SELECTIONS

FROM

CANADIAN POETS;

WITH OCCASIONAL

CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES,

AND AN

liitwkdorj issaj oir Caitabiait "gatiq.

EDWARD HARTLEY DEWART.

PRINTED BY JOHN LOVELL, ST. NICHOLAS STREET.

1864.

yekj/^-^r, t H

Entered according to the Act of the Provincial Parliament, in the year one thou-
-sand eight hundred and sixty-four, by the Reverend Edward Habtlkv
Dewaut, in the Office of the Registrar of the Province of Canada.

CONTENTS.

PAQE.

Preface. 7

1mtkodu'"tory Essay 9

3nmi\ Mil %dUti\m.

28
24
27
28
80

Dawn Troctkr ,

The Stara 8 a nosteb

God McLachi AN ,

Short Days Abcheu

Tho Dying Warrior Miss Johnson

Seeking Miss Walkkb

What do wo Live for? Miss Haight 31

To the Sea J. McCarroll 83

I am not Sad John Keadb 34

Old Hannah McLaciilan 36

Death of Captain Vicars H. A. Wilkins 37

Under tho Snow Miss Vininq 41

Spring riioCTOR 44

The Good Man's Grave F. Wright 46

The Arctic Indian's Faith McGee 47

Song of Mary Magdalene McLachlan 48

Voices of the Deatii-Chambor Mrs. J. L. Lbprohon. . 49

Emigrant's Funeral McGeorge

My Soul is Heavy John Reade

I come to the Well W. W. Smith

61
62
63

Go Dream no More Mies Vining

I shall Depart Miss Johnson

Ever with Thee Miss Walker . . . ,

Death of the Taupcr Child Mrs. Leprohon. . .

Dreams of the Dead Procter

Song of Confidence H. A. Wilkinb. . .,

Infinite McLachlan

Unutterable Thoughts John Readk

The Coming Year J. F. McDonnell ,

Tho Second Advent .Miss Walker . . . ,

Voices of tho Past E. H. Dewart

At Evening Time it shall be Light Miss Uaight

The fine Old Woods Sangster

Our Native Land Miss Johnson .

Jacques Cartier McGke

The Dying Summer Miss Walker ,

A Canadian Summer's Night Chapman ,

Tiger Square GfiORaB, Mabtin .

64
66
56
68
60
63
66
67
69
71
72
76

78
80
88
84
86
90

!▼

CONTENTS.

FAOB.

Tho Chaudi6re Falls Evan McColl 91

Britennia McLaohlam 92

Brook Sanqstkr 93

In Memoriam of October 25, 1854 John Ukaob 95

The Highland Kmigraiit'8 last FarowoU .....Evan McUoll 97

HoiTve-sick Stanzas MoGek 98

Our own Broad Lake Thomas McQueen 99

Canada Miss Vinino 101

Song for Canada Sanoster 106

The Forest Chapman 108

Tho Kapid Sanostkr 110

Fall AscHKR Ill

Tho Maplo Rev. H. F. Darnell... 112

Canada's Welcome Miaa Johnson 114

Indian Summer Mrs. Moodik 116

The Lake of the Thousand Isles Evan MoColl 118

The Thousand Islands. . , Sanostkr 119

Approach to Quebec Ki ruy 120

Tho Plains of Abraham Sanoster 122

Alma Miss Walker 124

The Two-fold Victory Sanuster 126

The Soldier of Auvergno 11. A. Wilkins 126

Thunderstorm in August Kirby 128

Frost on tlie Window-pane Mrs. Faulkner 130

Snow Miss IIaicjht 132 •

Sunset Scene Miss Vininq 134

Autumn Ja.mes McCarroll 135

In the Woods Uev. John May 136

Tho Falls of Niagara E. H. Dewart 137

Sunset J. F. McDonnell 140

May McLachlan 141

November J. U. IIamsay 143

The Fisherman's Light Mrs. Moodib 145

To an Owl JohnMassie 146

Whip-poor-Will McLachlan 148

Haunts of a Demon • Charles Hea VTSsaB. . 148

Evening Scene on the Banks of the Detroit Kiver Sangster 150

The Watcher Miss Johnson 158

The Slcigh-Bell J. F. McDonnell 155

Oh can you Leave your Native Land Mrs. Moodie 158

Sonnet— Winter Night IIeavyseqk 157

Winter in Canada Mrs. Leprohon 158

Lake Erie W.W.Smith 160

St George's Flag Mrs. Faulknkb 161

Ontario J. G. Hodoinb 162

I've Wandered ia the Sunny South J. F. MoDohnbll 164

CONTENTS. ▼

FAoa

The Emblems of our Homes R. 8. Patterson 166

How they Died at Thansi Misa Murray 167

Evening Miss Johnson 170

The Canadian Herd- Boy Mrs. Moodik 172

The Old Sugar Camp Miss Johnson 178

The Voyagcur's Song J. F. McDonnell 174

Address to the llivor Garnoclc Thomas McQueen 176

pi^rdlBJjtoiiiS gteiS.

Heroes McLachlan 180

The Night Cometh Miss Walker 182

Colin Sang&ter 188

Unselfish Love Rev. J. A. Allen 186

A Voice for the Times Miss Haioht 186

The Student Chapman 188

The Apple Woman Georoe Martin 190

Memory iJells Miss Vininq 193

Oh for an Hour of Childhood S. P. Ford 1P5

Wliere'nr we may Wander McLachlan 197

Good Night Miss Johnson 199

Dreams Mrs. Faulkner 200

Weaving Ascher 208

Bind the Rose W. W. Smith 204

Toujours Fiddle R. Sweeny 206

Passage of the Bercsina John Breakenridoe. . 207

After Defeat Charles Hea vysege. . 209

Little Flora Harriett A. Wilkins. 210

A Fragment J. R. Ramsay 2l2

Ideal Land D. J. Wallace 213

Our Little Boy E. H. Dewart 215

" Omemee"— The Dove R. S.Paterson 217

Given and Taken Mrs. Leprohon 220

Conscious Madness Heavyseqe 222

Siscra John Reade 224

Twilight J. F. McDonnell 226

Weary J. H. Kino 226

The Shipwreck S. P. Ford 228

Rosa John Reade.. 230

Lay her down Silently Rev. H. F. Darnell. . . 231

The Light in the Window Pane Sanoster 232

Invocation W. F. Hawley 234

Glimpses of Highland Superstitions D. McIntosh 235

The Grey Linnet J. McCarroll 237

Words John Reade 238

CONTENTS.

PAOB

Why do you Envy Mo? W. W. Smith 289

To my Son W. W. Smith 240

Miiiniobol Mish Vininu 241

Impromptu on a Beautiful Butterfly T. McCauuoli^ 242

Dawn ^...j. McCauroll 243

Tanpookaa Sanohtku 248

Garibaldi McLachlan 247

Drink AscirKU 248

Tlio I'rodij^al'H Soliloquy S. P. FoiiD 260

Childhood TnocTKn 252

The Little Shoos Sancjstkr 264

The Child of l'romino Evan MctioLL 266

The Song of a (ilorified Spirit Gkoikjk Mautix 266

A Northern Uunc Charles Sanoster 268

Summer Evening Augusta Baldwin 259

Call mo by my Christian Name W. 1*. Lett 260

Oh the Days when 1 was Young J. \V. D. Moodib 262

Sing me the Songs I Love John Reade 266

My Cousin D. J. Wallace 266

Angels of the Blind J. McCaruoll 268

Little Willie S. P. Ford 269

Farewell Mrs. Faulksner 270

Hope in Sorrow Uev. T. Cleworth 271

The Beech-Nut Gatherer I'amelia S. Vimno 272

The Life-Forge Jennie E. IIaioht 274

Sea-Shoro Musings Mrs. Leprohon 276

The Englishman's Farewell John Scoble 277

The Night- Wind John F. M'Donnell. . . 279

Tne Pearl James M'Carroll 280

The Earth's Complaint Pamelia S. Vinino. ... 281

To my Sister Samuel Payne Fcrd. . 285

Saul struggling with Malzah C. Heavyseue 287

Across the Uiver Mus. II aney 287

Despondency Charles Sanoster. ... 289

The Falling Snow Isidore G. Ascher... . 290

The Bed Man— Sc unet Sanuster 291

On the Kiver E. H. Dewart 292

To a Dandelion Miss Johnson 294

Lullaby Miss Baldwin 298

Sing on, sad Bird James McIntosh 296

Twilight and its Companions D. J. Wallace 297

Old Friends George JIartin 299

Last Words of Saul Charles Heavyskgb. . 800

Broken Reeds Mrs. Faulkner 301

To my Lyre R- Sweeny 303

Best Miss Haight 808

PREFACE.

My object in compiling this volume has been to rescue from
oblivion some of the floating pieces of Canadian authorship
worthy of preservation in a more permanent form ; and to
direct the attention of my fellow-countrymen to the claims of
Canadian poetry. The fact that I entered on an untrodden
path, without any way-marks to guide me, necessarily caused
me a vast amount of labor, and an extensive correspondence ;
as, in many instances, both poets and poetry had to be dis-
covered by special research. This will, I hope, be duly con-
sidered by readers in judging of the work, should it be found
less perfect than they had anticipated.

As I do not wish to be judged by a wrong standard, I
must remind my readers that this is not '• a work on the
Poets and Poetry of Canada." Such a work may be highly
desirable and necessary ; and there is valuable material, in
the poetic eflfusions of the past fifty years, with which to
enrich such a work. But this collection makez nr» pretension
to such a character : it is simply " Selections from Cana-
dian Poets." With the hope of enhancing the interest and
usefulness of the work, I have subjoined occasional brief
notes ; but the plan and scope of the work precluded any
lengthy biographical sketches. It is easy for persons who

Till

PREFACE.

have neither literary nor financial responsibility, to suggest
changes in the plan of such a work. But the same persons
might, in a different position, fail to act on their own sugges-
tions. To those who may feel disappointed, because selec-
tions are not made from their poetry, I have no apology to
oflfer. An immense quantity of verso, much of it of high
merit, has passed under my notice. Financial reasons com-
pelled me to limit the size of the volume. I could not put in
everything that I approved of. I have made a selection,
according to the best of my judgment, without partiality, or
sectional feeling of any kind. If any are dissatisfied with
me, I am sorry ; but, conscious of the integrity of my mo-
tives, I have nothing to regret. Nearly all the pieces in this
volume are published by special permission of the authors;
and many of them have never been published befoie.

My warmest thanks are due to the authors for the courtesy
and hberality with which, without exception, they placed
their poems at my disposal ; and to editors of newspapers
througliC/ut the country for their friendly notice of my project.
They are also due to the subscribers — many of whom I
recognize as personal friends — for . their confidence and
patronage, by which I have been encouraged to place the
work before the public. Should it secure their approbation,
and be instrumental in awakening a more extensive interest
in the Poets and Poetry of our beloved country, my humble
labors will be amply rewarded.

St. Johns, Canada East, Jan., 1864.

INTRODUCTORY ESSAY.

Only the illiterate and unreflecting adopt the sentiment, that,
becauise more books have been already protluced than can possibly
be road in the compass of the longest life, to increase the number of
books or the quantity of literature, is undesirable and unnecessary.
The literature of the world is the foot-prints of human progress ; and
unless all progress should cease, and mental paralysis arrest all
human activity, these way-marks shall continue to be erected along
the pathway of the vanishing years. Whatever is discovered as new
in the records of creation, in the capacities and relations of things, in
the history of the mind's operations, or in the forms of thought and
imagery by which in its higher moods soul speaks to soul, will
always demand some suitable embodiment in literature.

