The Coming of the Princess and Other Poems by MacLean, Kate Seymour

II.

And the wild, white horses with flying manes Wind-tost, the riderless steeds of the sea. Neigh to her, call to her, dreadless and free, "Fear not to follow us; these thy domains; Welcome, welcome, our Lady and Queen! O Princess, oh daughter of kingliest sire! Under its frost girdle throbbing and keen, A new realm awaits thee, loyal and true!" And the round-cheeked Tritons, with fillets of blue Binding their sea-green and scintillant hair, Blow thee a welcome; their brawny arms bear Thy keel through the waves like a bird through the air.

II.

Shoreward the shoal of mighty shoulders lean Through the long swell of waves, Reaching beyond the sunset and the hollow caves, And the ice-girdled peaks that hold serene Each its own star, far out at sea to mark Thy westward way, O Princess, through the dark. The rose-red sunset dies into the dusk, The silver dusk of the long twilight hour, And opal lights come out, and fiery gleams Of flame-red beacons, like the ash-gray husk Torn from some tropic blossom bursting into flower, Making the sea bloom red with ruddy beams.

IV

Still nearer and nearer it comes, the swift sharp prow Of the ship above and the shadow ship below, With the mighty arms of the Titans under, All bowed one way like a field of wind-blown ears, Still nearer and nearer, and now touches the strand, and, lo, With the length of her bright hair backward flowing Round her head like an aureole, Like a candle flame in the wind's breath blowing, Stands she fair and still as a disembodied soul, With hands outstretched, and eyes that shine through tears And tremulous smiles When the trumpets, and the guns, and the great drums roll, And the long fiords and the forelands shake with the thunder Of the shout of welcome to the daughter of the Isles.

V

Bring her, O people, on the shoulders of her vassals Throned like a queen to her palace on the height, Up the rocky steeps where the fir tree tassels Nod to her, and touch her with a subtle, vague delight, Like a whisper of home, like a greeting and a smile From the fir-tree walks and gardens, the wood-embowered castles In the north among the clansmen of Argyle. Now the sullen plunge of waves for many a mile Along the roaring Ottawa is heard, And the cry of some wood bird, Wild and sudden and sweet, Scared from its perch by the rush and trample of feet, And the red glare of the torches in the night. And now the long facade gay with many a twinkling light Reaches hands of welcome, and the bells peal, and the guns, And the hoarse blare of the trumpets, and the throbbing of the drums Fill the air like shaken music, and the very waves rejoice In the gladness, and the greeting, and the triumph of their voice.

VI.