Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 9

The pulseless forest, lock'd and interlock'd So closely, bough with bough, and leaf with leaf, So serf'd by its own wealth, that while from high The moons of summer kiss'd its green-gloss'd locks; And round its knees the merry West Wind danc'd; And round its ring, compacted emerald; The south wind crept on moccasins of flame; And the fed fingers of th' impatient sun Pluck'd at its outmost fringes--its dim veins Beat with no life--its deep and dusky heart, In a deep trance of shadow, felt no throb To such soft wooing answer: thro' its dream Brown rivers of deep waters sunless stole; Small creeks sprang from its mosses, and amaz'd, Like children in a wigwam curtain'd close Above the great, dead, heart of some red chief, Slipp'd on soft feet, swift stealing through the gloom, Eager for light and for the frolic winds.

In this shrill moon the scouts of winter ran From the ice-belted north, and whistling shafts Struck maple and struck sumach--and a blaze Ran swift from leaf to leaf, from bough to bough; Till round the forest flash'd a belt of flame.

And inward lick'd its tongues of red and gold To the deep, tranied inmost heart of all.

Rous'd the still heart--but all too late, too late.

Too late, the branches welded fast with leaves, Toss'd, loosen'd, to the winds--too late the sun Pour'd his last vigor to the deep, dark cells Of the dim wood. The keen, two-bladed Moon Of Falling Leaves roll'd up on crested mists And where the lush, rank boughs had foiled the sun In his red prime, her pale, sharp fingers crept After the wind and felt about the moss, And seem'd to pluck from shrinking twig and stem The burning leaves--while groan'd the shudd'ring wood.

Who journey'd where the prairies made a pause, Saw burnish'd ramparts flaming in the sun, With beacon fires, tall on their rustling walls.

And when the vast, horn'd herds at sunset drew Their sullen ma.s.ses into one black cloud, Rolling thund'rous o'er the quick pulsating plain, They seem'd to sweep between two fierce red suns Which, hunter-wise, shot at their glaring b.a.l.l.s Keen shafts, with scarlet feathers and gold barbs, By round, small lakes with thinner, forests fring'd, More jocund woods that sung about the feet And crept along the shoulders of great cliffs; The warrior stags, with does and tripping fawns, Like shadows black upon the throbbing mist Of Evening's rose, flash'd thro' the singing woods-- Nor tim'rous, sniff'd the spicy, cone-breath'd air; For never had the patriarch of the herd Seen limn'd against the farthest rim of light Of the low-dipping sky, the plume or bow Of the red hunter; nor when stoop'd to drink, Had from the rustling rice-beds heard the shaft Of the still hunter hidden in its spears; His bark canoe close-knotted in its bronze, His form as stirless as the brooding air, His dusky eyes too, fix'd, unwinking, fires; His bow-string tighten'd till it subtly sang To the long throbs, and leaping pulse that roll'd And beat within his knotted, naked breast.

There came a morn. The Moon of Falling Leaves, With her twin silver blades had only hung Above the low set cedars of the swamp For one brief quarter, when the sun arose l.u.s.ty with light and full of summer heat, And pointing with his arrows at the blue, Clos'd wigwam curtains of the sleeping moon, Laugh'd with the noise of arching cataracts, And with the dove-like cooing of the woods, And with the shrill cry of the diving loon And with the wash of saltless, rounded seas, And mock'd the white moon of the Falling Leaves.

"Esa! esa! shame upon you, Pale Face!

"Shame upon you, moon of evil witches!

"Have you kill'd the happy, laughing Summer?

"Have you slain the mother of the Flowers "With your icy spells of might and magic?

"Have you laid her dead within my arms?

"Wrapp'd her, mocking, in a rainbow blanket.

"Drown'd her in the frost mist of your anger?

"She is gone a little way before me; "Gone an arrow's flight beyond my vision; "She will turn again and come to meet me, "With the ghosts of all the slain flowers, "In a blue mist round her shining tresses; "In a blue smoke in her naked forests-- "She will linger, kissing all the branches, "She will linger, touching all the places, "Bare and naked, with her golden fingers, "Saying, 'Sleep, and dream of me, my children "'Dream of me, the mystic Indian Summer; "'I, who, slain by the cold Moon of Terror, "'Can return across the path of Spirits, "'Bearing still my heart of love and fire; "'Looking with my eyes of warmth and splendour; "'Whisp'ring lowly thro' your sleep of sunshine?

