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 JPIRIT OF THE NORTH 
 . , , , ^^^^ JtND OTHER POEMS 
 
 By IVJtH BCtrjOH 
 
GopigktN°_Vil5. 
 
 CfiPMRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
SPIRIT OF THE NORTH 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods ; 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; 
 There is society, where none intrudes, 
 By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
 I love not man the less, but Nature more." 
 
 — Byron. 
 
SPIRIT OF THE NORTH 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 by 
 
 Ivan Benson 
 
 Illustrations By Ethel Jonhs 
 
 PRIVATELY PUBLISHED 
 1919 
 
 MINNEAPOLIS 
 

 Copyrighted 1919, 
 
 By 
 
 IVAN BENSON 
 
 AUG ii Ibl9 
 ©C1.A530515 
 
TO THE NORTH WOODS 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 Poems of the North Woods 
 
 Spirit of the North (Illustrated) 13 
 
 Deep in Some Sheltering Cove 14 
 
 A North Woods' Pioneer (Illustrated) 16 
 
 Speak Out, Thou Northern Pine! (Illustrated) 18 
 
 The Legend of Kawishiwi (Illustrated) 20 
 
 Pilgrims of the Night 21 
 
 The Symphony of Life 22 
 
 The End of the Trail 23 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems 
 
 To the Goddess, Hope 27 
 
 Shackles of the Past 28 
 
 When Comes the Unbidden Guest? 29 
 
 These Modern Ladies 30 
 
 De Suit Von't Schrink ! 31 
 
 The Winning of Carmelita 32 
 
 I Muse on the Wandering Gipsy (Illustrated) 35 
 
SPIRIT OF THE NORTH 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
SPIRIT OF THE NORTH 
 
 Out o'er the lake the lengthening shadows creep, 
 The pine trees cease their murmur, and are still, 
 The twittering swallows nestle down to sleep, 
 The dying echoes winnow o'er the hill. 
 
 A solitary loon wings up the bay, 
 His mellow call resounds along the shore, 
 O'er lake and pine he hurries on his way 
 To find his mate, or search forevermore. 
 
 Life of the North Woods, lulled to peaceful rest, 
 The woodland fairies slumber in the glade, 
 The forest bird has found his sheltered nest. 
 Slowly and softly falls the northern shade. 
 
 Farewell, thou mystic Spirit of the North ! 
 Thou fair Enchantress of the woodland dell, 
 My heart I leave with thee, and wander forth 
 To live with memory only ! — Fare thee well ! 
 
 13 
 
DEEP IN SOME SHELTERING COVE 
 
 Sharp through the cedars and pines 
 
 blows the storm-laden wind of the North Woods, 
 Jagged and white rise the crests of the waves 
 
 in the path of the storm-wind, 
 High on the cliff from the tops of the pines 
 
 through the howl of the tempest 
 Screeches the storm-frightened hawk, loud and shrill 
 
 screams the wind through the pine trees; 
 Torrents and torrents of rain, driven down by 
 
 the wind from the Northland, 
 Lashing the waves of the lake to a mad-rushing 
 
 vastness of fury. 
 Riding my storm-tossed canoe, at the mercy 
 
 of Nature's wild forces, 
 Into a sheltering cove at the foot of the 
 
 lake cliff I hurry. 
 Safe from the sharp-driven rain and the sweep of 
 
 the far-tossing tempest. 
 Oft in the byways of life, when the storm-winds 
 
 of doubt and misgiving 
 Scatter down torrents of fear, and toss 
 
 wildly the cold waves of sorrow. 
 Far from the desolate crowd of disconsolate 
 
 fears and distractions. 
 
 14 
 
Deep in some sheltering cove I find 
 
 comfort, and joy, and forgetting, 
 
 Often in books I find comfort, and often 
 in dreams there is gladness, 
 
 But, in my sorrows, most often the 
 
 smile of a friend brings me happiness. 
 
