Rhymes of a Rolling Stone

The Song of the Camp-Fire

I

Heed me, feed me, I am hungry, I am red-tongued with desire;

Boughs of balsam, slabs of cedar, gummy fagots of the pine,

Heap them on me, let me hug them to my eager heart of fire,

Roaring, soaring up to heaven as a symbol and a sign.

Bring me knots of sunny maple, silver birch and tamarack;

Leaping, sweeping, I will lap them with my ardent wings of flame;

I will kindle them to glory, I will beat the darkness back;

Streaming, gleaming, I will goad them to my glory and my fame.

Bring me gnarly limbs of live-oak, aid me in my frenzied fight;

Strips of iron-wood, scaly blue-gum, writhing redly in my hold;

With my lunge of lurid lances, with my whips that flail the night,

They will burgeon into beauty, they will foliate in gold.

Let me star the dim sierras, stab with light the inland seas;

Roaming wind and roaring darkness! seek no mercy at my hands;

I will mock the marly heavens, lamp the purple prairies,

I will flaunt my deathless banners down the far, unhouseled lands.

In the vast and vaulted pine-gloom where the pillared forests frown,

By the sullen, bestial rivers running where God only knows,

On the starlit coral beaches when the combers thunder down,

In the death-spell of the barrens, in the shudder of the snows;

In a blazing belt of triumph from the palm-leaf to the pine,

As a symbol of defiance lo! the wilderness I span;

And my beacons burn exultant as an everlasting sign

Of unending domination, of the mastery of Man;

I, the Life, the fierce Uplifter, I that weaned him from the mire;

I, the angel and the devil, I, the tyrant and the slave;

I, the Spirit of the Struggle; I, the mighty God of Fire;

I, the Maker and Destroyer; I, the Giver and the Grave.

II

Gather round me, boy and grey-beard, frontiersman of every kind.

Few are you, and far and lonely, yet an army forms behind:

By your camp-fires shall they know you, ashes scattered to the wind.

Peer into my heart of solace, break your bannock at my blaze;

Smoking, stretched in lazy shelter, build your castles as you gaze;

Or, it may be, deep in dreaming, think of dim, unhappy days.

Let my warmth and glow caress you, for your trails are grim and hard;

Let my arms of comfort press you, hunger-hewn and battle-scarred:

O my lovers! how I bless you with your lives so madly marred!

For you seek the silent spaces, and their secret lore you glean:

For you win the savage races, and the brutish Wild you wean;

And I gladden desert places, where camp-fire has never been.

From the Pole unto the Tropics is there trail ye have not dared?

And because you hold death lightly, so by death shall you be spared,

(As the sages of the ages in their pages have declared).

On the roaring Arkilinik in a leaky bark canoe;

Up the cloud of Mount McKinley, where the avalanche leaps through;

In the furnace of Death Valley, when the mirage glimmers blue.

Now a smudge of wiry willows on the weary Kuskoquim;

Now a flare of gummy pine-knots where Vancouver's scaur is grim;

Now a gleam of sunny ceiba, when the Cuban beaches dim.

Always, always God's Great Open: lo! I burn with keener light

In the corridors of silence, in the vestibules of night;

'Mid the ferns and grasses gleaming, was there ever gem so bright?

Not for weaklings, not for women, like my brother of the hearth;

Ring your songs of wrath around me, I was made for manful mirth,

In the lusty, gusty greatness, on the bald spots of the earth.

Men, my masters! men, my lovers! ye have fought and ye have bled;

Gather round my ruddy embers, softly glowing is my bed;

By my heart of solace dreaming, rest ye and be comforted!

III

I am dying, O my masters! by my fitful flame ye sleep;

My purple plumes of glory droop forlorn.

Grey ashes choke and cloak me, and above the pines there creep

The stealthy silver moccasins of morn.

There comes a countless army, it's the Legion of the Light;

It tramps in gleaming triumph round the world;

And before its jewelled lances all the shadows of the night

Back in to abysmal darknesses are hurled.

Leap to life again, my lovers! ye must toil and never tire;

The day of daring, doing, brightens clear,

When the bed of spicy cedar and the jovial camp-fire

Must only be a memory of cheer.

There is hope and golden promise in the vast portentous dawn;

There is glamour in the glad, effluent sky:

Go and leave me; I will dream of you and love you when you're gone;

I have served you, O my masters! let me die.