Equally shallow and reprehensible is the idea, very widely enter-
tained, that, because we can procure euflicient quantities of mental
aliment from other lands, it is superfluous to make any attempt to
build up a literature of our own. A national literature is an essential
element in the formation of national character. It is not merely the
record of a country's mental progress : it is the expression of its
intellectual life, the bond of national unity, and the guide of national
energy. It may be fairly questioned, whether the whole range of
history presents the spectacle of a people firmly united politically,
without the subtle but powerful cement of a patriotic literature. On
the other hand, it is easy to show, that, in the older countries of the
world, the names of distinguished poets, enshrined in the national
heart, are the watchwords of national union ; and it has become a
part of the patriotism of the people to honor and' love their memory.
To mention the names of Shakspere and Burns, alone justifies this

X INTRODUCTORY ESSAY.

assertion. It is to be regretted that the tendency to sectionahsm and
disintegration, which is the poHtical weakness of Canada, meets no
counterpoise in the literature of the country. Our French fellow-
countrymen are much more firmly united than the English colonists ;
though their literature is more French than Canadian, and their bond
of union is more religious than literary or political. Beside.^, if the
conditions of human existence and progress are changed, by the lapse
of time, the advances of physical and mental science, ditlerence of
social and political institutions, and geographical situation, it would be
absurd to suppose that such changes demanded no corresponding
modifications in the teachings of literature.

There is probably no country in the world, making equal preten-
sions to intelligence and progress, where the claims of native litera-
ture are so little felt, and where every effort in poetry has been met
with so much coldness and indifference, as in Canada. And what is
more to be deprecated than neglect of our most meritorious authors,
is the almost universal absence of interest and faith in all indigenous
literary productions, and the undisturbed satisfaction with a state of
things, that, rightly viewed, should be regarded as a national reproach.
The common method of accounting for this by the fact tliat almost
the whole community is engaged in the pursuit of the necessaries and
comforts of life, and that comparatively few possess wealth and
leisure, to enable them to give much time or thought to the study of
poetry and kindred subjects, is by no means satisfactory. This state
of things is doubtless unfavorable to the growth of poetry ; but there
are other causes less palpable, which exert a more subtle and power-
ful antagoniym.

Nothing so seriously militates against the growth and extension
of our poetic literature, as the low and false conceptions whicli exten-
sively prevail respecting the nature and influence of poetry itself.
Many regard it as a tissue of misleading fancies, appealing chiefly to
superstitious credulity, a silly and trifling thing, the product of the
imagination when loosed from the control and direction of reason.
These misconceptions may have arisen from a natural incapacity for
appreciating the truths which find their highest embodiment in poetry,

INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XI

from familiarity with low styles, or from the frequency with which
verse has been degraded to be the vehicle of low and debasing
thought. But whatever be their origin, they are false and misleading.
They ignore the essential unity of the mind.. Poetry is not the pro-
duct of any one faculty of the mind : it is the offspring of the whole
mind, in the full exercise of all its faculties, and in its highest moods
of sympathy, with the truths of the worlds of mind and matter. It
is not some artificial distortion of thought and language by a capri-
cious fancy : it has its foundation in the mental constitution which
our Creator has given us. As fragrance to the sense of smell, music
to the ear, or beauty to the eye, so is poetry to the sensibilities of the
heart. It ministers to a want of our intellectual nature. This is the
secret of its power, and the pledge of its perpetuity. An able Ameri-
can writer observes with great truth and beauty : " It was spontaneous
in its growth, and native in its origin. It arose from those immutable
principles of harmony, established originally by Him who strung tliat
invisible harp in the nature of man, and tuned accordant the mightier
instruments of the universe around him. It is not therefore depen-
dent on the mutations of human caprice and fashion ; nor is it super-
seded by tlie discoveries and improvements in society." Poetry is the
medium by which the emotions of beauty, joy, admiration, reverence,
harmony, or tenderness kindled in the poet-soul, in communion with
Nature and God, is conveved to the souls of others. As there are
rhymesters who have no true poetic feeling, so there are many who
are not gifted with the power of giving expression to the emotions
which throb for utterance at the heart. The influence of beauty or
grandeur, moral and physical, " they feel, but cannot speak." To
this feeling, which exists in a stronger or weaker degree in all minds,
Poetry appeals. Wliere 'this tongueless poetry of the heart has no
existence, or exists in a very feeble degree, the conditions for appre-
ciating poetic excellence are wanting. As well might the blind judge
of beauty, or the deaf of music, as such to judge of poetry. Let no
one therefore speak of their disregard for poetry as if it indicated a
superiority to ordinary weakness : it is an imperfection, that may be
endured as a misfortune, but should never be Haunted as a virtue.

XU INTRODUCTORY ESSAT.

Persons of this class often assume, that because poetry has not a ^
low tangible utility, capable of being comprehended by sordid minds,
it is vain and useless. But there are many things in nature to |
which God has given the power of increasing human happiness and ■'^
well-being, though they do not impart what may be called tangible v:
benefits or gross enjoyment. Of this character is the pleasure §
received from the beauty and fragrance of a flower-garden ; the mur- ^
mur and sparkle of a pebbly stream | a mountain-lake sleeping among
the hills; a tranquil evening, when the sunset-flush of departing day
gilds every object with golden lustre; or the soul-soothing strains of '^
melodious music. It is not without design that God has spread ;j
these sources of pleasure so thickly around us. To persons of sensi-
bility, they yield a deep and speechless joy, vastly purer and more |
elevating than any form of sordid or sensual gratification. Now, $
poetry may be regarded as occupying in the world of mind, a place I
and a purpose analogous to scenes of beauty or grandeur *in the |
material world. The useful and the beautiful are both from God. ^
Each has its appropriate sphere. They are not antagonistic : the f
one is the complement of the other. And although poetry may not be |
the vehicle of hard jagged facts, it may convey truths of greater depth |
and power than are embodied in granite syllogisms or definitions.
The greatest truths are not those that are most readily and flippantly |
expressed in words. In the language of an eminent English divine, I
"what is gained in clearness is lost in breadth." When we fancy we |
have compressed a truth into some very clear and definite form of '|
words, some of its deeper n)eanings have escaped : like pressed grapes, ,f
the substance may be there, but the wine is gone. |^

If the indefiniteness of poetic language and thought be urged as an >l

objection, it is easy to show that this indefiniteness belongs essentially to :t
the subjects with which it converses. Beauty, truth, the human soul,
the works of God, the mystery of life, — are not themes whose significance
can be easily compressed into rigid and superficial forms of speech.
Let it not therefore be supposed, that because poetry is not fruitful in
direct and palpable results, that its influence is small or its mission
unimportant. It soothes human sorrow. It ministers to human

INTRODTTCTORT ESSAY. XUl

happiness. It fires the soul with noble and holy purpose. It expands
and quickens. It refines the taste. It opens to us the treasures of
the universe, and brings us into closer sympathy with all that is
beautiful, and grand, and true. It sheds a new charm around com-
mon objects ; because it unveils their spiritual relations, and higher
and deeper typical meanings. And it educates the mind to a quicker
perception of the harmony, grandeur, and truth disclosed in the
works of the Creator. Tlie history of poetry is a sufliicien't rebuke
to those who speak slightingly of its influence. We know of no period
in the world's history where it was not a power either for g-^od or evil.
It has exerted a mighty influence on some of the leading minds of
every age; to say nothing of the "hymns of faith and hope," that
have, in every period and sphere in the history of the church, proved,
in life and in death, a source of strength and consolation to its mem.
bers. If, in many instances, this sacred gift has been linked with
folly, scepticism, and licentiousness, this did not arise from any native
tendency of poetry itself. In such instances. Poetry is false to her
mission; and gifted men are wicked in spite of their gifts. But this
is not her native sphere. It is the beloved son, far from his true
home, feeding swine. And even in those melancholy cases where
poetic gifts are perverted and degraded, there are seen, like grains of
gold amid the dross, outbursts of indignation against wrong, gleams
of admiration for virtue, and gushes of tender sympathy for human
suffering, that seem like the protest of Poesie, in her thraldom, against
a forced and unnatural divorcement from beauty, purity, and truth.

These views respecting the dignity of poetry will enable us to take
higher and truer views of the work and mission of him to whom God
has given this " vision and faculty divine." How low and unworthy
are the popular conceptions of the Poet's work and character 1 The
many have thought of him as a mere rhymer of idle and foolish
fancies, deserving censure because not better employed. Of course
those who cherished false and degrading views of poetry, had equally
false and unworthy views of the character of a Poet. But the Poet's
work is a lofty and sacred work. It is not merely to wreath garlands
around the brow of Beauty, to cover Vice with graceful drapery, or to

X,1V INTRODUCTORY ESSAY.

sing the praise of Bacchus and Venus in Anacreontic ditties : but to
refine and elevate the spiritual in our nature ; to sing of earth's woes
and suft'ering.^, and pour the balm of a tender sympatiiy into sorrow-
stricken hearts ; to unveil, in its true deformity, the selfish cruelty of
man to his fellow-man ; and to portray the loveliness of unselfish
benevolence, piety, and tr.ith. The true Poet does for us what the
eagle is said to do for her young, bears us aloft, and teaches us to fly.
On the wings of his soaring spirit, we are borne into higher and
more ethereal regions of thought, than our own unaided pinions could
attain ; where the silent forms of inanimate Nature awake to life, and
pour their melodious eloquence upon the soul. He stands as a priest
at Nature's high altars to expound her symbolic language, to unveil
her hidden beauty, to dij^pense her sacred lessons, and to lead the mind
up from the tokens of his presence on earth to the Great Father of
all in heaven.

Our colonial position, whatever may be its political advantages, is
not favorable to the growth of an indigenous literature. Not only
are our mental wants supplied by the brain of the Mother Country,
under circumstances that utterly preclude competition ; but the
majority of persons of taste and education in Canada are emigrants
from the Old Country, whose tenderest affections cling around the land
they have left. The memory of the associations of youth, and of the
honored names that have won distinction in every department of
human activity, throws a charm around everything that comes from
their native land, to which the productions of our young and unro-
mantic country can put forth no claim.

When the poets of other countries sing of the birds and flowers,
the mountains and streams, of those lands, whose history is starred
with deathless names, and rich with the mellow and hazy light of
romance, every reference to those immortal types of beauty or gran-
deur commands sympathy and admiration. But let any Canadian
bard presume to think that the wild-fiowers which formed the gar-
lands of his sunny childhood, the sweet song-birds that sang him to
sleep in infancy, or the magnificent lakes, forests, and rivers of hifl
native land, are as worthy of being eashriued in lyric numbers,.. and

INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XT

capable of awaking memories of days as bright, associations as tender,
and scenery as beautiful, as ever was sung by hoary harper of the
olden time, and he is more likely to secure contempt than sympathy
or admiration. Things that are hoary with age, and dim in their dis-
tance, from us, are more likely to win veneration and approval, while
whatever is near and familiar loses in interest and attraction. There
is a large class of persons who could scarcely conceive it possible
that a Canadian lyric might have as deep and true feeling as those
they have most admired ; or that a Canadian Poet might be as highly
gifted as some of the favourite names who are crowned with the
wreaths of unfading fame. And yet such things are not altogether
inconceivable. But if a Milton or a Shakspere, was to arise among
us, it is far from certain that his merit would be recognized. The
mass of readers find it easier and safer to re-echo the approbation of
others, — to praise those whom all praise, — than to form an intelligent
and independent judgment of their own.

Other antagonistic influences have not been wanting. Religious
intolerance is always unjust to talent that does not belong to its party,
and pronounce its watchwords. There are many who take great
credit for liberality, so blinded by bigotry, that with them it would be
enough to condemn the most meritorious work, that it sprung from
any quarter, from wliich it was not in accordance with their canonized
prejudices to believe anything good could come.

The indiscriminate praise, by the press, of some writers, in which,
whatever their merit, the dross was largely mixed with the pure ore,
has tended to mislead the public, and to give the authors false notions
of their talents and achievements. Booksellers, too, because they
make surer sales and large profits on British and American works,
which have already obtained popularity, seldom take the trouble to
judge of a Canadian book on its merits, or use their influence to
promote its sale. The chances are, that, whatever its merit, the
author will be left to send his work around to the bookstores at his
own expense, and leave it to be sold at his own risk, paying a liberal
percentage fur any copies that may be sold.