 15 
 
A NORTH WOODS' PIONEER 
 
 You scoff at old Dick staggering down the street. 
 
 Booze-fighting bum, you call him, and you stop 
 
 To laugh and joke when he goes staggering by. 
 
 Old Dick's without a friend, now that he's broke. 
 
 They got his money, and they threw him out. 
 
 He was a good sport, 'til his stake ran short. 
 
 And now a boozing lumberjack, you say. 
 
 Not fit to mingle with the alley dogs ; 
 
 Well, friends, maybe you're right, but stop a while. 
 
 Don't push old Dick into the dirty street, 
 
 He's made of good stuff, and that rugged form 
 
 Should not be rolling in the gutter dirt, 
 
 I'll help him up, friends, now you've pushed him down. 
 
 I know old Dick, and I remember well 
 
 That heavy winter forty years ago, 
 
 When he left us at Sellwood and struck North, 
 
 Straight through the unblazed forest, up the shore 
 
 Of old Superior, a hundred miles. 
 
 With blankets, rifle, and a pack of grub. 
 
 Deep into the North Woods' pines he blazed the trail : 
 
 And others followed, here they opened up 
 
 Their lumber camps, and cut their logging roads, 
 
 The sawmill came, and in two years this town 
 
 Was big enough to finance ten saloons. 
 
 16 
 
And now old Dick, the North Woods' pioneer, 
 
 As good a man as ever swung an axe, 
 
 A rough old lumberjack, and yet, my friends, 
 
 A gentleman for every day he's lived. 
 
 Old Dick works out the winter in the camps, 
 
 And comes down in the spring to blow his stake, 
 
 In three or four short days he's broke again, 
 
 He's doped, and robbed, and thrown into the street, 
 
 And in a week he's left tovv^n for the woods 
 
 To earn the stake that brings so many pals. 
 
 Well, friends, you see Dick only when he's broke, 
 
 And whiskey-doped, and pushed and kicked around ; 
 
 I know him as the pioneer lumberjack 
 
 Who opened up this country years ago, 
 
 He's fought these Northern blizzards forty years, 
 
 Through cedar swamps, and over hills of pine, 
 
 He's spread the timber line and cut the trails 
 
 Deep through the forest depths, he's played the game. 
 
 Come Dick, old boy, you're tired, and you're cold, 
 
 I'll call you pal, and let the blizzards howl. 
 
SPEAK OUT, THOU NORTHERN PINE! 
 
 Climb up, thou great and mighty pine! 
 
 Thou king of North Woods' frigid dime, 
 
 Proclaim to God and man the song 
 
 Of all the northern spirit throng, 
 
 Of bird, and beast, and ice, and snow. 
 
 Of frozen lake and timid doe, 
 
 How regal moose protects his fame 
 
 By guarding close his haughty reign; 
 
 And how the wolf creeps from his lair 
 
 To skulk for deer, his morning fare 
 
 Comes not from worthy effort made. 
 
 But from the pillage, and the raid. 
 
 Ah, could'st thou speak, thou ancient pine ! 
 
 To tell us of the things divine, 
 
 Which Nature teaches in her forms, 
 
 The misery of selfish storms 
 
 Of greedy passion, of the strife 
 
 Of jealousy in this short life. 
 
 Beneath thy boughs, oh lofty pine! 
 
 Within the limits of thy time, 
 
 Unfolds the drama of the soul, 
 
 Love, hatred, jealousy, the whole 
 
 Of man's great problems, firmly played 
 
 F'v Nature's actors, unafraid 
 
 18 
 
Of quacking- dictates, and the rules 
 Of mock convention's petted fools. 
 
 Speak out, thou pine, and teach to me 
 The Promise of Eternity! 
 
 19 
 
THE LEGEND OF KAWISHIWI 
 
 As I stood on the cliff by the lone tamarack, 
 Overlooking Kawishiwi Falls, 
 I thought of the legend, an Indian tale 
 From the land where the timber-wolf calls. 
 
