English

Men of the High North, the wild sky is blazing,
Islands of opal float on silver seas;
Swift splendors kindle, barbaric, amazing;
Pale ports of amber, golden argosies.
Ringed all around us the proud peaks are glowing;
Fierce chiefs in council, their wigwam the sky;
Far, far below us the big Yukon flowing,
Like threaded quicksilver, gleams to the eye.

Men of the High North, you who have known it;
You in whose hearts its splendors have abode;
Can you renounce it, can you disown it?

My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming
I've drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream,
Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming,
Seeing the groves of Arcadie agleam.

I was the thrall of Beauty that rejoices
From peak snow-diademed to regal star;
Yet to mine aerie ever pierced the voices,
The pregnant voices of the Things That Are.

The Here, the Now, the vast Forlorn around us;
The gold-delirium, the ferine strife;
The lusts that lure us on, the hates that hound us;

" Plus doux que les soirs vermeils de l'automne. "

Sweeter than Autumn's golden evenings are,
Or vernal skies that bend o'er daffodils;
Sweeter than windflowers that the wildwood star,
Or crannied blossoms on the April hills;
Sweeter than vows breathed by a convent maid,
Or earthier vows by lover to his lass;
Sweeter than thrush-notes in the darkening glade,
Or river singing through the swaying grass;
Sweeter than roseleaves in the boudoir air,
Than secret sweeter, sweeter than a smile,

Upon a certain old Lady, who play'd very much at Cards, but with little Temper.

In Form, a Patagonian Size,
Disgustful, e'en to vulgar Eyes;
O'er-run with Manners gross and rude,
Affecting—what?—A worn out Prude:
Fie, Lady Dainty , give up play,
No more at Cards growl Time away;
To Church, instead of Rooms, repair,
Confess yourself in daily Pray'r.

The wheeling heavens, at this moment wheeling:
The self-absorbed crowds in the street â?¦
Gigantic paradox!
If they saw the sublimity of which they are part
They would hurry and hide, like children afraid of the dark.

'Twas a year ago and the moon was bright
(Oh, I remember so well, so well);
I walked with my love in a sea of light,
And the voice of my sweet was a silver bell.
And sudden the moon grew strangely dull,
And sudden my love had taken wing;
I looked on the face of a grinning skull,
I strained to my heart a ghastly thing.

'Twas but fantasy, for my love lay still
In my arms, with her tender eyes aglow,
And she wondered why my lips were chill,
Why I was silent and kissed her so.

My bold, aspiring, honest Muse,
(Despising ceremonious Views)
Ambitious in her Thirst of Fame,
And glorying in a C OLMAN'S Name,
Has urg'd me with intruding Speech,
To soar above my pigmy Reach;
I wou'd have check'd her daring Flight,
But she, all Fire, by this good Light!
Declar'd she'd leave me to my Fate,
And grov'lling I shou'd rue my State,
If I presum'd to stop her Speed:
She will'd it, and I must proceed;
I dare no more; this her own Lay,
By stern Command, I've pen'd To-day:

There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she;
She was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three;
And she knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of iniquity.

There is no hope for such as I on earth, nor yet in Heaven;
Unloved I live, unloved I die, unpitied, unforgiven;
Unloved I live, unloved I die, unpitied, unforgiven;
A loathed jade, I ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven.

I paint my cheeks, for they are white, and cheeks of chalk men hate;

It's cruel cold on the water-front, silent and dark and drear;
Only the black tide weltering, only the hissing snow;
And I, alone, like a storm-tossed wreck, on this night of the glad New Year,
Shuffling along in the icy wind, ghastly and gaunt and slow.

They're playing a tune in McGuffy's saloon, and it's cheery and bright in there
(God! but I'm weak — since the bitter dawn, and never a bite of food);
I'll just go over and slip inside — I mustn't give way to despair —
Perhaps I can bum a little booze if the boys are feeling good.

The Author's Introductory APOLOGY, prefented to D AVID G ARRICK , Esq .

Grant your Pardon — 'tis my Muse,
Her Commands I can't refuse;
Months ago this slippant Jade,
(Still I must love the busy Maid)
Urg'd me with ambitious Speech,
Thus to soar above my Reach;
But of late by Day and Night,
More and more this Lady Spright
Spurs me on — Up-rouse my Bard,
For me if you profess Regard;
Pause no more, with Haste repair,
And court the worthy G ARRICK 's Care:
Under his protecting Wings,