Classic Poem

Hear that whining cry! . . . .
A porcupine fretting the wilderness,
That sea of subtle sounds and silences,
The lisping leaves, the grace-notes of the rain,
The choral birds, the cry of timid things
When lightning's sudden rapier stabs the dark.
How solemn is the fluting of the winds
Whose clarion voice the thunder's monotone
Preludes, before the great crescendo bursts
To one wild blare of trumpet, cymbal, drum,—
The lesser throats of song all mute amid
The crash of that tremendous orchestra.

The virgin heart of this old wilderness
Is fickle as an April morn, now calm
As tropic night; anon, tossed and distraught
By all the wild artillery of the storm.
How voluble, in crowds, the speech of man,
But in the mighty woods, how pitiful!
And yet, I would my lips were eloquent
As hermit Peter's when he moved the kings
To match his ardour with their chivalry.
Then would we shake a riper, rosier fruit
Into the lap of faith, flame all the days
With beacons of immortal deed, and move
Across the astonished years with such a stride
As would transmute this trackless continent.

'Tis as thou sayest, Tonti: Had we here,
For reinforcement of our enterprise,
What France now fondly wastes on parasites
And breeders of decay, then would our souls
Great tasks essay beyond a hero's dream;
But now, since I must pay this debt of France,
I halt the affairs of half a hemisphere,
Hold back this starry opportunity,
And with my guides traverse a thousand leagues
Of stream and wild, to trade in fetid pelts
Before our eager feet shall win to walk
In high illustrious roads.

Duplicity
Slime-tracks our ways, shadows our purposes.
Thee only and the Governeur, I dare to trust.
True, thou art not of France; but hearts like thine
Are priceless whatsoever state they serve,
Tonti and Frontenac—two men all true—
Are quite enough to fill my ample cup
Of friendship to the brim and overflow,
Ah, how I wish we had even now, though late,
For all these skulking traitors, honest men,
Who, lacking vision, would give heed to mine.
Then would we set this North America
A blazing jewel in the crown of France,
And give these bronzèd children of the wild
A better faith.

The lordly Iroquois,
The docile Illinois and stately Sioux,
Must find me strong and reticent and stern;
Therefore my words must fateful be and grave
As most befits the herald of the king.
'Twas never mine to rule in courtly way
Or bend my course to any urge of fear,
How could I be thy friend and be afraid?
Why should we ever stoop to weak defense,
Or bow the august stature of our souls
To levels lower than the ancient stars?

Ah, Friend, even my slow lips grow eloquent
Beneath thy constant and inspiring faith.
How great we are in presence of a friend!
Would France achieve high projects, she must feel
The urgent impulse of that mighty dream
That storms across our hearts, and rise in deed
To its accomplishment. The lion's cubs,
At large, even now, in French America,
Push all their strength against our fortresses
And from the field and farm, beloved of God,
Would drift to the devices of the mart.

On this starved rock we'll build impregnable
A fort with face of fire. This thou shalt hold
While I adventure forth to Canada,
And thence to mine own land across the seas,
To France belovèd, France the beautiful,
For convoys from the king. These will he give
When I persuade him, as I will, that here,
Where uplands pour their tributary streams
Into the universal flood; here where
Untracked, intermináble forests lie,
And wide savannahs, thou and I will found
Dominions vaster than the Cæsars knew
Or Alexander dreamed.