VI
Gets forth those caverned walls
No roar from the giant Falls,
Whose mountainous foam treads under
The abyss of awful thunder.
But—the river’s sudden speed!
How the ghost-grey shores recede!
And the tearless pilots hear
A muttering voice creep near.
A tremor! The blanched waves leap.
The warriors start from sleep.
Faints in the sudden blare
The cry of their swift despair,
And the captives’ death-chant shrills ...
But afar, remote from ills,
Quiet under the quiet skies
The Melicite village lies.
THE WOOD FROLIC
The Morning Star was bitter bright, the morning sky was grey;
And we hitched our teams and started for the woods at break of day.
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
Along the white and winding road the sled-bells jangled keen
Between the buried fences, the billowy drifts between.
Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!
So crisp sang the runners, and so swift the horses sped,
That the woods were all about us ere the sky grew red.
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
The bark hung ragged on the birch, the lichen on the fir,
The lungwort fringed the maple, and grey moss the juniper.
Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!
So still the air and chill the air the branches seemed asleep,
But we broke their ancient visions as the axe bit deep.
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
With the shouts of the choppers and the barking of their blades,
How rang the startled valleys and the rabbit-haunted glades!
Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!
The hard wood and the soft wood, we felled them for our use;
And chiefly, for its scented gum, we loved the scaly spruce;
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
And here and there, with solemn roar, some hoary tree came down,
And we heard the rolling of the years in the thunder of its crown.
Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!
So, many a sled was loaded up above the stake-tops soon;
And many a load was at the farm before the horn of noon;
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
And ere we saw the sundown all yellow through the trees,
The farmyard stood as thick with wood as a buckwheat patch with bees;
Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!
And with the last-returning teams, and axes burnished bright,
We left the woods to slumber in the frosty shadowed night.
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
And then the wide, warm kitchen, with beams across the ceiling,
Thick hung with red-skinned onions, and homely herbs of healing!
Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!
The dishes on the dresser-shelves were shining blue and white,
And o’er the loaded table the lamps beamed bright.
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
Then, how the ham and turkey and the apple-sauce did fly,
The heights of boiled potatoes and the flats of pumpkin-pie!
Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!
With bread-and-cheese and doughnuts fit to feed a farm a year!
And we washed them down with tides of tea and oceans of spruce beer.
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
At last the pipes were lighted and the chairs pushed back,
And Bill struck up a sea-song on a rather risky tack;
Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!
And the girls all thought it funny—but they never knew ’twas worse,
For we gagged him with a doughnut at the famous second verse.
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
Then someone fetched a fiddle, and we shoved away the table,
And ’twas jig and reel and polka just as long as we were able,
Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!
Till at last the girls grew sleepy, and we got our coats to go.
We started off with racing-teams and moonlight on the snow;
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
And soon again the winter world was voiceless as of old,
Alone with all the wheeling stars, and the great white cold.
Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!
CANADIAN STREAMS
O rivers rolling to the sea
From lands that bear the maple-tree,
How swell your voices with the strain
Of loyalty and liberty!
A holy music, heard in vain
By coward heart and sordid brain,
To whom this strenuous being seems
Naught but a greedy race for gain.
O unsung streams—not splendid themes
Ye lack to fire your patriot dreams!
Annals of glory gild your waves,
Hope freights your tides, Canadian streams!
St. Lawrence, whose wide water laves
The shores that ne’er have nourished slaves!
Swift Richelieu of lilied fame!
Niagara of glorious graves!
Thy rapids, Ottawa, proclaim
Where Daulac and his heroes came!
Thy tides, St. John, declare La Tour,
And, later, many a loyal name!
Thou inland stream, whose vales, secure
From storm, Tecumseh’s death made poor!
And thou small water, red with war,
’Twixt Beaubassin and Beauséjour!
Dread Saguenay, where eagles soar,
What voice shall from the bastioned shore
The tale of Roberval reveal,
Or his mysterious fate deplore?
Annapolis, do thy floods yet feel
Faint memories of Champlain’s keel,
Thy pulses yet the deed repeat
Of Poutrincourt and d’Iberville?
And thou far tide, whose plains now beat
With march of myriad westering feet,
Saskatchewan, whose virgin sod
So late Canadian blood made sweet?
Your bulwark hills, your valleys broad,
Streams where de Salaberry trod,
Where Wolfe achieved, where Brock was slain,—
Their voices are the voice of God!
O sacred waters! not in vain,
Across Canadian height and plain,
Ye sound us in triumphant tone
The summons of your high refrain,
AVE!