"'I, the laughing Summer, am not turn'd "'Into dry dust, whirling on the prairies,-- "'Into red clay, crush'd beneath the snowdrifts.

"'I am still the mother of sweet flowers "'Growing but an arrow's flight beyond you-- "'In the Happy Hunting Ground--the quiver "'Of great Manitou, where all the arrows "'He has shot from his great bow of Pow'r, "'With its clear, bright, singing cord of Wisdom, "'Are re-gather'd, plum'd again and brighten'd, "'And shot out, re-barb'd with Love and Wisdom; "'Always shot, and evermore returning.

"'Sleep, my children, smiling in your heart-seeds "'At the spirit words of Indian Summer!'"

"Thus, O Moon of Falling Leaves, I mock you!

"Have you slain my gold-ey'd squaw, the Summer?"

The mighty morn strode laughing up the land, And Max, the labourer and the lover, stood Within the forest's edge, beside a tree; The mossy king of all the woody tribes, Whose clatt'ring branches rattl'd, shuddering, As the bright axe cleav'd moon-like thro' the air, Waking strange thunders, rousing echoes link'd From the full, lion-throated roar, to sighs Stealing on dove-wings thro' the distant aisles.

Swift fell the axe, swift follow'd roar on roar, Till the bare woodland bellow'd in its rage, As the first-slain slow toppl'd to his fall.

"O King of Desolation, art thou dead?"

Thought Max, and laughing, heart and lips, leap'd on The vast, p.r.o.ne trunk. "And have I slain a King?

"Above his ashes will I build my house-- No slave beneath its pillars, but--a King!"

Max wrought alone, but for a half-breed lad, With tough, lithe sinews and deep Indian eyes, Lit with a Gallic sparkle. Max, the lover, found The labourer's arms grow mightier day by day-- More iron-welded as he slew the trees; And with the constant yearning of his heart Towards little Kate, part of a world away, His young soul grew and shew'd a virile front, Full-muscl'd and large statur'd, like his flesh.

Soon the great heaps of brush were builded high, And like a victor, Max made pause to clear His battle-field, high strewn with tangl'd dead.

Then roar'd the crackling mountains, and their fires Met in high heaven, clasping flame with flame.

The thin winds swept a cosmos of red sparks Across the bleak, midnight sky; and the sun Walk'd pale behind the resinous, black smoke.

And Max car'd little for the blotted sun, And nothing for the startl'd, outshone stars; For Love, once set within a lover's breast, Has its own Sun--it's own peculiar sky, All one great daffodil--on which do lie The sun, the moon, the stars--all seen at once, And never setting; but all shining straight Into the faces of the trinity,-- The one belov'd, the lover, and sweet Love!

It was not all his own, the axe-stirr'd waste.

In these new days men spread about the earth, With wings at heel--and now the settler hears, While yet his axe rings on the primal woods, The shrieks of engines rushing o'er the wastes; Nor parts his kind to hew his fortunes out.

And as one drop glides down the unknown rock And the bright-threaded stream leaps after it, With welded billions, so the settler finds His solitary footsteps beaten out, With the quick rush of panting, human waves Upheav'd by throbs of angry poverty; And driven by keen blasts of hunger, from Their native strands--so stern, so dark, so dear!

O, then, to see the troubl'd, groaning waves, Throb down to peace in kindly, valley beds; Their turbid bosoms clearing in the calm Of sun-ey'd Plenty--till the stars and moon, The blessed sun himself, has leave to shine And laugh in their dark hearts! So shanties grew Other than his amid the blacken'd stumps; And children ran, with little twigs and leaves And flung them, shouting, on the forest pyres, Where burn'd the forest kings--and in the glow Paus'd men and women when the day was done.

There the lean weaver ground anew his axe, Nor backward look'd upon the vanish'd loom, But forward to the ploughing of his fields; And to the rose of Plenty in the cheeks.

Of wife and children--nor heeded much the pangs Of the rous'd muscles tuning to new work.

The pallid clerk look'd on his blister'd palms And sigh'd and smil'd, but girded up his loins And found new vigour as he felt new hope.

The lab'rer with train'd muscles, grim and grave, Look'd at the ground and wonder'd in his soul, What joyous anguish stirr'd his darken'd heart, At the mere look of the familiar soil, And found his answer in the words--"_Mine own!_"

Then came smooth-coated men, with eager eyes, And talk'd of steamers on the cliff-bound lakes; And iron tracks across the prairie lands; And mills to crush the quartz of wealthy hills; And mills to saw the great, wide-arm'd trees; And mills to grind the singing stream of grain; And with such busy clamour mingled still The throbbing music of the bold, bright Axe-- The steel tongue of the Present, and the wail Of falling forests--voices of the Past.

