Annie
Charlotte Dalton
by
Wanda Campbell
| 
Annie Charlotte Dalton
1865-1938
From John W. Garvin, ed. Canadian
Poets (1926).
In Wanda Campbell, ed. Hidden
Rooms, 2000 (238). [Page 238]
|
|
Annie
Charlotte Dalton was born December 9, 1865,
at Birkby, Hud- dersfield, Yorkshire, England.
By the age of seven she had developed an eye weakness
and was hearing impaired. Educated privately,
she turned, according to Lionel Stevenson, to
writing as a refuge from the monotony accompanying
her delicate health and deafness (Canadian
Bookman 6:242). She married Willie Dalton
in 1891 and the couple moved to Vancouver in 1904.
With the support of the British critic Stopford
Brooke, Dalton published her first collection
of verse, The Marriage of Music, in 1910.
Her 1924 collection, Flame and Adventure,
which featured two long poems, was followed in
quick succession by The Silent Zone (1926),
The Ear Trumpet (1926), The Amber
Riders and Other Poems (1929), The Neighing
North (1931), and Lilies and Leopards
(1935). She died in 1938.
In
an address entitled “The Future of Our Poetry”
written for the Author’s Convention in Toronto
in 1931, Dalton stated that the virtues she found
in Lawren Harris’ painting Mountain
Form would soon be the strongest characteristics
of Canada’s poetry:
the
refreshment of originality…its restraint
and freedom, its gifts of spiritual illumination
and expression; the extraordinary depth and
quality of its feeling; its symbolism; and its
wonderful suggestion of light.
And,
indeed, in her own poetry she tried to achieve
a Canadian voice, dwelling on Northern themes
and leaning to a long rhythmic line. These were
likely the qualities that attracted E.J. Pratt,
who referred to her in 1938 as “one of the
leading writers of this country” (11). Like
Pratt, she was interested in a dialogue between
science, religion, and poetry, and her “epic”
poems, like his, sought to imbue historical details
with mythic grandeur. She likened the role of
poet to that of scientist and prophet and in her
preface to Leopards and Lilies called
for “reasonable optimism at this [Page
239] time, when bewilderment and pain
overshadow our sense of the upward progress of
Man.”
Though
honoured in her own lifetime as a member of the
Order of the British Empire, the only woman poet
then included, Dalton has not fared well at the
hands of critics, in part because they have tended
to assess her poetic achievement in the light
of her disability. She speaks often in her poetry
of the mental suffering resulting from deafness.
In the Introduction to The Silent Zone,
a title based on the “inscrutable and gigantic
webs of silence” that are supposedly the
cause of numerous shipwrecks, Dalton describes
the “terrible hours of revolt and despair”
that accompany deafness: “It is like being
caged in a prison-ship off the Isles of the Blest;
it is like being buried alive, to those who have
known the utmost felicity of sound.”
Her
contemporaries compared her with numerous authors
including John Donne, Andrew Marvell, William
Blake, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Emily Dickinson,
and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but the effusiveness
of the commentary lessens the value of their assessments.
Lionel Stevenson wrote of her in 1936: “She
is constitutionally incapable of triteness”
(5). The fact that nothing has been written about
her work since her death in 1938 reveals that
new generations of readers disagree. Her work
is uneven but she is nonetheless intriguing in
her efforts to make science and anthropology acceptable
themes in poetry, and in her efforts to voice
the challenges faced by the deaf. Some of her
most compelling poems are evocative studies of
despair in which the speaker is imaged as an “unlit
candle” or a dungeon where insects breed.
She is intriguing also for her efforts to restore
Lady Franklin to history, Hathor to the pantheon,
and Canada to a role as motherland—strong,
generous, and alive with music.
Though
she cultivated imaginative ties with the country
of her birth in her tributes to figures such as
Emily Brontë, Dalton was committed to Canada,
the country where her writing career began. Through
her work with the Canadian Authors’ Association
and the Vancouver Poetry Society, she fostered
the work of other writers and attempted to generate
an atmosphere favourable to creative writing.
Noting that “the golden days of English
literature,” were the days when England
came most inimately into contact with other nations,
Dalton also believed that writers from different
regions and countries should share their work.
Her own poetry displays a juncture of influences,
between tradition and innovation, the universal
and the local, the grand idea and the intimate
detail. At the time of her death, she was [Page
240] referred to as “The Poet Laureate
of the Deafened,” but a close examination
of her best poetry reveals that she has a wider
appeal not only as one who spoke from silence,
but also as one who yearned for music.
