Little Lady Icicle is singing in the north-land, And bringing from the north-land a music wild and low; And the fairies watch and listen Where her silver slippers glisten, As little Lady Icicle goes singing through the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is coming from the north-land, Benumbing all the north-land where"er her feet may go; With a fringe of frost before her And a crystal garment o"er her, Little Lady Icicle is coming with the snow.
THE LEGEND OF QU"APPELLE VALLEY
I am the one who loved her as my life, Had watched her grow to sweet young womanhood; Won the dear privilege to call her wife, And found the world, because of her, was good.
I am the one who heard the spirit voice, Of which the paleface settlers love to tell; From whose strange story they have made their choice Of naming this fair valley the "Qu"Appelle."
She had said fondly in my eager ear-- "When Indian summer smiles with dusky lip, Come to the lakes, I will be first to hear The welcome music of thy paddle dip.
I will be first to lay in thine my hand, To whisper words of greeting on the sh.o.r.e; And when thou would"st return to thine own land, I"ll go with thee, thy wife for evermore."
Not yet a leaf had fallen, not a tone Of frost upon the plain ere I set forth, Impatient to possess her as my own-- This queen of all the women of the North.
I rested not at even or at dawn, But journeyed all the dark and daylight through-- Until I reached the Lakes, and, hurrying on, I launched upon their bosom my canoe.
Of sleep or hunger then I took no heed, But hastened o"er their leagues of waterways; But my hot heart outstripped my paddle"s speed And waited not for distance or for days, But flew before me swifter than the blade Of magic paddle ever cleaved the Lake, Eager to lay its love before the maid, And watch the lovelight in her eyes awake.
So the long days went slowly drifting past; It seemed that half my life must intervene Before the morrow, when I said at last-- "One more day"s journey and I win my queen!"
I rested then, and, drifting, dreamed the more Of all the happiness I was to claim,-- When suddenly from out the shadowed sh.o.r.e, I heard a voice speak tenderly my name.
"Who calls?" I answered; no reply; and long I stilled my paddle blade and listened. Then Above the night wind"s melancholy song I heard distinctly that strange voice again-- A woman"s voice, that through the twilight came Like to a soul unborn--a song unsung.
I leaned and listened--yes, she spoke my name, And then I answered in the quaint French tongue, "Qu"Appelle? Qu"Appelle?" No answer, and the night Seemed stiller for the sound, till round me fell The far-off echoes from the far-off height-- "Qu"Appelle?" my voice came back, "Qu"Appelle? Qu"Appelle?"
This--and no more; I called aloud until I shuddered as the gloom of night increased, And, like a pallid spectre wan and chill, The moon arose in silence in the east.
I dare not linger on the moment when My boat I beached beside her tepee door; I heard the wail of women and of men,-- I saw the death-fires lighted on the sh.o.r.e.
No language tells the torture or the pain, The bitterness that flooded all my life,-- When I was led to look on her again, That queen of women pledged to be my wife.
To look upon the beauty of her face, The still closed eyes, the lips that knew no breath; To look, to learn,--to realize my place Had been usurped by my one rival--Death.
A storm of wrecking sorrow beat and broke About my heart, and life shut out its light Till through my anguish some one gently spoke, And said, "Twice did she call for thee last night."
I started up--and bending o"er my dead, Asked when did her sweet lips in silence close.
"She called thy name--then pa.s.sed away," they said, "Just on the hour whereat the moon arose."
Among the lonely Lakes I go no more, For she who made their beauty is not there; The paleface rears his tepee on the sh.o.r.e And says the vale is fairest of the fair.
Full many years have vanished since, but still The voyageurs beside the campfire tell How, when the moonrise tips the distant hill, They hear strange voices through the silence swell.
The paleface loves the haunted lakes they say, And journeys far to watch their beauty spread Before his vision; but to me the day, The night, the hour, the seasons are all dead.
I listen heartsick, while the hunters tell Why white men named the valley The Qu"Appelle.
THE ART OF ALMA-TADEMA
There is no song his colours cannot sing, For all his art breathes melody, and tunes The fine, keen beauty that his brushes bring To murmuring marbles and to golden Junes.
The music of those marbles you can hear In every crevice, where the deep green stains Have sunken when the grey days of the year Spilled leisurely their warm, incessant rains
That, lingering, forget to leave the ledge, But drenched into the seams, amid the hush Of ages, leaving but the silent pledge To waken to the wonder of his brush.
And at the Master"s touch the marbles leap To life, the creamy onyx and the skins Of copper-coloured leopards, and the deep, Cool basins where the whispering water wins
Reflections from the gold and glowing sun, And tints from warm, sweet human flesh, for fair And subtly lithe and beautiful, leans one-- A G.o.ddess with a wealth of tawny hair.
GOOD-BYE
Sounds of the seas grow fainter, Sounds of the sands have sped; The sweep of gales, The far white sails, Are silent, spent and dead.
Sounds of the days of summer Murmur and die away, And distance hides The long, low tides, As night shuts out the day.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
(These miscellaneous poems are all of later date.)
IN GREY DAYS
Measures of oil for others, Oil and red wine, Lips laugh and drink, but never Are the lips mine.
Worlds at the feet of others, Power G.o.ds have known, Hearts for the favoured round me Mine beats, alone.
Fame offering to others Chaplets of bays, I with no crown of laurels, Only grey days.
Sweet human love for others, Deep as the sea, G.o.d-sent unto my neighbour-- But not to me.
Sometime I"ll wrest from others More than all this, I shall demand from Heaven Far sweeter bliss.
What profit then to others, Laughter and wine?
I"ll have what most they covet-- Death, will be mine.
BRANDON
(ACROSTIC)
Born on the breast of the prairie, she smiles to her sire--the sun, Robed in the wealth of her wheat-lands, gift of her mothering soil, Affluence knocks at her gateways, opulence waits to be won.
Nuggets of gold are her acres, yielding and yellow with spoil, Dream of the hungry millions, dawn of the food-filled age, Over the starving tale of want her fingers have turned the page; Nations will nurse at her storehouse, and G.o.d gives her grain for wage.