A little heap of ashes, grey and sodden by the rain,

Wind-scattered, blurred and blotted by the snow:

Let that be all to tell of me, and glorious again,

Ye things of greening gladness, leap and glow!

A black scar in the sunshine by the palm-leaf or the pine,

Blind to the night and dead to all desire;

Yet oh, of life and uplift what a symbol and a sign!

Yet oh, of power and conquest what a destiny is mine!

A little heap of ashes -- Yea! a miracle divine,

The foot-print of a god, all-radiant Fire.

Her Letter

"I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me;

My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow,

And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see. . . .

You'd little know your mother, boy; you'd little, little know.

You mind how brisk and bright I was, how straight and trim and smart;

'Tis weariful I am the now, and bent and frail and grey.

I'm waiting at the road's end, lad; and all that's in my heart,

Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."

"Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea;

'Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I.

You said that you'd be home again in two years, maybe three;

But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by.

I know it's cruel hard for you, you've bairnies of your own;

I know the siller's hard to win, and folks have used you ill:

But oh, think of your mother, lad, that's waiting by her lone!

And even if you canna come -- just write and say you will."

"Aye, even though there's little hope, just promise that you'll try.

It's weary, weary waiting, lad; just say you'll come next year.

I'm thinking there will be no 'next'; I'm thinking soon I'll lie

With all the ones I've laid away . . . but oh, the hope will cheer!

You know you're all that's left to me, and we are seas apart;

But if you'll only say you'll come, then will I hope and pray.

I'm waiting by the grave-side, lad; and all that's in my heart

Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."

The Man Who Knew

The Dreamer visioned Life as it might be,

And from his dream forthright a picture grew,

A painting all the people thronged to see,

And joyed therein -- till came the Man Who Knew,

Saying: "'Tis bad! Why do ye gape, ye fools!

He painteth not according to the schools."

The Dreamer probed Life's mystery of woe,

And in a book he sought to give the clue;

The people read, and saw that it was so,

And read again -- then came the Man Who Knew,

Saying: "Ye witless ones! this book is vile:

It hath not got the rudiments of style."

Love smote the Dreamer's lips, and silver clear

He sang a song so sweet, so tender true,

That all the market-place was thrilled to hear,

And listened rapt -- till came the Man Who Knew,

Saying: "His technique's wrong; he singeth ill.

Waste not your time." The singer's voice was still.

And then the people roused as if from sleep,

Crying: "What care we if it be not Art!

Hath he not charmed us, made us laugh and weep?

Come, let us crown him where he sits apart."

Then, with his picture spurned, his book unread,

His song unsung, they found their Dreamer -- dead.

The Logger

In the moonless, misty night, with my little pipe alight,

I am sitting by the camp-fire's fading cheer;

Oh, the dew is falling chill on the dim, deer-haunted hill,

And the breakers in the bay are moaning drear.

The toilful hours are sped, the boys are long abed,

And I alone a weary vigil keep;

In the sightless, sullen sky I can hear the night-hawk cry,

And the frogs in frenzied chorus from the creek.

And somehow the embers' glow brings me back the long ago,

The days of merry laughter and light song;

When I sped the hours away with the gayest of the gay

In the giddy whirl of fashion's festal throng.

Oh, I ran a grilling race and I little recked the pace,

For the lust of youth ran riot in my blood;

But at last I made a stand in this God-forsaken land

Of the pine-tree and the mountain and the flood.

And now I've got to stay, with an overdraft to pay,

For pleasure in the past with future pain;

And I'm not the chap to whine, for if the chance were mine

I know I'd choose the old life once again.

With its woman's eyes a-shine, and its flood of golden wine;

Its fever and its frolic and its fun;

The old life with its din, its laughter and its sin --

And chuck me in the gutter when it's done.

Ah, well! it's past and gone, and the memory is wan,

That conjures up each old familiar face;

And here by fortune hurled, I am dead to all the world,

And I've learned to lose my pride and keep my place.

My ways are hard and rough, and my arms are strong and tough,

And I hew the dizzy pine till darkness falls;

And sometimes I take a dive, just to keep my heart alive,

Among the gay saloons and dancing halls.

In the distant, dinful town just a little drink to drown

The cares that crowd and canker in my brain;

Just a little joy to still set my pulses all a-thrill,

Then back to brutish labour once again.

And things will go on so until one day I shall know

That Death has got me cinched beyond a doubt;

Then I'll crawl away from sight, and morosely in the night

My weary, wasted life will peter out.

