Classic Poem

THE Log C ABIN

The little log cabin is far in the woods,
And the foot of the wayfarer seldom comes there.
Around it are stretching the great solitudes,
Where the deer loves to roam, and the wolf makes his lair,
And the Red Man crawls on the surly bear,
And the dead tree falls with a heavy crash;
And the jagged hemlock and pine are there,
And the dismal swamp and the dreary ash,
And the eagle sits waiting the moment to dash.

And the roving son of the wilderness,
While tracking the steps of the gentle deer,
The little log cabin will seldom miss,
For the ringing sound of the ax he'll hear.
As he comes to taste of the welcome cheer,
The children, who first had gazed in affright
When they saw his shaggy wolf-dog appear,
Now run out to meet him with wild delight —
And the heart of the savage is tamed at the sight.

The little log cabin is all alone;
Its windows are rude, and its walls are bare,
And the wind without has a weary moan,
Yet Peace, like an angel, is nestling there;
And Hope, with her rapt, uplifted air,
Beholds in the distance the eglantine,
And the corn with its silver tassel, where
The hemlock is anchor'd beside the tall pine,
And the creeping weed hangs with its long fringing vine.

And close by the cabin, tho' hid in the wood,
Ontario lies, like a mirror of blue,
Where the children hunt the wild-duck's brood,
And scare the tall crane and the lonely mew.
The eldest has fashion'd a light canoe,
And with noisy glee they paddle along,
Or dash for the cliff where the eagle flew,
Or sing in their gladness the fisherman's song,
Till they waken the echoes the green woods among.

I

All was speed and bustle now,
Hurry sat on ev'ry brow;
Naught was heard upon the breeze
But the sound of falling trees;
Rough logs over streams were laid,
Cabins built, and pathways made;
Little openings here and there,
Patches to the sun laid bare,
Growing larger ev'ry day;
Time sped merrily away.
Troubles had we not a few,
For the work was strange and new;
Mishaps neither few nor small,
Yet we rose above them all.

II

Then a change came o'er the scene:
Forests doff'd their garb of green
For a tawny brown attire,
Streak'd with grey, and gold, and fire.
Moan'd the wind like thing bereft,
As the little bluebird left,
And the wild-fowl of the lake
Sought the shelter of the brake;
The humming-bird was seen no more,
And the pigeon southward bore;
Soon the robin and the jay
With the flow'rs had pass'd away;
Of a change all Nature spoke,
And the heav'ns were swathed in smoke;
The sun a hazy circle drew,
And his bloody eye look'd through.
Thus the Indian summer ended,
And the sleety showers descended.
All the trees were stript, at last,
And the snow fell thick and fast,
While the lake with sullen roar
Dash'd her foam upon the shore;
And the wind in angry mood
Swept the leafless solitude.

III

Then the wolves their visits paid us,
Nightly came to serenade us.
In the middle of the night
I have started with affright,
For there were around my dwelling
More than fifty demons yelling —
I could plainly hear them tramp
Round the border of the swamp.
I have look'd into the dark,
Tried to make old Towser bark.
He would only fawn and whine,
While the terror-stricken swine
Ran around like things insane,
And the sheep, in fear and pain,
Huddled all within a nook —
How they trembled and they shook!
And the frighten'd cattle bore
Close and closer to the door —
I could see the savage ire
Flashing from their eyes like fire.
Then I'd hear a long-drawn howl,
Then a little snappish growl,
Then a silence deep as death,
Till the furies drew their breath;
Then, with voices yelling o'er us,
Fifty demons joined in chorus.
Thus they'd howl till dawn of day,
Then they'd scamper all away.

IV

Tho' winter's cold was long and dreary,
We were hopeful, we were cheery;
We had many merry meetings,
Social gath'rings, kindly greetings;
To the wall the log was laid,
And a roaring fire was made.
Tho' the storm might rave without,
We were blithe with song about;
With the maidens' laugh for chorus,
Then the youths would tell their stories
Of the hunting of the coon,
All beneath the autumn moon —
Of the logging in the fall —
Of oxen terrible to haul —
Of the mighty chopping match,
Gain'd by but a single natch.
Thus the time would steal along,
With the tale and with the song;
Little Mac would sit and sing
Till the very roof would ring:

V

I Ask Not for Fortune

I ask not for fortune,
I ask not for wealth,
But give me the cabin,
With freedom and health;
With some one to love me —
Joy's roses to wreathe —
With no one above me,
And no one beneath.