Max, social-soul'd, and with his practised thews, Was happy, boy-like, thinking much of Kate, And speaking of her to the women-folk; Who, mostly, happy in new honeymoons Of hope themselves, were ready still to hear The thrice told tale of Katie's sunny eyes And Katie's yellow hair, and household ways: And heard so often, "There shall stand our home-- "On yonder slope, with vines about the door!"

That the good wives were almost made to see The snowy walls, deep porches, and the gleam Of Katie's garments flitting through the rooms; And the black slope all bristling with burn'd stumps Was known amongst them all as "Max's House."

O, Love builds on the azure sea, And Love builds on the golden sand; And Love builds on the rose-wing'd cloud, And sometimes Love builds on the land.

O, if Love build on sparkling sea-- And if Love build on golden strand-- And if Love build on rosy cloud-- To Love these are the solid land.

O, Love will build his lily walls, And Love his pearly roof, will rear,-- On cloud or land, or mist or sea-- Love's solid land is everywhere!

PART III.

The great farm house of Malcolm Graem stood Square shoulder'd and peak roof'd upon a hill, With many windows looking everywhere; So that no distant meadow might lie hid, Nor corn-field hide its gold--nor lowing herd Browse in far pastures, out of Malcolm's ken.

He lov'd to sit, grim, grey, and somewhat stern, And thro' the smoke-clouds from his short clay pipe Look out upon his riches; while his thoughts Swung back and forth between the bleak, stern past, And the near future, for his life had come To that close balance, when, a pendulum, The memory swings between me "Then" and "Now"; His seldom speech ran thus two diff'rent ways: "When I was but a laddie, this I did"; Or, "Katie, in the Fall I'll see to build "Such fences or such sheds about the place; "And next year, please the Lord, another barn."

Katie's gay garden foam'd about the walls, 'Leagur'd the prim-cut modern sills, and rush'd Up the stone walls--and broke on the peak'd roof.

And Katie's lawn was like a Poet's sward, Velvet and sheer and di'monded with dew; For such as win their wealth most aptly take Smooth, urban ways and blend them with their own; And Katie's dainty raiment was as fine As the smooth, silken petals of the rose; And her light feet, her nimble mind and voice, In city schools had learn'd the city's ways, And grafts upon the healthy, lonely vine They shone, eternal blossoms 'mid the fruit.

For Katie had her sceptre in her hand And wielded it right queenly there and here, In dairy, store-room, kitchen--ev'ry spot Where women's ways were needed on the place.

And Malcolm took her through his mighty fields, And taught her lore about the change of crops; And how to see a handsome furrow plough'd; And how to choose the cattle for the mart; And how to know a fair day's work when done; And where to plant young orchards; for he said, "G.o.d sent a la.s.sie, but I need a son-- "Bethankit for His mercies all the same."

And Katie, when he said it, thought of Max-- Who had been gone two winters and two springs, And sigh'd, and thought, "Would he not be your son?"

But all in silence, for she had too much Of the firm will of Malcolm in her soul To think of shaking that deep-rooted rock; But hop'd the crystal current of his love For his one child, increasing day by day, Might fret with silver lip, until it wore Such channels thro' the rock, that some slight stroke Of circ.u.mstance might crumble down the stone.

The wooer, too, had come, Max prophesied; Reputed wealthy; with the azure eyes And Saxon-gilded locks--the fair, clear face, And stalwart form that most women love.

And with the jewels of some virtues set On his broad brow. With fires within his soul He had the wizard skill to fetter down To that mere pink, poetic, nameless glow, That need not fright a flake of snow away-- But if unloos'd, could melt an adverse rock Marrow'd with iron, frowning in his way.

And Malcolm balanc'd him by day and night; And with his grey-ey'd shrewdness partly saw He was not one for Kate; but let him come, And in chance moments thought: "Well, let it be-- "They make a bonnie pair--he knows the ways "Of men and things: can hold the gear I give, "And, if the la.s.sie wills it, let it be."

And then, upstarting from his midnight sleep, With hair erect and sweat upon his brow, Such as no labor e'er had beaded there; Would cry aloud, wide-staring thro' the dark-- "Nay, nay; she shall not wed him--rest in peace."

Then fully waking, grimly laugh and say: "Why did I speak and answer when none spake?"