Selected
Bibliography
The
Marriage of Music (Vancouver: Evans and Hastings,
1910)
Flame and Adventure (Toronto: Macmillan,
1924)
The Silent Zone (Vancouver: Cowan and
Brookhouse, 1926)
The Ear Trumpet (Toronto: Ryerson, 1926)
The Amber Riders, and Other Poems (Toronto:
Ryerson, 1929)
The Neighing North (Toronto: Ryerson,
1931)
Lilies and Leopards (Toronto: Ryerson,
1935)
Lionel
Stevenson, “Annie C. Dalton—A Personal
Impression,” Canadian Bookman 6
(November 1924): 242; Constance Davies-Woodrow,
“Two Vancouver Poets,” Canadian
Bookman 9 (March 1927): 83-84; A. Ermatinger
Fraser, “The Poetry of Annie Charlotte Dalton:
an Appreciative Study,” Canadian Bookman
11 (August 1929): 179-84; Annie Charlotte Dalton,
The Future of Our Poetry (Vancouver:
privately printed, 1931); Agnes Joynes, “The
Neighing North: an Appreciation of Annie Charlotte
Dalton,” Canadian Bookman 14 (April
1932): 45-6; T.G. Marquis, “A Poet of Power,”
Saturday Night 47:12 (31 Dec 1932); Lionel
Stevenson, “Two Vancouver Poets,”
Canadian Bookman 18 (January 1936): 4-7;
E.J. Pratt, “Bookman Profiles: Annie Charlotte
Dalton,” Canadian Bookman 20 (April-May
1938): 11; M.E. Colman, “Annie Charlotte
Dalton, 1865-1938,” Canadian Author
15 (April 1938): 14, 16. [Page 241] |
|
A Lunatic’s Will Done into Verse
|
|
I,
Charles Lounbery,
Of disposing memory,
Being of sound mind,
Have myself designed
This, my latest Will and Testament. |
5 |
Item.
God owns the world—
We are heirs of God—
Herewith I bequeath
My portion…I have trod |
10 |
Full
softly through this so-called vale of tears
And found it good.
Now of sound mind, and being full of years,
My Will I would
Devise, and leave |
15 |
Not
gold, nor yet the right to live—
I hold these not—
But, all good, endearing names
That childhood-grace and beauty claims,
All little quaint, pet names of love |
20 |
I
give to all good parents for
The children who their darlings are,
And for the benefit thereof,
Sweet praise, encouragement, in trust,
And I charge them to be generous, just. |
25 |
Item.
Again I leave to children (but
Only whilst they, children still,
Dance and dance with heedless foot),
The harebell on the windy hill, |
30 |
The
heather on the sweeping moor,
The daisy at the cottage-door,
The willows, and the little brooks
With shining sands and mossy nooks, [Page
242]
The primrose on the steep, green bank,
|
35 |
(Oh,
warn them of the nettle rank,
The thistle and the treacherous thorn),
And all the dew-gems of the morn—
Lowly things that please the poor.
Unlimited, the right to play |
40 |
Throughout
each golden summer day,
To glean the dropping ears of corn,
To blow upon the young Moon’s horn,
And in the long and sweet twilight
To crowd the crackling fire bright; |
45 |
To
listen to the tales of old
Of sleeping ladies, princes bold;
Dragons fierce, and treasure trove,
Guerdon of the truest love;
And the right sweetly to sleep |
50 |
While
the angels vigil keep,
Lanterns from the milky way
Guiding them lest they should stray,
And the moonbeams weaving white
Counterpanes of soft delight. |
55 |
But
I do charge you that the boon
Of starlight and the silver moon,
Must no lover’s rights impugn.
Item.
Now of sound mind, I do devise
|
60 |
All
useful fields for exercise,
All pleasant waters good to swim
To every boy; also, to him
The bracing hills, the fishing streams,
The meadow where the hawk-moth dreams; |
65 |
The
secret woods and all their joys
Of squirrels, birds, and living toys,
Of echo, shadow, and strange noise;
Adventures, and all distant places too,
All weird, wild quests, O boy, I give to you.
|
70 |
At
night [Page 243]
The fireside shall have a place
For you, and you shall trace
All pictures that in burning wood delight;
Nor let, nor hindrance, |
75 |
Nor
care-encumbrance,
Shall you annoy,
O happy, happy boy!
Item.
To lovers all I would devise
|
80 |
The
rapture of the dreaming skies,
The red rose ’neath the sheltering wall,
The hawthorn snows that softly fall;
Sweet strains of gentle music, and
All beauteous things their love demand; |
85 |
The
tender touch,
The thrill, and such
Delights the world scorns overmuch;
In short, all budding joys that lie up-curled
Within their own imaginary world. |
90 |
Item.
To young men, jointly, I bequeath
The glory of the victor’s wreath,
The sports of rivalry, and true
Disdain of weakness, and a due |
95 |
Confidence
in their own strength,
Friendships of a life-long length;
Companionship and merry songs,
Brave choruses, all that belongs
To lusty voices; and a life |
100 |
Of
healthy joy and strenuous strife.
Item.
