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Title: The Coquihalla Wreck and Other Poems Date of first publication: 1932 Author: Francis Cecil Whitehouse (1879-1959) Date first posted: July 20, 2021 Date last updated: July 20, 2021 Faded Page eBook #20210740 This eBook was produced by: Al Haines [Transcriber's note: a Contents has been added for reader convenience] The RYERSON POETRY CHAP-BOOKS The Coquihalla Wreck And Other Poems By FRANCIS CECIL WHITEHOUSE _This is Chap-Book Number Fifty-eight_ _Copyright, Canada, 1932, by The Ryerson Press, Toronto_ For the longer, more ambitious poems of this author, the reader is referred to _REBELS and OTHER LOVE POEMS_, issued under the name of _RAMÓN FRANCISCO_. "Kinistin's Death Song" and "The Salamander's Song" are borrowed from the unpublished manuscript "Peggy, Ben & Co." Contents The Coquihalla Wreck (1926) Rudyard Kipling The Archers of Mons Je t'adore Dreamland's Garden May in British Columbia A Toi Kiniston's Death Song The Spider and the Fly The Awfulness The Salamander's Song The Faith of our Fathers Life's Voyage _The_ RYERSON POETRY CHAP-BOOKS The Coquihalla Wreck and Other Poems THE COQUIHALLA WRECK (1926) (A RAILWAY EPIC) But remember, please, the Law by which we live. We are not built to comprehend a lie. We can neither love nor pity nor forgive. If you make a slip in handling us you die! --_Kipling_. When the Creator tired-- That long third day-- Of mud and rock and laval scum, He threw the residue In one great heap And let it go! And Man, for better name. Calls it the Coquihalla Pass. So let it stay: God's rubbish-heap! But Man was not content; He must traverse What God had left a dump; And cut a line with errless transit For his traffic's steel: Fearing but little Of God's residue!-- And caring less, If such a line could serve his needs And swell his revenues. Years passed: no sacrifice was called. The traveller said: "My! ain't it wild!" And sipped his tea In callous comfort: Whilst the crew stood by their brakes, And hoped that luck Would still stand by them Down the treach'rous grades-- And see them safely home. It came at last--only a freight: Some trainmen working For their daily bread, And scarcely "news"-- Not in a front-page sense. A heavy train it was, of forty cars And "pusher" on behind: The boxes filled With lead and zinc from Tadanac, Bound for the Orient. 'Twas eight o'clock: a fine September morn. And mountain tamaracks Were tinting brown-- Fair nature's warning Of approaching Fall. The train was in the wilderness Near Jessica; The western slope, But fifteen miles from Hope, 'Twixt Portia and Lear. Bob Marks, the engineer, Had sensed it first-- The gathering speed; and wondered why She was not holding right. "Maybe, there's some cut-out," was his First thought: opened his sand valve And--gave her the works. But, as the rock-cuts flew the faster by, Knew they were done!-- Blew one wild blast for brakes. Ray Letts, the youthful fireman, Stepped to where The gauge made all too plain. "Bob, where's yer air?" he shouted. "God! she's got it all," The engineer replied. "She's gone! and that's the truth. You're wasted here . . . With nothin' to be done . . . Time ... if you hurry! Lad ... you'd best unload." And, thus excused from death, The younger man put match to pipe And took a drag of comfort For his soul's repose; Then had his final say: "If I'd a club, I'd sure go back And help 'em set 'em up. In any case, I ain't the quittin' kind." And lolling there--content to wait-- He also served. Back on the "pusher" engine, too, They'd doubted his control-- And, at the blast for brakes, The fireman got his orders quick: "To get out front and pull the pin." Down Barwick climbed Upon the swaying pilot; There, with clutching fingers Pulled the pin-- Thus saved the last nine cars. High in the cupola, Jack Quinn, the "con," Took one glance at his gauge-- And opened wide the valve. Then, grabbed a club, And hand-braked the caboose. Up to the platform Of the next box climbed With practised feet; Set that, and carried on: yet knew He'd put in his last trip. The brakeman, Stringer, some ten cars ahead, Was setting up like mad. He'd done his thinking quick, Old "Mickey" had-- Not waiting for the blast. The good deck made for speed, At that--three cars in forty flat! First with his hands He'd spin the wheel with cunning skill, Then give the club a twirl. From right behind the tender, Johnson, too, had followed his mate's lead. But he was never much Up on the running board-- When she was rambling fast. He'd set his share-- Eight brakes before he went! And might have made one more, But, as she lurched, he missed... They both had seen him go. The end must quickly come: For now the train Was rolling in her throes-- Like drunken thing, Lost to all sense of shame. Where each he clung, Stringer and Quinn Had waved their last good-byes. The signal meant: "It's nigh on sixty now-- We're gone at the next curve." And, at the curve they went: A wooden trestle-- Clear one hundred feet To piled destruction On the rocks below. Then fiend fire joined in, And made Hell's furnace Of the runaway: Man and his works-- Gold and base metals-- One infernal mass! That's all the tale: forgotten now, Except where trainmen yarn Of bygone wrecks They--lucky!