vigilance of noon.

  Those teachers of Tecumseh
  Were up to meet the dawn,
  To scan the light and hold the height
  Till the last light was gone.
  Like specks upon the azure,
  Their guards patrolled the sky,
  To mount and plane and soar again
  And give the warning cry.

  They watched for lurking perils,
  The death that skulks and crawls,
  To take by stealth their only wealth
  On wind-swept mountain walls.
  They did not trust the shadows
  That sleep upon the hill;
  Where menace hid, where cunning slid,
  They struck--and struck to kill.

  Through lonely space unmeasured
  They laid their sentry rings,
  Till every brood in eyrie rude
  Was shadowed by their wings.
  Tecumseh watched the eagles
  In summer o'er the plain,
  And learned their cry, "If freedom die,
  Ye will have lived in vain."


  III

  The vision of Tecumseh
  It could not long endure;
  He lacked the might to back the right
  And make his purpose sure.
  Tecumseh and his people
  Are gone; they could not hold
  Their league for good; their brotherhood
  Is but a tale that's told.


  IV

  The eagles of Tecumseh
  Still hold their lofty flight,
  And guard their own on outposts lone,
  Across the fields of light.
  They hold their valiant instinct
  And know their right of birth,
  They do not cede their pride of breed
  For things of little worth.

  They see on earth below them,
  Where time is but a breath,
  Another race brought face to face
  With liberty or death.
  Above a thousand cities
  A new day is unfurled,
  And still on high those watchers cry
  Their challenge o'er the world.

  Where patriots are marching
  And battle flags are borne,
  To South and North their cry goes forth
  To rally and to warn.
  From border unto border,
  They wheel and cry again
  That master cry, "If freedom die,
  Ye will have lived in vain!"




  THE RETURN OF THE MAYFLOWER

  I

  Down the sparkling Channel,
  Out of Plymouth Sound,
  What gallant little craft is this
  Making outward bound?

  Who crowd along her taffrail
  To look their last on home,
  While the seas beneath her forefoot
  Are trampled into foam,

  And in the morning sunlight
  Her last sail is unfurled?
  She's the _Mayflower_ out from Plymouth,
  Bound for the New World.

  What cargo does she carry,
  And what port will she make?
  She has a hundred souls on board
  Would die for conscience' sake.

  And she will come to anchor
  On a far Western beach,
  By God's grace, past the farthest bounds
  That tyranny can reach.

  No Argo ever carried,
  No pilgrim ever planned,
  A more sublime adventure
  Than this exalted band.

  They bear the flower of England,
  To plant it over sea--
  The holy seed of Runnymede
  That men call Liberty.

  And lo, that magic blossom
  Shall flourish and increase,
  To glad the souls of all mankind,
  And fill the world with peace.

  Warm are the Devon moorlands
  In the September sun,
  And over the dim unknown sea-rim
  The _Mayflower_ has gone.


  II

  Looming up the Channel,
  Making Plymouth Sound,
  What man-of-war is this that comes
  Racing, victory bound?

  Speeding as to battle,
  On she comes amain,
  Swift as an eagle's shadow
  Across the summer plain.

  In power and in beauty
  Commanding on the seas,
  She leads a stranger battle line--
  What men, what ships are these?

  Look, where she flies her colors--
  The white and crimson bars,
  The ensign of the Rights of Man,
  The Glory of the Stars!

  Back from the ports of promise
  Beyond the Western sea,
  These are the breed of Runnymede,
  The Sons of Liberty.

  To cheers that give her welcome
  What answer will she make?
  Hark to her thousand souls on board
  Would die for freedom's sake!

  To stay the ancient altars,
  Where fire of justice burns,
  For freedom still as God may will,
  The _Mayflower_ returns.




  THE GREEN SCARAB

  This ring, of course, takes your eye,--
  A splendid great scarab of green.
  Imagine how Pharaoh went by,
  And this on his finger was seen!

  Singing girls going before,
  Lifting their pans of praise;
  Suppliants bowed to the floor,
  Proclaiming his greatness of days;

  Fan-bearers following after,
  With clash of the cymbals and drums;
  Incense that floats to the rafter;
  The cry of the flutes where he comes;

  Priests in their purple and scarlet,
  Dancers in brassiers of gold,
  The merchant, the scribe, and the harlot,
  The soothsayers shaven and old;

  All these are now dust of the East,--
  Their vanity, power, and pride
  Gone with the flowers of their feast,
  Past with their music that died.

