Page:The Gold-Gated West.djvu/110

When the squirrel retires to his wicket,
And the blue-bird renounces his call,
And the panther is crouched by the boulder
In the gloom of the canyon anear,
As the brown bear looks over his shoulder,
And the buck blows a signal of fear;
But there's never a pause in your duty,
For the echoing axe is not still
As you waste the green temples of beauty
For the puncheons and rafter and sill
That are wrought in the cabin so lowly
That the trees may clasp hands overhead,
But the heart calls it home, and the holy
Love-light on its hearthstone is shed.

It is staunch and rough-hewn, and the ceiling
Of the fragrant red cedar is made,
With an edging of silver revealing
A picture of sunlight and shade.
And the Word has its place, not a trifle,
Obscured in a pageant of books;
And above the broad mantle your rifle
Is hung on accessible hooks.
O, the freshness of Hope and of Fancy
That illumine the home and the heart
With the grace of a bright necromancy
That excels the adorning of art!
And you rise and look forth, and the glory
Of Hood is before you again,
And the sun weaves a gold-threaded story
In the purple of mountain and glen.