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Poem by Emily Pauline Johnson


The Legend of Qu'Appelle Valley


    I am the one who loved her as my life,
        Had watched her grow to sweet young womanhood;
    Won the dear privilege to call her wife,
        And found the world, because of her, was good.
    I am the one who heard the spirit voice,
        Of which the paleface settlers love to tell;
    From whose strange story they have made their choice
        Of naming this fair valley the "Qu'Appelle."

    She had said fondly in my eager ear -
        "When Indian summer smiles with dusky lip,
    Come to the lakes, I will be first to hear
        The welcome music of thy paddle dip.
    I will be first to lay in thine my hand,
        To whisper words of greeting on the shore;
    And when thou would'st return to thine own land,
        I'll go with thee, thy wife for evermore."

    Not yet a leaf had fallen, not a tone
        Of frost upon the plain ere I set forth,
    Impatient to possess her as my own -
        This queen of all the women of the North.
    I rested not at even or at dawn,
        But journeyed all the dark and daylight through -
    Until I reached the Lakes, and, hurrying on,
        I launched upon their bosom my canoe.

    Of sleep or hunger then I took no heed,
        But hastened o'er their leagues of waterways;
    But my hot heart outstripped my paddle's speed
        And waited not for distance or for days,
    But flew before me swifter than the blade
        Of magic paddle ever cleaved the Lake,
    Eager to lay its love before the maid,
        And watch the lovelight in her eyes awake.

    So the long days went slowly drifting past;
        It seemed that half my life must intervene
    Before the morrow, when I said at last -
        "One more day's journey and I win my queen!"
    I rested then, and, drifting, dreamed the more
        Of all the happiness I was to claim, -
    When suddenly from out the shadowed shore,
        I heard a voice speak tenderly my name.

    "Who calls?" I answered; no reply; and long
        I stilled my paddle blade and listened. Then
    Above the night wind's melancholy song
        I heard distinctly that strange voice again -
    A woman's voice, that through the twilight came
        Like to a soul unborn - a song unsung.

    I leaned and listened - yes, she spoke my name,
        And then I answered in the quaint French tongue,
    "Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?" No answer, and the night
        Seemed stiller for the sound, till round me fell
    The far-off echoes from the far-off height -
        "Qu'Appelle?" my voice came back, "Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?"
    This - and no more; I called aloud until
        I shuddered as the gloom of night increased,
    And, like a pallid spectre wan and chill,
        The moon arose in silence in the east.

    I dare not linger on the moment when
        My boat I beached beside her tepee door;
    I heard the wail of women and of men, -
        I saw the death-fires lighted on the shore.
    No language tells the torture or the pain,
        The bitterness that flooded all my life, -
    When I was led to look on her again,
        That queen of women pledged to be my wife.
    To look upon the beauty of her face,
        The still closed eyes, the lips that knew no breath;
    To look, to learn, - to realize my place
        Had been usurped by my one rival - Death.
    A storm of wrecking sorrow beat and broke
        About my heart, and life shut out its light
    Till through my anguish some one gently spoke,
        And said, "Twice did she call for thee last night."

    I started up - and bending o'er my dead,
        Asked when did her sweet lips in silence close.
    "She called thy name - then passed away," they said,
    "Just on the hour whereat the moon arose."

    Among the lonely Lakes I go no more,
        For she who made their beauty is not there;
    The paleface rears his tepee on the shore
        And says the vale is fairest of the fair.
    Full many years have vanished since, but still
        The voyageurs beside the campfire tell
    How, when the moonrise tips the distant hill,
        They hear strange voices through the silence swell.
    The paleface loves the haunted lakes they say,
        And journeys far to watch their beauty spread
    Before his vision; but to me the day,
        The night, the hour, the seasons are all dead.
    I listen heartsick, while the hunters tell
        Why white men named the valley The Qu'Appelle.



Emily Pauline Johnson


Emily Pauline Johnson's other poems:
  1. Where Leaps the Ste. Marie
  2. The Train Dogs
  3. The Art of Alma-Tadema
  4. Low Tide at St. Andrews
  5. The Flight of the Crows

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