  And still this symbol remains
  A treasure the ages hold fast,--
  Sign that the spirit attains
  Its mystic perfection at last.

      *    *    *    *    *

  Guarding the emblem they hold,
  How freshly these irises blend,
  Wrought in a setting of gold
  Designed by George Marcus, my friend!




  BELLS OF YS

  Once of old there stood a beauteous city
  By the Breton sea,
  Towered and belled and flagged and wreathed and pennoned
  For the pomp of Yule-tide revelry;
  All its folk, adventurous, sea-daring,
  Gay as gay could be.

  And at night when window, torch, and bonfire
  Lighted up the sky,
  Down the wind came galleon and pinnace,
  Steered for that red lantern, riding high;
  Every brown hand hard upon the tiller,
  Shoreward every eye.

  Well I see that hardy Breton sailor
  With the bearded lip,--
  How he laughed out, holding his black racer
  Where the travelling sea-hills climb and slip,
  Chased by storm, but lighted on to haven,
  Ship by homing ship.

  Every sail came in, a deep-sea rover
  Who had heard afar
  Wild and splendid hyperborean rumors
  Of a respite made to feud and war,--
  Making port where sea-wreck and disaster
  Should not vex them more.

  What of Ys?  Where was it when gray morning
  Gloomed o'er Brittany?
  Smothered out in elemental fury,
  Wrecked and whelmed in the engulfing sea,
  To become a never-fading story
  In sea-legendry.

  There at ebb of tide, when no wind vexes
  That lone tragic shore,
  Through the sea's pale light entranced towers
  May be seen uprising from its floor,
  Safe within that beryl deep embosomed
  Lovely as of yore.

  Still along that haunted coast men tell us
  They can hear at times,
  When the tide is half asleep and musing,
  The faint sound of unsubstantial chimes
  Ringing through the world's tumultuous day-beat
  From enchanted climes.

  And they say those peals of fairy music
  Are the city's bells,
  Drowned long since with all their silver joyance,--
  That a deathless rapture in them dwells,
  Part forever of the surge of being
  As it sinks and swells.

  In each heart there is a sunken city,
  Wonderful as Ys.
  In hours of ebb we hear the mellow pealing
  Of its mystic bells of joy and peace,
  Rocked by tides that wash through all its portals
  Without let or cease.

  In from nowhere blow those freshening sea-turns,
  Haunting all our ways
  With melodious inspiring echoes
  Of old transports and forgotten days.
  Through the entries and the doors of being
  Their faint music strays.

  That's the magic of our deathless sea-bells,
  Chiming all life long
  Ever-healing canticles of beauty,
  Joy's ecstatic triumph over wrong,--
  The love theme that haunts this human dwelling
  With immortal song.




  THE GOOD PRIEST OF GOURIN

  In dark old Brittany linger
  Traditions and tales of the past,
  When belief was more moving than now
  And the world more wondrous and vast.

  Here is a strange sweet legend
  That has many a time been told,
  But never before was written down
  In language new or old.

  Passing from lip to lip
  Through that province by the sea,
  The faith-worn treasure came at last
  To the friend who gave it to me.

  In the ancient graveyard at Gourin
  My friend espied one stone
  Quite new, on top of its pediments
  Age-worn and lichen-grown.

  The old old slab, they said,
  As a questioning look they caught,
  Was worn away by the feet
  Of little children, brought

  By mothers to walk on the tomb.
  A word of amazement led
  To this tale of the ancient days
  And the goodness of one long dead.

  Hundreds of years ago
  In the parish there lived a priest
  Greatly beloved by his people
  And his children--not the least.

  For he loved the little folk
  Even as the Master had done
  When He took them up in his arms
  And blessed them every one.

  But one sad human weakness
  Afflicted this good cure.
  When he had fallen asleep
  After his work of the day,

  He could hardly be roused again,
  But would drift back into sleep,
  As a vessel cut from her moorings
  Will drift out onto the deep.

  One night as he slept there came
  A hurried knock at his door,
  To summon him to baptize
  A little one stricken sore.

  Yes, yes, he would come at once!
  But frail is our flesh.  The tide
  Of sleep engulfed him again,
  And by morning the child had died.