To those who can no longer wage
Life’s war, nor give a lover’s gage;
Who tread no more the happy heath
|
105 |
With
careless footstep, I bequeath [Page 244]
All fond memory of the past;
The strength of the enthusiast,
And sober pleasures that do last
And bring the olden days again |
110 |
With
freshened joy and chastened pain;
And, what many hold more dear,
Precious volumes of Shakespeare,
Burns, and if it can be told
There are others, I with-hold |
115 |
None
of them if they but raise
The glamour of the by-gone days.
Item.
Lastly, to each loved one,
With folded hands and labour done,
|
120 |
With
snowy wreath
And faded eyes,
I do bequeath,
I do devise,
Their children’s love and gratitude to keep
|
125 |
| Till
He shall give His own beloved sleep. |
|
The
Marriage of
Music 1910 |
|
|
|
The
drenched earth has a warm, sweet radiance all her
own
The wakening chestnut flings upon the air
Her crumpled loveliness of leaf.
Lovely and brief,
The daffodil stands deep |
5 |
In
arabis full-blown—
There, early honey gatherers come.
Gold dawns along the spare,
Sleek buds of leopard’s-bane,
Beneath the autumn-planted dog-wood still asleep;
[Page 245]
|
10 |
Lovely
and vain,
The slim, young plum
Flaunts her white bridal veil
Beyond the garden pale.
Fallen, fallen amongst the daffodils,
|
15 |
A
robin’s egg half-crushed—
Bluer than any sky could be,
Blue with a tense divinity
As if some god had brushed,
Impatiently, a jewel from his hand— |
20 |
Ah!
who shall understand
This radiant mystery!
A moment, and the beauty of our garden has rushed
Away; my heart with some strange rapture fills—
This rapture of this robin’s blue
|
25 |
Holds
all my soul in thrall,
As if I heard and knew
Some strange, sweet, foreign call;
As if I saw and knew
Some secret in the robin’s precious blue.
|
30 |
This scrap of jelly which should be,
Potentially,
A singing robin in our tree—
I sorrow for its tiny life, but still,
Intoxicating, leaps the thrill |
35 |
That
ravishes, that satisfies my soul,
Soothes me, and makes me whole—
So strangely are we made! If I could tell
Whence this pure rapture, this dumb spell—
So strangely are we made that I must know
|
40 |
Why
this small thing doth move me so;
Why, for an amulet, I fain would beg
The turquoise of some robin’s egg. [Page
246] |
|
Flame
and Adventure
1924 |
|
|
|
There
is no glad return for us, but on
We go to Nature still unknown;
Our secret fear of lonely fields has gone,
Nor greater fear has grown,
Though now we seek to rove
the lonelier field, |
5 |
The vast, uncultivated weald,
Where man has never walked
nor flown.
This nature, this fair sky,
This new adventure-land
for man,
Whose dim and ancient hills
we scan, |
10 |
Whose cliffs we hail, whose
echoing cliffs reply—
From what dust-clouded space,
Come first the far beginnings of our race?
Infinitesimal emigrants who brought
Chaos and solitude in chains of thought, |
15 |
The
outlaw elements of some distracted star;
Atoms, who fashioned our broad commonage, and are
The evocative hostages of time;
Serfs, who have whirled their way
To light of common day; |
20 |
Serfs,
who have bound perpetual spring
Within the universe’s frigid ring;
Through stolid labour, turpitude of chance,
In ever-during pleasure still they dance;
In ever-during rapture, too, they sing; |
25 |
In
ever-during patience still they plod;
Inimitable regiments of
God;
Inimitable, allegiant, sublime.
[Page 247] |
|
Flame
and Adventure
1924 |
|
|
|
I
|
|
We
were just saying—I had not thought
That anyone so moving tale could tell
Of those experiences too dearly bought,
That on them knowing hearts should care to dwell.
We were just saying—Have you thus
said
|
5 |
With
kindly gesture to a bursting heart?
Have you?…Then blessing be upon your head!
Like Mary, you have chosen the loving part.
We were just saying—Was that kind
word
Once said to you waiting in silent pain?
|
10 |
And
did you know the joy of hope deferred—
The joy of having some dear soul explain?
We were just saying—O simple thing!
But, ’tis the simple things that make life
glad;
Deaf though the ears, birds in the heart can sing,
|
15 |
Thrice
deafened are the ears when the heart is sad.
We were just saying—Strange tale
well told—
How many hearts will bless the loving thought?
How many callous ones will fear the bold
Light, you have thrown on the havoc they have wrought.
|
20 |
| [Page
248] |
|
II
|
|
They
were just saying—
But you I may not tell,
‘Tis such a dreadful story
It must have been thought out in hell.
The story of your father— |
25 |
Who
died;
The story of your mother too—
A guiltless homicide;
And you sit there in innocence,
In semi-silence, trustful ignorance, |
30 |
The
misery unheard!
Oh, not by a word,
Or ever a glance
Of mine, must pass
To you…. |
35 |
This frightful tragedy that was
Of one, the slain, and one that slew,
Two lovers to each other true.
