Narrative Poems, part 7, Bay of Seven Islands | Page 6

close, besought all men to say?Whom he had wronged, to whom he then should pay?A debt forgotten, or for pardon sue,?And, through the silence of his weeping friends,?A strange voice cried: "Thou owest me a debt,"?"Allah be praised!" he answered. "Even yet?He gives me power to make to thee amends.?O friend! I thank thee for thy timely word."?So runs the tale. Its lesson all may heed,?For all have sinned in thought, or word, or deed,?Or, like the Prophet, through neglect have erred.?All need forgiveness, all have debts to pay?Ere the night cometh, while it still is day.?1885.
THE HOMESTEAD.
AGAINST the wooded hills it stands,?Ghost of a dead home, staring through?Its broken lights on wasted lands?Where old-time harvests grew.
Unploughed, unsown, by scythe unshorn,?The poor, forsaken farm-fields lie,?Once rich and rife with golden corn?And pale green breadths of rye.
Of healthful herb and flower bereft,?The garden plot no housewife keeps;?Through weeds and tangle only left,?The snake, its tenant, creeps.
A lilac spray, still blossom-clad,?Sways slow before the empty rooms;?Beside the roofless porch a sad?Pathetic red rose blooms.
His track, in mould and dust of drouth,?On floor and hearth the squirrel leaves,?And in the fireless chimney's mouth?His web the spider weaves.
The leaning barn, about to fall,?Resounds no more on husking eves;?No cattle low in yard or stall,?No thresher beats his sheaves.
So sad, so drear! It seems almost?Some haunting Presence makes its sign;?That down yon shadowy lane some ghost?Might drive his spectral kine!
O home so desolate and lorn!?Did all thy memories die with thee??Were any wed, were any born,?Beneath this low roof-tree?
Whose axe the wall of forest broke,?And let the waiting sunshine through??What goodwife sent the earliest smoke?Up the great chimney flue?
Did rustic lovers hither come??Did maidens, swaying back and forth?In rhythmic grace, at wheel and loom,?Make light their toil with mirth?
Did child feet patter on the stair??Did boyhood frolic in the snow??Did gray age, in her elbow chair,?Knit, rocking to and fro?
The murmuring brook, the sighing breeze,?The pine's slow whisper, cannot tell;?Low mounds beneath the hemlock-trees?Keep the home secrets well.
Cease, mother-land, to fondly boast?Of sons far off who strive and thrive,?Forgetful that each swarming host?Must leave an emptier hive.
O wanderers from ancestral soil,?Leave noisome mill and chaffering store:?Gird up your loins for sturdier toil,?And build the home once more!
Come back to bayberry-scented slopes,?And fragrant fern, and ground-nut vine;?Breathe airs blown over holt and copse?Sweet with black birch and pine.
What matter if the gains are small?That life's essential wants supply??Your homestead's title gives you all?That idle wealth can buy.
All that the many-dollared crave,?The brick-walled slaves of 'Change and mart,?Lawns, trees, fresh air, and flowers, you have,?More dear for lack of art.
Your own sole masters, freedom-willed,?With none to bid you go or stay,?Till the old fields your fathers tilled,?As manly men as they!
With skill that spares your toiling hands,?And chemic aid that science brings,?Reclaim the waste and outworn lands,?And reign thereon as kings?1886.
HOW THE ROBIN CAME.
AN ALGONQUIN LEGEND.
HAPPY young friends, sit by me,?Under May's blown apple-tree,?While these home-birds in and out?Through the blossoms flit about.?Hear a story, strange and old,?By the wild red Indians told,?How the robin came to be:
Once a great chief left his son,--?Well-beloved, his only one,--?When the boy was well-nigh grown,?In the trial-lodge alone.?Left for tortures long and slow?Youths like him must undergo,?Who their pride of manhood test,?Lacking water, food, and rest.
Seven days the fast he kept,?Seven nights he never slept.?Then the young boy, wrung with pain,?Weak from nature's overstrain,?Faltering, moaned a low complaint?"Spare me, father, for I faint!"?But the chieftain, haughty-eyed,?Hid his pity in his pride.?"You shall be a hunter good,?Knowing never lack of food;?You shall be a warrior great,?Wise as fox and strong as bear;?Many scalps your belt shall wear,?If with patient heart you wait?Bravely till your task is done.?Better you should starving die?Than that boy and squaw should cry?Shame upon your father's son!"
When next morn the sun's first rays?Glistened on the hemlock sprays,?Straight that lodge the old chief sought,?And boiled sainp and moose meat brought.?"Rise and eat, my son!" he said.?Lo, he found the poor boy dead!
As with grief his grave they made,?And his bow beside him laid,?Pipe, and knife, and wampum-braid,?On the lodge-top overhead,?Preening smooth its breast of red?And the brown coat that it wore,?Sat a bird, unknown before.?And as if with human tongue,?"Mourn me not," it said, or sung;?"I, a bird, am still your son,?Happier than if hunter fleet,?Or a brave, before your feet?Laying scalps in battle won.?Friend of man, my song shall cheer?Lodge and corn-land; hovering near,?To each wigwam I shall bring?Tidings of the corning spring;?Every child my voice shall know?In the moon of melting snow,?When the maple's red bud swells,?And the wind-flower lifts its bells.?As their fond companion?Men shall henceforth own your son,?And my song shall testify?That of human kin am I."
Thus the Indian legend saith?How, at first, the robin came?With a sweeter life from death,?Bird for boy, and