  Grief for the loss of a soul
  And remorse tore at his heart.
  Unworthy one!  He could serve
  No longer, he must depart!

  So one night, turning his back
  On the parish he loved, he set out
  For the nearest port, his step
  Heavy enough no doubt.

  Thence he took ship and sailed
  For Ireland, setting his face
  To a new life that should repair
  His sorry fault, by God's grace.

  Nearing the coast, he found
  Among his belongings the key--
  Thrust in his pocket in haste--
  To the door of his Sacristy.

  Overboard it must go!
  Not a single tie must remain
  With all he had loved and lost,
  To bring it to mind again.

  For years in a new-found home
  With patience and love as of old
  He labored among the poor
  And the suffering in his fold.

  And always his chiefest joy
  Were the children in his care,
  For he loved them tenderly--
  That spirit devoted and rare.

  And they all loved him till he seemed
  Almost a saint in their eyes,
  With a touch of glory his worn
  Old cassock could not disguise.

  So it went, till he stopped on a day
  At an inn to sup and eat,
  When they set before him a fish
  Fresh from the sea for a treat.

  As ever before a meal
  His thanks to God gave he.
  Then lo, inside of the fish--
  The key of his Sacristy!

  A miracle truly.  But why?
  Could it be a mercy shown
  To one who had grievously sinned,
  Repented, and tried to atone?

  How else interpret the marvel?
  Rejoicing he read it so,--
  The days of his penance were past,
  He might arise and go,

  Back to the Bretons he loved,
  Be with his own once more.
  Oh how they welcomed him,
  How the children ran from each door!

  And there he toiled to his age,
  In the footsteps of his Lord
  With mercy and healing and love,
  And passed to his reward.

  He died, but surely his soul
  Lives on somewhere, somehow.
  See how his tomb is worn
  By children's feet even now,

  Where mothers bring them to walk
  Back and forth on the stone,
  To strengthen the frail little bodies!
  And he blesses them spirit and bone.

  This is the ancient legend
  From Gourin among the hills,
  Where the faithful still believe,
  And all is as God wills.




  THE QUEEN OF THE ANGELS

  Her church is on the Plaza
  Of the old Spanish town,
  Where swarthy men and women
  In the noon go up and down.

  Day long and year long
  The palm-tree shadows fall
  With the slow-creeping sunlight
  On the yellow plaster wall.

  Day long and year long
  The weathered doors are wide,
  That the broken may find healing
  And the wayworn turn aside.

  For the lonely and distraught ones
  There is sanctuary here,
  There is pity in the stillness,
  And compassion for a tear.

  Young lovers find her altar
  Where many candles burn,
  And breathe their hopes before her
  And bare their hearts that yearn.

  They look upon their Lady,
  And poor is her attire,
  But her eyes are like the lilac
  For the pain of their desire.

  A heavy dull offender,
  Laden with miseries,
  Up the long aisle in penance
  Goes meekly on her knees.

  No suppliant too lowly,
  No sinner too afraid.
  Our Lady of the Angels
  Is merciful to aid.

  She lifts a hand to bless them,
  Forgiving sin and shame;
  She is acquaint with sorrow,
  And Mary is her name.




  THE BROTHERS OF SAINT FRANCIS

  The age of ruthless speeding
  Tears madly on today,
  But the Brothers of St. Francis
  Must fare afoot alway.

  No privilege of leisure
  Their ministry commands,
  With a message in their girdle
  For the freeing of the lands.

  Yet thrushes fill their twilights
  And stars of morning sing,
  As they take the dust of travel
  On the Business of the King.

  Soft sleep and easy faring
  For those to riches bound;
  For the Brothers of St. Francis
  A blanket on the ground.

  But ah, what dreams attend them
  Before the stars grow wan,--
  Visions of joy triumphant
  When violence is gone!

  The greedy will be fighting
  With tooth and nail and sword,
  But the Brothers of St. Francis
  Must pattern by their Lord.

  The foolish will be striving
  With words and words and words,
  But the Brothers of St. Francis
  Have secrets with the birds.

  At evening and at morning
  They hear their brothers sing,
  And their hearts leap up with gladness
  On the Highroad of the King.




  ST. FRANCIS AND THE BIRDS

  St. Francis preached a sermon once,
  Not to dominie nor dunce,
  Prince nor pauper,--to the birds
  He addressed his loving words.