In pronouncing judgment ou the character of our native poetry, th«

XVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY.

most partial critic must confess that it is extensively marked by
crudity and imperfection. This is to some extent accounted for by
the want of educational advantages incident to a new country. Many
writers of undoubted genius have been deficient in that thorough
literary culture essential to high artistic excellence. But in many
instances this want of finish may be traced to want of application,
resulting from a low estimate of poetry as an art. The adage, that
"whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well," has a special
application here. There is no such dearth of poetry, as to warrant
every unfledged bantling being thrust upon the public as a bird of
Paradise. It would be well, if all who have contracted the habit of
turning commonplace puerilities into rhyme " for their own amuse-
ment," would sacredly devote them to that purpose. Poesie, like
Truth, will unveil her beauty and dispense her honors, only to those
who love her with deep and reverential affection. Because no rules
nor study can make a man a poet without genius, it does not follow
that the most gifted may not be profited by a study of those principlea
that are illustrated m ; ae works of the great masters of lyric harmony.
Every true conception of p;)etrv must regard it both as a sentiment
and an art. The essence of poetry lies in the character of the thought.
No dexterity of art can galvanize into poetry, low, puerile thought,
destitute of pathos, beauty, and grandeur. But it is an error to infer
from this that the character of the thought is everything, and the
form in which it is expressed of little consequence. The ditference
between prose and poetry consists more in the form than in the
essential nature of the thought. Every reader knows that noble and
good sentiments may be po tamely expressed, as to produce aversion
rather than pleasure. Much "religious poetry" and "hymns"
painfully illustrate this. Themes which require the most masterly
genius, are most frequently travestied by feeble incompetence. The
careful selection of unhackneyed, elegant, and expressive wjrds, and
their arrangement in such forjns as will produce musical harmony,
are elements of success with which no genius can dispense.

If, as we have seen, the object of poetry is to convey to others
the emotions and conceptions which thrill the poet's own soul; in his

INTEODUCTORY £SSAT. Jtyjj

highest mjenUl moods, it follows ihat thie perfection of the ipe^iuiq Ui
which these thoughts are committed, is a matter of essential impor-
tance. Poetry bears a close analogy to music, and appeals to the
sense of harmony, as well as to the understanding. No really gopid
poetry is deficient in metrical harmony. Hence we see the folly pf
^he objection, sometimes urged against poetry, "that generally on
being translated into prose it does not seem to contain much." Th^e
is assuming that the object of poetry is to convey knowledge of posi-
tive facts, and consequently judging it by a wrong standard. As wiell
might we deny the beauty of a sparkling dew-drop, because on exami-
nation it is found to consist of common water ; or the merit of ^
beautiful painting, because the colors to which it owes its fine e^T*^
might be so mixed or arranged as to possess no charm or beauty.

To those who are best acquainted with the poetry of Canada, thfe
wcmder is, not that so little has been achieved, but that so much tni^
poetry has been written, in spite of such unpropitious circumstanCfBi.
For poetic fire, like its earthly type, requires vent in order to burja
brightly. Some of our most gifted poets, after ineffectual efforts jip
gun the attention and approval of the public, have despairingly turned
to more hopeful, though less congenial labors, £eeling that th^
choicest strains fell on listless ears, and unsympathetic hearts.

Among those who have most courageously appealed to the reading
public, and most largely enriched the poetic literature of Canada, thfi
first place is due to Charles Sanosteb. The richness and extent ,of
his contributions, the originality and descriptive power he displayi^
the yariety of Canadian themes on which he has written with tbric^
and elegance, his passionate sympathy with the beautiful in N^ur/e,
ai\d the chivalrous and manly patriotism which finds an utterance i^
his poen>s, fully vindicate his claim to a higher place in the regard of
his countrymen, than he has yet obtained. Alexai^der McLachla;n
has also evinced that he possesses in a high degree the gift of soqig.
In the opinion of many, he is the sweetest and most intensely h\im4M'^
of all our Caoadian bards. As Sangster and McLachlfin ^re qui^
unlike, jfuid c^h possesses a strongly marked individuality p^ his own,

,'• I

xviii

INTRODUCTORY E88AT.

any comparison belween them is inappropriate, and might be unfair
to both. In elaborate elegance and wealth of descriptive, power, in
the success with which he has treated Canadian themes, and in some-
thing of Miltonic stateliness and originality of style, Sangster has
certainly no equal in this country. But in strong human sympathy,
in subtle appreciation of character, in deep natural pathos, and in
those gushes of noble and manly feeling which awaken the responsive
echoes of every true heart, McLachlan is equally peerless. That they
should both be so little known to the reading public of Canada, is a
matter of sincere regret. Taking into consideration the subtle delicacy
of thought and elevation of style which distinguishes much of his
poetry, it is not so difficult to understand why Sangstw should be
comparatively unappreciated by the great mass of readers ; but that
the sentiments of sympathy with humanity in all conditions, and the
protests against every form of injustice and pretension, so simply and
earnestly expressed in McLachlan' s poetry, should secure so few ad-
mirers, is a fact that, in spite of all possible explanations, is by no
means creditable to the taste or intelligence of Canada.

Enough however has already been achieved, to be an earnest of better
things for the future. The philosophic subtlety and creative imagination
of Heavysege, — the profound sensibility and exquisite musical harmony
of Miss Vining, — the lofty aspirations and ringing energy of Miss
Haight, — the delicate perception of beauty which breathes forth in
the lyrics of Aschbr, — the ardent human sympathy and tenderness of
Mks. Leprohon, — the calm beauty and attractive grace of Prof.
Chapman, — the simple and graphic truthfulness of Mrs. Moodie,— -the
intense communion with Nature in her moods of quiet loveliness,
which soothes and charms, in the musical strains of J. F. McDonnell,
— the simple melodies of Miss Johnson, full of earnestness and deep
religious feeling, — and many other names worthy of honorable men-
tion, give a pledge to futurity that it will not always be Winter
with Canadian poetry. Should the soft Spring breath of kindly ap-
preciation warm the chilly atmosphere, flowers of greater luxuriance
and beauty would soon blossom forth, to beautify and enrich our
literaturs.

INTRODUOTOBT ESSAT.

If these anticipations are not realized, it is not because there is
anything in the country itself uncongenial to poetry. If we are de-
prived of many of the advantages of older countries, we have ample
compensation in more unshackled freedom of thought, and broader
spheres of action. Though poor in historic interest, our psist is not
altogether devoid of events capable of poetic treatment. But if
Memory cannot draw rich materials for poetry from treasures conse-
crated to fame, Hope unfolds the loftier inspiration of a future bright
with promise. If we cannot point to a past rich with historic names,
we have the inspiring spectacle of a great country, in her youthful
might, girding herself for a race for an honorable place among the
nations of the world. In our grand and gloomy forests — in our
brilliant skies and varied seasons — in our magniticent lakes and
rivers — in our hoary mountains and fruitful valleys, external Nature
unveils her most majestic forms to exalt and inspire the truly poetic
soul ; while human nature — especially human nature in its relation
to the spiritual and divine — still presents an exhaustless mine of richest
ore, worthy of the most exalted genius, and of the deepest humao
and spiritual knowledge.

'<<

1 .

I tl

/■ )

k •

III

.s.

SELECTIONS FROM CANADIAN POETS.

DAWN.

r. *. PBoovim.

Break o'er the sea t Break on the night I

Ever blessed and holy light ;

Shed bnt <me ray, but one joyous beam,

Wherever the eastern waters gleam —

But one small ray, for the night is dark,

And Uie ocean waits for the first bright spark;

Others are longing too for thee.

Break o'er the sea ! Break o'er the sea I

dawn I rosy-fingered dawn I
Come up and herald another mom ; , , ,

Come, till the dark mists fly away; ' *^

Come, till the night gives place to day ;
Come where the deep black waters boom ;
Come through the veil of the sullen gloom ;
All things are longing, light, for thee.

Break o'er the sea f Break o'er the seal

day I happy happy day I

Chaae the gloomy shadows away.

Though Nature's slumbers seem calm and deep.

There are those on earth who cannot sleep—'

22 ^ ' 8BLE0TION8 FROM

Those who in toil alone are blest —

Those who in labor alone find rest.

Hearts that are breaking have need of thee ;

Break o'er the sea t Break o'er the sea I

•

light I tender tender light I
' There came a cry through the live-long night ;
Wherever a mortal foot has trod,
' A cry of woe to a loving God,

From those who would drink of the fabled wave
That gives forgetfulness long as the grave :
Sorrowing souls have need of thee,

Break o'er the sea 1 Break o'er the sea !

waves that were moaning all night long,
Break out, and join in the angels' song ;
Thunder it out with shock on shock >

Into the ears of the dull hard rock ;
Whisper it low to the far-oflF strand
Where the ripplets lazily laugh on the sand,
Till earth shall echo from flower to tree.

Break o'er the sea ! Break o'er the sea !

type of the Everlasting Day I
Gome from the East land far away;
The land whence once came a holy voice
Bidding all mourning hearts rejoice ;
Gome and recall its echoes now,
Flash on the darkened and sullen brow,
Bid all doubts and all sorrows flee.

Break o'er the sea ! Break o'er the sea I

CANADIAN POETS. 28

sun, rise up from thy watery bed I
Rise till the shades of night have fled ! > ,

Sweep on, on thy mission, and linger not,
With rays of love, on each sacred spot
Where He, the Pure One, for sinners bled,
Where earth once covered her Maker's head —
He that made thee is calling to thee, '

Break o'er the sea I break o'er the sea f

THE STARS.

OBARLK8 BANOSTKB.

From Hesperus.

The Stars are heaven's ministers ;

Right royally they teach
God's glory and omnipotence,

In wondrous lowly speech.
All eloquent with music, as

The tremblings of a lyre.
To him that hath an ear to hear

They speak in words of fire.

Not to learned sag^ only

Their whisperings come down ;
The monarch is not glorified

Because he wears a crown.
The humblest soldier in the camp

Can win the smile of Mars,
And 'tis the lowliest spirits hold

Communion with the stars.

Thoughts too refined for utterance,

Etherial as the air,
Crowd through the brain'p dim labyrinths,

And leate their impress there ;
As far along the gleaming void

Man's searching glances roll,
Wonder usurps the throne of speelch,

But vivifiea the soul.

heaven-cradled mysteries,

What sacred paths ye've trod —
Bright, jewelled scintillations from

The chariot-wheels of God !
When in the spirit He rode forth,

With vast creative aim,
These were His footprints left behind,

To magnify His name t

GOD;

Ai&Z. M'LAOHLAk.

Hail, Thou great mysterious being t
Thou the unseen yet all-seeing,

To Thee we call.
How can a mortal sing thy praise,
Or speak of all thy wondrous ways,

God over all !

CANADIAN POETS. |||

God of the great old solemn wdods,

God of the desett solitudes, '

And trackless sea ;
God of the crowded city vast,
God of the present and the past,

Can man know Thee ?

God of the blue vault overhead,

Of the green earth on which we tread,

Of time and space.
God of the worlds which time conceals,
God of the worlds which death reveals.

To all our race.

God of the glorioua realms of thought.

From which some simple hearts have caught [

A ray divine :
And the songs which rouse the nations.
And the terrible orations,

Lord God are thine.

And all the forms of beauty rare.
Which toiling genius moulds with care,-

Yea the sublime,
The sculptured forms of joy and woe.
By Thee were fashioned long ago.

In that far clime.

Far above earth and space and time.
Thou dwellest in thy heights sublime.

SELECTIONS FROM

Beneath thy feet
The rolling worlds, the heavens, are spread
Glory infinite round Thee shed

Where angels meet.

From out thy wrath the earthquakes leap,
And shake the world's foundations deep,

Till Nature groans.
In agony the mountains call,
And ocean bellows throughout all

Her frightened zones.

But where thy smile its glory sheds.
The lilies lift their lovely heads.

And the primrose rare ;
And the daisy, deck'd with pearls,
Kicher than the proudest earls

On their mantles wear.

•i>S

These thy preachers of the wild-wood
Keep they not the heart of childhood

Fresh within us still ?
Spite of all our life's sad story.
There are gleams of Thee and glory

In the daffodil.

And old Nature's heart rejoices.
And the rivers lift their voices.

And the sounding sea ;
And the mountains old and hoary,
With their diadems of glory,

Shout, Lord, to thee.

CANADIAN POETS.