 How a young Indian buck from the Camp of the Loon, 
 Having scattered his boast far and wide. 
 Called together the Indians from Bass wood to Birch, 
 To see Blackstone's impossible ride. 
 
 In his birch-bark canoe, down Kawishiwi's fall, 
 The Great Spirit defying, he rode. 
 But the Master of Waters, with fingers of wrath, 
 Clutching firmly, drew down his new load. 
 
 How the Indians worship this King of the North. 
 This great wilderness spirit of yore, 
 How the swirl of the waters, the far-scattered spray, 
 Are the makers of legend and lore. 
 
 20 
 
PILGRIMS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 In the night time, softly stealing, 
 
 Through the pine groves in the North WoodS; 
 
 Through the cedars in the valley, 
 
 Softly sighs the gentle night wind; 
 
 From the darkness of the forest. 
 
 From the black and sombre pine trees. 
 
 Comes the hooting of the gray-owl, 
 
 Slowly, calmly, from the tree-tops, 
 
 Woo, to-woo, the owl is calling; 
 
 In the valley swoops the night-hawk, 
 
 Swiftly flying o'er the moorland, 
 
 Now the startled wood-bat flutters. 
 
 Through the jack-pine and the cedar. 
 
 In the dark and quiet North Woods, 
 
 When the forest shades have deepened, 
 
 And the pines have ceased their groaning. 
 
 Come these messengers of darkness, 
 
 Pilgrims of the night, slow flying. 
 
 Through the pines and o'er the moorlands, 
 
 Telling of the North Wind's dying, 
 
 Of the woodland creatures sleeping, 
 
 Of the quiet lakes and rivers, 
 
 And the silent forest places. 
 
 In the night time come the pilgrims, 
 
 Come the pilgrims of the darkness, 
 
 Gloomy wanderers of the pine woods, 
 
 Sombre messengers of sadness. 
 
 21 
 
THE SYMPHONY OF LIFE 
 
 What is this mighty symphony of years, 
 Which plays, unbound, with happiness and tears? 
 The days of man are checkered with the whole 
 Of life's emotions, and the tempered soul 
 Caters to whims and fancies, from the dark 
 Unfathomed depths of sorrow to the bark 
 Which rides lighthearted on a peaceful sea. 
 And feels that all in life is harmony. 
 The life of man is but a counterpart 
 Of Nature's teachings in her varied art; 
 The carping crow destroys the sparrow's nest, 
 The peaceful robin sings of hope, and rest; 
 Out of his lair the prowling brush-wolf creeps, 
 O'er dancing shrubs the carefree rabbit leaps ; 
 The raiding hawk swoops down upon his prey, 
 The timid duck flies lightly o'er the bay; 
 From crash, and cry, and roar, and shrieking call. 
 To peaceful silence when the shadows fall. 
 Thus Nature ends in gentle mood at last. 
 With final blending of a fitful past. 
 And so man's life is filled with various forms 
 Of passion, love, and hate, and troubled storms ; 
 And yet, life is an eternal symphony. 
 Which ends in faith, and love, and harmony; 
 If all the world were perfect in man's eyes. 
 What would there be to find in Paradise? 
 
 22 
 
THE END OF THE TRAIL 
 
 Ah Winton ! far-removed from time and change ! 
 
 Thou fair deserted village of the pines, 
 
 For years thy paths had led me over strange 
 
 And narrow highways, in the cold confines 
 
 Of progress, while the peace-disturbing signs 
 
 Of industry defiled the pine-clad hill. 
 
 But now, again, thy life is peaceful, vines 
 
 And windfalls gather in the grove and fill 
 
 The logging road, owls hoot in the abandoned mill. 
 
 Gone is the lumberman's unsparing axe, 
 The forest trail, moss-covered, feels no more 
 The iron heel of northern lumberjacks, 
 No steaming tugboat creeps along the shore 
 Of hidden forest lake, a wealthy store 
 Of mystery surrounds this ancient town 
 Among the guardian pines, the untold lore 
 Of ages is the North Woods' mystic crown. 
 Winton ! deserted village, rich with old renown. 
 