--missed, Or, might well have been in. So, ere my memory fades And vision dims, I set it down In halting verse-- To linger yet awhile: This epic of brave men. RUDYARD KIPLING Down the long years from youth to age,-- As master craftsman joyous sings, He wrought with rich imaginings In artistry of his device: With pictured thought he filled the page, Nor ever used his colours twice. He read, what though the light were dim Of star-lit night or funeral pyre, The heart of man and his desire, And plied his knowledge down the years: So, laughing, made men laugh with him, Or sighing, moved a world to tears. Impatient lest a tragic dawn Should find th' allotted task undone-- Some gems of precious worth unstrung-- He, ever eager, gave us these Fine treasuries of fancy born-- Rich pillage of the Seven Seas! Well may he, pausing, rest content Who, caring nothing for renown, Dreamed mighty dreams and set them down In variation to amaze,-- For later Ages' wonderment And unborn critics' humble praise! THE ARCHERS OF MONS The works of Man are puny in the light Of God's inheritance Of power, and will, and all sufficing faith: For Man is Man! And limited, in fact, to his imaginings To hold, to move, what he may Grasp or stir--a beetle with his pellet!-- Grossly magnified. And, when the roaring flood will not Be checked, Or hurtling rocks of avalanche And snow defy the breastworks of his hands, Then sickness comes to aching limbs And mind; And grasping for the cause of his defeat He faces death resigned,-- For this is weariness. The body crumbles only when the will Is overcome To sorrowful surrender, and will raise The proud portcullis to the lustful foe: "See! here is blood!" he cries, "We cannot stay their hosts With our poor crippled means!"-- And so!--it was at Mons. Oh! piteous thing! when grim-lipped men must taste The vinegar of shame and impotence; And brave heads bow in knowledge Of defeat, E'en though their cause be right,-- And this they know full well! Then in their hearts are spoke The shameful words: "There is no God!" they cry, and bite their lips, "There is, indeed, no God!" And, breathing blasphemy in broken faith, they looked Towards the foe Now rolling down like tide in flood And undeniable; And shook their fists in childish rage-- These men! Then were they each to know for once And ne'er forget--these men! The Glory of the Lord. For 'tween the foe and their poor lines Had come Another Host, with bows and arrowed quivers At their sides; And all were capped with light, and close above A brilliant sheen Added illumination to the Sun That friend and foe Might see. Below was mist, 'pon which the Archers floated, And concealed Their nether parts from curious eyes Of men: Nor were they seen to draw a bow, Or use a feathered shaft; Just motionless they stayed 'twixt the opposing hosts-- This Host in fleecy white. And, to the souls of men prepared for death, Came peace and comfortude; For worldly soldiers seemed to understand That still there was the God Who'd dried a sea to let His people through; And calmed a sea to give men faith in Him-- In truth, that He was _still_ the God of Gods, And _still_ the Lord of Hosts. And 'gainst the Passive Band the conquering Huns Spurred their unwilling steeds, With cruel rowel and impious hurriedness, But to no purpose! Nor, is it to ask Who _these_ might be,--a Heavenly Guard, Or old Crusaders sent once more to Earth For His good purposes! _They_--were the Will of God! JE T'ADORE If I am dumb, 'tis not because I'm blind To what is beautiful In life and love And thy dear eyes, But that their violet depths Are far away As purple witcheries on distant hills, To promise, yet deny. For me 'twere poetry to kiss thy lips,-- Forbidden both in act And utterance! So, am I dumb Throughout the noisy day, But, when the silent stars their watches keep My soul shall sing to thine. I know a Dreamland garden where the sun For ever shines Through trailing vines And leafy canopy; Where passion flowers and sweet azaleas blend In an exotic fragrance With the rose: and spirit song-birds call In low note melodies. Here, mossy paths invite the feet of loves In other worlds denied, And these may wander Till their lips unite To give soft kisses as of butterflies: O! wilt thou come and share dream hours with me When my soul sings to thine? DREAMLAND'S GARDEN And some there are who miss the Golden Gate To Dreamland's garden And its fragrant bowers: The Stonecrop, tied to rocks Her weary years, And frigid Iceplants All unpassionate. Yet others fail--conscious of their desire To venture in and know What joys they may: But hang their heads like Canterbury-bells And all too timid vassals Of the shade. Still