  Flocking in from far and near
  One and all kept still to hear,
  Robin, vireo, and wren
  Sitting mute like decent men;

  Tanager in scarlet coat,
  Golden-wing and ruby-throat,
  Bobolink and chickadee,
  Like children good as good could be.

  From the catbird not a squawk,
  Not a whistle from the hawk,
  From the raven not a croak;
  Not a parrot cracked a joke.

  Even the outrageous jay
  Sat without a word to say,
  And the oriole and thrush
  Forced their golden throats to hush.

  Grosbeak, meadow-lark, and quail
  Let their sliding woodnotes fail,
  While the lonely whippoorwill
  Ceased his grieving from the hill.

  And the whitethroat from the wild
  With his music undefiled,
  Even he put singing by
  For the greater mystery,--

  Some new phrase of being's lore
  He had never heard before,
  Which might turn his plaintive fall
  Into triumph after all.

  There they waited all intent
  For the word the Lord had sent,
  Hearing good St. Francis tell
  How life's song of joy befell;

  How they each must bear a part
  In the chorus of the heart,
  Keeping harmony alive,
  Helping rapture to survive;

  For if any voice were dumb
  Their Lord's Kingdom could not come,
  And the world must pass away
  In a wreck at Judgment Day.

  As he finished every tree
  Sounded like the Litany
  When the people make response.
  For the bird folk all at once,

  With new reason to be glad
  Such as they had never had,
  Lifted up with one accord
  Heart and voice to praise the Lord.




  THE PREACHER

  _See here!  This is it!_
  _See here!  This is it!_

  The voice of the preacher all day long
  Reiterating his summer song.

  In the morning air in the fresh green wood
  He seems to argue that life is good.

  To follow the trail from day to day
  In wisdom and love is the only way.

  Preacher, I do believe it's true.
  I'll be converted and live like you,

  With not a thing in the world to do
  But sit in the sun the whole day through,

  And be my followers many or few
  Preach the gospel according to you.

  _See here!  This is it!_
  _See here!  This is it!_




  MY TEACHERS

  The people of the forest
  In crimson, green, and tan,--
  The trees,--have been my teachers
  To make of me a man.

  They awed me with their beauty,
  Their tender strength and pride.
  They gladden me as comrades
  Forever at my side.

  I dare not scorn their patience
  In learning how to grow.
  They do not waste their powers
  In rushing to and fro,

  Nor spend a moment thinking
  How soon they have to die,--
  All occupied enhancing
  The hour going by.

  I love the dark-hued spruces
  Because their hearts are warm.
  And the tall pines have taught me
  To front the winter storm.

  Among the April willows
  In their gold and silver gear,
  I hear the bees make music
  And summer drawing near.

  Remembered Birch and Lilac
  Have taught me loveliness,
  They are so fair and fragrant
  In their soft-colored dress.

  Great Oak, dear Beech and Cedar,
  Young Cherry dressed in white,
  They stand with heads uncovered
  To greet the morning light.

  And little trembling Aspen
  Who always says her prayers,
  Has taught me by example
  To tell God all my cares.

  And One in gown of scarlet,
  The first beloved of all,
  Still tells me tales of glory
  When autumn days befall.




  LADY'S SLIPPER

  Who passed this way and left this trace
  Of beauty in so wild a place,

  To stir our souls with marvelling
  At so incredible a thing?

  Who sent this living miracle
  In the deep Northern woods to dwell,

  Where only hermit thrushes come
  And the shy brown bear makes his home?

  Whence was the inspiration caught?
  Whose was the sudden happy thought?

  Or whose the impulse thus to bless
  The rough untrodden wilderness?

  Deep in our hearts glad tidings say,
  Beauty herself came by this way,

  And with a wisdom older far
  Than alphabet or calendar,

  Cast off her sandal as she sped
  Lest we should miss the way she fled.

  And so forever we pursue
  The shadowy trail of Beauty's shoe,

  And for her sake must leave behind
  Riches and rest and peace of mind,

  To follow on that shining trace,
  With beating heart and breathless pace.

  By darkling wood and haunted stream,
  Still lured by the enchanting gleam,

  Wherever the long way may lead,
  To keep the trail is all our need.

  On simple fare, in poor attire,
  Torn and waylaid by flint and briar,

  With the lone dawn upon the height
  Or the great desert stars by night,

  Through burning sun and blinding snow
  Untiring and content we go,

  If only so we may behold
  Dear Beauty's self ere we are old.