 23 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
TO THE GODDESS, HOPE 
 
 Hope, beloved Goddess of the Soul ! 
 Unfold the secrets of my guarded fate, 
 Swing wide the portals of that hidden gate, 
 And let me read, unfettered, from the scroll. 
 
 Thru nights of doubt, prolonged in silent strife, 
 Your sacred presence leads me safely on. 
 Until, at last, with coming of the dawn, 
 Appear, again, the Promises of Life. 
 
 Milleniums of gratitude to thee. 
 Thou beacon-sister of Eternity! 
 
 27 
 
SHACKLES OF THE PAST 
 
 What mocking voice has called on man to wear 
 
 The rust-infected shackles of the past? 
 
 What stolid fate ordains that he shall bear 
 
 The ever-increasing burden to the last? 
 
 Oh liberty, thou queen of fancy's flight ! 
 
 Shut out the time-worn paths of yesterday, 
 
 Let bygone troubles pass into the night, 
 
 Let new adventure take its chosen way. 
 
 The gods have not decreed a fettered life. 
 
 Man's burdens are too often self-imposed, 
 
 The dust of ages, tracked with lowly strife, 
 
 Rests in the desert, with no wind opposed. 
 
 I exult to lose the oft restraining fears. 
 
 To be the guest of Fortune's crowded years. 
 
 28 
 
WHEN COMES THE UNBIDDEN GUEST? 
 
 Today the sea is silent, o'er the sand 
 
 The quiet surf is rolling up the beach, 
 
 No threatening storm-cloud shades the ocean reach. 
 
 The drowsy sea gull sleeps upon the strand. 
 
 But come when raging winds sweep from the land, 
 
 Out o'er the jagged ocean, while the screech 
 
 Of far-tossed sea gulls echoes to beseech 
 
 A respite from the storm that gods command. 
 
 Today my life is filled with peaceful rest. 
 
 No doubts or longings steal my hopes away, 
 
 And yet I know not when the unbidden guest 
 
 Shall visit me, nor how long he will stay, 
 
 With fears and sorrows, lingering to infest 
 
 My life with visions of the darker day. 
 
 29 
 
THESE MODERN LADIES! 
 
 Oh ! take me back to happy days of yore ! 
 When women Hved whom knights did fain adore ; 
 These modern ladies, prone to shout their fame, 
 Live but to boast, and what in heaven's name 
 Have they to brag about? The anxious world 
 Sees womanly charm into oblivion hurled; 
 From her own choice she treads the fickle path, 
 And seeks to rouse the world to fiery wrath ; 
 These modern ladies, proudly self-adorned, 
 Shall come to grief as other fools have mourned; 
 The boasting haughtiness, self-satisfied, 
 Shall die as many a shallow wind has died. 
 And why, we pray, should woman claim renown, 
 And vainly strive to wear the regal crown? 
 She bids us look to history, and see 
 How woman's deeds approach eternity; 
 And yet, the fame of women of the past 
 Lives not through deeds alone, but it shall last 
 Because, in olden times, the woman gave 
 Her humble efforts modestly, no slave 
 To vanity, or empty fashion's rule, 
 A thing of beauty, bred in virtue's school. 
 Oh, fate, bring back one breath of olden days, 
 When women lived for virtue, not for praise ! 
 
 30 
 
DE SUIT VON'T SCHRINK! 
 
 De suit von't schrink! It's all inside silk-lined, 
 
 You couldn't find anodder of its kind 
 
 In any dry-goods store on Union Street. 
 
 Oh, my! How nice it fits you, from de feet 
 
 Up to de head, and take a look behind ! 
 
 Just like it vas for you alone designed ! 
 
 A better fit you surely couldn't find ; 
 
 And first-class, high-grade vool, it can't be beat. 
 