They were just saying—
Nay! but those innocent eyes,
|
40 |
So
eloquently praying
To share the eagerness, the great surprise
Upon their animated faces,
Pierce to my very heart—Ah! what sweet lies
Shall I call up to fill the places |
45 |
Of
those grim tales, so grossly nurtured, vile?
Dear lady with the wistful smile!
Ask me no more what the tart tongues say—
Cold, evil spite their speech debases,
And I—I can but pray, |
50 |
“Ask
me no more!”
Hot is my heart and sore,
Pure is the air without the door,… [Page
249]
Ah! come away,
The very furniture grimaces!
|
55 |
* “To
Viola Meynell,” a poem in two parts; the
first one addressed to the author of a striking
short story, entitled “We Were Just Saying,”
illustrates that phrase, with which a thoughtful
person usually begins an explanation of a conversation
to one who is partially deaf, and which is always
so welcome and productive of delight.
The second half of the poem portrays the thoughtlessness
with which people so often discuss the affairs
of the deafened in their presence.
The story is included in Mrs. Meynell’s
book, “Young Mrs. Cruse.” —Harcourt,
Brace & Co. [back] |
|
The
Ear Trumpet 1926 |
|
|
|
My
Country! I who may not go
The venturous way thy lovers know,
Who, timid traveller, hath but seen
Green fringes of thy wide demesne,
Know well unfit am I to sing |
5 |
Of
thee, yet my love-lyrics bring.
Half-whispers of thy wandering wind,
Of beauty, stream and bird entwined,
I dare to sing who never heard
The song of water, wind or bird, |
10 |
Who
cons thy strenuous joy or dearth
On garden-seat or flame-lit hearth,
And who would all that comfort give
For strength with thee awhile to live. |
|
II
|
|
| My
country towers from granite hewn, |
15 |
Snow-purified
and purged with fire,
A noble land with Edens strewn.
She can give all men their desire.
High lands and seas her strong sons rove,
In quietness I sing my love. |
20 |
My love of all her frozen crests
That know no comrade but the stars,
Her ever-covered virgin breasts
Hiding a thousand rugged scars.
Knees deep in pine and cedar grove, |
25 |
| She
strides her streams and calls for love. [Page
250]
My day is spent, my night half-gone,
And I am given to helpless rage,
If I of all my hopes have none,
What shall illume this heritage?
|
30 |
How
vain love’s loyalty to prove—
There’s nought to do but sing for love.
For love of her, great lonely land!
Whose state and worth are still unknown,
Whose stubborn fastnesses withstand
|
35 |
Yet
claim the strong ones for her own;
But me, how should her heart approve,
Who must sit still and chant for love?
For love of beauty, for the soul
Whose veil the rising sun hath drawn,
|
40 |
The
promise and the aureole
Attendant on her star-rimmed morn,
For those heroic ones who strove,
And gave her glory, honour, love.
I sing of all I may not win,
|
45 |
Her
dangerous sport, her strenuous task,
The friendship, love, and closer kin,
The young and strong alone may ask.
I, who in dreams to all things clove,
In rath renouncement prove my love. |
50 |
If nothing from my hope is born,
That hope still lives, beloved land!
And, not entirely forlorn.
Grows green as meadows rainbow-spanned.
Air, land, and sea thy great ones rove, |
55 |
| In
quietness I sing my love. [Page 251] |
|
III
|
|
How
would I sing if I could fly,
And see thy beauty underspread,
Those ancient trails, thy streams, espy
From ocean-bar to mountain-head— |
60 |
Tremendous
thought! to measure thee
As wild geese do, from sea to sea.
To leave thy green Pacific isles
Fretting the mists of rosy morn,
To hail when changeful Venus smiles,
|
65 |
Fair
Madeleine, Atlantic-born;
So crush thy beauty in the cup
Of one short day and drink thee up.
But such intoxicating draught
Is for Olympian youth alone,
|
70 |
Nor
can imaginative craft
Make such rare ecstacy mine own,
But I can sip a simpler wine
While love doth make my heart thy shrine. |
|
IV
|
|
| No
slender wireless tops our roof, |
75 |
No
strange magicians there are found,
Weaving with unseen warp and woof
Their scintillating web of sound;
Though silence takes me in her springe,
Far-reaching thoughts on me impinge. |
80 |
Here is no care for space or time,
Well-ordered hours no line deploy,
The morning bird and evening chime
Together pour the cup of joy;
And while it’s young and lusty day,
|
85 |
| Sweet
vespers call from far Grand Pre. [Page 252]
I hear a song from tossed sea-folk,
From muffled maids at prairie wells—
From where Columbian hot springs smoke
To Labrador’s remoter fells,
|
90 |
A
song all other songs above,
A song of labour-sweetened love.
I hear a glacier creep; a stream
Roars to the torrent-strangled wall;
I hear a hunter, and the scream
|
95 |
Of
wounded wild things ere they fall;
Hoarse avalanches, moaning bights,
And whispers born of Northern Lights.