Then the boys will gather round, and they'll launch me in the ground,

And pile the stones the timber wolf to foil;

And the moaning pine will wave overhead a nameless grave,

Where the black snake in the sunshine loves to coil.

And they'll leave me there alone, and perhaps with softened tone

Speak of me sometimes in the camp-fire's glow,

As a played-out, broken chum, who has gone to Kingdom Come,

And who went the pace in England long ago.

The Passing of the Year

My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,

My den is all a cosy glow;

And snug before the fire I sit,

And wait to feel the old year go.

I dedicate to solemn thought

Amid my too-unthinking days,

This sober moment, sadly fraught

With much of blame, with little praise.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time

You stand to bow your last adieu;

A moment, and the prompter's chime

Will ring the curtain down on you.

Your mien is sad, your step is slow;

You falter as a Sage in pain;

Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,

And face your audience again.

That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,

Let us all read, whate'er the cost:

O Maiden! why that bitter tear?

Is it for dear one you have lost?

Is it for fond illusion gone?

For trusted lover proved untrue?

O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan

What hath the Old Year meant to you?

And you, O neighbour on my right

So sleek, so prosperously clad!

What see you in that aged wight

That makes your smile so gay and glad?

What opportunity unmissed?

What golden gain, what pride of place?

What splendid hope? O Optimist!

What read you in that withered face?

And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,

What find you in that filmy gaze?

What menace of a tragic doom?

What dark, condemning yesterdays?

What urge to crime, what evil done?

What cold, confronting shape of fear?

O haggard, haunted, hidden One

What see you in the dying year?

And so from face to face I flit,

The countless eyes that stare and stare;

Some are with approbation lit,

And some are shadowed with despair.

Some show a smile and some a frown;

Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:

Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down!

Old weary year! it's time to go.

My pipe is out, my glass is dry;

My fire is almost ashes too;

But once again, before you go,

And I prepare to meet the New:

Old Year! a parting word that's true,

For we've been comrades, you and I --

I thank God for each day of you;

There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!

The Ghosts

Smith, great writer of stories, drank; found it immortalised his pen;

Fused in his brain-pan, else a blank, heavens of glory now and then;

Gave him the magical genius touch; God-given power to gouge out, fling

Flat in your face a soul-thought -- Bing! Twiddle your heart-strings in his clutch.

"Bah!" said Smith, "let my body lie stripped to the buff in swinish shame,

If I can blaze in the radiant sky out of adoring stars my name.

Sober am I nonentitized; drunk am I more than half a god.

Well, let the flesh be sacrificed; spirit shall speak and shame the clod.

Who would not gladly, gladly give Life to do one thing that will live?"

Smith had a friend, we'll call him Brown; dearer than brothers were those two.

When in the wassail Smith would drown, Brown would rescue and pull him through.

When Brown was needful Smith would lend; so it fell as the years went by,

Each on the other would depend: then at the last Smith came to die.

There Brown sat in the sick man's room, still as a stone in his despair;

Smith bent on him his eyes of doom, shook back his lion mane of hair;

Said: "Is there one in my chosen line, writer of forthright tales my peer?

Look in that little desk of mine; there is a package, bring it here.

Story of stories, gem of all; essence and triumph, key and clue;

Tale of a loving woman's fall; soul swept hell-ward, and God! it's true.

I was the man -- Oh, yes, I've paid, paid with mighty and mordant pain.

Look! here's the masterpiece I've made out of my sin, my manhood slain.

Art supreme! yet the world would stare, know my mistress and blaze my shame.

I have a wife and daughter -- there! take it and thrust it in the flame."

Brown answered: "Master, you have dipped pen in your heart, your phrases sear.

Ruthless, unflinching, you have stripped naked your soul and set it here.

Have I not loved you well and true? See! between us the shadows drift;

This bit of blood and tears means You -- oh, let me have it, a parting gift.

Sacred I'll hold it, a trust divine; sacred your honour, her dark despair;

Never shall it see printed line: here, by the living God I swear."

Brown on a Bible laid his hand; Smith, great writer of stories, sighed:

"Comrade, I trust you, and understand. Keep my secret!" And so he died.

Smith was buried -- up soared his sales; lured you his books in every store;

Exquisite, whimsy, heart-wrung tales; men devoured them and craved for more.

So when it slyly got about Brown had a posthumous manuscript,

Jones, the publisher, sought him out, into his pocket deep he dipped.