But though Thou art high and holy,
Thou dost love the poor and lowly,

With a love divine.
Love infinite, love supernal.
Love undying, love eternal,

Lord God are thine I

SHORT DAYS.*

IBIDORB O. ABOHBR.

Over the pale crust of the ermine snow
The wind is roaming, chilled with winter's breath,
And the dim waning days seem touched with woe
For autumn's lingering death.

They gather varied hours in their train,
And lay them in the stillness of the past.
And o'er the fitful visions of the brain
Their broken shadows cast.

The evenings lengthen as the days subside,
Deepening and broadening to the peaceful night,
Like tender shadows, tempering as they hide
The noonday's garish light.

* This beautiful lyric, as well as the other pieces by the same author In this volume,
is from "VoiOBBFROM tbbHkarth," published in 1863, by Isidore G.Abcheb, a
young Jewish lawyer, of Monlreal, Though not without occasional defects, which
seem more the result of <)[forelessness than of inability to do better, this yolnme
reveals a subtle and delicate imagination, earnest and tender aspirations after the
beautifbl and the true, and, in several pieces, a rich musical harmony, which is fhll
of promise of higher achievement in future, should Mr. Ascher continue to work
the vein he has so auspiciously opened.

r«Y^i\m) //^•V • ?'ve^n<<i/' (S^i^/5iAt*»»- <V"/3\*4<m1. ^tc<y»j i^h. t^; .

28 SELECTIONS FROM

And dull with scowling clouds and fretful skies,
The little days pass onward to their bourne —
Life's shadowy landmarks, to our saddened eyes,
But vanished haze of mom t

The hours shrivel as we vainly try
To grasp their fruits within our feeble hold ;
Their glow and bloom and beauty seem to die
In winter's piercing cold.

lessening days that silently depart I
Leave us the broader faith and larger hope,
So that the scarred and patient human heart
May love with fuller scope :

Yield us the deeper trust in human truth,
Show us the purer sky above the haze,
So that the nobler visions of our youth
May light our devious ways :

Banish the frost of doubt that numbs the heart,
Broaden the narrowing limits of life's road ;
So may your fleeting presence still impart
A lasting love for God.

THE DYING WAKRIOR.

HKLEN M. JOHNSTON.

A warrior lay, with a heaving breast,

On the field of the dying and dead ;
His cheek was pale and his lips compressed,
And the fading light from the distant west
Shone over his gory bed.

CANADIAN POETS.

The night eame on, and the moon arose
With her soft and tremulous glow ;

She shed her light o'er friends and o'er foes,

All sleeping together in dull repose
On the battle-field below.

The warrior gazed with a mournful sigh

On the blue and the star-spangled dome ;
While tears shone bright in his sunken eye,
And his vivid thoughts like the lightning fly
To his childhood's distant home.

He thought of the mother who used to bend
O'er his couch, when in sorrow and pain —

Who to his complaints an ear would lend ;

But alas 1 he knew that that dearest friend
Would never bend o'er him again.

He thought of the scenes where once he strayed

With his brothers in days of yore ;
He thought of the stream, the peaceful glade,
The cottage that stood in the dark green shade.
With the vines around the door.

He thought, with a pang of dark despair,
'Twas the hour they all used to meet

With grateful hearts for the evenuig prayer ;

He thought of the group that wcre gathered there ;
He thought— of a yacaat seat.

He knew that a fervent prayer would rise

For the loved aad the long-absent one ;
He knew that the tears would flow from their eyes,
And his father's voice would be choked with sighs,
As he pt-ayed for his erring son.

SELECTIONS PROM

He knew for him they would all implore

A renewed and a sanctified heart j
That when the toils of this life were o'er
They all might embrace each other once more,
Never, no never to part I

One trembling hand to his brow he pressed,
And the tears of contrition he shed ;

He implored for pardon, a home with the blest ;

Then he wrapped his cloak round his gory breast.
And the warrior's spirit fled I

SEE ]K:iNG.

ANNIB L. WALKEB.

Where dost Thou dwell.
Unknown, unseen, yet knowing, seeing all ?
We find Thee not in hermit's lonely cell,

Nor lofty palace-hall.

No more at eve
Thy form is with us on the dusty road ;
The dead sleep on, though loving hearts may grieve

The suffering bear their load.

Night closes round —
In the green forest-aisles no leaf is stirred ;
So hushed, as if heaven's distant music sound

Might even here be heard.

CANADIAN POETS. 31

Through all we see,
Up to the azure roof with stars inwrought,
Through all Earth's temple, do we look for Theej

Alas 1 we find Thee not.

Yet Thou art near ;
Father ! forgive our weak and failing sight ;
Forgive, and make our darkness noonday clear
With thy celestial light.

Thy love has given
Faith's telescope, wherewith to gaze on Thee ;
Aid us, that through it looking unto heaven,

Thy glory we may see.

WHAT DO WE LIVE FOR?*

JBNNIE K. HAIQHT.

What do we live for ?

Is labor so lowly.
Toil so ignoble, we shrink from its stain ?

Think it not — labor . =

Is Godlike and holy ;
He that is idle is living in vain.

^ There is in this piece, as in nearly all Miss Haight's poetry, the utterance of an
intensely earnest spirit, which rings out like the sound of a clarion, summoning all
true hearts to arise and do battle for truth, right, and humanity. She writes like one-
who feels deeply the import of the great social questions of the age, and cherishes
an ardent desire for the social and moral elevation of mankind. Uer poetry has no
aimless loitering, or flower-gathering by the way: it goes like an arrow to its
mark, stirring the soul to noble deeds of patient endurance and unselfish heroism .

SELECTIONS FROM

What do we live for ?

Creation is groaning,
Her desolate places are yet to be built ;

The voice of the years

Swells deeper the moaning,
As time rolls along the dark tide of guilt.

What do we live for ?

The question is sounding
Low in the silence, and loud in the din,

And to each heart-ear.

With warm pulses bounding,
Answers come thronging, without and within.

What do we live for ?

We live to be waging
Battle, unceasing, with indwelling sin j

We live to fight on.

In conflict engaging •

Temptations without, and passioni^within.

What do we live for ?

To sow, by all waters.
Fruit-bearing seeds of deeds for all years ;

To toil in the ranks

With earth's sons and dau^ters.
Manfully striving with doubtings and fears.

MiflS Haight is a teacher in an educational institution in the city of Montreal. For
sevOTal years she has been an occasional contributor of short pieces to Cuiadian
Jonriials ; and there is none of our young writers who has met with more &vor,
both from the public and press. She is one of the very few of whom we feel
tlMt t)i^y l^ive written too little.

CANADIAN POETS.

What do we live for ?

We live not to rust out,
SlothfuUy standing aloof from the strife;

A thousand times better,

More noble, to wear out,
Battered and burned in the hot forge of life.

TO THE SEA. V',

j~ ( v

JAMK8 M'CAitBOLL.

Unfathomable waste of winds and waves.

And stars that tuft the purple woof of night.

And pin it, shadowed down, amid thy depths —

How great art thou in all thy twofold strength !

Whether one va i unbroken sheet of calm,

Where the long finger of the lonely mast

Points through the azure solitude, to God !

Or whether, from out thy solemn slumbers roused.

Shaking thy dripping hide and awful crest.

Thou goest forth to meet the fierce typhoon

That, plumed with darkness, blurred with fire and flame

Scatters thy fleets 'mid shoals and sunken rooks,

And leaves them like dead sea-fowl drifting there!

How great art thou ! — at morn ! — or noon !— or. eve, •
When through the crimsou portals of the West
The huge, red furnace of the dying day
Pours out its lava o'er thy radiant floor,

Till thou art as the vestibule of heaven-

84 SELKnTIONS PROM

Leading to the great llanos of the sun,

That carpets the dread space before His throne ;

And till the earth clasped in thy glowing arms

In emerald splendor 's borne along its path,

And thou dost seem a giant ruby set

In the broad chasing of a thousand shores,

Where thou dost meet the sea shells and the sands,

A rim of golden dust, and pearl and rose.

I AM NOT SAD."

JOHN READB.

I am not sad ; I have a hope that tells
Of joys that live beyond the things of earth,
That springs from little seeds of love, and dwells
Deep in the bosom where it had its birth.
And those who sowed the little seeds of love.
In the bright spring-time of life's fleeting year.
Still kindly watch the blossom from above,
And>come to see their love's sweet fruit appear
Ever, or in the still of summer noons,
Or when the sun is smiling his adieu.
Or when the night-harp breathes its solemn tunes,
Or when the birds begin their mates to woo,
Ever, their hallowed presence lingers near,
Unseen but by my spirit's sleepless eye.
And gentle words fall on my soul's quick ear.
Loving and low as mother's luUaby :

I am not sad.

CANADIAN POETS.

II.

I am not sad ; though sorrows not a few
Have left their darksome trace upon my brow,
Still hopeful, I can life's rough way pursue,
And 'neath theJoad of duty meekly bow.
For sorrows are but ministers of God,
Sent to remind us of the home we seek ;
The path of sorrow He before us trod.
Who taught the blind to see, the dumb to speak.
When storm-clouds gather o'er the placid sky,
The dull, foreboding drapery of gloom,
God's bow of beauty tells the anxious eye,
Man shall not perish by a watery doom.
So through the eye of faith afar I read
Bright promises amid the clouds of woe.
When God has promised, should I be afraid ?
Should I be sad and weak and doubtful ? No ;

I am not sad.

III.

I am not sad ; " man was not made to mourn,"
To drown in dreary wretchedness his years.
Though hate and wrong, and penury and scorn
Oft make this world indeed a " vale of tears."
Still Eden-flowers in earthly gardens grow,
Still man does deeds of mercy and of love,
And the dread curse that 's written on his brow
Is half-effaced by blessings from above.
Have I to toil ? God sends me cheerful light ;
Have I to suffer ? He can make me brave ;
Am I sore tempted ? He can keep me right ;
Am I in danger ? He can surely save ;

3(i SELECTIONS FROM

Am I a wanderer ? He has sent His Son,
To bring nie weary, heavy-laden, home.
To worship there with angels round the throne,
And never from His presence more to roam :

I am not satl.

OLD HANNAH.

ALKXANDEU M'LACirLAIT.

'Tis Sabbath morn, and a holy balm
Drops down on the heart like dew,

And the sunbeams gleam,

Like a blessed dream,
Afkr on the mountains blue.
Old Harinah 's by her cottage door
In her faded widow's cap ;

She is sitting alone

On the old grey stone.
With the Bible in her lap.

An oak is hanging o'er her head.
And the burn is wimpling by,

The primroses peep

Trom their sylvan keep.
And the lark is in the sky.
Beneath that shade her children played ;
But they 're all away with death I

And dhe sits alone

On the old grey stone.
To hear what the Spirit saith.

CANADIAN POETB.

Her years are o'er three score and ten,
And her eyes are waxing dim,

But the page is bright

With a living light.
And her heart leaps up to Him
Who pours the mystic harmony
Which the soul can only hear ;

She is not alone

On the old grey stone,
Though no earthly friend is near.

There 's no one left to love her now ;
But the eye that never sleeps

Looks on her in love

From the heavens above.
And with quiet joy she weeps.
She feels the balm of bliss is poured
In her worn heart's deepest rut ;

And the widow lone

On the old grey stone.
Has a peace the world knows not.

DEATH OF CAPTAIN VICAKJS.

HARRIETT A. WILKINS.

There were sound of armies gathering

Unto the cannon's roll ;
There were sounds of martial melody

Before Sebastopol.

!ii

III

38 SELECTIONS FROM

Courage was mantling in the breast,
And fire in many an eye,

As Britain's gallant hosts moved on
To conquer or to die.

There were noble veterans in that traio

Who boasted many a scar ;
There was one who led his gallant band,

Young in those scenes of war ;
Young, but how loved ! — ah, many an eye

That saw him arming there
Was raised to bless him, as his voice

Broke through the misty air,
" This way, 97th !

" By the flags that o'er us wave.
All that makes the brave heart brave ;
By the ties of home's sweet band,
Sheltered on our native land ;
By the ashes of our sires —
By the light of Britain's fires —
This way, J^tth 1

" By the burning vows that rest
Deep within the patriot's breast ;
By the bayonets that gleam
In the young moon's flickering beam ;
Though we stand on danger's marge,
God will help us — up and charge I
This way, 97th I

" He will arm us for this fight,
On this strange, this fearful night.

