Our Lady of the Snows

(CANADIAN PREFERENTIAL TARIFF, 1897)


  A Nation spoke to a Nation,
    A Queen sent word to a Throne:
  ‘Daughter am I in my mother’s house,
    But mistress in my own.
  The gates are mine to open,
    As the gates are mine to close,
  And I set my house in order,’
    Said our Lady of the Snows.

  ‘Neither with laughter nor weeping,
    Fear or the child’s amaze--
  Soberly under the White Man’s law
    My white men go their ways.
  Not for the Gentiles’ clamour--
    Insult or threat of blows--
  Bow we the knee to Baal,’
    Said our Lady of the Snows.

  ‘My speech is clean and single,
    I talk of common things--
  Words of the wharf and the market-place
    And the ware the merchant brings:
  Favour to those I favour,
    But a stumbling-block to my foes.
  Many there be that hate us,’
    Said our Lady of the Snows.

  ‘I called my chiefs to council
    In the din of a troubled year;
  For the sake of a sign ye would not see,
    And a word ye would not hear.
  This is our message and answer;
    This is the path we chose:
  For we be also a people,’
    Said our Lady of the Snows.

  ‘Carry the word to my sisters--
    To the Queens of the East and the South.
  I have proven faith in the Heritage
    By more than the word of the mouth.
  They that are wise may follow
    Ere the world’s war-trumpet blows,
  But I--I am first in the battle,’
    Said our Lady of the Snows.

  _A Nation spoke to a Nation,
    A Throne sent word to a Throne:
  ‘Daughter am I in my mother’s house,
    But mistress in my own.
  The gates are mine to open,
    As the gates are mine to close,
  And I abide by my mother’s house,’
    Said our Lady of the Snows._




‘ET DONA FERENTES’  [Page 107]


  In extended observation of the ways and works of man,
  From the Four-mile Radius roughly to the plains of Hindustan:
  I have drunk with mixed assemblies, seen the racial ruction rise,
  And the men of half creation damning half creation’s eyes.

  I have watched them in their tantrums, all that pentecostal crew,
  French, Italian, Arab, Spaniard, Dutch and Greek, and Russ and Jew,
  Celt and savage, buff and ochre, cream and yellow, mauve and white,
  But it never really mattered till the English grew polite;

  Till the men with polished toppers, till the men in long frock-coats,
  Till the men that do not duel, till the men who fight with votes,
  Till the breed that take their pleasures as Saint Laurence took his
     grid,
  Began to ‘beg your pardon’ and--the knowing croupier hid.

  Then the bandsmen with their fiddles, and the girls that bring the
     beer,
  Felt the psychologic moment, left the lit casino clear;
  But the uninstructed alien, from the Teuton to the Gaul,
  Was entrapped, once more, my country, by that suave, deceptive
     drawl.

         *       *       *       *       *

  As it was in ancient Suez or ’neath wilder, milder skies,
  I ‘observe with apprehension’ when the racial ructions rise;
  And with keener apprehension, if I read the times aright,
  Hear the old casino order: ‘Watch your man, but be polite.

  ‘Keep your temper. Never answer (_that_ was why they spat and swore).
  Don’t hit first, but move together (there’s no hurry) to the door.
  Back to back, and facing outward while the linguist tells ’em how--
  "_Nous sommes allong à notre batteau, nous ne voulong pas un row._"’

  So the hard, pent rage ate inward, till some idiot went too far ...
  ‘Let ’em have it!’ and they had it, and the same was serious war.
  Fist, umbrella, cane, decanter, lamp and beer-mug, chair and boot--
  Till behind the fleeing legions rose the long, hoarse yell for loot.

  Then the oil-cloth with its numbers, as a banner fluttered free;
  Then the grand piano cantered, on three castors, down the quay;
  White, and breathing through their nostrils, silent, systematic,
     swift--
  They removed, effaced, abolished all that man could heave or lift.

  Oh, my country, bless the training that from cot to castle runs--
  The pitfall of the stranger but the bulwark of thy sons--
  Measured speech and ordered action, sluggish soul and unperturbed,
  Till we wake our Island-Devil--nowise cool for being curbed!

  When the heir of all the ages ‘has the honour to remain,’
  When he will not hear an insult, though men make it ne’er so plain,
  When his lips are schooled to meekness, when his back is bowed to
     blows--
  Well the keen _aas-vogels_ know it--well the waiting jackal knows.

  Build on the flanks of Etna where the sullen smoke-puffs float--
  Or bathe in tropic waters where the lean fin dogs the boat--
  Cock the gun that is not loaded, cook the frozen dynamite--
  But oh, beware my country, when my country grows polite!




KITCHENER’S SCHOOL  [Page 113]

    _Being a translation of the song that was made by a Mohammedan
    schoolmaster of Bengal Infantry (some time on service at Suakim)
    when he heard that the Sirdar was taking money from the English to
    build a Madrissa for Hubshees--or a college for the Sudanese, 1898._


  Oh Hubshee, carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your
     breast!
  This is the message of Kitchener who did not break you in jest.
  It was permitted to him to fulfil the long-appointed years;
  Reaching the end ordained of old over your dead Emirs.

  He stamped only before your walls, and the Tomb ye knew was dust:
  He gathered up under his armpits all the swords of your trust:
  He set a guard on your granaries, securing the weak from the strong:
  He said:--‘Go work the waterwheels that were abolished so long.’

  He said:--‘Go safely, being abased. I have accomplished my vow.’
  That was the mercy of Kitchener. Cometh his madness now!
  He does not desire as ye desire, nor devise as ye devise:
  He is preparing a second host--an army to make you wise.

  Not at the mouth of his clean-lipped guns shall ye learn his name
     again,
  But letter by letter, from Kaf to Kaf, at the mouth of his chosen
     men.
  He has gone back to his own city, not seeking presents or bribes,
  But openly asking the English for money to buy you Hakims and
     scribes.

  Knowing that ye are forfeit by battle and have no right to live,
  He begs for money to bring you learning--and all the English give.
  It is their treasure--it is their pleasure--thus are their hearts
     inclined:
  For Allah created the English mad--the maddest of all mankind!

  They do not consider the Meaning of Things; they consult not creed
     nor clan.
  Behold, they clap the slave on the back, and behold, he ariseth a
     man!
  They terribly carpet the earth with dead, and before their cannon
     cool,
  They walk unarmed by twos and threes to call the living to school.

  How is this reason (which is their reason) to judge a scholar’s
     worth,
  By casting a ball at three straight sticks and defending the same
     with a fourth?
  But this they do (which is doubtless a spell) and other matters more
     strange,
  Until, by the operation of years, the hearts of their scholars
     change:

  Till these make come and go great boats or engines upon the rail
  (But always the English watch near by to prop them when they fail);
  Till these make laws of their own choice and Judges of their own
     blood;
  And all the mad English obey the Judges and say that the Law is good.

  Certainly they were mad from of old: but I think one new thing,
  That the magic whereby they work their magic--wherefrom their
     fortunes spring--
  May be that they show all peoples their magic and ask no price in
     return.
  Wherefore, since ye are bond to that magic, O Hubshee, make haste and
     learn!

  Certainly also is Kitchener mad. But one sure thing I know--
  If he who broke you be minded to teach you, to his Madrissa go!
  Go, and carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your
      breast,
  For he who did not slay you in sport, he will not teach you in
     jest.