  TWILIGHT IN EDEN

  In the cool of the day in Eden
  There was a Voice that came,
  And a Presence walked in the shadows
  Calling Adam by name.

  In the deep woods at twilight
  There is a voice I hear
  Haunting the dusk with a burden
  Serene and marvellous clear.

  Sometimes I think it a seraph,
  Sometimes I know 'tis a bird,
  And many a time I wonder
  If that is what Adam heard.

  Lost long since was the secret.
  Now no man knows the tongue
  Wherein God spake unto Adam
  In the days when earth was young.

  The light of knowledge is darkened
  By panic and greed and pride.
  Greatly the Serpent promised,
  Greatly indeed he lied.

  We have weighed the sun in a balance,
  We have ridden the wind in speed,
  Vast are our cunning inventions,
  But who hath wisdom at need?

  We are housed and pampered like princes,
  We are clothed with the raiment of kings,
  But how shall the soul in her longing
  Profit by all these things?

  We have scorned the belief of our fathers
  And cast their quiet aside,
  To take the mob for our ruler
  And the voice of the mob for our guide.

  You may search the rocks for their record,
  You may winnow the stars for a clue,
  But where is the rapture of instinct
  The morning in Eden knew?

  Who can interpret the meaning
  Of the wind among the trees,
  The warnings of birds and of insects,
  Or the rain's soft litanies?

  God still walks through the twilight
  Waiting for us to hear.
  Have we not found His footprint
  In the meadows when spring drew near?

  Have we not seen His pageant
  Autumn in scarlet and gold?
  But who stands in awe at His passing?
  Who kneels while the message is told?

  We have polluted the silence.
  How should we hear the voice?
  We have discarded reverence,
  And made disillusion our choice.

  Anarch destroyers of Eden,
  Rioting over the lands,--
  Room for the smiling witness
  Who hearkens and understands!




  THE VOICE IN THE GARDEN

  Pacing my garden rounds with pensive tread and slow,
  Thinking on those far bounds to all our sight can know,--
  Sifting as in debate the endless How and Why
  Of man's mysterious fate and the soul's bitter cry,--

  "If one could find," I thought, "a door in that blue wall,
  Wherethrough there might be caught a glimpse for one and all!"
  "My son,"--I heard a voice,--"now and forevermore
  Thou hast the gift of choice.  For thee thy chosen door
  But needs thine utmost power, to open and disclose
  Beyond the clouds of thought the glory of thine hour.

  "O heart of little trust, why falter or despair,
  When beauty from the dust is lifted like a prayer--
  Transcending space and time, outreaching sense and thought,
  That excellence sublime which cannot come to naught!

  "No leaf from verge to verge in all the spring's green sea
  But feels the lifting urge of power that sets it free.
  No drop of shining dew that holds the colored ray,
  But it is sphered as true as the great arch of day.

  "Through every bud and blade an ageless ardor runs,
  An equal law is laid on whirling dusts and suns.
  No fernleaf is uncurled, no budsheath breaks the mould,
  But He who made the world sustains it as of old.

  "See, where the budding vine puts forth its strength at need,
  The mystic and divine symbol of life indeed!
  Hill-wind and springing grain, brook-song and evening star,
  Hoar frost and summer rain,--behold how sure they are!

  "These do not shun the task of unregarded things,
  Nor scorn their lot to ask alien adventurings.
  For deep within them dwells the undesisting fire
  That bids their teeming cells endeavor and aspire.

  "Hark to the silver call of the first twilight thrush!
  Mark where the spring lights fall with that faint greening flush,
  And the young buds unclose on the red maple trees!
  Have they no heart that knows?--And art thou less than these?"

  Then as I stopped my round I marvelled at the sight,
  For all my garden was bathed in a new light.
  A glory filled the place, wherein the unanxious flowers
  Behold God face to face through the immortal hours.




  PRAYERS TO THE ARCHANGELS

  I

  Raphael, angel of love,
  Lord of the morning star,--
  Splendor all proof above,
  Glory beheld afar,--

  Shine as thou didst of old
  Through the dark Syrian night,
  For seeking eyes to behold
  Thy promise and portent of light.

  Over our trail in the dust,
  Lead through the darkness still
  To the waiting world of our trust
  Beyond the cross-sown hill.