"A thousand dollars?" Brown shook his head. "The story is not for sale," he said.

Jones went away, then others came. Tempted and taunted, Brown was true.

Guarded at friendship's shrine the fame of the unpublished story grew and grew.

It's a long, long lane that has no end, but some lanes end in the Potter's field;

Smith to Brown had been more than friend: patron, protector, spur and shield.

Poor, loving-wistful, dreamy Brown, long and lean, with a smile askew,

Friendless he wandered up and down, gaunt as a wolf, as hungry too.

Brown with his lilt of saucy rhyme, Brown with his tilt of tender mirth

Garretless in the gloom and grime, singing his glad, mad songs of earth:

So at last with a faith divine, down and down to the Hunger-line.

There as he stood in a woeful plight, tears a-freeze on his sharp cheek-bones,

Who should chance to behold his plight, but the publisher, the plethoric Jones;

Peered at him for a little while, held out a bill: "Now, will you sell?"

Brown scanned it with his twisted smile: "A thousand dollars! you go to hell!"

Brown enrolled in the homeless host, sleeping anywhere, anywhen;

Suffered, strove, became a ghost, slave of the lamp for other men;

For What's-his-name and So-and-so in the abyss his soul he stripped,

Yet in his want, his worst of woe, held he fast to the manuscript.

Then one day as he chewed his pen, half in hunger and half despair,

Creaked the door of his garret den; Dick, his brother, was standing there.

Down on the pallet bed he sank, ashen his face, his voice a wail:

"Save me, brother! I've robbed the bank; to-morrow it's ruin, capture, gaol.

Yet there's a chance: I could to-day pay back the money, save our name;

You have a manuscript, they say, worth a thousand -- think, man! the shame. . . ."

Brown with his heart pain-pierced the while, with his stern, starved face, and his lips stone-pale,

Shuddered and smiled his twisted smile: "Brother, I guess you go to gaol."

While poor Brown in the leer of dawn wrestled with God for the sacred fire,

Came there a woman weak and wan, out of the mob, the murk, the mire;

Frail as a reed, a fellow ghost, weary with woe, with sorrowing;

Two pale souls in the legion lost; lo! Love bent with a tender wing,

Taught them a joy so deep, so true, it seemed that the whole-world fabric shook,

Thrilled and dissolved in radiant dew; then Brown made him a golden book,

Full of the faith that Life is good, that the earth is a dream divinely fair,

Lauding his gem of womanhood in many a lyric rich and rare;

Took it to Jones, who shook his head: "I will consider it," he said.

While he considered, Brown's wife lay clutched in the tentacles of pain;

Then came the doctor, grave and grey; spoke of decline, of nervous strain;

Hinted Egypt, the South of France -- Brown with terror was tiger-gripped.

Where was the money? What the chance? Pitiful God! . . . the manuscript!

A thousand dollars! his only hope! he gazed and gazed at the garret wall. . . .

Reached at last for the envelope, turned to his wife and told her all.

Told of his friend, his promise true; told like his very heart would break:

"Oh, my dearest! what shall I do? shall I not sell it for your sake?"

Ghostlike she lay, as still as doom; turned to the wall her weary head;

Icy-cold in the pallid gloom, silent as death . . . at last she said:

"Do! my husband? Keep your vow! Guard his secret and let me die. . . .

Oh, my dear, I must tell you now -- the woman he loved and wronged was I;

Darling! I haven't long to live: I never told you -- forgive, forgive!"

For a long, long time Brown did not speak; sat bleak-browed in the wretched room;

Slowly a tear stole down his cheek, and he kissed her hand in the dismal gloom.

To break his oath, to brand her shame; his well-loved friend, his worshipped wife;

To keep his vow, to save her name, yet at the cost of what? Her life!

A moment's space did he hesitate, a moment of pain and dread and doubt,

Then he broke the seals, and, stern as fate, unfolded the sheets and spread them out. . . .

On his knees by her side he limply sank, peering amazed -- each page was blank.

(For oh, the supremest of our art are the stories we do not dare to tell,

Locked in the silence of the heart, for the awful records of Heav'n and Hell.)

Yet those two in the silence there, seemed less weariful than before.

Hark! a step on the garret stair, a postman knocks at the flimsy door.

"Registered letter!" Brown thrills with fear; opens, and reads, then bends above:

"Glorious tidings! Egypt, dear! The book is accepted -- life and love."

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