Be sure you take good care of poor old Rover when I'm dead,

And maybe he will cheer your lonesome hours up a bit,

And when he takes to you just see that you're deserving it."

Well, Squire, it wasn't any use. I tried, but couldn't get

The friendship of that collie, for I needed it, you bet.

I might as well have tried to get the moon to help me through,

For Rover's heart had gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.

He never seemed to take to me nor follow me about,

For all I coaxed and petted, for my heart was starving out

For want of some companionship, – I thought, if only he

Would lick my hand or come and put his head aside my knee,

Perhaps his touch would scatter something of the gloom away.

But all alone I had to live until there came a day

When, tired of the battle, as you'd have tired too,

I wished to heaven I'd gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.

II

One morning I took out Ben's gun, and thought I'd hunt all day,

And started through the clearing for the bush that forward lay,

When something made me look around – I scarce believed my mind -

But, sure enough, the dog was following right close behind.

A feeling first of joy, and than a sharper, greater one

Of anger came, at knowing 'twas not me, but Ben's old gun,

That Rove was after, – well, sir, I just don't mind telling you,

But I forgot that moment Ben was up beyond the blue.

Perhaps it was but jealousy – perhaps it was despair,

But I just struck him with the gun and broke the bone right there;

And then – my very throat seemed choked, for he began to whine

With pain – God knows how tenderly I took that dog of mine

Up in my arms, and tore my old red necktie into bands

To bind the broken leg, while there he lay and licked my hands;

And though I cursed my soul, it was the brightest day I knew,

Or even cared to live, since Ben went up beyond the blue.

I tell you, Squire, I nursed him just as gently as could be,

And now I'm all the world to him, and he's the world to me.

Look, sir, at that big, noble soul, right in his faithful eyes,

The square, forgiving honesty that deep down in them lies.

Eh, Squire? What's that you say? He's got no soul? I tell you, then,

He's grander and he's better than the mass of what's called men;

And I guess he stands a better chance than many of us do

Of seeing Ben some day again, 'way up beyond the blue.

Брандон

(Акростих)

Был на груди канадской прерии, улыбчивой под солнцем,

Рожден от материнской почвы, в дорогих полях пшеницы,

А ныне бойких всех, когда мечта стучит в ворота за оконцем,

На плодородной ждут земле, чтоб с тучных акров поживиться,

Дана мечта голодным миллионам на рассвете сытном века,

О человеческой нужде из древних книг узнают дети человека,

Народам даст зерно из кладовых, и это божья за труды опека.

Brandon

(ACROSTIC)

Born on the breast of the prairie, she smiles to her sire – the sun,

Robed in the wealth of her wheat-lands, gift of her mothering soil,

Affluence knocks at her gateways, opulence waits to be won.

Nuggets of gold are her acres, yielding and yellow with spoil,

Dream of the hungry millions, dawn of the food-filled age,

Over the starving tale of want her fingers have turned the page;

Nations will nurse at her storehouse, and God gives her grain for wage.

Шиповник в Страстную Пятницу

Поскольку, дорогой Христос, израненные руки

Твои шиповник отклоняют в жизненном пути,

То нет обиды в сердце, нет душевной муки,

Шипов не чувствуя почти, могу тропой пройти.

Не знала, что, порой, тебя томят заботы эти,

И руки устают вести нас верным курсом,

Ты впереди идешь и сокрушаешь злые ветви,

Чтоб я могла ходить легко и жить со вкусом.

Эгоистичные мои ты часто слышишь просьбы,

Сегодня я молю лишь об одном тебя -

Шипов в венец не добавляли эти руки чтобы,

Терн на челе кровавый теребя.

Brier – Good Friday

Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm

Bends back the brier that edges life's long way,

That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,

I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.

Because I never knew your care to tire,

Your hand to weary guiding me aright,

Because you walk before and crush the brier,

It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.

Because so often you have hearkened to

My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now,

That these harsh hands of mine add not unto

The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.

Равнина Калгари

Человеческих ульев здесь нет – горожане капризней,

Нет и вони на улицах, мелких отравленных жизней,

Не поминки вчерашнего дня, а грядущего времени сила,

Робкий Запад она в знаменитый поход пригласила.

По равнинам сияние севера скачет в серебряном танце,

Золотит ее прерии солнце, чтоб вместе с рассветом остаться,

Ветры резкие с юга в долинах порывисто делят просторы,

И сквозь окна на западе видно, как дремлют великие горы.

Красный здесь вездесущ, Бледнолицый по улицам ходит,

Лишь индейские тайные тропы по следу торговец находит,

И охотники смутно расскажут в забытых легендах старинных

Об огромных бизоньих стадах на полуночных этих равнинах.

Но предания древних земель с их венками лавровыми, славой,

Не о ней, только разве они здесь не кажутся просто забавой?

Ведь ничто не сравнится с ее драгоценным кристаллом чела -

Этим небом сапфировым, где над землей благодать расцвела.

Calgary of the Plains

Not of the seething cities with their swarming human hives,

Their fetid airs, their reeking streets, their dwarfed and poisoned lives,

Not of the buried yesterdays, but of the days to be,

The glory and the gateway of the yellow West is she.

The Northern Lights dance down her plains with soft and silvery feet,

The sunrise gilds her prairies when the dawn and daylight meet;

Along her level lands the fitful southern breezes sweep,

And beyond her western windows the sublime old mountains sleep.

The Redman haunts her portals, and the Paleface treads her streets,

The Indian's stealthy footstep with the course of commerce meets,

And hunters whisper vaguely of the half forgotten tales

Of phantom herds of bison lurking on her midnight trails.

Not hers the lore of olden lands, their laurels and their bays;

But what are these, compared to one of all her perfect days?

For naught can buy the jewel that upon her forehead lies -

The cloudless sapphire Heaven of her territorial skies.

Канада

(Акростих)

Квебек умудренный и юный Ванкувер сияют, как герб и венец,