From "Malcolm's Katie" (II)

THE South Wind laid his moccasins aside,
Broke his gay calumet of flow'rs, and cast
His useless wampun, beaded with cool dews,
Far from him, northward ; his long ruddy spear
Flung sunward, whence it came ; and his soft locks
Of warm fine haze grew silver as the birch.

His wigwam of green leaves began to shake ;
The crackling rice-beds scolded harsh like squaws ;
The small ponds pouted up their silver lips ;
The great lakes ey'd the mountains, — whisper'd " Ugh
Are ye so tall, O chiefs ? " " Not taller than
Our plumes can reach," — and rose a little way,
As panthers stretch to try their velvet limbs,
And then retreat to purr and bide their time.

At morn the sharp breath of the night arose
From the wide prairies, in deep-struggling seas,
In rolling breakers, bursting to the sky ;
In tumbling surfs, all yellow'd faintly thro'
With the low sun ; in mad, conflicting crests,
Voic'd with low thunder from the hairy throats
Of the mist-buried herds ; and for a man
To stand amid the cloudy roll and moil,
The phantom waters breaking overhead,
Shades of vex'd billows bursting on his breast,
Torn caves of mist wall'd with a sudden gold,
Reseal'd as swift as seen, — broad, shaggy fronts,
Fire-ey'd and tossing on impatient horns
The wave impalpable, — was but to think
A dream of phantoms held him as he stood !

The late, last thunders of the summer crash'd
Where shrieked great eagles, lords of naked cliffs ;
The pulseless Forest, lock'd and interlock'd
So closely, bough with bough, and leaf with leaf,
So serfd 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 red 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 tranced 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 vigour 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 ringers crept
After the wind, and felt about the moss,
Ahd seem'd to pluck from shrinking twig and stem
The burning leaves, — while groaned the shudd'ring wood !

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 prone trunk. " And have I slain a King ?

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

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 mvn ! "
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-armed 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 forest, — 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."

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

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 !