others climb the ramparts to despair-- As Wall-flowers fade and die. But we be man and woman, and may walk These paths of love In perfect faith Unstintingly: For now 'tis daring night, And we may charm Our wills to glad surrender, and may speak Sweet whispered words To compensate the day: Nor let the timid flowers fashion our thoughts To vain regrets; Nor hang our heads in fearful doubt That each dear kiss is warm. For this is Dreamland's garden, And its Goddess rules: Where love is all, and each doth willing give, Her garden is adorned. MAY IN BRITISH COLUMBIA In apple-blossom time I sing Because the hills are drawn In pastel shades; and carols ring Of earth and hope re-born. I sing because the eager bees Once more delight my sight; And hawk-moths haunt the lilac trees Beneath the dome of night. I sing that silv'ry troutlets leap; That waters broad and fair Waft from the tangled forest's keep A balsam scented air. I sing the swallows 'neath the eaves, Of blue-birds on the bough-- That rustling Winter-crumpled leaves May be forgotten now. For hope is of the mountains, Of beck'ning vales between, Of sparkling freshet fountains And gorges budding green: Of winsome Nature, wooed and won, Decked out in glad array To dance beneath new Summer's sun A joyous wedding day. This! year by year, the call of Spring, This! the recurring rhyme: Wherefore, I say, my soul doth sing In apple-blossom time. À TOI So small a thing I ask--the hum of bees, The wayward melody of brook and trees, The azure blue. To me the fragrant violet never dies; Shadows are dreams through which my spirit flies To you. I ask so little of the world without, The song of birds to compass me about, The distant view, The snow in patches on the mountain side, The mystic stillnesses of even-tide-- And you. From "REBELS", with kind permission Graphic Publishers Ltd. INTRODUCTION TO THE FOLLOWING POEM Kinistin, truly an Indian Chief of the old order, died in the Spring of 1890 "when the buds were on the poplar trees, just before they break into leaf"--in accordance with his own prophecy. By "old order" is meant that he was a pagan, worshipping the Great Spirit, Kitche Manitou; practising polygamy, and having no dealings with white men. No Government "treaty money" was accepted by his band until after his death, nor did they, prior to his death, live on a "reserve." Kinistin was a man of magnificent physique--a good six feet in moccasins; broad chested and scarred with several arrow and bullet wounds received in fights with the Blackfeet of the Plains. He wore only a loin cloth and leather leggings reaching to the thigh, with a coloured blanket or buffalo robe as a wrap in the winter. As for being improvident (the white man's conception of an Indian) Kinistin's wisdom in caring for his people was remarkable: winter and summer camping and hunting grounds, food reserves, policy in dealing with other tribes, etc., all being planned with infinite care. KINISTIN'S DEATH SONG "Born to a Chieftain's head-dress; Trained to the Council seat; Brave through the blood of fathers Who never had known defeat: Mine was no lowly portion-- _Hark! do ye hear that sound? The hoofs of a thousand thousand That thunder, and shake the ground!_ Mighty the herds of the plain-land, Countless as leaves in the Fall; Noisy the lakes with the wild-fowl, And the honk of the gray goose call. Strong were the Braves in their war-paint, Dauntless, and free from care: Pure as the snows of the Winter The hearts of our maidens fair. Rich was my Wigwam in trophies Of Buffalo, Elk and Bear Killed for the joy of the hunting Or a love-lock of raven hair: Pelts of the Marten and Beaver, A thousand, and yet again-- _Wealth! that is less than nothing! Life! that is all in vain!_ Wisely I guided the Nation; Counselled in peace and war: Checking the evil of passion, And holding the ancient law. Free in the Land of my Fathers: Proud that the Great-bow bent To me, the Chief of a People That prospered, and was content. Then came the white man in envy, Coveting, sordid and sly; Cruising the wealth of our forests, Measuring fields with his eye: Fogging our brains with his liquors, Tricking with paper and pen-- "Here, make the mark that will sign it! Seal it,--and say Amen." Thus, and thus did he cheat us-- We, who were born to fight! Taking what--God is my witness-- Is ours in our native right! Oh! that in savage wisdom The Chiefs had heeded my cry: Get ye arrayed for the battle, Drive them away!