CANADIAN POETS. 39

Ere we route the treach'rous foe
Some of us may slumber low ;
See that each is ready — then,
Fight and die like Christian men.
" This way, 97th !

" Forward ! victory is ours,
Though we fall beneath yon towers ;
England's glory is our crest —

England's colors wrap our breast

Let the trenches witness bear
That the dauntless brave fell there ;
This way, 97th 1"

Fierce was the battle— wild the strife—

The ground beneath them rang ;
Iledan and Malakoff that night

Echoed the musket's clang ;
Two thousand of the treach'rous host

Advanced 'neath that dark sky ;
Two hundred of Victoria's men

Had met them at the cry,

" This way, 97th !"

They fought and conquered, but the voice

That led them bravely on.
The tone that cheered their lion-hearts

For evermore was gone.
Yet as the life-blood flowed apace,

He saw his victory won.
And once more shouted as he fell
" Brethren, the foemen run !
This way, 97th!"

SELECTIONS FROM

He died as many have gone down,

Who bear the warrior's crest,
With a treasured name upon his lips,

And a locket on his breast.
Oh, would ye learn how brave men fight ;

Go where the bravest lie (
And would ye learn how fond hearts love,

And how true Christians die —
" This way, 97th !"

Ye who beside him fought and won.

Still may ye hear the sound
That from the watch, the camp, the war.

Hath gone to holier ground ;
The voice that failed on Russia's plain

Awoke to sweeter song.
And still he whispers by your side,

While beckoning on your throng,
" This way, 97th !"

Oh, ye throughout our land, who gird

The sword upon your side.
And stand prepared in danger's hour

To rush in battle's tide.
Scorn not to seek the light he sought —

Scorn not the path he trod,
Through woes to victory on earth,

Then glory with his God.

CANADIAN POETS. 41

UNDER THE SNOW*

FAUBLIA e. VllflNO^.

Over the mountains, under the snow
Lieth a valley cold and low,
'Neath a white immovable pall,
Desolate, dreary, soulless all,
And soundless, save when the wintry blast
Sweeps with funeral music past.

Yet was that valley not always so,
For I trod its summer-paths long ago.
And I gathered flowers of fairest dyes
Where now the snow-drift heaviest lies,
And I drank from rills that with murmurous song
Wandered in golden light along
Through bowers, whose ever-fragrant air
Was heavy with perfume of flowrets fair —

* There is no Canadian poet whose poetry we have read, and re-read, with greater
interest and delight than Miss Vining's. This piece is no ordinary production. It
contains beautiful imagery ; a sound and elevated philosophy of s .ing ; great
depth and tenderness of feeling ; and a "ioh exquisite rhythmic musi.;, that lingers
in "the chambers of the brain," like the memory of a speechless joy. The snow,
that silently and sadly buries all the glory of summer beneath its icy shroud, is
here taken, as the suggestive type of that wintry blight that sooner or later falls on
every hfe, witheringits brightest blossoms in hopeless decay. Shallow and thought-
less hearts, bhuded by the glare of frothy pleasures and sordid pursuits, may see
no special beauty in such poetry ; but readers of more delicate sensibility, whoso
bygone years are shaded by the memory of deep sorrow, will feel the influence of
its uncommon beauty, tenderness, and truth. Miss Vinino is a teacher in the
Canadian Institute at Woodstock. We understand that she intends shortly pub-
lishing a volume of original poetry. We bespeak for it a favorable reception
from the Canadian public.

42 SELECTIONS PROM

Through cool green meadows, where all day long
The wild-bee droned his voluptuous song,
While over all shone the eye of Love
In the violet-tinted heavens above.

And through that valley ran veins of gold,
And the rivers o'er beds of amber rolled ; —
There were pearls in the white sands thickly sown,
And rocks that diamond-crusted shone ; —
All richest fruitage — all rarest flowers —
All sweetest music of summer bowers —
All sounds the softest — all sights most fair,
Made earth a Paradise everywhere.

* * * *

Over the mountains, under the snow
Lieth that valley cold and low, —
There came no slowly consuming blight.
But the snow swept silently down at night,
And when the morning looked forth again
The seal of silence was on the plain ;
And fount and forest, and bower and stream
Were hidden all from his pallid beam.

And there, deep-hidden under the snow,
Is buried the wealth of the long ago —
Pearls and diamonds — veins of gold.
Priceless treasures of worth untold.
Harps of wonderful sweetness stilled
While yet the air was with music filled —
Hands that stirred the resounding string
To melodies such as the angels sing —

CANADIAN POETS. 43

Faces radiant with smile and tear
That bent enraptured the strains to hear —
And high calm foreheads, and earnest eyes,
That came and went beneath sunset skies.

There they are lying under the snow,
And the winds moan over them sad and low.
Pale still faces that smile no more.
Calm closed eyelids whose light is o'er,
Silent lips that will never again
Move to music's entrancing strain.
White hands folded o'er marble breasts, —
Each under the mantling snow-drift rests.
And the wind their requiem sounds o'er and o'er.
In the oft repeated * no more — no more.^

* iVb more — no more /' — I shall ever hear
That funeral dirge in its mr^anings dre^r ;
But I may not linger with faltering tread
Anear my treasures — anear my dead.
On through many a thorny maze.
Up slippery rocks, and through tangled ways,
Lieth my cloud-mantled path, afar
From that buried vale where my treasures are.

But there bursts a light through the heavy gloom.
From the sun-bright towers of my distant home;
fainter the wail of the sad ' no more '
Is heard as slowly I near that shore ;
And sweet home-voices come soft and low,
Half-drowning that requiem's dirge-like flow.

44 SELECTIONS PBOM

I know it is Sorrow's baptism stern
That has given me thus for my home to yeara —
That has quickened my ear to the tender call
Which down from the jasper heights doth fall —
And lifted my soul from the songs of earth
To music of higher and holier birth,
Turning the tide of a yearning love
To the beautiful things that are found above ; —
And I bless my Father, through blinding tears,
For the chastening love of departed years, —
For hiding my idols so low — so low- —
Over the mountains, — under the snow.

SPRING.

J. J, PROOTEB.

Light upon the wild-flowers dawning from on high !
Light upon the white clouds floating in the sky 1
Light upon the green fields, light upon the rill !
Happy morn is breaking o'er each lofty hill.

Music in the rustling of the summer trees 1
Music in the many tones that sweep along the breeze !
Music in the little birds that haunt the budding spray !
Winter's snows are melting — Spring is on its way.

Gladness in the mountains ! gladness in the plains !

Gladness in all nature, bursting from her chains !

Gladness in the waters, rippling down their streams !

Heaven and earth rejoicing in the sun's bright beams. f|

CANADIAN POETS. 45

I Happy, happy spring-time ! Happy age of youth !

I Rich in aspirations, rich in love and truth !

I Use it well, lest summer scorch ye with its sun,

I And your budding beauties droop, ere yet begun.

THE GGOB MAN'S GRAVE,

I'BEDEBICK WBIO-RT.

E'en such is man — a shadow flies
Athwart the trembling moonlit skieSy
Man heaves a breath, and lo 1 he dies ;

But not For aye !
His soul may yet triumphant rise,

A brighter day I

Though like a flower 6f loveliest bloom,
That yields at morn its rich perfume,
And e'er the nigLt hath met its doom

The good man dies ;
Yet sweetly from the loathsome tomb

His actions rise I

The blessings of his kindly heart,
The balm his soothing words impart,
His life's examjde for a chart

By which to steer.
From memory's eye cannot depart,

Or disappear^

SELECTIONS FROM

Most when we feel the aching void
Made by our blissful hopes destroyed,
And all our enei^ies are cloyed

With gloom and care,
Could we more fitly be employed

Than musing there ?

Beneath this resting-place we find
A fitting theme for musing mind
That is not to its errors blind ;

But seeks to mend.
And leaving earthly cares behind,

See where they end.

The highest aim we self-impose.
The noblest height ambition knows,
The loftiest wing that ever rose

In flight sublime,
May end in disappointment's throes,

Perhaps in crime !

Not so, the even, steady race

Of him who, yielding wisdom place,

Adorned by humble pilgrim grace,

Keeps on the road.
And walks erect, with fearless pace,

To meet his God.

Though carking cares his path surround.
And sin should raise her rampant mound,
He bravely stands on battle ground,

Nor shrinks with fear :
Faith is the balm for every wound,

And refuge near.

CANADIAN POETS.

His trust in God is firmly stayed ;
God's love, his ready shield, displayed,
And strong in mercy, undismayed

He bids them come I
Nor dreads the countless hosts arrayed
'Twixt him and home I

THE ARCTIC INDIAN'S FAITH.

^»,A^v

V^/'C-'*^

HOW. T. D. M'OEB.

We worship the Spirit that walks unseen
Through our land of ice and snow :
We know not His face, we know not His place,
But His presence and power we know.

Does the BuflFalo need the Pale-face word

To find his pathway far ?

What guide has he to the hidden ford,

Or where the green pastures are ?

Who teacheth the Moose that the hunter's gun

Is peering out of the shade ?

Who teacheth the doe and the fawn to run

In the track the Moose has made ?

Him do we follow, Him do we fear,
The Spirit of earth and sky;
Who hears with the Wapiti's eager ear
His poor red children's cry ;

48 SELECTIONS FROM

Whose whisper we note in every breeze
That Btirs the birch canoe ;
Who hangs the reindeer-moss on the trees
For the food of the Caribou.

That Spirit we worship who walks unseen
Through our land of ice and snow :
We know not His face, we know not His place,
But His presence and power we know.

SONG OF MARY MAGDALENE.

ALBXANDBR M'LACHLAN.

Weep not, though the Saviour

Has gone with the dead.
For the light and the glory

Still halo his head ;
The sighs and the sorrows.

The stigmas, the stains :
The anguish is over.

The glory remains.

Weep not for the Saviour:

His sorrows are o'er.
And his love shall encircle

Our hearts evermore ;
The rainbow of promise!

The star ever bright !
The compass to guide through

The perilous night !

CANADIAN POETS.

The light of tho temple I

The eye of the blind!
The food of the hungry !

The friend ever kind I
The well in the desert!

The shield from the blast I
The staflF of the weary 1

Tho refuge at last !
The sun of our glory I

The light of our eyes !
Weep not for the Saviour,

For he shall arise.

VOICES OF THE DEATH-CHAMBER.

Kits. J. L. LBPROHOW.

The night-lamp faintly gleameth

Within my chamber still,
And the heavy shades of midnight

Each gloomy angle fill ;
And my worn and wearied watchers

Scarce dare to move or weep,
For they think that I am buried

In deep and quiet sleep.

But hush 1 what are those voices
Rising on the midnight air ;

Full of strange, celestial sweetness,
Breathing love and hope and prayer !

SELECTIONS PROM

Nearer still they grow and clearer ; .

Ah I I hear now what they say —
To the kingdom of God's glory
. They are calling mo away.

See I my gentle mother softly

To my couch approaches now —
What can be the change she readeth

Upon my pale, damp brow,
That she clasps her hands in anguish,

Whose wild depths no words might say ?
Perchance she has heard the voices

That are calling me away.

The fond father of my children.

The first sole love of my youth ;
He the loving, gentle-hearted,

So full of manly truth.
Is kneeling now beside me,

Wildly praying me to stay :
'Tis hard, oh ! hard to tell him,

" They are calling me away I"

Oh I if earthly love could conquer

The mighty power of death.
His love would stay the current

Of my failing strength and breath;
And that voice whose loving fondness

Has been e'er my earthly stay,
Gould half tempt me from the voices

That are calling me away.

CANADIAN POETS.

Now, they bring my children to me,

That loved and lovely band,
And with wistful awe-struck-facea

Around my couch they stand.
And I strain each gentle darling

To my heart with wailing cry,
And for the first time murmur,

'' Oh, my God, 'tis hard to die!"