I hear the sawmill’s monstrous wheel
And dreadful arm of fate—Oh, see!
|
100 |
That
grim, relentless clasp of steel,
Hear the wild shriek of some gripped tree!
Tree! tree! you taste of death again,
As when you first fell down amain.
Night’s Sabbath gun to labour calls,
|
105 |
The
waiting fishers draw their breath,
From each dark boat the great seine falls,
Life must snare life to cozen death…
I thought the shock of life to bring,
And death, and death again, I sing. |
110 |
Ah! listen to the hum of bees
Building their combs of honey and wax,
Ah! listen to the song of these
Strong, sturdy peasants spinning flax,
Or weaving with grave, Slav delight, |
115 |
Fair
linen and embroideries white.
Around a campfire Indians sing,
The tom-tom quicker, quicker beat, [Page
253]
One in their midst—his closed hands swing—
La Halle! fast game and joyous feat!
|
120 |
Around,
around in laden lines,
The golden-green, perfumed hop vines.
These care-free native children love,
They love but know not half their dower,
The freedom set by cedar grove,
|
125 |
By
tropic spring or alpine bower;
By sea-long lake, by rock-girt isle,
In stately fir-cathedral aisle.
Gay songs from river-boats, sweet hymns
From steeple, cupola, or dome,
|
130 |
From
mountains, valleys, prairie rims,
Wherever souls may find a home,
And, drowning saint and Lorelei,
Sweet Israfel flutes from the sky.
His flute with witchery overflows,
|
135 |
The
rhythm through creation runs,
He sings of Orion’s labouring throes,
The splendid wane of dying suns.
Sing! sing! Thy tuneful wonders tell,
My soul can hear thee, Israfel! |
140 |
Oh! now on my Canadian hills,
Michael is girding on his sword,
While Gabriel’s horn each valley fills,
Calling the armies of his Lord,
And, marching with the valiant band, |
145 |
Spirit
and god walk through the land.
Their radiance whirls the mists away—
The country’s full of secret runes;
At dawn, at noon, at close of day,
The country’s full of lovely tunes. [Page
254]
|
150 |
Ah, unsealed ears and opened eyes,
This Canada is Paradise. |
|
• • •
|
|
O
God! in spirit I have walked,
And all things sang their song for me;
Deafened and baffled, I have talked |
155 |
With
earth and man, I talk with Thee!
Humbled with joy, my thanks I give
For this divine reparative.
Ah! long ago Thy giants ruled
Their ancient city, fort and fen,
|
160 |
By
gold and dwarfs shall we be schooled?
Gives us great chiefs! Give us great men!
And that tremendous mother bless,
Who made us heirs of righteousness! |
|
The
Silent Zone 1926 |
|
|
|
Now
life’s intolerable tameness,
Subtle
and dangerous,
Has smitten into deadly sameness,
These fleeting hours which have no fleetness,
These strong sweet hours which have no strength
nor sweetness. |
5 |
Flame
and adventure no more,
Ashes
and monotony
Falling fast to stifle thee,
Dull
is the treeless shore,
Dull
is the waveless sea. [Page 255] |
10 |
The
Silent Zone 1926 |
|
|
|
God
bound about the world a zone
Of haunting music and a moan
Of tender dirge set on the seas;
To his dear death all ecstasies
He gave of grief and rapture known, |
5 |
And
round her frozen brow was thrown,
The crown of his sublimities,
His aching, aching, silences. |
|
The
Silent Zone 1926 |
|
|
|
O heart that could not break,
Wild moorland heart forever strong and free!
Thy song this song doth
make,
Across the hills of time I answer thee.
I see thy moorlands grim,
|
5 |
Harsh
matrix for a soul unborn to roam;
Tender the moors and dim
The eyes that see them from a distant home.
How should a bright world
guess
Thy bursting heart, the fulness of thy woe,
|
10 |
Thy love, thy loneliness,
The strength a moorland-sheltered heart must know.
No coward soul is thine,
Eternal God shines in thy fearless face;
No coward soul is mine,
|
15 |
Across
dim worlds thy footsteps I would trace.
I know not where thou art;
But this I know, when time shall call for me, [Page
256]
When soul and body part,
That I shall search this universe for thee.
|
20 |
O heart that would not break,
Wild moorland heart forever strong and free!
Thy song my song doth make.
Across what hills, what worlds I follow thee! |
|
The
Amber Riders 1929 |
|
|
|
There
is a street down-town, where all day long,
Go silent men with lagging feet that look
As they were more familiar with rough ways
Than greasy pavements and the crowded streets;
Grey men with lagging feet and mutinous mouths—
|
5 |
Oh,
fear those mutinous mouths, those lagging feet,
Those unseen, unraised eyes that brood and brood
on
living death. |
|
The
Amber Riders 1929 |
|
|
|
At
night when God looks down
Upon this bright, lamp-studded town,
Each bright lamp winks and winks;
I wonder what
God thinks,
I wonder if
He knows |
5 |
Each tiny lamp
that glows,
And if through darkness He can see
This unlit candle which is me. [Page 257] |
|
The
Amber Riders 1929 |
|
|
|
The
wind roars and the river roars;
Strange footsteps hurrying
by,
To the roaring wind and the roaring stream
Tumultuously reply.
