Part 6 (1/2)

Will the journey never end?

Over yonder lies the camp; Welcome waits us there, my friend.

Can we reach it ere the night?

Upward, upward, never fear!

Look, the summit must be near; See the line of light!

Red, red, red the s.h.i.+ne Of the splendour in the west, Glowing through the ranks of pine, Clear along the mountain-crest!

Long, long, long the trail Out of sorrow's lonely vale; But at last the traveller sees Light between the trees!

March, 1904.

THE HERMIT THRUSH

O wonderful! How liquid clear The molten gold of that ethereal tone, Floating and falling through the wood alone, A hermit-hymn poured out for G.o.d to hear!

_O holy, holy, holy! Hyaline, Long light, low light, glory of eventide!

Love far away, far up,--up,--love divine!

Little love, too, for ever, ever near, Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine, In the leafy dark where you hide, You are mine,--mine,--mine!_

Ah, my beloved, do you feel with me The hidden virtue of that melody, The rapture and the purity of love, The heavenly joy that can not find the word?

Then, while we wait again to hear the bird, Come very near to me, and do not move,-- Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew The cool, green cup of air with harmony, And we will drink the wine of love with you.

May, 1908.

TURN O' THE TIDE

The tide flows in to the harbour,-- The bold tide, the gold tide, the flood o' the sunlit sea,-- And the little s.h.i.+ps riding at anchor, Are swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, panting To lift their wings to the wide wild air, And venture a voyage they know not where,-- To fly away and be free!

The tide runs out of the harbour,-- The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o' the moonlit bay,-- And the little s.h.i.+ps rocking at anchor, Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning To breathe the breath of the sun-warmed strand, To rest in the lee of the high hill land,-- To hold their haven and stay!

My heart goes round with the vessels,-- My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea and the land,-- And the turn o' the tide pa.s.ses through it, In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling At morn, to range where the far waves foam, At night, to a harbour in love's true home, With the hearts that understand!

Seal Harbour, August 12, 1911.

SIERRA MADRE

O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands, Robed in aerial amethyst, silver, and blue, Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands?

What have their groves and gardens to do with you?

Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle, Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old,-- Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile, Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold.

You, in your solitude standing, lofty and lonely, Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren b.r.e.a.s.t.s; Rough is the rock-loving growth of your canyons, and only Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests.

Why are ye throned so high, and arrayed in splendour Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim?

What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender Queenly promise and pride of the mother-name?

Answered the mountains, dim in the distance dreaming: ”Ours are the forests that treasure the riches of rain; Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets gleaming Silverly down through the manifold bloom of the plain.