Strange as when on Space the voices
Of the stars' hosannahs fell,
To this wilderness of beauty
Seemed his call "Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?"
For a day he tarried, hearkening,
Wondering, as he went his way,
Whose the voice that gladly called him
With the merry tones of day?
Was it God, who gave dumb Nature
Voice and words to shout to one
Who, a pioneer, came, sunlike,
Down the pathways of the sun?
Harbinger of thronging thousands,
Bringing plain, and vale, and wood,
Things the best and last created,
Human hearts and brotherhood!
Long the doubt and eager question
Yet that valley's name shall tell,
For its farmers' laughing children
Gravely call it "The Qu'Appelle!"
THE BLACKFEET
I.
Where the snow-world of the mountains
Fronts the sea-like world of sward,
And encamped along the prairies
Tower the white peaks heavenward;
Where they stand by dawn rose-coloured
Or dim-silvered by the stars,
And behind their shadowed portals
Evening draws her lurid bars,
Lies a country whose sweet grasses
Richly clothe the rolling plain;
All its swelling upland pastures
Speak of Plenty's happy reign;
There the bison herds in autumn
Roamed wide sunlit solitudes,
Seamed with many an azure river
Bright in burnished poplar woods.
II.
Night-dews pearled the painted hide-tents,
"Moyas" named, that on the mead
Sheltered dark-eyed women wearing
Braided hair and woven bead.
Never man had seen their lodges,
Never warrior crossed the slopes
Where they rode, and where they hunted
Imu bulls and antelopes.
Masterless, how swift their riding!
While the wild steeds onward flew,
From round breasts and arms unburdened
Freedom's winds their tresses blew.
Only when the purple shadows
Slowly veiled the darkening plain
Would they sorrow that the Sun-god
Dearer loved his Alp's domain.
III.
Southward, nearer to the gorges
Whence the sudden warm winds blow,
Shaking all the pine's huge branches,
Melting all the fallen snow,
Dwelt the Séksika, the Blackfeet;
They whose ancestor, endued,
With the dark salve's magic fleetness,
First on foot the deer pursued.
Gallantly the Braves bore torture
While their Sun-dance fasts were held,
While the drums beat, and the virgins
Saw the pains by manhood quelled.
As each writhing form triumphant
Called on the Great Spirit's might,
On his son, whose voice in thunder
Summons airy hosts to fight.