But hark ! those strains of heaven

Sound louder in mine ear,
Wliispcring, " He, thy God, thy Father,

Will guard those children dear " —
Louder yet they grow, now drownmg

All sounds of mortal birth;
In their wild triumphant sweetness

Luring, bearing me from earth.

THE EMIGRANT'S FUNERAL.

KEV. B. J. M'SEOBOB.

Strange earth we sprinkle on the exile's clay.

Mingled with flowers his childhood never knew ;
Far sleeps he from that mountain-top so blue.
Shadowing the scene of his young boyhood's play.
But o'er his lonely trans-atlantic bed

The ancient words of hopeful love are spoken;

The solitude of these old pines is broken
With the same prayers once o'er his father said.

I tL~ Cck-^^^AX XLa^ ^^^lA^ii^ 9^it^y\A^ •" (W;y-. P*h.c«^ ^ utvK-J**^* e/^Kff^-^ f'^^-j'y- ^ '^'^^ ''* ^-J^M

IvaA/. ZtxJiti^<^ rlcf^ZtO-" -Unt^^^ tSii-l' M- kC9.

52 SELECTIONS FROM

precious Liturgy ! that thus canst bring ^

Such sweet associations to the soul,
That though between us and our homes seas roll,
We oft in thee forget our wanderings.
And in a holy day-dream tread once more,
The fresh greer valleys of our native shore.

«MY SOUL IS HEAVY."

JOHN READK.

My soul is heavy with the chain
That drags me down to earth ; in vain
I tey to free me from its pain.

And yet I ask not wealth or fame,
I ask not power nor titled name, —
Only my Saviour's love I claim.

I fain would fix my wandering eye
Upon my treasure in the sky.
Bought by His death on Calvary.

But I am weak ; my soul's best prayer
To Heaven, falls earth ward,, as it were
Afraid of gaining access there.

Earthward, where my soul's hopes are not ;
Where I have but a pilgrim's lot:
Why is my Father's home forgot ?

m,j'

CANADIAN POETS.

Earth's fairest scenes must pass away,
Man's mightiest monuments decay,
And the poor traveller may not stay.

Comforter Divine, appear,
Impart the love that knows not fear,
And let me feel Thee ever near.

Then shall my soul, from earthly things
Set free, soar up on tireless wings,
To where God's choir for ever sings.

I COME TO THE WELL.

WILLIAM WYE SMITH.

I come to the well, but its water

Never quenches the thirsting within, —

I bathe in the sunlight of morning,
When the hymns of creation begin, —

And still there is something of sorrow,
Because there is something of sin.

There is rapture and gladness and glory

Around me in Nature I see.
And my heart whispers sadly the story

That the darkness and doubt is in me ;
That God and his works are all holy.

And the sadness and sin is in me !

M SELECTIONS FROM

But I know that above there are blossoms
As fair aa were Edon's at first ;

And the tree with the sweet leaves of healing,
And waters for quenching of thirst ;

And grief i-. forgot in the glory,
And murmuring never rehearsed !

GO, DREAM NO MORE.

PAMBLIA S. VINING.

Go, dream no more of a sun-bright sky

With never a cloud to dim !
Thou hast seen the storm in its robes of night,
Thou hast felt the rush of the whirlwind's might.
Thou hast shrunk from the lightning's arrowy flight.

When the Spirit of Storms went by I

Go, dream no more of a crystal sea
Where never a tempest sweeps !
For thy riven bark on a surf-beat shore.
Where the wild winds shriek and the billows roar,
A shattered wreck to be launched no more,
Will mock at thy dream and thee I

Go, dream no more of a fadeless flower

With never a cankering blight !
For the queenliest rose in thy garden-bed,
The pride of the mom, ere the noon is fled.
With the worm at its heart, withers cold and dead

In the Spoiler's fearful power !

CANADIAN POETS.

Go, dream no more ! for the cloud will rise,
And the tempest will sweep the sea;

Yet grieve not thou, for beyond the strife,

The storm, and the gloom with which earth is rife,

Gleam out the light of immortal life,

And the glow of unchangmg skies I

fift

I SHALL DEPART.

HBLBN M. JOHNSON.

When the flowers of Summer die,
When the birds of Summer fly,
When the winds of Autumn sigh,

I shall depart!

When the mourning earth receives
Last of all the faded leaves.
When the wailing forest grieves,

I shall depart I

When are garnered grain and fruit.
When all insect life is mute,
I shall drop my broken lute,

I shall depart I

When the fields are brown and bare.
Nothing left that 's good or fair,
And the hoar-frost gathers there,

I shall depart I

56 SELECTIONS FROM

Not with you, oh ! songsters, no I
To no Southern clime I go,
By a way none living know

I shall depart I

Many aching hearts may yearn,
Many lamps till midnight burn,
But I never shall return

When I depart !

Trembling, fearing, sorely tried,
Waiting for the ebbing tide,
Who, oh 1 who will be my guide.

When I depart ?

Once the river cold and black
Rolled its waves affrighted back —
I shall see a shining track,

When I depart!

There my God and Saviour passed,
He will guide me to the last;
Clinging to his merits fast,

I shall depart I

EVER WITH THEE.

ANNIE L. WALKER.

No more in darkness, trials, and temptations,
No more a waif on trouble's billowy sea.
How sweet will be the day of my abiding

Ever with Thee I

r.nh

CiftjADIAN POETS.

Bright after darkness shines the summer morning,
Bright is the sunshine when the tempests flee ;
But brighter far the home where dwell thy chosen

Ever with Thee.

Dear are the hours when those we love are near us;
Dear, but how transient must their brightness be!
That one glad day will know no sadder morrow

Ever with Thee.

Love will be there : methinks all other glories
Nothing to those enraptured souls will be,
Filled with the transport of that one assurance,

Ever with Thee.

But long jnay be the way that we must travel,
And many a dark'ning storm we yet may see,
Dread sorrows may o'erwhelm us ere we're sheltered

Ever with Thee.

Not so : thy hand, extended through the darkness,
Leadeth us on the way we cannot see
And, clasping that, e'en here we walk in safety

Ever with Thee.

SELECTIONS FR(JM

DEATH OF THE PAUPER CHILD *

HB8. J. L. LEPHOHON.

Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale !

No sobs, no grieving now :

No burning tears must thou let fall

Upon that cold, still brow ;

No look of anguish cast above,

Nor smite thine aching breast,

But clasp thine hands, and thank thy God

Thy darling is at rest.

Close down those dark-fringed snowy lids

Over the violet eyes,

Nor heed their liquid light was clear

As that of summer skies.

Is it not bliss to know whate'er

Thy future griefs and fears,

They will be never dimmed like thine

By sorrow's scalding tears !

* We remember Mrs. Lkpuohon (R. E. M.), as an interesting contributor to tlie
" Literary Garland " of former days, She lias been for many years a favourite con-
tributor in prose and verse to Canadian and American periodicals. Her poetry is
marked by simplicity and gracefulness of style, strong domestic and human sym-
pathies, and high moral sentiment. The pieces in this volume, " The Death of the
Pauper Child," and " Given and Taken," unveil deep womanly tenderness and
truth. Her achievements in prose-fiction have won her higher distinction, and
made her still more extensively known than her poetry. Her poems have never,
we believe, been published in book form. Several of her friends think it is due to
herself and to the public, to collect her fugitive pieces, and present them in a form
suitable for permanent preservation.

'0^i^^■, <, fiU^ ,

, <^

>'1

." i^.-/-4r^Uy.4A.(^ -.L^.^.^il /TTi. >^ 21^.

CANADIAN POETS.

Enfold the tiny fingers fair,
From which life's warmth has fled,
Forever freed from wearing toil —
The strife for daily bread :
Compose the softly moulded limbs,
The little waxen feet,
Spared way-side journeys long and rough,
Spared many a weary beat.

Draw close around the lifeless form,
The shreds of raiment torn,
Her only birth-right — ^just such rags
As thou for years hast worn ;
Her earthly dower the bitter crust.
She might from pity crave.
Moistened by tears — then, final gift,
A pauper's lowly grave.

Now raise thy spirit's gaze above I

Seest thou yon angel fair,

With flowing robes, and starry crown

Gemming her golden hair ?

Changed, glorified in every trait.

Still in that beauty mild,

! mourning mother, thou dost know

Thine own, thy late lost child.

Wrapped in heaven's entrancing bliss.
Veiled in its golden glow.
Still thinks she of the lonely heart
Left on this earth below.

60 SELECTIONS FROM

Courage ! — not long thy weary steps
O'er barren wastes shall roam ;
Thy darling prays the Father now
To quickly call thee home.

DREAMS OF THE DEAD.*

J. J. PUOCTKB.

Oh let me dream for awhile

Under the winter sky ;
Dream of the light of a vanished smile,

And the hope of a day gone by ;
Dream of a lovely face,

And the grace of a lovely head,
And the form that I clasped in a fond embrace —

Let me dream for awhile of the dead.

Dead ! can it be I am here

Whispering this to my heart?
Dead ! and I have not one welcome tear

To soften the inward smart !
Dead ! and I cannot pray,

For I think of my love that is gone,
And the hope that was withered in one short day,

Has blasted my h.^art to stone.

* " The Voices of the Night, and other poema," by J. J. Procter, was published
by Mr. Lovell of Montreal, in 1861. Mr. Procter's poetry evinces a cultivated taste,
and an alfluenco of fiincy that at times reminds one of Shelley or of Tennyson.
There is, however, a monotony of both style and feeling, pervading a large portion
of the book, which detracts something from its intere.st and merit. The poet'*
soul ia steeped in sorrow; and, though never commonplace, this shadow of sorrow
darkens all subjects with an intense and morbid melancholy, that becomes at length
oppressive. But in spite of these defects, this volnmo displays unmistakable poetic
feeling and power. We understand that, as yet, it has had a very limited circulation.

CANADIAN POETS.

What have T left but to dream

Of my love that is laid in her rest,
To live as I lived, for my life's years seem

But an empty dream at the best 1
Everything round is still,

And white as a new-made shroud,
From the snow-clad lea to the pines on the hill,

And the fleecy veil of the cloud.

Here on the snow I lie

Seeking a balm for care.
Looking up to the blank of the sky.

And the blue of the fathomless air.
Hark I how the chill winds wail.

And shiver and moan in their flight;
What a depth of woe in the sorrowful tale

They tell in the ear of night !

What is it that makes them sad ?

Do they miss the grace of the flowers,
And sigh for the time when their breath was glad

With the sweets of the summer hours ?
Ye do well, chill winds, to rave,

For the day of your brides has fled,
The earth lies heavy and cold on their grave.

They are dead — and she too is dead I

II.

Swoon into sleep, night,

For the air is heavy and still,
And the shimmering glance of the moonbeam's light

Comes down like a deadly chill.

62 SELECTIONS FROM

Oh sink, pale orb, in the west ;

Sink down in the west till I see
Her who lies long in her last long rest,

Waiting alone for me.

Last eve, in my dreams, the veil

Of the frost-bound earth was gone,
And I saw her lying all cold and pale

Like an angel fashioned in stone.
The glance that could give me life

Was asleep in the downcast eye ;
But the rose of thy lips, love, wife,

Was bright with a smile from on high.

How sweet was her calm repose

And the smile that told of Heaven I
No passion, no tear, no fears, no woes,

But the bliss of sin forgiven.
I heard the flakes of the snow

Fall soft through the winter air,
And the foul worm crawl from his couch below,

But I knew that her God was there.

There, in the silent grave.

Whence everything else had fled.
Was the presence of Him who had died to save,

Watching the sleep of the dead.
There was the Lord of Hosts

Guarding the rest of my sweet,
And Death, with his conqueror's pride and boasts,

Crouched down at her Father's feet.

CANADIAN POETS.

Let me dream thus again

Seeing her under the sward :
What better relief for my heavy pain,

Than to know her there with her Lord ?
Farewell for a time, dear love :

Methinks I have much to learn ;
For a strange light moves in the heavens above,

And a voice that bids me return.

SONG OF CONFIDENCE.*

HABBIBTT ANNIB WILKINS.

" I Will trust, and not bo afraid."— Bible.

