NOW the Four-way Lodge
is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose—
Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain;
Now the Young Men’s hearts are troubled for the whisper
of the Trues,
Now the Red Gods make their medicine again!
Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the
blacktail mating?
Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry?
Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is
waiting,
Or the sea-trout’s jumping-crazy for the fly?
He must go—go—go away from here!
On the other side the world he’s overdue.
’Send your road is clear before you when the old
Springfret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
So for one the wet sail arching through the rainbow
round the bow,
And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust;
And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose
waits the cow,
And for one the mule-train coughing in the dust.
Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard
the birch-log burning?
Who is quick to read the noises of the night?
Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men’s feet
are turning
To the camps of proved desire and known delight!
Let him go—go—go away from here!
On the other side the world he’s overdue.
’Send your road is clear before you when the old
Springfret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
I
Do you know the blackened timber—do you know that
racing stream
With the raw, right-angled log jam at the end;
And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask
and dream
To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend?
It is there that we are going with our rods and reels
and traces,
To a silent, smoky Indian that we know—
To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, with the starlight on
our faces,
For the Red Gods call us out and we must go!
They must go—go—go away from here!
On the other side the world he’s overdue.
’Send your road is clear before you when the old
Springfret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
II
Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are
steep and short,
Where the bluff, lee-boarded fishing-luggers ride?
Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of
your port
On a coast you’ve lost the chart of overside?
It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale
her—
Just one able ’long-shore loafer that I know.
He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and
sail and sail her,
For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!
He must go—go—go away from here!
On the other side the world he’s overdue.
’Send your road is clear before you when the old
Springfret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you !
III
Do you know the pile-built village where the
sago-dealers trade—
Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo?
Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented
glade
When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap
through?
It is there that I am going with my camphor, net, and
boxes,
To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know—
To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and
flying-foxes,
For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!
He must go—go—go away from here!
On the other side the world he’s overdue.
’Send your road is clear before you when the old
Springfret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
IV
Do you know the world’s white roof-tree—do you know
that windy rift
Where the bafing mountain-eddies chop and change?
Do you know the long day’s patience, belly-down on
frozen drift,
While the head of heads is feeding out of range?
It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the
snow lie,
With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know.
I have sworn an oath, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis
Poli,
And the Red Gods call me out and I must go!
He must go—go—go away from here!
On the other side the world he’s overdue.
’Send your road is clear before you when the old
Springfret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
Now the Four-way Lodge is opened—now the Smokes of
Council rise—
Pleasant smokes, ere yet ’twixt trail and trail they
choose—
Now the girths and ropes are tested: now they pack their
last supplies:
Now our Young Men go to dance before the Trues!
Who shall meet them at those altars—who shall light them
to that shrine?
Velvet-footed, who shall guide them to their goal?
Unto each the voice and vision: unto each his spoor and
sign—
Lonely mountain in the Northland, misty sweat-bath
’neath the Line—
And to each a man that knows his naked soul!
White or yellow, black or copper, he is waiting, as a
lover,
Smoke of funnel, dust of hooves, or beat of train—
Where the high grass hides the horseman or the glaring
flats discover—
Where the steamer hails the landing, or the surf-boat
brings the rover—
Where the rails run out in sand-drift . . . Quick! ah,
heave the camp-kit over,
For the Red Gods make their medicine again!
And we go—go—go away from here!
On the other side the world we’re overdue!
’Send the road is clear before you when the old
Springfret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
|
