The Songster by E. Pauline Johnson

Music, music with throb and swing,
  Of a plaintive note, and long;
'Tis a note no human throat could sing,
No harp with its dulcet golden string,–
Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring,
  Is sweet as the robin's song.
He sings for love of the season
  When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
  That his breast was born for song.
Calling, calling so fresh and clear,
  Through the song-sweet days of May;
Warbling there, and whistling here,
He swells his voice on the drinking ear,
On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere
  Till his music drowns the day.
He sings for love of the season
  When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
  That his breast was born for song.

The Happy Hunting Grounds by E. Pauline Johnson

    Into the rose gold westland, its yellow prairies roll,
    World of the bison's freedom, home of the Indian's soul.
    Roll out, O seas! in sunlight bathed,
    Your plains wind-tossed, and grass enswathed.

    Farther than vision ranges, farther than eagles fly,
    Stretches the land of beauty, arches the perfect sky,
    Hemm'd through the purple mists afar
    By peaks that gleam like star on star.

    Fringing the prairie billows, fretting horizon's line,
    Darkly green are slumb'ring wildernesses of pine,
    Sleeping until the zephyrs throng
    To kiss their silence into song.

    Whispers freighted with odour swinging into the air,
    Russet needles as censers swing to an altar, where
    The angels' songs are less divine
    Than duo sung twixt breeze and pine.

    Laughing into the forest, dimples a mountain stream,
    Pure as the airs above it, soft as a summer dream,
    O! Lethean spring thou'rt only found
    Within this ideal hunting ground.

    Surely the great Hereafter cannot be more than this,
    Surely we'll see that country after Time's farewell kiss.
    Who would his lovely faith condole?
    Who envies not the Red-skin's soul,

    Sailing into the cloud land, sailing into the sun,
    Into the crimson portals ajar when life is done?
    O! dear dead race, my spirit too
    Would fain sail westward unto you.

The Song My Paddle Sings by E. Pauline Johnson

    West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
    Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
    The sail is idle, the sailor too;
    O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
    Blow, blow!
    I have wooed you so,
    But never a favour you bestow.
    You rock your cradle the hills between,
    But scorn to notice my white lateen.

    I stow the sail, unship the mast:
    I wooed you long but my wooing's past;
    My paddle will lull you into rest.
    O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
    Sleep, sleep,
    By your mountain steep,
    Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
    Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
    For soft is the song my paddle sings.

    August is laughing across the sky,
    Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
    Drift, drift,
    Where the hills uplift
    On either side of the current swift.

    The river rolls in its rocky bed;
    My paddle is plying its way ahead;
    Dip, dip,
    While the waters flip
    In foam as over their breast we slip.

    And oh, the river runs swifter now;
    The eddies circle about my bow.
    Swirl, swirl!
    How the ripples curl
    In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

    And forward far the rapids roar,
    Fretting their margin for evermore.
    Dash, dash,
    With a mighty crash,
    They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

    Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
    The reckless waves you must plunge into.
    Reel, reel.
    On your trembling keel,
    But never a fear my craft will feel.

    We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!
    The river slips through its silent bed.
    Sway, sway,
    As the bubbles spray
    And fall in tinkling tunes away.

    And up on the hills against the sky,
    A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
    Swings, swings,
    Its emerald wings,
    Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

Under Canvas - In Muskoka by E. Pauline Johnson

    Lichens of green and grey on every side;
    And green and grey the rocks beneath our feet;
    Above our heads the canvas stretching wide;
    And over all, enchantment rare and sweet.

    Fair Rosseau slumbers in an atmosphere
    That kisses her to passionless soft dreams.
    O! joy of living we have found thee here,
    And life lacks nothing, so complete it seems.

    The velvet air, stirred by some elfin wings,
    Comes swinging up the waters and then stills
    Its voice so low that floating by it sings
    Like distant harps among the distant hills.

    Across the lake the rugged islands lie,
    Fir-crowned and grim; and further in the view
    Some shadows seeming swung 'twixt cloud and sky,
    Are countless shores, a symphony of blue.

    Some northern sorceress, when day is done,
    Hovers where cliffs uplift their gaunt grey steeps,
    Bewitching to vermilion Rosseau's sun,
    That in a liquid mass of rubies sleeps.

    The scent of burning leaves, the camp-fire's blaze,
    The great logs cracking in the brilliant flame,
    The groups grotesque, on which the firelight plays,
    Are pictures which Muskoka twilights frame.

    And Night, star-crested, wanders up the mere
    With opiates for idleness to quaff,
    And while she ministers, far off I hear
    The owl's uncanny cry, the wild loon's laugh.

The Legend of Qu'Appelle Valley by E. Pauline Johnson

    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 shore;
    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 shore,
        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 shore.
    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 passed 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 shore
        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.

Canadian Born by E. Pauline Johnson

    We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of God;
    We are the pulse of Canada, its marrow and its blood:
    And we, the men of Canada, can face the world and brag
    That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

    Few of us have the blood of kings, few are of courtly birth,
    But few are vagabonds or rogues of doubtful name and worth;
    And all have one credential that entitles us to brag -
    That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

    We've yet to make our money, we've yet to make our fame,
    But we have gold and glory in our clean colonial name;
    And every man's a millionaire if only he can brag
    That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.

    No title and no coronet is half so proudly worn
    As that which we inherited as men Canadian born.
    We count no man so noble as the one who makes the brag
    That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.

    The Dutch may have their Holland, the Spaniard have his Spain,
    The Yankee to the south of us must south of us remain;
    For not a man dare lift a hand against the men who brag
    That they were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

Calgary of the Plains by E. Pauline Johnson

    Not of the seething cities with their swarming human hives,
    Their fetid airs, their reeking streets, their dwarfed and poisoned lives,
    Not of the buried yesterdays, but of the days to be,
    The glory and the gateway of the yellow West is she.

    The Northern Lights dance down her plains with soft and silvery feet,
    The sunrise gilds her prairies when the dawn and daylight meet;
    Along her level lands the fitful southern breezes sweep,
    And beyond her western windows the sublime old mountains sleep.

    The Redman haunts her portals, and the Paleface treads her streets,
    The Indian's stealthy footstep with the course of commerce meets,
    And hunters whisper vaguely of the half forgotten tales
    Of phantom herds of bison lurking on her midnight trails.

    Not hers the lore of olden lands, their laurels and their bays;
    But what are these, compared to one of all her perfect days?
    For naught can buy the jewel that upon her forehead lies -
    The cloudless sapphire Heaven of her territorial skies.

At Crow's Nest Pass by E. Pauline Johnson

    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.

At Half-Mast by E. Pauline Johnson

    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."