The wind sinks and the river sinks;
|
5 |
And
the footsteps dwindling by,
With the fainting wind and the falling stream,
Pause, hesitate, and die.
This is the Sounding Portage where
A mort of years ago,
|
10 |
Fur-trappers
bound for the hunting-ground
Came tramping to and fro.
The red men first with their birch canoes,
The white men next prevail;
Together, they in hardship tread
|
15 |
An
immemorial trail.
Here, by the camp-fire, tales are told,
And stranger things are
said,
How the highway then is a by-way now
And portage for the dead.
|
20 |
The
hurrying sounds make a man’s flesh creep;
Though he strive to laugh
and joke,
When the steps draw nigh, none make reply,
And the scarlet embers smoke.
The steps draw nigh and the rapid roars,
|
25 |
The
listeners breathe a prayer,
They think they hear faint words of cheer
From struggling mortals
there. [Page 258]
When the stars come out with a rapturous shout,
The nodding campers peer
|
30 |
Through
the fringe of trees to the ghostly stream,
And lose in sleep their
fear.
But the wind roars and the river roars,
And the footsteps hurrying
by,
To the roaring wind and the roaring stream
|
35 |
Tumultuously
reply.
Then the wind sinks and the river sinks
With the footsteps dwindling
by,
But the fainting wind and the falling stream
Like them can never die.
|
40 |
It is dawn and the deer are drinking,
For the hasty camp is gone;
And the wind roars and the stream roars
As the tramping dead move
on. |
|
Beaver
The
Neighing
September 1931 North
1931
(262:286) |
|
|
|
Thousands
of leagues away men shiver and burrow in caverns,
Thither they grope, light lamps, and carve their
ideals of magic,
Then leaving their rude fireplaces, they follow
the Mammoth and Musk-ox
Over the broad low valley where now rages the turbulent
ocean;
So winds the first Folk-way to your North, so come
the first |
5 |
| migrants.
|
|
So came the first Migrants to that desolate region,
“The Barrens,”*
Driven by their hunger to wander far from the European
meadows,
Forced from the hillsides of Gallia, urged by the
raging flood-waters,
Or by their brothers, the Herdsman, who shrewdly
tamed horses and
cattle,
Ages before the proud Gauls had given their name
to that country.
|
10 |
[Page
259]
There in “The Barrens” they stayed,
in that waste where nothing but
lichen,
Mosses and heather and cold-warped willows can temper
its stretches;
And whether they starved awhile, or whether the
gods gave them plenty,
Happily there they abode till came the clear voice
of the Stallion,
Turning them Northward to him, to the home and the
spoil of the
|
15 |
| hunter. |
|
Thither
they went, taking each beautiful lance and harpoon-
thrower,
Singing harpoon and bird-dart, toys and tools of
ivory and deer- horn,
Carrying the bow-drill with which they cunningly
bored, and made fire,
Swinging the small smooth stones with tough thongs
tethered together,
Whirling them round like chain-shot and smiting
the swiftest of |
20 |
| wild-fowl. |
|
Nameless they lived till the Norsemen christened
them Skraelings,
the Fairies,*
Nameless as those of their sires who hunted the
seal and the salmon,
Spearing them both in Gaul with their carved and
deadly barbed lance
heads;
Magdalenians we call them, who chiselled the chase
on stone in their
houses,
Showing that this and that folk were one and the
same pleasant
|
25 |
| people.† |
|
Fiercely he called to these people and made them
great hunters,
Whether they sailed the summer seas in their kayaks
of seal-skin,
Chasing the bow-headed whale, the narwhal, and trumpeting
walrus,
[Page 260]
Or crouched on the ice by the blowholes in winter
with harpoon uplifted,
Or harried the Musk-Ox and Amarok*
over the timberless tundra.
|
30 |
Time keeps no tally, Kanadiens, of those years in
your Northlands,
Thousands of years whose days were uneventful and
barren,
Gods immortal and myth-men sitting no longer together,
Sitting no longer together and sopping in crimson
communion,
Whilst in the warm South empires were buried and
builded. |
35 |
When was Odin born—when Apollo—who may
declare it?
What is the lapse of years, of aeons, in the lives
of the Immortals?