Let tools be officious
And flatter the great,
Let knaves be ambitious
To rule in the state;
Give alms to the needy,
Give fame to the fool,
Give gold to the greedy,
Let Bonaparte rule,

But give me the cabin,
Tho' far, far apart;
I'll make it love's dwelling,
The home of the heart;
With some one to love me —
Joy's roses to wreathe —
With no one above me,
And no one beneath.

VI

Then we'd cheer him loud and long
For the jolly hunter's song,
Who, while roving in the shade,
Woo'd and won the Indian maid:

VII

The Indian Maid

Oh, come, my love! Oh, come with me
To my sweet home afar;
This arm will guard — no guide need we
Save yonder ev'ning star.
I am not of thy clime or creed,
Yet be not thence afraid;
Love makes these accidents, indeed,
My pretty Indian Maid!

Thine eyebrow is the vault of night,
Thy cheek the dusk of dawn,
Thy dark eye is a world of light,
My pretty, bounding fawn!
I'll deck thy hair with jewels rare,
Thy neck with rich brocade,
And in my heart of hearts I'll wear
My pretty Indian Maid!

Then come, my love! Oh, come with me!
And ere the braves awake
Our bark will speed like arrow free
Across the mighty lake;
Where faces pale will welcome thee,
Sweet flow'ret of the shade,
And of my bow'r thou'lt lady be,
My lovely Indian Maid!

VIII

Then the elder ones would tell
Of the great things that befell;
Of the feats unsaid, unsung,
In the days when they were young;
Of the worth existing then —
Maidens fair and mighty men;
Or they'd sing the ballad rimes,
Histories of other times,
Of the manners past away,
Living in the minstrel's lay:
Gil Morice, the Earl's brave son;
Chevy Chase, so dearly won.
It may be that I'm growing old,
Or that my heart is turning cold,
Or that my ear is falsely strung,
Or wedded to my native tongue;
Yet those strains, so void of art,
Those old gushings of the heart,
Heaving, swelling, like the sea,
With the soul of poetry,
They must live within the breast,
Till this weary heart's at rest.
Then our tears would fall like rain,
List'ning to old Aunty Jane,
While in mournful tones she'd sing
The ballad of the Gipsy King:

IX

The Gipsy King

Lord Sempill's mounted on his steed,
And to the greenwood gane;
The Gipsy steals to the wicket gate,
And whispers Lady Jane.
The lark is high in heav'n above,
But his lay she does not hear,
For her heaving heart is rack'd with love,
With hope, with doubt, and fear.

" Thy father's halls are fair and wide,
The Sempill woods are green;
But love can smile, oh! sweeter far,
In Gipsy tent, I ween.
The crawflow'r hangs by Cartha's side,
The rose by Elderslie,
The primrose by the bank of Clyde,
The heather bell on Dee;

" But I've built our bow'r beside the Gryffe,
Where hangs the hinny pear;
For I've seen no spot in my roving life
To match the vale of Weir. "
The sweet flow'rs drink the crystal dew,
The bonnie wee birds sing;
But she hears them not, as off she flies,
Away with the Gipsy King.

But the false page hurries to my Lord,
And the tale to him doth bear;
He swears an oath, as he dashes off
And away to the vale of Weir.
The day fades o'er the Lomond's green,
But gloamin's hour is long,
He lights him at the Gipsy's tent
And mars the bridal song.

" Thou'st stolen the pride of my house and heart,
With thy spells and magic ring;
Thy head goes out at my saddle bow,
Wert thou thrice a Gipsy King. "
" I used no spell but the spell of love —
And love knows no degree;
I ne'er turned back on friend or foe,
But I will not fight with thee. "

The Gipsy reels on the bloody sod,
And the lady flies between;
But the blow that redd'ns her raven locks
Was meant for the Gipsy King.
" Oh, what have I done? " Lord Sempill cries,
And his sword away doth fling;
" Arise, my daughter, oh! arise,
And wed with your Gipsy King! "

He lifts her gently in his arms,
And holds her drooping head;
But the tears are vain that fall like rain,
For Lady Jane is dead.
They laid her where the alder waves,
With many a sigh and tear;
And the grey cairn still points out her grave,
Adown the vale of Weir.

And the maid of the hamlet seeks out the spot,
And loves the tale to tell;
The " Place of Grief " is the name it bears
Adown the dreary dell.