So Neykia, in the westland, wonders and works away,
Far from the fret and folly of the “Land of Waking Day.” 
And many the pale-faced trader who stops at the tepee door
For a smile from the sweet, shy worker, and a sigh when the hour is o’er. 
For they know of a young red hunter who oftentimes has stayed
To rest and smoke with her father, tho’ his eyes were on the maid;
And the moons will not be many ere she in the red sunshine
Will broider his buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.

GUARD OF THE EASTERN GATE

Halifax sits on her hills by the sea
  In the might of her pride,—­
Invincible, terrible, beautiful, she
  With a sword at her side.

To right and to left of her, battlements rear
  And fortresses frown;
While she sits on her throne without favour or fear
  With her cannon as crown.

Coast guard and sentinel, watch of the weal
  Of a nation she keeps;
But her hand is encased in a gauntlet of steel,
  And her thunder but sleeps.

AT CROW’S NEST PASS

At Crow’s Nest Pass the mountains rend
Themselves apart, the rivers wend
  A lawless course about their feet,
  And breaking into torrents beat
In useless fury where they blend
    At Crow’s Nest Pass.

The nesting eagle, wise, discreet,
Wings up the gorge’s lone retreat
And makes some barren crag her friend
    At Crow’s Nest Pass.

Uncertain clouds, half-high, suspend
Their shifting vapours, and contend
  With rocks that suffer not defeat;
  And snows, and suns, and mad winds meet
To battle where the cliffs defend
    At Crow’s Nest Pass.

“GIVE US BARABBAS” [4]

There was a man—­a Jew of kingly blood,
  But of the people—­poor and lowly born,
Accused of blasphemy of God, He stood
  Before the Roman Pilate, while in scorn
The multitude demanded it was fit
  That one should suffer for the people, while
Another be released, absolved, acquit,
  To live his life out virtuous or vile.

“Whom will ye have—­Barabbas or this Jew?”
  Pilate made answer to the mob, “The choice
Is yours; I wash my hands of this, and you,
  Do as you will.”  With one vast ribald voice
The populace arose and, shrieking, cried,
  “Give us Barabbas, we condone his deeds!”
And He of Nazareth was crucified—­
  Misjudged, condemned, dishonoured for their needs.

And down these nineteen centuries anew
  Comes the hoarse-throated, brutalized refrain,
“Give us Barabbas, crucify the Jew!”
  Once more a man must bear a nation’s stain,—­
And that in France, the chivalrous, whose lore
  Made her the flower of knightly age gone by. 
Now she lies hideous with a leprous sore
  No skill can cure—­no pardon purify.