 De suit von't schrink! 
 Oh absolute! A man who's even blind 
 Could tell it von't a little vetness mind, 
 But since it looks like rain, and I'm no cheat, 
 I'll find two sizes larger. Have a seat! 
 To please my patrons, det's how I'm inclined. 
 
 De suit von't schrink! 
 
 31 
 
THE WINNING OF CARMELITA: 
 A Ballad of the South Sea Isles. 
 
 O'Brien was pacing the white-pebbled beach, 
 'Way down on a South Sea Isle, 
 His brow was full-covered with ponderous thought, 
 But his lips held the bud of a smile. 
 
 "These cannibal heathens can bicker their fill, 
 
 Their big chief, Hagrado, can laugh. 
 
 When I show them who's strong with the chief's dancing girl, 
 
 I'll be drinkin' my share of the quaff." 
 
 Then out on the sand strode the cannibal chief, 
 With two dozen blacks at his side, 
 "Bring forth Carmelita, and on with the dance, 
 She's the rosiest flower of the tribe!" 
 
 Out whirled Carmelita, the chief's black face beamed, 
 The maiden was clever, and fair. 
 She kicked up the sand with her pretty brown toes, 
 And tossed forth her raven-hued hair. 
 
 O'Brien came forward, he bowed to the chief, 
 "Hagrado, my master and lord, 
 What deed can I do that will help me to win 
 Carmelita, my love, my adored?" 
 
 32 
 
"You love her, O'Brien, I know that full well, 
 And she favors you too, I can see, 
 You must prove to Hagrado your worth to the tribe, 
 If the one lucky man you would be." 
 
 '' Tis now seven years since your quick Irish wit 
 
 Kept you out of the kettle, alone, 
 
 While your friends filled the stew pans of all our great tribe, 
 
 And none of them ever reached home." 
 
 ''And now that you crave Carmelita for wife, 
 There is one way of winning the girl : 
 Sail out on the main, to the rival chief's isle, 
 In quest of the Cartoline Pearl!" 
 
 The salt sea was stormy, a sharp tempest raved, 
 When O'Brien set sail on the main ; 
 Three-score swarthy black-men he had for a crew, 
 He cursed their black skins without shame. 
 
 Three long weeks have passed, Carmelita, alone, 
 Looks hopefully out from the sand. 
 And sees the white sail of O'Brien's lone ship 
 Swelling out, toward Hagrado's land. 
 
 33 
 
O'Brien leaps out from the billowing surf, 
 
 Bows low on the sand to his chief, 
 
 "We've killed oft* your rival, we've shattered the tribe, 
 
 I place the great Pearl at your feet !" 
 
 "Come forth, Carmelita, the hero, returned, 
 
 Brings tidings of valorous strife; 
 
 You've won her, O'Brien, may the fair South Sea Isles 
 
 Bless you both with generous life." 
 
 34 
 
MUSE ON THE WANDERING GIPSY 
 
 Life is too filled with care and things that seem, 
 
 Our narrow selves pace down the accustomed path, 
 
 What others did before, we do today, 
 
 Year after year we follow on with hope 
 
 Becoming weaker, and the day appears 
 
 When even dreams shall cease, the imprisoned soul 
 
 Shall serve convention and the lesser creed. 
 
 I muse on the wandering gipsy and his free 
 
 Unfettered life, he follows nothing but 
 
 Here, perhaps, at turning of the road, 
 
 A bunch of flowers, the gipsy patteran, 
 
 Left there by friends to tell him where they go. 
 
 I think of the roving Arab, and I dream 
 
 Of leaving care behind me, to go forth 
 
 Like the unbound Arab, when he folds his tent 
 
 And silently steals away into the night. 
 
 So would I live, away from custom's bounds, 
 
 The right of wandering freedom as my creed, 
 
 With one guide, only, over life's free path, 
 
 A single bunch of flowers, emblem of hope, 
 
 God's patteran to guide me on my way. 
 
 35 
 

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