My path is in the wilderness,

My way is in the desert wild.
And dreary wastes and loneliness

Mingle with rocks, in terror piled ;
Yet One has promised h6 will guide

To lands whose treasures never rust ;
I have upon his strength relied —

Can He sustain me? "I will trust 1"

My path is through the waters cold.
And billows rise on every side ;

I hear the noise where breakers rolled,
I feel their overpowering tide :

* From 'Jhb Aoacia, by Harriet Annib. A new and enlarged edition of this
volume has been just issued from the press. Miss Wilkins of Hamilton has
been fevourably known for many years as a contributor of verso to Canadian jour*
nals. She is a spirited and vigorous writer, distinguished by strong patriotic and
martial feeling; and by a deeply religious spirit, which constantly recognizes scrip-
tural piety aa the true source of strength and consolation.

' Mn. o^t*aiC»,

ifbf.

•■/tr-
.. n

^'i-i.

fif-^. ^ Um^. /fiJ-M^fP.

64 SELECTIONS PROM

A hand is on the flowing mane
Of ocean 'h chartijer — stay it must ;

One liolds the breakers' bridle-rein,

\nd can He curb them ? "I will trust !"

The noon-tide sun is high in heaven,

Its rays are bending o'er my brow ;
No streamlet 'mid this sand is given,

No green oasis near me now :
Nearer it comes — the siroc storm,

Scorching and burning is its dust;
Yet I saw one in human form,

The Good Physician—" I will trust !"

The evening cometh ; I would rest,

And in forgetfulness repose,
But rain-drops stream upon my breast,

Forbidding my worn eyes to close j
Yet 'mid the tempest's hollow moan,

The lightning's glare, the whirlwind's gust,
I surely heard a soft low tone —

I know its whisper — " I will trust 1"

As on my weary way I passed,

A bright star lit my midnight sky ;

I prized its beauty — but a blast

With heavy clouds went sweeping by :

A voice came murmuring from above,
'' Mourner, yield not to sad mistrust;

Again shall gleam that star of love,
Fond and for ever ;" " I will trust I"

CANADIAN POETS.

Oh] can it bo there wiiita on high

A uiiinsion now pivptired for mo ?
And can I boar each weary ^iigh

Until those golden gates I see ?
Can He who loves preserve from harm,

Re-animate my mouid'ring dust,
Fold me within his shelt'ring arms,

Happy for ever? " I will trust 1"

INFINITE,

ALSXANDEll M'LACHLAN.

Unbar the gates of eye and ear —
Lo ! what a wondrous world is here,
Marvels, on marvels, still appear

Infinite !

Crreat Mother from whose breast we're fed I
With thy green mantle round thee spread,
The blue vault hanging o'er thy head

Infinite!

Why wert thou into being brought ?
How were thy forms of beauty wrought ?
Thou great upheaving of a thought

Infinite I

Which scooped the vales where dew distils.
Which led the courses of the rills,
And fiixed the everlasting hills

Infinite I

66 SELECTIONS FROM

Which called from darkness bright-ey'd day.
Baptized it with a heavenly ray,
And sent it on its endless way

Infinite I

Ye waves which lash the hoary steep,
Ye mighty minds with boundless sweep,
Great coursers of the trackless deep

Infinite !

And you ye streamlets on your way,
Though laughing all the summer's day
Ye only sing, ye only say

Infinite 1

Sweet linnet singing on the lea !
Wild lark in heaven's wide azure sea I
The burden of your strain's to me

Infinite !

Lov'd violets 'neath my feet that lie,
Sweet harebells, can ye tell me why
Your beauty only makes me sigh

Infinite 1

Thou wild rose blushing on the tree,
Ye daisies laughing on the lea.
Sweet flowers, your message is to me

. Infinite 1

This dust's to 'Spirit strangely wed,
'Tis haunted ground on which we tread,
The living stranger than the dead

Infinite I

CANADIAN POETS. 67

A presence fills the earth and air,
Hands help us when we're not aware,
And eyes look on us everywhere

Infinite I

.' Earth, ocean, air, heaven's azure seal
O ye liave always been to me
A marvel and a mystery

Infinite !

Who'll take the measure or the bound f
No line of ours can ever sound
The fathomless, the great profound

' Infinite f

! could I but from self get free.
The spirit then might speak thro' me
Of all this deep, unfathom'd sea

Infinite !

UNUTTERABLE THOUGHTS.*

JOHX KEADK.

Quis prodere tanta relatu

possit r "

— Claudian.

There is a voice that never stirs the lips, —

Felt, but not heard*} that vibrates through the soul, —

A solemn music ; but no human speech

Can gkv^e that music to the ambient air.

N — .

*Mr. Readb has been for several years a poetic contributor to the Montreal
press. Uis poetry contains true poetic feeling, and is replete with promise. He at
present resides at Mascouche, C.E.- _ ,. a *a // >

68 SELECTIONS FROM

The noblest poem poot ever wrote ;
The l:)riiilitr.st pieture artist over drew;
The lol'tiest imiisie lyrist ever sunjj: ;
The li'enlK'st aceents woman ever spoke, —
Are ])ara|»lirases of a/vU oriyina/,
That lip, or i)en, or pencil, cannot show
Unto the sceinu' eye or lisleninjj,' ear.
Tlij thonuhts we utter arc hut half themselves;
Tiie poet knows this well. The artist knows
His hands bear not the burden of iiis thoujihts
UpiMi the canvas. The musician knows
His soul must over perish on his lips.
Oh, hast thou ever lovi'd ? Thou, too, canst tell
How little of thy love the air can brinj^
Unto the ear of her thou lov'st so well.
Nay, even the eye, — " the window of the soul," —
Thouuh it may shed ti Huht a little way,
Gives but a glimpse of that which burns within.

The sweet, unconscious tenderness of flowers ;
The boundless awe of star-encircled niuht ;
Thj^ear that trickles down an old nnni's cheek ;
Ocefh's l(md pulse, that makes our own beat high;
The vocal throb of a ureat multitude ;
The pause when you have heard and said, " Farewell!"
And feel the pressure of a hand that's i> >c ;
The thought that you have wronged your truest friend,
When he is sleeping in the arms of Death ;
The silent, fathomless anguish that engulfs
Him that has found the precious power to love,
And-ttees that all he loves is torn from him ;
His dying moments who is void of hope ;

CANADIAN"! POETS.

Jczcbcl ; Nero ; Judas ; any one

Of all tlu! hidoouH tliin^j^ that crawled through life

In huniiin form ; — what mortal could express

All that he feels in one or all of these,

(tiving the very image of his thought ?

Life, Death, Hell, Judgment, Resurrection, Gob ;-
Who can express their meaning ? Who can bound
Awe that is infinite in finite words ?

Thus, much of us must ever be concealed —
Spite of the high ambition to be born
Of what is noblest in us — till His breath
Who woke the morning-stars to sing their songs,
Awakes our souls to fuller utterance.

THE COMING YEAR.

JOHN F. M'DONNKLL.

I do not svccp for the bygone days,

Though they liaunt my brain with their thrilling lays ;

I do n(jt y(!arn for the hours that are o'er,

Though I treasure their sweets in Memory's store ;

Their weird perfume, like tlie winds of Spring —

Their hues as bright as a seraph's wing ;

And their beams that play round each youthful thought,

Like a, sunset glow by the mountains caught :

But why slumld I welcome the coming year,

When I. know not yet if it brings good cheer ?

70 8ELi:,CTI0NS FROM

The bygone year was a friend to me,

With its hours of pleasure light and free ;

Its summer days, and its autunm eves.

And the spells that cling to its withered leaves ;

Though its bloom soon fled, and its youth is lost, —

'Twas a dream of rest for the tempest-tossed ;

Its fruits still cluster round 3Iemory's vine,

And its wreaths through the dinmess of Age shall shine :

Then why should I welcome the coming year.

When I know not yet if it brings good cheer ?

There were smiles and tears in the shadowy Past,

But the gates of the Future are closed and fast.

Though clouds may have frowned on my pathway of old,

There were rainbow gleams on their sable fold ;

The sunshine came when the waves were still,

And the May-day smiled after winter's chill.

I strive to gaze on the unknown shore,

But the veil of the Mystic hangs before !

Then why should I welcome the coming year,

When I know not yet if it brings good cheer ?

There may be Peace in the unseen land,

And bowers of palm on its golden sand.

And flowers that blend with the morning breeze—.

And isles of beauty on waveless seas ;

Or it may be a region of death and gloom,

With a cypress grove and a gaping tomb ;

And a clime like the frozen Norland hills,

Where the spirit sinks and the bosom chilli ;

Then why should I welcome the coming year,

When I know not yet if it brings good cheer ?

CANADIAN POETS.

The festal lights from the casements shine,
And the goblets are filled with the choicest wine ;
For Mirth is the queen of the joyous throng,
With the laughter gay, and the ringing song ;
The low fond whisper of Love and Truth,
And the grasp of Friendship and manly Youth j
But why do ye rush to the arras of the new.
When the kind old friend was so good and true —
Why welcome ye thus the coming year,
When ye know not yet if it brings good cheer ?

THE SECOND ADVENT.

ANNIE L. ■WALKEE.

In the hush of the silent midnight
Shall the cry of His coming be ?

When the day of the Lord's appearing
Shall flash over earth and sea ?

Shall it be at the morning's awaking,
And the beams of the golden sun

Grow pale and be quenched for ever,
When his journey is just begun ?

We know not, we dream not, the hour ;

But we know that the time must be
When earth, with its clouds and shadows,
Will shrink, and tremble, and flee ;

*From "Leaves from the Backwoowds," published anonymously in 1861.
This volume was favourably received by the press, and a second edition was issued,
which, however, has had a very limited sale. It contains a number of pieces of
much excellence, with some that are of a more feeble aud commonplace character.

'?2 SELECTIONS FROM

Will shrink to the deepest centre,
And render before his throne,

The Jewels the Lord will gather.
The gems that He calls his own.

Then, bright in heaven's noonday splendour,
And robed like the dazzling snow,

The saints to their many mansions,
The chosen and blest, shall go.

r And songs of angelic gladness

Be borne on celestial air
To welcome the mighty gathering.

The throng, that shall enter there.

And, oh ! in that awful parting,

That day of unchanging doom,

Wlien earth shall give tip her millions,
And empty her every tomb,

May we find in the Judge a Saviour,
A Friend, whom we know and love.

And be bidden by him to enter

The courts of his house above.

VOICES OF THE PAST.

E. H. DEWART.

The last faint deam of Evening's golden light
Has softly died away : with noiseless hand
The Autumn twilight-shades enshroud from sight

Both sea and land.

<**l»^ /j^M^^W^- C4iCt^cl a^ C&^Uytiiu^ i<A.,>.^^U.a^ h-^'^fT(i?l^ /Tfi'- (SLiMiuii^'M

.^s"*-/^- ^^-'e^-hi

CANADIAN POETS.

In the hushed stillness of the darkened air, —
Like lonely echoes of the surgin<T; main, —
The Voices of the Past, with umsic rare,

Float through my brain.

Their mournful tones enchant my listening ear
Like spirit songs. They throng my soul unsought,
Rich with the hoarded gold of vanished years.

And pearls of thought.

Like winds and waves that swiftly, wildly sweep.
Freighted with treasures from some far-off clime,
They bear rich argosies across the deep,

Dark sea of time.

They tell of courtly pomp, and regal power
And fame, which now in dark oblivion lie, —
Of queenly beauty, fair as fairest flower.

Which bloomed to die ; —

Of battles fought and bloody victories won.
For selfish lust of power and hollow fame, —
Of falsehood, tyranny, and crimes which none

Can calmly name ; —

Of love, as changeless as the stars of heaven, —
Of joy that flashed, — like lightning o'er the deep, —
Leaving the soul iu rayless tempests driven

To watch and weep ; —

Of sunless paths where Doubt and Darkness lower,—
Of Superstition's black and ruthless reign, —
Of hero-faith, which gave the god-like power

To smile at pain ; —

74 SELECTIONS PROM

Of morn, unveiling truths long vainly sought,
Beaming reCulgont o'er the weary night '

Of years, gilding the hills and vales of thought

With holy light ;—

Of Freedom battling with immortal might,
Baffled and crusheil in vain, victorious still, —
Of kingly hearts, who still maintained the right

With iron will; —

Of Poet-souls whose grand immortal lays
i Float over fallen thrones and royal names ;

And some, who sang in sorrow all their days,
I Oblivion claims ; —

And ardent minds whose years of lil'e were spent
Yearning for light, for truth, and spirit-rest;
, But sought them not fron'i God, and died ut length,

8ad and unblest.