  Kindle our hearts with fire
  As the peaks are kindled with morn,
  And quicken our steps to aspire
  As spring through the earth is born.


  II

  Gabriel, giver of knowledge,
  Master of reason and thought,
  Leader in ways of wisdom
  For the wayward and untaught;

  When through the many voices,--
  The rote of the sea and the rain,
  The whispering snow and the thunder,
  And the ancient wind's refrain,--

  The Unknown speaks to mortals
  And the eager Soul gives ear,
  Grant thou the understanding
  That shall make the meaning clear.

  Open our eyes to glory
  As only a seraph can,
  And teach us the angel's measure
  Of the stature and freedom of man.


  III

  Great Michael of the flaming sword,
  Unfearing, swift and strong,
  Thou art the doer of the word,
  The conqueror of wrong.

  Of no avail were all the light
  And love of Raphael,
  If thou wert not at hand to smite
  Traitor and infidel.

  And hope would not survive the hour
  Of Gabriel's "All hail!"
  Save by thy pure unflinching power
  To make the word prevail.

  Then, Michael, give us grace to stand
  Where still thy sword-flash gleams,
  And love accepts thy stern command--
  To win the world for dreams.




  THE MESSENGERS

  How shall we know the mighty ones
  Who carry the Lord's commands,--
  Raphael, Gabriel, Michael?  Lo,
  In splendor of light they come and go,
  Like the rainbow with its bands.

  Their robes are wrought of the color of flame,
  Scarlet, yellow, and blue.
  Raphael's yellow, pure as the sun,
  That must endure while the ages run,
  As love itself will do.

  Gabriel's blue, as clear as a lake
  That mirrors truth from its heart,
  And mystical as the haze that lies
  Over our mountain paradise,--
  Passing the reach of art.

  And Michael's scarlet, brave and glad
  As the woods in early fall,
  When beauty marches across the world,
  And her banners of triumph are unfurled
  Along our mountain wall.

  So is the transport of life renewed
  By the Archangels' aid,
  And love and mystery and power
  Are given to man with every hour,--
  As it was since the worlds were made.




  REVELATION

  John in Patmos had a vision, told in the Apocalypse,
  Full of dark unsolved enigmas leaving reason in eclipse.

  But this common world of beauty is our vision to behold,
  As significant, entrancing, and inspired as John's of old.

  John interpreted in fable records of the Hidden Mind.
  Whoso reads the blessed scriptures of the wilderness may find

  What God means by night and morning, by the wild bird songs in spring,
  Or the mighty dirge of winter when the great pines sway and sing.

  Whoso reads the shining legend written in the stony brook
  By the Author of the granite and the midnight's starry book,

  Shall find radiant revelation.  Science toils through glimmering night,
  Until Wisdom of a sudden floods the shadowy peaks with light.

  Wouldst thou learn God's primal secret?  Hark what Beauty has to say,
  When the spirit thrills with rapture and the gates of pride give way.

  In the respite after seeking comes the whisper of the Voice,
  Bidding soul maintain her birthright,--mind fear not and heart rejoice.

  Ask no Medium to teach thee.  God exists but to inspire.
  To the seeker comes the knowledge.  To the kindling comes the fire.

  Is thy speech as sweet as lilacs, and thy touch as clean as dew?
  Truth is walking in the twilight still, and has a word for you.

  Vital, vibrant, overruling are the forces of this earth,--
  The creative urge forever bringing miracles to birth.

  We are dream-enchanted beings, kin to rhythms of light and air.
  Singing wind and running water have us in their fostering care.

  Let the punctual tides instruct thee, and the planets give thee poise.
  Take the pine tree for thy teacher whom life never irks nor cloys.

  Live in friendship with the seasons, and their skill will make thee whole.
  Take the bird's call and the brook's note for their tonic to thy soul.

  Bathe in renaissance of morning, drink the solace twilight brings,
  Feed on beauty for thy welfare and the strength whence rapture springs;

  So thy living soul shall sense the meaning of the Wandering Word,
  And thy being know the secret that creation's morning heard.




  SANCTUARY

  Sun fades the rosiest plaster,
  Sand wears the sill away,
  But the building of the Master
  Must stand till Judgment Day.

  The sky shall roof my chancel,
  The desert be its floor,--
  All lesser plans I cancel
  Than these forevermore.

