Morning, lighting all the prairies,
Once of old came, bright as now,
To the twin cliffs, sloping wooded
From the vast plain's even brow:
When the sunken valley's levels
With the winding willowed stream,
Cried, "Depart, night's mists and shadows;
Open-flowered, we love to dream!"
Then in his canoe a stranger
Passing onward heard a cry;
Thought it called his name and answered,
But the voice would not reply;
Waited listening, while the glory
Rose to search each steep ravine,
Till the shadowed terraced ridges
Like the level vale were green.
Strange as when on Space the voices
Of the stars' hosannahs fell,
To this wilderness of beauty
Seemed his call "Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?"
For a day he tarried, hearkening,
Wondering, as he went his way,
Whose the voice that gladly called him
With the merry tones of day?
Was it God, who gave dumb Nature
Voice and words to shout to one
Who, a pioneer, came, sunlike,
Down the pathways of the sun?
Harbinger of thronging thousands,
Bringing plain, and vale, and wood,
Things the best and last created,
Human hearts and brotherhood!
Long the doubt and eager question
Yet that valley's name shall tell,
For its farmers' laughing children
Gravely call it "The Qu'Appelle!"