What care the Skaelings for Apollo and what for
One-Eyed Odin—
They who hunt the sea-unicorn, the leviathan, and
the sea-lion,
Undisturbed by the passions of heaven or its crying.
|
40 |
Slyly
they play with cat’s cradles, catching the
Sun fleeing Southward;
Poising the cup and the ball to assist him when
Northward returning;
Charming the souls of the sea-beasts caught in the
reek of the slaughter,
Charming the souls of the landbeasts, gently forgiveness
imploring—
Such is the homelier magic wrought by the need-driven
|
45 |
| Skraelings.
|
|
Spirits they fear and miracles wax, but no wonder
Breeds in their minds for them, the Awful is ever
transcendent,
Daily the monstrous is born, impossible marvels
surround them,
Never assuaging their hunger, but luring and binding
a people
Free as the sparrows that build in the eaves of
a cottage or |
50 |
| castle.
|
|
Who like the Skaelings can know how to appease that
keen hunger,
Born of the treeless waste where hope often with
horror goes hunting?
Happy and cheerful are they, their substance with
poorer ones sharing,
Living and spirit-men equally sharing the dolphin
and seal-head,
Precious, more precious to them than the storied
horn of the |
55 |
| unicorn.
|
|
Skirting the frozen coasts they fly, driving their
dog teams before them,
Straining, struggling specks of endurance, four-footed
heroes; [Page 261]
Savage and faithful to death, wolf-blood or dog-blood
ascendant,
Staining the fair white snow with unwavering, crimsoning
footprints,
Bringing the hunters home to the village with triumph
and |
60 |
| gladness.
|
|
Who like the Skraelings love laughter, who hath
a heart that is lighter?
Who like them bid the weary guests welcome to food
and warm shelter,
Building for them a snow dance-house, beating the
drum in the dance-
house,
Singing their own peculiar songs, swaying their
bodies and dancing.
Who like the Skraelings love laughter, who hath
a heart that is |
65 |
| lighter?
|
|
*
In all the history of Canada, one place has stood
forth as the most bitter of all districts; death
has lurked there eternally. It is “The Barrens.”—Courtney
Ryley Cooper, Go North Young Man, p.
251. [back] |
|
*
“Nansen suggests that the lack of mention
of them (the Skraelings), in the Sagas may have
been due to the superstitious feeling that it
was unwise to say anything about supernatural
beings, as the Norse name implied.”—The
Polar Regions, p. 1.
Others have interpreted
the word “Skaelings” or “Skrellings”
as “Weaklings” or “troll-women,”
both of which seem doubtful. “Skroelingjar
are mentioned as having attacked Thorwald, son
of Eirek the Red, on his visit to Vinland, and
were probably Indians, as Eskimo did not live
so far south.”—Paul B. DuChaillu,
The Viking Age, Vol. II, p. 525. [back] |
|
†
“Dr.
Henry Mac Ami, one of Canada’s outstanding
scientists died Sunday, January 4, 1931, at Mentone,
France. Dr. Ami startled the world of science
a few years ago by his discovery of evidence tending
to show that the Eskimo races, now found exclusively
in the Canadian Arctic, at one time lived in France.”—Canadian
Press Dispatch. [back] |
|
*
“The Amarok, a fabulous wild creature…probably
the wolf.”—The Polar Regions,
p. 129. [back] |
|
The
Neighing
North 1931 |
|
Flowers for Lady Franklin
|
|
O
bring no flowers for this great lady’s grave
Which draw their scornful splendour from the South!
No flowers for her but those the Arctic gave,
Shy mute companions in her Dear One’s drouth:
With him they felt the grinding blizzard blow, |
5 |
| With
him they slept in peace beneath the snow.
If you would honour this illustrious dead,
Bring daisy, saxifrage, and small sweet fern;
The pale anemone whose sudden head
Gave ever-failing promise of return,
|
10 |
And
cones from that old spruce which with a sigh
Saw stumbling bands of Franklin’s men go by.
Bring trembling Arctic heather-bells of bloom,
The lovely lupin rallying sullen skies,
And rosy spires whose gracious rare perfume
|
15 |
Cheers
frozen bumble-bees and starving flies;
Bring frosty willow-catkins “white with seed”*
No gaudier blossoms fit her simple need. [Page
262]
Bring snow-white buttercups and beaten grass
From sodden meadows near the Arctic shore;
|
20 |
Flowers
cannot stop the crushing years which pass,
Nor bring again the heart that waits no more;
But these, of all which blow, will likelier prove
Emblems of bitter stress and quenchless love.
O bring no careless offering to this grave,
|
25 |
No
scarlet scornful splendour from the South!
No flowers for her but these—the strong, the
brave,
Like them her hope-starred eyes and patient mouth.
With him they loved the North Wind long ago,
No lesser flowers for Franklin’s lover blow.
|
30 |
* A.E.
Porsild in “Arctic Wild Flowers,”
The Canadian Geographical Journal, May,
1930. [back] |
|
The
Neighing
North 1931 |
|
|
|
Where
is the word of Your youth and beauty,
Your young courage and Your desire to roam?
Where is the song of Your gay companions,
Your laughter, and joy at
home?
