Not of the seething cities with their swarming human hives,
Their fetid airs, their reeking streets, their dwarfed and poisoned lives,
Not of the buried yesterdays, but of the days to be,
The glory and the gateway of the yellow West is she.

The Northern Lights dance down her plains with soft and silvery feet,
The sunrise gilds her prairies when the dawn and daylight meet;
Along her level lands the fitful southern breezes sweep,
And beyond her western windows the sublime old mountains sleep.

The Redman haunts her portals, and the Paleface treads her streets,
The Indian’s stealthy footstep with the course of commerce meets,
And hunters whisper vaguely of the half forgotten tales
Of phantom herds of bison lurking on her midnight trails.

Not hers the lore of olden lands, their laurels and their bays;
But what are these, compared to one of all her perfect days? 
For naught can buy the jewel that upon her forehead lies—­
The cloudless sapphire Heaven of her territorial skies.

THE BALLAD OF YAADA [5]

(A LEGEND OF THE PACIFIC COAST)

There are fires on Lulu Island, and the sky is opalescent
  With the pearl and purple tinting from the smouldering of peat. 
And the Dream Hills lift their summits in a sweeping, hazy crescent,
  With the Capilano canyon at their feet.

There are fires on Lulu Island, and the smoke, uplifting, lingers
  In a faded scarf of fragrance as it creeps across the day,
And the Inlet and the Narrows blur beneath its silent fingers,
  And the canyon is enfolded in its grey.

But the sun its face is veiling like a cloistered nun at vespers;
  As towards the alter candles of the night a censer swings,
And the echo of tradition wakes from slumbering and whispers,
  Where the Capilano river sobs and sings.

It was Yaada, lovely Yaada, who first taught the stream its sighing,
  For ’twas silent till her coming, and ’twas voiceless as the shore;
But throughout the great forever it will sing the song undying
  That the lips of lovers sing for evermore.

He was chief of all the Squamish, and he ruled the coastal waters—­
  And he warred upon her people in the distant Charlotte Isles;
She, a winsome basket weaver, daintiest of Haida daughters,
  Made him captive to her singing and her smiles.

Till his hands forgot to havoc and his weapons lost their lusting,
  Till his stormy eyes allured her from the land of Totem Poles,
Till she followed where he called her, followed with a woman’s trusting,
  To the canyon where the Capilano rolls.

And the women of the Haidas plied in vain their magic power,
  Wailed for many moons her absence, wailed for many moons their prayer,
“Bring her back, O Squamish foeman, bring to us our Yaada flower!”
  But the silence only answered their despair.