--or die!" His are the fish of the rivers, His are the beasts of the plain; His to direct, and to order When, and by whom, be slain: His are the virgin forests, His is the prairie hay. And we, his Red-skin brothers-- May bitterly rue the day. O! my soul I am weary-- Why should I suffer so? Live, but to see my Nation Broken, and brought so low? _Now, Mother Earth, I am ready-- A serf, in my own Domain-- Take me! O Mother, take me! Back to thy arms again..._" THE SPIDER AND THE FLY Within the tangled jungle of the grass A fly, but newly hatched, Halts ere it takes Its virgin flight To stretch its legs And dry its glassy wings-- Cramped from the chrysalid's close catacomb: For strength, and will to act, Have not yet come, And it must wait Until the Sun's warm rays Have knit the thews Beneath the gleaming back,-- Wait the appointed hour Of wingèd flight to love and liberty. And, peering through the rooted stems and moss, With baneful, greedy eyes, A spider slowly creeps Upon her prey, Dragging behind In tender ecstasy Her unborn babes within their silken purse: For on her skill as huntress Must depend These other sacred lives: So, cautiously she creeps With guarded noiseless step, Then leaps! And takes, with paralyzing bite, The luckless offering. THE AWFULNESS Hark! how he howls, the hungry wolf, into the tragic night: for company, a whitened owl floating o'er wastes of snow-- death's silent messenger. Beside a barbed-wire fence, a frozen cow and last year's calf stand belly-deep and lifeless, in a drift; their heads bowed low, round backed, and piteous. And, on a cord-wood pile of aspen-poplar, newly axed, a wretched cat faces the north, where ghostly lights crackle and dance in frenzied mockery: so, pitying, I reach forth to stroke, and push it sideways o'er-- a fur-clad block of ice, its tail still round its toes. Whereat my soul knows fear, so that I flee in horror of the night on which God's back is turned; and run until the pea-green sun again mocks, comfortless, a frost-flecked air and frozen earth-- where death and terror reign. THE SALAMANDER'S SONG "Oh! for the days of long ago When on those ancient shores Majestic'ly we lived our lives Within the ruthless laws-- And might was right through tropic night To all the Dinosaurs. Oh! for the dim and distant past When toothless reptiles flew; And serpents-of-the-sea patrolled The bayou's waters blue, Or sought the caverns of the deep And slept, and fought, and slew. Oh! for the tangled forest glades And limpid dank lagoon, Where giant creatures munched the reeds Beneath the silver moon-- Nor showed a fear of death so near... Which always came too soon. Oh! for the battles fought and won Beneath the murky sky, When crested monsters turned at bay To face that awful cry That told the King was in the ring-- And they must fight or die. Oh! for the days of long ago Unhonoured and unsung, When warring Gorgosaurus then His curdling challenge flung... And laws were claws and champing jaws, And all the World was young!" THE FAITH OF OUR FATHERS In direst need the mightiest thoughts arise, As smoldering sparks beget the beacon flare, To lead men onward, show where safety lies Midst haunting doubt and blackness of despair: Till the fine morrow dawns and radiant skies Bid all be Valiant, all to do and dare. Shield us, O Lord, who gave us unity, From youthful pride and bind our faith in Thee. For we were weak, indeed, in that young day When jealousy and pride the discord fanned; When none had risen up to show the way And each must do his little task to hand; So strove we blindly, proudly, with dismay, Bewildered by the vastness of the land. Then came there those with faith to make us one. To Thee our praise, O Lord: the task was done. Thus, out of chaos, was a nation born To work alone its own proud destiny; To labour bravely, and its brow adorn With man's inventions fashioned craftily; And through the mountains rugged paths were torn And mighty highways linked the sea to sea. Nor were the captains of the task afraid: In Thee their faith,--with Thee beside to aid. Of nature's bounty great estates arose Of virgin forest and wealth-giving mine, The fruitful lands abutting to the snows Of rocky peaks pricked in serrated line, And fish and fowl and scented orchard close And myriad herds, withal, of sheep and kine. Without Thy blessing Lord, these would not be. Give us Thy peace, and teach humility. For, to this structure, at some future day, A hungry world must look if it would live; Ours then to serve, and serving to repay The bounty of Thy hand superlative: Bid us be strong and guide us in the way, For, did we fail Thee then, could'st Thou forgive? Without Thee Lord, we know not what to do: O give us faith,--the faith our fathers knew. June, 1927. LIFE'S VOYAGE A ship is launched, and sails out on the main Proud in her strength to battle with the seas; The World is hers for pleasure or for gain; The choice of ways--where youthful fancy please. And now her worth is tried by angry gales That strive to bring her joyous course to grief; But stout of heart, the gallant Ship prevails, Nor falls a victim to the sunken reef. Again, and yet again, down life's long day She risks the dangers that must all be passed, Until, with bruisèd hulk, but pennant gay, She makes the passage to her port at last. Happy the Ship, or man, and doubly blessed, That braves all storms, and comes safe home to rest. [The end of _The Coquihalla Wreck and Other Poems_ by Francis Cecil Whitehouse]