  Its walls shall be the ranges,
  Rose-ash and blue and dun,
  Where the light shifts and changes--
  A tapestry of the sun.

  There will I have in winter
  A bluebird for my choir,
  And sunrise there will enter
  To touch my soul with fire,

  Where hoarfrost shot with morning
  For the Lord's carpet lies,
  With gleaming snows adorning
  His walls of Paradise.

  The wind among the yuccas
  Will be the organ tone,
  Bearing the word it utters
  In music all its own.

  There will I think on Beauty
  Her other names to know,--
  Learning the mystic duty
  Of suppliants long ago.

  The azure noons will teach me
  The wisdom of the trail,
  And the great stillness reach me
  Beyond the farthest hail.

  And there, his least evangel,
  At sundown will I stand,
  Until the Desert Angel
  Shall bring me my command.

  _Yucca Loma Ranch,
  Victorville, California.
  February, 1925._




  SHAMBALLAH

  Have you heard of the city of Shamballah,
  That marvellous place in the North,
  The home of the Masters of Wisdom,
  Whence the Sons of the Word are sent forth?
  In moments of vision we see it,
  For a moment we understand,
  Then it passes from sense, unsubstantial
  As the shadows of gulls o'er the sand.

  What Architect builded Shamballah
  As frail as the wondrous new moon?
  Its walls with the rose tint of morning
  From no earthly quarry were hewn.
  Before Him no Builder took counsel
  To fashion from dust of the ground,
  In beauty and order and rhythm,
  A palace of color and sound.

  It arose with the arches of heaven
  When the planets were swung in a chime,
  And those who look forth from its windows
  Have watched the procession of time.
  By the great Northern lights and the silence
  Its inviolate portals are barred.
  On cold winter nights you can see them
  As they countermarch changing guard.

  Have you dreamed of the mystic Shamballah,
  The City under the Star,
  Where the Sons of the Fire-Mist gather
  And the keys of all mystery are?
  When the white moon rises in splendor,
  Have you said, as it lifts and gleams,
  "They have lighted the Silver Lantern
  In the gate of the City of Dreams."

  Have you read of the fabled Shamballah
  In symbols or letters of gold,
  Whence issued the Bringers of Knowledge
  For the saving of peoples untold?
  They builded no temple save beauty,
  Save truth they established no creed,
  Great love was their power and purpose,
  As a flower in the heart of a seed.

  They heard the first flute-note in Egypt
  Uplifted in longing and prayer.
  When sunrise stole over the desert
  To break upon Thebes, they were there.
  In Babylon, Llassa, and Sarnath,
  Through Galilee, Athens and Tyre
  To thresholds unnamed and unnumbered
  They carried the Message of Fire.

  They kindled the flame unconsuming
  In souls that were quick to receive,
  They told of a truth that should follow
  Had love but the will to believe.
  From Patmos, Chaldea, and Cumae
  Their servants were chosen anew,
  To speak as the Logos commanded,
  That the Dream of the Good might come true.

  The light-bearing sons of Shamballah,
  They spread the ineffable word.
  And spirits who mocked it were broken,
  And blessed were the spirits that heard.
  The birds knew the joy of their gospel,
  The windflower sprang where they trod,
  And the ages were quickened to worship
  Jehovah or Allah or God.

  Have you heard of the speech of Shamballah,
  The language that all men know
  In township, pueblo, or palace,
  Wherever men rest or go?
  It is clear in the tones of friendship,
  It is murmured in wind and rain,
  It is writ in the painted desert,
  And the sifting snow on the plain.

  It blooms in the high Sierras,
  It springs from the dust of the trail,
  It flowers in golden silence
  When all other speeches fail.
  There is never a hint of kindness,
  There is never an accent of love,
  But the firmament thrills to its whisper
  And the heavens are glad thereof.

  Forth from that Magian City
  What teachers and avatars came,
  To walk through our streets in pity--
  If so they might heal our shame!
  From Krishna, Gautama, and Jesus
  To Swedenborg, Blake, and Delsarte,
  They brought us the message of brothers,
  They labored and died apart.

  Untold are the sons of Shamballah,
  Who must carry the word without rest,
  And pass, with the joy of their presence,
  Like shadows of angels unguessed.
  They carry no mark of their order,
  No talisman men must obey.
  The street of the heart is their highroad,
  Their mission to lighten the way.

