THE MARINER

“Wreck and stray and castaway.”—­SWINBURNE.

    Once more adrift. 
O’er dappling sea and broad lagoon,
O’er frowning cliff and yellow dune,
The long, warm lights of afternoon
    Like jewel dustings sift.

    Once more awake. 
I dreamed an hour of port and quay,
Of anchorage not meant for me;
The sea, the sea, the hungry sea
    Came rolling up the break.

    Once more afloat. 
The billows on my moorings press’t,
They drove me from my moment’s rest,
And now a portless sea I breast,
    And shelterless my boat.

    Once more away. 
The harbour lights are growing dim,
The shore is but a purple rim,
The sea outstretches grey and grim. 
    Away, away, away!

    Once more at sea,
The old, old sea I used to sail,
The battling tide, the blowing gale,
The waves with ceaseless under-wail
    The life that used to be.

LULLABY OF THE IROQUOIS

Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest,
    Wrapped in your nest,
    Strapped in your nest,
Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest;
    Its hands are your nest;
    Its bands are your nest;
It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak;
You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke;
But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,—­
Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.

Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep,
    Winging to sleep,
    Singing to sleep,
Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep,
    Shielding their sleep,
    Unyielding to sleep,
The heron is homing, the plover is still,
The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill,
Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,—­
Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.

THE CORN HUSKER

Hard by the Indian lodges, where the bush
  Breaks in a clearing, through ill-fashioned fields,
She comes to labour, when the first still hush
  Of autumn follows large and recent yields.

Age in her fingers, hunger in her face,
  Her shoulders stooped with weight of work and years,
But rich in tawny colouring of her race,
  She comes a-field to strip the purple ears.

And all her thoughts are with the days gone by,
  Ere might’s injustice banished from their lands
Her people, that to-day unheeded lie,
  Like the dead husks that rustle through her hands.

PRAIRIE GREYHOUNDS

C.P.R.  “NO. 1,” WESTBOUND

    I swing to the sunset land—­
The world of prairie, the world of plain,
The world of promise and hope and gain,
The world of gold, and the world of grain,
    And the world of the willing hand.