Classic Poem

Here , in this howling torrent, ends
The rushing river, named
By savage man
Saskatchewan —
In dark tradition famed.

His source, Creation's dread abyss,
Or in the glacier's cell;
His way, the sweep
Of canyons deep,
And clefts and chasms fell.

And forth from many a mountain's side
He leaps with laughter grim;
Their spurs are slit,
Their walls are split,
To make a path for him.

And down into the plains he raves
With dusky torrent cold,
And lines his bed
With treasure shred
From unknown reefs of gold.

And, monster-like, devours his shores,
Or, writhing through the plain,
Casts up the while
Full many an isle,
And swallows them again.

For though, betimes, he seems to sink
Amidst his prairies pale,
He swells with pride
In summer-tide,
When low-born rivers fail.

And knits tradition to his shores
Of savage fights and fame,
When poaching Cree
The Blackfoot free
With magic arms o'ercame.

Of Wapiti and Spanish horse,
And of the bison horde,
A transverse stream,
As in a dream,
Which flowed at every ford.

And of the whites who first espied
His course, their toils and cares;
Of brave Varennes,
The boast of men,
And prince of voyageurs!

Of ancient settlement and farm
Ere France his wantons pressed;
Ere royal mind
For lust resigned
The Empire of the West.

Of him who once his waters churned —
The bluff fur-trader King —
Mackenzie bold,
Renowned of old
For his far wandering.

Of later days, when to his shores
The dauntless Franklin came;
Ere Science lost,
In Arctic frost,
The life, the lofty aim.

Or of the old Bois-brale town,
Whose huts of log and earth
Rang, winter-long,
With jest and song,
And wild plain-hunters' mirth.

And of the nearer, darker day,
Which saw their offspring leap
To arms, and wake,
With frenzied shake,
Dull Justice from her sleep.

Or, turning to the future, dreams
On Time, and prophesies
The human tide
When, by his side,
Great cities shall arise.

The sordid tide, the weltering sea,
Of lusts and cares and strife;
The dreaded things
The worldling brings —
The rush and roar of life.

And onward tears his torrent still,
A hundred leagues withdrawn,
Beyond the capes
And silvan shapes
And wilds of Chimahaun.

Down through the silent forest land,
Beyond the endless marge
Of swale and brake,
And lingering lake,
Beyond the Demicharge .

Till at the Landing-place he lifts
His crest of foam, and, quick
As lightning, leaps
Adown the steeps
Of Missipowistic!

Whilst o'er him wheels the osprey's wing —
And, in the tamarac glades
Near-by, the bear
And Mooswa share
Their matchless mossy shades.

Whilst echoes of the huskies' yells
From yonder woods are flung
At midnight dim,
A chorus grim,
As if by demons sung!

But, see! Here comes a birch canoe!
Two wiry forms it bears,
In quaintest guise,
With wrinkled eyes —
Two smoke-dried voyageurs!

" We'll take you down! Embarquez donc —
Embarquez donc, monsieur!
We'll steer you through
The channel true, "
Cries each old voyageur.

" Nay, look ye, men — those walls of foam,
Yon swirling " cellars" fell! "
" Fear not to pass,
Thou Moniyas!
We know this torrent well. "

" I've roamed this river from my youth —
I know its every fork. "
" And I have made, "
The other said,
" Full many a trip to York! "

Soho! I'll go! The Rapids call!
With hamper at my wing
We sally down
Their foaming crown
Like arrow from the string —

Into the yeast of waters wild,
Where winds and eddies rave!
Into the fume
And raging spume
And tempest of the wave!

Past rocky points, with bays between,
Where pelicans, bright-hued,
Are flushed to flight
With birds like night —
The cormorant's impish brood!

And madly now our frail craft leaps
Adown the billows' strife,
And cleaves their crests
And seething breasts
As 'twere a thing of life.

As dips the pandion for his prey
So dips our bark amain.
We sink and soar,
And sink and soar,
And sink and soar again!

Till, following the foaming fall
Of one long, throbbing wave,
Enrapt we glide,
And seem to slide
Down, down into its grave!

" O break! O break! sweet balm, soft air! "
No, no, we mount! we rise!
Once more the dash
And deafening clash
Of billows flout the skies.

Till, swept o'er many a whirling swell,
The final surge is past,
And, like the strife
Of human life,
We reach calm floods at last.

Now, thanks, ye grim old voyageurs!
No man has flinched in fear —
Yet in earth's round
I've seldom found
This life and death so near.

Thanks, thanks to you, good men and true!
Here we shall rest awhile,
And toast the bold
Coureurs of old
Upon the Prisoners' Isle.