  They came with the music of Orpheus,
  With the hymns of Isaiah and Job,
  With the staff and bowl of the beggar
  Or the glory of Solomon's robe.
  Their task from Plotinus to Browning
  Was ever and never the same,--
  To replenish the altars of wisdom
  And guard the impalpable flame.

  In this mortal fabric incarnate
  What radiant souls have had birth!
  The visions they cherished and quickened
  Were not begotten of earth.
  In music or language or color,
  However their rapture was caught,
  Divine were the instincts they followed,
  Divine was the service they wrought.

  The sweep of Beethoven and Handel
  In majestical triumph or dirge,
  The glories of Raphael's genius,
  The splendor of Angelo's urge,
  The soaring Te Deums of Gothic
  Arrested in eloquent stone,--
  What are these but the soul of the Ages
  Immortal through color and tone!

  Pure wine of the spirit they gave us,--
  A gladness to make us whole,--
  But we trusted to cunning to save us,
  And cunning has cheated our soul.
  The brand of the beast is upon us
  In wantonness, folly and greed.
  We have trampled the torch that should light us,
  And our darkness is ours indeed.

  The Nations are gathered to counsel,
  In jealousy, envy, and fear,
  Forgetting the Judgment of Karma,
  And the Judgment of Karma is here.
  O'er Rome, over London and Paris
  The morrows of destiny wait.
  Yet who now seeks word from Shamballah?
  Who knocks at the Ivory Gate?




  THE SPRING CALL OF WAWA

  _Hear the voice of Wawa in the twilight,
  Now the snows are loosened on the plain!
  Hear the word of Wawa going Northward,
  Winging on the soft wind and the rain!
  All the solemn April night resounding
  With the cries of Wawa and his train._

      Awake, my April children,
      And hark,--that startling cry,
      The wild geese going over,
      A great wedge honking high!

      The dark resounds with signals,
      The heaven is full of wings,
      And in your heart the flutter
      Of wild imaginings,--

      The breathless sudden impulse
      To get you out of door
      And hear the old goose calling
      On the long trek once more.

      He cries the needed warning
      To steer the ragged line,
      By unknown lake and river,
      O'er hills of spruce and pine.

      He knows the Fundy shore-line,
      The dark Laurentian peaks,
      And where prepared lies waiting
      The feeding-ground he seeks,--

      Where the first warmth of April
      Is stirring in the sedge,
      And the last ice is melting
      Along the lake's blue edge.

      Unquestioning he follows
      The lead that lures him forth
      For Athabascan reed-beds
      And the Sunlands of the North.

      Behind him press the legions,
      The drive that must prevail;
      Before him lie the wonder,
      The whisper and the trail.

      He may not doubt nor falter,
      He may not quit nor tire
      Who leads the lusty migrants
      To the waters of desire.

      O you who hear the music
      Within the April rain,
      And send your hearts to journey
      With Wawa and his train,

      You too shall learn the magic
      That makes the woodlands ring,--
      The mystery that fashions
      The beauty of the spring.

      In sugar bush and orchard
      The sap is sweet and strong,
      And meadow lot and clearing
      Are waiting for their song.

      Then with the quickened joyance
      Lift up your hearts on high,
      To the gospel of enchantment
      Announced along the sky.

      You truly shall inherit
      The land of Wawa's dream,
      And Wawa's God shall lead you
      Beside his silver stream.

      Then fear no more, you faithful
      Who in the Earthland dwell.
      Hark to the old goose honking,
      'Tis Spring and all is well!

  _Hear the voice of Wawa in the midnight
  O'er the stirring land that lies below!
  Hear the word of Wawa on the long trail
  Where the hidden wisdom bids him go!
  Get you to the wilds again with Wawa,--
  Who can tell what secrets you shall know!_




  Warwick Bros. & Rutter, Limited

  Printers and Bookbinders

  Toronto




  DE PROFUNDIS

  When at the sunset's close
  Earth slowly turns to rest,
  I watch the fading rose
  Die in the saffron west,

  The pale cool stars emerge,
  And the blue robe of night
  Is sown from verge to verge
  With daffodils of light.

  Then all the distant hills
  And shadows seem aware
  Of One who holds and thrills
  The far away and near.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

The edition used as base for this book contained the
following error, which has been corrected:

Title of first poem:
IN EXCELIS
=> IN EXCELSIS




[End of _Far Horizons_ by Bliss Carman]
