A YUKON POET.

Dominion, Volume 1, Issue 86, 4 January 1908, Page 13

A YUKON POET.

"Sapling s influence," which ignorant Englishmen,. and somfe. ignorant Australasians, for that' matter, allege to bo tho motive power; of much of the presentrday versoof ■ Australian and Now Zealand writers,; and even of' the verse of somo- poets who .died before, Kipling \Vas over heard of, appears .to be having its effect ir. Canada. Just now a ,young Canadian vorse-writerj ■ Robert W. Servico, -is' having : quite a . vogue on'.the strength of his Kiplingcsqup treatment ol Canadian - . verse-themes. Although ho- is only' somo 23 years old, he has already two books.pf verse to his credit. -

'The, "NeW York Evening Post" quotes and discusses his first . book, "Tho Spell of the Yukon," to tho oxtont of a couple W columns,-,; froraiivhica-iWe ihtako the' following extracts:—. •■•!! .!/' ' ■

' In the solemn/ desolate places, brooding ever fragrant camp fires as tho sinking sun flamfes in the pines, tho "younger sou" of the English nobility-lets "his 1 thoughts stray to Londdn and to Paris,-to'his brother of tho cloth...to another brother, "a diplomatic Bwell"—there's a world of material there; Tho "Remittance Man"—this carries meaning, carries a world of pathos to Englishmen, ifnbt to Americans,, and taken even as a torm, pure and simple, it Will not dio. -

So send mo far from Lombard Street, aiid write me down a failure; '

Put a little in my. purse and leave me free. Bay:'"He turned from Fortune's offering to - follow lip a pale lure, ' lie is one of us no longer—lot him bo," lam one of you;no.longer: .by llio trails my feet have broken, Tho dizzy peaks I've scaled, the camp-lire's Blow, By tho lonely seas I've sailed in—yea, the filial word is spoken, I am signed and sealed to nature. Be it so.

'l'ho'Alaskan region has already a fair representation in con temporary" fiction. The list.of novels dealing with tho life up there i 3 long ; and constantly growing, and if a perusal of them be calculated to give one a fairly accurate idea of what the country and those who grub; there. tiro like, then tho assumption that it was a land for anything but poetry is well warranted. Nevertheless, Mr. Servico has got poetry out of it. It is;stem, and hard, and.stark; and cynical poetry. 110 milk for babes, and not all of it would bear rearling aloud in mixed company—but- it is all tho Yukon, and what is t6ld is worth the telling, if onlv for that fact alone.

In amusement halls lie tells us of "gramophones all ablarc." Men in hard luck "crook their toe on tho trigger," and thus end it all. Gold is innclc—the most detestable, substiirico' in the world, and not worth tho lives that aro wasted to get it. A minors' bag of ,gbld dust ia his "poke," whisky is "hooch," and the land itself is tho land that "God forgot."

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn Down valleys dreadly desolate; The deadly mountains soar in scorn As still as death, as stern a3 fate.

The lonely sunsets flame and die; .The giant valleys gulp the night; Tho monster mountains scrape the sky Wliero eager stars aro diamond bright.

0, Outcast ]a»<ll 0, leper land! Let tho lone wolf cry express The hate insensate of thy hand, Tliy heart's abysmal loneliness.

Yet there is a spoil , there that grips, and the thoughtful man after a whilo cornea to rcaliso that tbo "gold is not all." You come to get rich (damned good reason), You foci like an exile at first; Yoii halo it liko hell for a season. And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of Binning; . It twists f vou from foe to a friend; It seems its. been since the beginning; It Seems it will be to the end.

I've stood in somo mighty-mouthed hollow That's ijlumb-full of hush to the brim; I've watchcd the big, husky sun wallow In crimson and [fold, and grow dim, Till the moon set the pearly p?aks gleaming, And the Btars tumbled out, neck and trap; And I've thought that I sorely was dreaming, With the peaco o' tho world piled on top.

Tho summer—llo sweeter was ever; ' Tho sunshiny woods nil athrill; The grayling aleap in the river, ' Tho, bighorn asleep on the hill. Tho strong life that never knowG harness; The wilds whero the caribou call; Tho .freshness, the freedom, the farness— 0 God! how I'm stuck on it ell.

Tho winter! the brightness that blinds you, The' white land locked tight as a drum, The cold fear I hat follows and finds you, Tho silence that bludgeons you dumb. Tlio snows aro older than history, • The woods where the weird shadows-slant; Tho stillness, the moonlight, tho mystery, I'vo bade 'cm good-bye—but Lcnn't. Ofton there is an alluring swing to somo of the ballads, which carries ono on in sheer rhythmic enjoyment.

Now Pam M'Gee was from Tennessee, whero tho cotton blooms and blows. .Why lie loft his homo in the South to roam round the Pole God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him liko a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in helL"

Tho "younger brother" sings again:— There's a. four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin; , And it ieamcd the velvet valley till to-day; Bnt I tracked it by tho river, and I trailed it in the cover, : And' I killed it on tho mountains miles away. Now I'vo had my lazy supper, and tho levol . sun is gleaming On the water wliore tho silver salmon play; And.l light my littlo corn-cob, and I lingor, softly dreaming, In the twilight, of a land that's far away. Far away, So faint and far, is flaming London, fovorcd Paris,' ' / •That I fanoy-1 have' gained another star; J?af away the din and hurry; far away the sin ' and worry, Far away—God ltnows they cannot bo too far. If you leave, the gloom of London and you' seek a glowing land, , Whore all. except .the. flag is strange and now,. There's a bronzed' and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand. And greet you with a welcoino warm and true; For he's your younger brother, tho one you

sent away,' ' . ' ' , Because there wasn't room for him at homo; And now bo's finite contented, and he's glad , he didn't' stay, ' Aiid he's building Britain's greatness o'er .tho foam. '• ■ ■

Thero aro ''The Pines," of course:— We sleep ih the.sliicp of ages, tho bleak, bar-

barian piues The gray moss.drapi-s Us like sages, and closer ' we lock our lines, ! ' And deeper we clutch through a gelid gloom where never a sunbeam shines. On the' Banks of the storm gored ridges are our black battalions massed; Wo.urgo in a host to tho sullen coast, and we sing in the oce/m blast. . .From.tlie smpiro of sea to the ompiro of snow 'we grip , our empire fast. To the niggard lands- woro we driven, 'twiit ' desert -ana floa are we penned; . To us was the Northland given, ours, t) stronghold and defend, , _ . Ours till the earth, be riven in the crash of the utter end. • . Here is his "Envoi", You who have lived in the land, . 1 You who have trusted the trail. You who aro'strong to withstand,/ ~ You whoara swift to..assail; •' Songs have I sung to beguile Vintage of desperate vears, Hard as a harlot's smile, Bitter as unshed tears.' . ' . Little of joy or mirth, . • , Little, of. ease I sing. , Sagas of ineii of i earth , Humanly suffering. ... .', Such as you all have done; - Savagely - faring forth; ~ Sous of the midnight sun, 1 . ' Argonauts of . the North. Far 'in .the land God forgot . •• Glimmers the lure ,of your trail; "> Still in your lust aro you taught Even to win is to fail. . • . Still yon must' follow and fight Under.the Vampire wing; There, in -the long, long night, Hoping'and vanquishing.