The Roman thought the souls that erred Would linger in some nether gloom, But somewhere, sometime, would be spared To find some peace beyond the tomb. In those dark halls, enshadowed, vast, They flitted ever, sad and thin, Mourning the unforgotten past Until they shed the taint of sin. And Pluto brooded over all Within that land of night and fear, Enthroned in some dark Judgment Hall, A god himself, reserved, austere. How thin and colourless and tame! Compare our nobler scheme with it, The howling souls, the leaping flame, And all the tortures of the pit! Foolish half-hearted Roman hell! To us is left the higher thought Of that eternal torture cell Whereto the sinner shall be brought. Out with the thought that God could share Our weak relenting pity sense, Or ever condescend to spare The wretch who gave Him just offence! 'Tis just ten thousand years ago Since the vile sinner left his clay, And yet no pity can he know, For as he lies in hell to-day So when ten thousand years have run Still shall he lie in endless night. O God of Love! O Holy One! Have we not read Thy ways aright? The godly man in heaven shall dwell, And live in joy before the throne, Though somewhere down in nether hell His wife or children writhe and groan. From his bright Empyrean height He sees the reek from that abyss-- What Pagan ever dreamed a sight So holy and sublime as this! Poor foolish folk! Had they begun To weigh the myths that they professed, One hour of reason and each one Would surely stand a fraud confessed. Pretending to believe each deed Of Theseus or of Hercules, With fairy tales of Ganymede, And gods of rocks and gods of trees! No, no, had they our purer light They would have learned some saner tale Of Balaam's ass, or Samson's might, Or prophet Jonah and his whale, Of talking serpents and their ways, Through which our foolish parents strayed, And how there passed three nights and days Before the sun or moon was made! · · · · O Bigotry, you crowning sin! All evil that a man can do Has earthly bounds, nor can begin To match the mischief done by you-- You, who would force the source of love To play your small sectarian part, And mould the mercy from above To fit your own contracted heart. THE ATHABASCA TRAIL My life is gliding downwards; it speeds swifter to the day When it shoots the last dark cañon to the Plains of Far-away, But while its stream is running through the years that are to be, The mighty voice of Canada will ever call to me. I shall hear the roar of rivers where the rapids foam and tear, I shall smell the virgin upland with its balsam-laden air, And shall dream that I am riding down the winding woody vale With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.