Songs of a Sourdough Part 2

Then when as wolf-dogs fight we've fought, the lean wolf-land and I; Fought and bled till the snows are red under the reeling sky; Even as lean wolf-dog goes down will I go down and die.

THE THREE VOICES

The waves have a story to tell me, As I lie on the lonely beach; Chanting aloft in the pine-tops, The wind has a lesson to teach; But the stars sing an anthem of glory I cannot put into speech.

The waves tell of ocean s.p.a.ces, Of hearts that are wild and brave, Of populous city places, Of desolate sh.o.r.es they lave; Of men who sally in quest of gold To sink in an ocean grave.

The wind is a mighty roamer; He bids me keep me free, Clean from the taint of the gold-l.u.s.t, Hardy and pure as he; Cling with my love to nature As a child to the mother-knee.

But the stars throng out in their glory, And they sing of the G.o.d in man; They sing of the mighty Master, Of the loom His fingers span; Where a star or a soul is a part of the whole, And weft in the wondrous plan.

Here by the camp-fire's flicker, Deep in my blanket curled, I long for the peace of the pine-gloom When the scroll of the Lord is unfurled, And the wind and the wave are silent, And world is singing to world.

THE PINES

We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines; The grey moss drapes us like sages, and closer we lock our lines, And deeper we clutch through the gelid gloom where never a sunbeam s.h.i.+nes.

On the flanks of the storm-gored ridges are our black battalions ma.s.sed; We surge in a host to the sullen coast, and we sing in the ocean blast; From empire of sea to empire of snow we grip our empire fast.

To the n.i.g.g.ard lands were we driven; 'twixt desert and foe are we penned.

To us was the Northland given, ours to stronghold and defend; Ours till the world be riven in the crash of the utter end.

Ours from the bleak beginning, through the aeons of death-like sleep; Ours from the shock when the naked rock was hurled from the hissing deep; Ours through the twilight ages of weary glacier-creep.

Wind of the East, wind of the West, wandering to and fro, Chant your songs in our topmost boughs, that the sons of men may know The peerless pine was the first to come, and the pine will be last to go!

We pillar the halls of perfumed gloom; we plume where the eagles soar; The North-wind swoops from the brooding Pole, and our ancients crash and roar; But where one falls from the crumbling walls shoots up a hardy score.

We spring from the gloom of the canyon's womb; in the valley's lap we lie; From the white foam-fringe where the breakers cringe to the peaks that tusk the sky We climb, and we peer in the crag-locked mere that gleams like a golden eye,--

Gain to the verge of the hog-back ridge where the vision ranges free: Pines and pines and the shadow of pines as far as the eye can see; A steadfast legion of stalwart knights in dominant empery.

Sun, moon and stars, give answer; shall we not staunchly stand Even as now, forever, wards of the wilder strand, Sentinels of the stillness, lords of the last lone land!

THE HARPY

_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; A loathed jade I ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven.

I paint my cheeks, for they are white, and cheeks of chalk men hate; Mine eyes with wine I make to s.h.i.+ne, that men may seek and sate; With overhead a lamp of red I sit me down and wait.

Until they come, the nightly sc.u.m, with drunken eyes aflame; Your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful ones--'tis I who know their shame; The G.o.ds ye see are brutes to me--and so I play my game.

For life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan; And woman in a bitter world must do the best she can; Must yield the stroke, and bear the yoke, and serve the will of man;

Must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire; Though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire; For every man since life began is tainted with the mire.

And though you know he love you so, and set you on love's throne, Yet let your eyes but mock his sighs, and let your heart be stone, Lest you be left (as I was left) attainted and alone.

From love's close kiss to h.e.l.l's abyss is one sheer flight, I trow; And wedding-ring and bridal bell are will-o'-wisps of woe; And 'tis not wise to love too well, and this all women know.

Wherefore, the wolf-pack having gorged upon the lamb, their prey, With siren smile and serpent guile I make the wolf-pack pay; With velvet paws and flensing claws, a tigress roused to slay.

One who in youth sought truest truth, and found a devil's lies; A symbol of the sin of man, a human sacrifice: Yet shall I blame on man the shame? Could it be otherwise?

Was I not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride?

The Maker marred, and evil-starred I drift upon His tide; And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgment bide.

_Fate has written a tragedy; its name is "The Human Heart."

The theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer's part: The Devil enters the prompter's box and the play is ready to start._

THE LURE OF LITTLE VOICES

There's a cry from out the Loneliness--Oh, listen, Honey, listen!

Do you hear it, do you fear it, you're a-holding of me so?

You're a-sobbing in your sleep, dear, and your lashes, how they glisten-- Do you hear the Little Voices all a-begging me to go?

All a-begging me to leave you. Day and night they're pleading, praying, On the North-wind, on the West-wind, from the peak and from the plain; Night and day they never leave me--do you know what they are saying?

"He was ours before you got him, and we want him once again."

Yes, they're wanting me, they're haunting me, the awful lonely places; They're whining and they're whimpering as if each had a soul; They're calling from the wilderness, the vast and G.o.d-like s.p.a.ces, The stark and sullen solitudes that sentinel the Pole.

They miss my little camp-fires, ever brightly, bravely gleaming In the womb of desolation where was never man before; As comradeless I sought them, lion-hearted, loving, dreaming; And they hailed me as a comrade, and they loved me evermore.

And now they're all a-crying, and it's no use me denying: The spell of them is on me and I'm helpless as a child; My heart is aching, aching, but I hear them sleeping, waking; It's the Lure of Little Voices, it's the mandate of the Wild.

I'm afraid to tell you, Honey, I can take no bitter leaving; But softly in the sleep-time from your love I'll steal away.

Oh, it's cruel, dearie, cruel, and it's G.o.d knows how I'm grieving; But His Loneliness is calling and He knows I must obey.