But still lie staring, wakeful, through the shades; List'ning to the silence, and beating still The ball of Alfred's merits to and fro-- Saying, between the silent arguments: "But would the mother like it, could she know?

"I would there was a way to ring a lad "Like silver coin, and so find out the true; "But Kate shall say him 'Nay' or say him 'Yea'

"At her own will." And Katie said him "Nay,"

In all the maiden, speechless, gentle ways A woman has. But Alfred only laugh'd To his own soul, and said in his wall'd mind: "O, Kate, were I a lover, I might feel "Despair flap o'er my hopes with raven wings; "Because thy love is giv'n to other love.

"And did I love--unless I gain'd thy love, "I would disdain the golden hair, sweet lips, "Air-blown form and true violet eyes; "Nor crave the beauteous lamp without the flame; "Which in itself would light a charnel house.

"Unlov'd and loving, I would find the cure "Of Love's despair in nursing Love's disdain-- "Disdain of lesser treasure than the whole.

"One cares not much to place against the wheel "A diamond lacking flame--nor loves to pluck "A rose with all its perfume cast abroad "To the bosom of the gale. Not I, in truth!

"If all man's days are three score years and ten, "He needs must waste them not, but nimbly seize "The bright consummate blossom that his will "Calls for most loudly. Gone, long gone the days "When Love within my soul for ever stretch'd "Fierce hands of flame, and here and there I found "A blossom fitted for him--all up-fill'd "With love as with clear dew--they had their hour "And burn'd to ashes with him, as he droop'd "In his own ruby fires. No Phoenix he, "To rise again because of Katie's eyes, "On dewy wings, from ashes such as his!

"But now, another Pa.s.sion bids me forth.

"To crown him with the fairest I can find, "And makes me lover--not of Katie's face, "But of her father's riches! O, high fool, "Who feels the faintest pulsing of a wish "And fails to feed it into lordly life!

"So that, when stumbling back to Mother Earth, "His freezing lip may curl in cold disdain "Of those poor, blighted fools who starward stare "For that fruition, nipp'd and scanted here.

"And, while the clay, o'ermasters all his blood-- "And he can feel the dust knit with his flesh-- "He yet can say to them, 'Be ye content; "'I tasted perfect fruitage thro' my life, "'Lighted all lamps of pa.s.sion, till the oil "'Fail'd from their wicks; and now, O now, I know "'There is no Immortality could give "'Such boon as this--to simply cease to be!

"'_There_ lies your Heaven, O ye dreaming slaves, "'If ye would only live to make it so; "'Nor paint upon the blue skies lying shades "'Of--_what is not_. Wise, wise and strong the man "'who poisons that fond haunter of the mind, "'Craving for a hereafter with deep draughts "'Of wild delights--so fiery, fierce, and strong, "'That when their dregs are deeply, deeply drain'd, "'What once was blindly crav'd of purblind Chance, "'Life, life eternal--throbbing thro' all s.p.a.ce "'Is strongly loath'd--and with his face in dust, "'Man loves his only Heav'n--six feet of Earth!'

"So, Katie, tho' your blue eyes say me 'Nay,'

"My pangs of love for gold must needs be fed, "And shall be, Katie, if I know my mind."

Events were winds close nest'ling in the sails Of Alfred's bark, all blowing him direct To his wish'd harbour. On a certain day, All set about with roses and with fire; One of three days of heat which frequent slip, Like triple rubies, in between the sweet, Mild, emerald days of summer, Katie went, Drawn by a yearning for the ice-pale blooms, Natant and shining--firing all the bay With angel fires built up of snow and gold.

She found the bay close pack'd with groaning logs, Prison'd between great arms of close hing'd wood.

All cut from Malcolm's forests in the west, And floated hither to his noisy mills; And all stamp'd with the potent "G." and "M.,"

Which much he lov'd to see upon his goods, The silent courtiers owning him their king.

Out clear beyond the rustling ricebeds sang, And the cool lilies starr'd the shadow'd wave.

"This is a day for lily-love," said Kate, While she made bare the lilies of her feet; And sang a lily song that Max had made, That spoke of lilies--always meaning Kate.

"While Lady of the silver'd lakes, Chaste G.o.ddess of the sweet, still shrines.

The jocund river fitful makes, By sudden, deep gloom'd brakes, Close shelter'd by close weft and woof of vine, Spilling a shadow gloomy-rich as wine, Into the silver throne where thou dost sit, Thy silken leaves all dusky round thee knit!