We have been fed with tales of bearded men. |
5 |
The
old still sit in their high seats,
Weaving
thin webs of silver and gold;
The
old still kill, and eat strange meats—
Strange
are the ways of the old.
We
would see You, Jesus!
|
10 |
Not
as the old men see,
But,
as Youth would have You,
Young
eternally.
Not
in the Temple confounding
The
Wise with sacred themes, [Page
263]
|
15 |
But
as a young deer bounding
Over
secret streams.
Not
as a Seer unsealing
Fault
unconfessed,
But
as a bird wide-wheeling
|
20 |
About
a nest.
Not
on a crude cross panting—
Pale
remove—
But
on this rich earth wanting
Life
and Love.
|
25 |
For
You were Life indeed,
And
Life was rough;
For
You were Love indeed,
And
Love was not enough.
For
You were Youth discrowned
|
30 |
And
thrown to Death,
For
You were Truth unfound
Of
Nazareth.
The
old sat in high seats
Weaving
webs of gold;
|
35 |
The
old ate strange meats—
Strange
were the ways of the old.
Alas
for youth and beauty so
Put
to shame!
Alas
for the Young companions
|
40 |
Who
cried Your name!
We have been fed with tales of bearded men. [Page
264] |
|
Lilies
and Leopards
1935 |
|
|
|
Cloud-rinsed
hands, patient in mid-air,
Holding on leash Three Leopards, the Three
Green Leopards of Despair.
And before them stood, upright, a Form Threefold:
One beauty-bold, one wisdom-wrinkled, old; |
5 |
Assault
of light—one unbearably bright!
Against these Three pounced
the Green Leopards,
Snarled the Green Leopards,
Whimpered the Green Leopards;
And the straining leash was not shortened |
10 |
Nor
the clutch on the Leopards loosened—
Strange!
Strange—how strange? oh no, to none unusened,
It is the all of strife, the unity of Life. |
|
Lilies
and Leopards
1935 |
|
|
|
The
Praying-Mantis
In the dark dungeons of the mind,
Strange creatures walk and breed their kind;
The Mantis mounts the stair,
With movements free as air.
The Praying-Mantis mounts the stair,
|
5 |
Her
tiny arms upheld in prayer.
In chasuble and stole,
She stands to read my soul.
I know not what dark thing is there,
Nor why my soul must feel despair,
|
10 |
Nor
why she turns away
And bids the Mantis slay.
[Page 265]
In the deep dungeons of the mind,
Strange creatures walk and breed their kind;
With arms upheld in prayer
|
15 |
| The
Mantis mounts the stair. |
|
Lilies
and Leopards
1935 |
|
To Hathor the Mistress of Turquoise
|
|
Not
offering for dear souls departed,
But for my own alive, adoring soul,
I burn before you, Hathor, gracious-hearted,
I burn the incense in the altar bowl.
High Egypt’s lords, likewise adoring,
|
5 |
Crossed
the grim desert to your hill-top shrine,
Bearing proud gifts—one gift from you imploring,
The turquoise harvest of your hidden mine.
When the blue Nile rose overflowing,
They turned to you, your mines, your desert cold,
|
10 |
With
golden sistrum, amber incense, showing
Reverence for one so long revered, so old.
Old—you were old when Jacob’s blessing
Stirred his young soul in Sinai’s holiest
spot;
Strange to your ears his thankless cry confessing,
|
15 |
| “Surely
the Lord is here—I knew it not.”
Old—you were old before the coming
Of the first Pharaoh filled your ancient cave,
And set the stark and beetling mountains humming
With mingled toil of overlord and slave.
|
20 |
Great grew your temple—now white ashes
Of sacred flames like barren snows are spread; [Page
266]
Bare lies each court and shrine; the tempest lashes
On the prone pillars, on your wind-worn head.
Fallen is your glory, Hathor, gleaming
|
25 |
Altar
and sleeping-shelter overthrown;
Gone are the dreamers, you alone lie dreaming,
Left in the desert on a broken stone.
Old—you are old, but tranquil beauty
Broods like a dove above your wide-spaced eyes;
|
30 |
You
I would praise—and love—and ancient
duty—
Oh, of your ageless wisdom make me wise.
Strait was your cave, what walls now measure
This sudden joy with which the bright hours teem,
When common things outpour their turquoise treasure
|
35 |
| Past
the fair promise of your sacred dream.
Arching the skies, on earth and ocean,
In robins’ homes, on temple roofs, your
blue
Glows pure and rare, and in my heart devotion
Sprung like a flower, Hathor, I worship you.
|
40 |
Fallen is your temple, Hathor, gleaming
Altar and sleeping-places overthrown;
Still in the world some worshippers are dreaming,
Lulled by dim memory woven round a stone.
Not offering for dear souls departed,
|
45 |
But
for my own alive, adoring soul,
I burn before you, Hathor, gracious-hearted,
I burn the incense in the altar bowl. [Page
267] |
|
Canadian
Poetry
October 1937 (2:20-22) |
|
|
|