I'-i

From thy dark bosom, unrelenting Past !
These whispers of the buried years are borne, —
Mysterious sunless sea ! though deep and vast,
, Lifeless and lorn 1

No stormy winds disturb thy waveless breast, —
No starry skies dispel thine ebon gloom, —
All beauteous things, whose light and love have blessed.

There find a tomb.

Life, like a river from tli,c future, sweeps
Along its shores with melody sublime.
Bearing forever to those silent deeps

The wrecks of time.

1i!iti

CANADIAN POETS.

The wrecks of ardent love, of power and pride, —
Of hope, tliut vainly battled with despair, —
Of life, that sparkled like a mountain tide, —

Lie buried there.

Mysterious, grand, and raelanclioly Past!
Empire of death, oblivion, and decay !
Darkness shall veil thy depths, until the last

Great judgment day.

Till then thou boldest in thine iron hand
Bccords to which immortal fate is given,
Deeds that shall rise and shine at God's command.

As stars of heaven.

Unearthly Messengers, your tones remind
Of blighted blossoms of my wasted years,
Of broken vows and baffled hopes, which blind

With bitter tears.

And yet, these whispered notes of dirge-like tone
My sad and doubting heart with hope inspire,
For brighter burns, as time has onward flown,

Truth's beacon fire.

All earth-born glory dies and is forgot,
But all that Heaven's immortal founts supply,—
Truth, holy love, kind deeds, and noble thought,

Shall never die.

7H ^ SELECTIONS PROM

" AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT."

J. B. IIAKHIT.

blt'SHetl liii'ht,
Infinito iiiid supeniMl,
Gilding liro'.s close with beams of radiance bright!
blessed prouiiso,
Breathed from lips eternal,
" At evening time it shall be light 1"

In this I rest,
And dre;id no dark to-morrow.
Breaking in gloom upon a darker night ;
Henceforth I walk
Beneath no cloud of sorrow, —
" At evening time it shall be light."

No more shall death,
Like some deep-shaded curtain,
Shut darkly down upon my wondering sight ;
No longer shall I grope
My way through life, uncertain, —
" At evening time it shall be light."

I see the years
Glide on, with measured tread, unweeping —
I gaze, alike unmoved, on bloom or blight ;
For still the promise sure^
My covenant-God is keeping,
" At evening time it shall be light."

CANADIAN POETS.

I know tlic earth
Hath but a paini'ul story ;
That nrnc, wron;^ triinnplis o'er the true and right; —
But MMMi, for licr,
This lilooiii ,«h;ill cliiiiiLie to j^lory !
" At evening time it whnll bo liuht."

Earth's t'vcninii' time
Draws on, 'mid sconus of passing wonder,
Each day the powers dt' darkness gather might;
13ut (jod still reigns,
And we this precious truth may ponder, —
" At evening time it shall bo light."

Earth groans in pain
And anguish for the new creation,
She counts each moment of her lingering night, —
Waiting the promise,
Long-delayed, of hor salvation, —
" At evening time it shall be light."

I, too, look onward
To the evening time with hopeful spirit,
Its scenes of grandeur soon will greet my sight ;
I know for me,
That, trusting in my Saviour's merit,
" At evening time it shall be light."

Oh I hasten Lord,
The coming of that blessed morrow.
Whose noonday radiance shall not wane to night ;
That long-expected day.
When, darkened by no cloud of sin or sorrow,
'< At evening time it shall be light."

III

78 SELECTIONS FROM

^ntiaual mtl §tmi\)i\ve.

THE PINB OLD WOODS.

CIIAtlLKB HA.NdHTKIl.

Oh I come coinc away to tlic <i;ravc Old Woods,

Ere the skies iire tinned with lii^ht,
Ere the slmnbcrin^- leaves of the gloomy treoa
Have shook oft" the miwts of Night ;
Ere the birds arc up,
Or tlie floweret's cup
Is dr.iiiicd of its freshning dew,
Or the bubbing rill.
Kissing the hill;
Breaks on the distant view ;
Oh 1 such is the hour
To feel the power
Of the (|uict, grave Old Woods !
Then, while sluggards dream
Of some dismal theme,
Let us stroll,
With prayerful soul,
Through the depths of the grave Old Woods.

Oh I come, come away to the bright Old Woods,

As the sun ascends the skies.
While the birdlings sing their morning hymns,
And each leaf in the grove replies ;
When the golden-zoned bee
Flies from flower to tree,

CANADIAN POETS.

Seeking sweet-, for its honeyed cell,
And tlio voice of Traiso
Sounds its varied lays,
From tiic depth of each quiet dell :
Oh ! such is the hour
To feel the power
Of the magic, bright Old Woods !
Then, while sluggards dream,
Of some trifling theme,
Let us stroll.
With studious soul,
Through the depths of the bright Old Woods.

Oh 1 come, come away to the mild Old Woods,

At the Evening's stilly hour.
Ere the maiden lists for her lover's steps,
By the verge of the vine-clad bower j
Wheu all nature feels
The chan'>e that steals
So calmly o'er hill and dale.
And the breezes range
Weirdly strange,
With a low, delicious wail ;
This, too, is the hour
To feel the power
Of the silent, mild Old Woods !

Then, while dullards dream
Of some fruitless theme.
We will stroll
With thankful soul.
Through the depths of the mild Old Woods.

SELECTIONS PROM

Oh ! conic, come away to the calm Old Woods,

When the skies with stars arc bright,
And the mild Moon moves in serenity,
The eye of the solenm night.
Not a sound is heard,
Save the leaflet stirred
By the zejihyr that passes by.
And thought roams free
In its majesty,
And the soul seeks its kindred sky :
This, this is the hour
To tost the power
Of the clo((iicnt, calm Old Wo;-^ds !
While the thouizhtlcss drean:
Of some baseless theme.
Here we can stroll,
"With exalted soul,
Through the eloquent, calm Old Woods.

OUR NATIVE LAND.*

HELEX M. J0HN80N.

What land more beautiful than ours ?

What other land more blest ?
The South with all its wealth of flowers ?

The prairies of tae West ?

*Thi8 spirited ?yric is alike "cditablo to the talents, patriotism, and independence
of its autlior. Its loyalty is an intelligent attacliment, free from blind prejudice
and crouching adulation. Miss Joenson's poetry is characterized by unaffected
simplicity, genuine sensibility, often tinged by sadness, a deep sense of the insuffi-

,rT^ . 4^-wv. ^ .^. //t*»t^K^^^A^ u-,^ Jt^^i^ t4>-u^ .cJUy .

''C*Mi^4iau. \rfi'i 'iU-u^^f," a, SJ-iMit^i^^^ U^ ^■•-'^^.t. U^:Ul S/* An/r^

t/n. lr-*-U.,m.

^A^-tH- fru/r-t ^

rfu. icU*

>•/'

*\<J l*^**^!^!-**, *-V*

CANADIAN POETS. 01

no ! there's not a fairer land ; i. > r;

Beneath heaven's azure dome — i
Where Peace holds Plenty by the hand,

And Freedom finds a home. . .i :

ciency of earthly good, and ardent aspirations after the things that are unseen and
eternal. She was a native of I^ower Canada; and died at Magog, C. E., in March,
1863, after a long and painful illness, in the 29th year of her age. The love of
poetry, which early developed itself, in spite of circnmstances tlie most unpropitioae,
proved a perennial source of solace and joy, to a lilo distinguished by more than
an ordinary share of pain and sufTcring. In 185^ a small volume of her poems
was published in Boston, U.S., which, although the edition is now exhausted
never circulated extensively in Canada. Though not free from the common fault«
of youthful authorship, this volume presented unmistakable evidence of a genaino
gitt of song. She continued from that time till the period of her death to contri-
bute occasional pieces, for publication in the Slierbrooke Gazette, and other jour-
nals. Her unpublished poems, from which most of the selections in this work are
taken, exhibit a more cultivated taste, and finished style, than we find in her
published volume. Many of the pieces, among her unpublished remains, were
evidently written under the influence of suffering, with the shadow of death gra-
dually darkening hor life. The pieces in this volume, " I sJuill depart," "To a
Dandelion," and " Good Night," illustrate this. She died in triumphant hope
of immortality. The following lines, written with a pencil in her French testament,
a few davs before she died, give evidence of the clearness of her intellect, and the
strength of her faith, as she approached " the river cold and black." They were
the last she ever wrote. . . ,„ i . , i, • .

t >

Jesus, I know thou art the living Word !

Ep.ch blessed promise to myself I take ;

I would not doubt, if I had only heard

This— this alone—" I nkveb will foksakb! "

I have no fear— the sting of de"^ rh is sin,
And Clwist removed it when lie died for me:
Washed in his blood, my robe without, within,
lias not a staiu that God himself can see.

Wrapped in the Saviour's arms I sweetly lie ;
Far, far behind I hear the breakers roar;—
I have been dying— but I cease to die,
My rest begins— rejoice for evermore I

82 SELECTIONS FROM

The slave who but her name hath heard,
Repeats it day and night j —

And envies every little bird

That takes its northward flight I

As to the Polar star they turn
Who brave a pathless sea, —

So the oppressed in secret yearn,
Dear native land for thee I

Ho " many loving memories throng
Round Britain's stormy coast 1

Renowned in story and in song,
Her glory is our boast 1

With loyal hearts we still abide
Beneath her sheltering wing ; —

"^Tiile with true patriot love and pride
To Canada we cling I

We wear no haughty tyrant's chain, —
We bend no servile knee,

Wlien to the mistress of the main
We pledge our fealty 1

She binds us with the cords of love, —

All others we disown ;
The rights we owe to God above.

We yield to him alone.

May He our future course direct

By his unerring hand ;
Our laws and liberties protect.

And bless our native land I

CANADIAN POETS. 83

JACQUES CAETIER.*

HON. T. D. M'QBB.

In the sea-port of Saint Malo 'twas a smiling morn in May,
When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed away ;
In the crowded old Cathedral all the town were on their knees
For the safe return of kinsmen from the undiscovered seas ;
And every autumn blast that swept o'er pinnacle and pier
Filled manly hearts with sorrow, and gentle hearts with fear.

A year passed o'er Saint Malo — again came round the day
When tlie Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed away ;
But no tidings from the absent had come the way they went,
And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent ;
And manly hearts were filled with gloom, and gentle hearts with

fear,
When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year.

But the earth is as the Future, it hath its hidden side,

And the Captain of Saint Malo was rejoicing in his pride

In the forests of the North — while his townsmen mourned his loss,

He was rearing on Mount-Royal the fleur-de-Us and cross;

And when two months were over and added to the year,

Saint Malo hailed him home again, cheer answering to cheer.

He told them of a region, hard, iron-bound and cold.
Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold.

•Mil. BIoGke is better known to the Canadian public as an orator, a historian, and
a politiciiin, tlian us a poet. Thougli bis poetry as a wliole is scarcely equal to what
his literary reputation in other departments might lead us to expect, yet many of
the pieces iu the " Canadian Ballads" have Iho true ballad spirit and riug.

84 SELECTIONS FROM

Where the wind from Thult^ freezes the word upon the lip,
And the ice in spring comes sailing athwart the early ship ;
He told them of the frozen scene until they thrill'd with fear,
And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make them better cheer.

But when he chang'd the strain — ^he told how soon is cast ' • '
In early Spring the fetters that hold the waters fast; i -

How the Winter causeway broken is drifted out to sea.
And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the free; '
How the magio wand of Summer clad the landscape to his eyes.
Like the dry bones of the just, when they wake in Paradise.

He told them of the Algonquin braves — the hunters of the wild,

Of how the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child ;

Of how, poor souls, they fancy in every living thing

A spirit good or evil, that claims their worshipping;

Of how they brought their sick and maim'd for him to breathe upon,

And of the wonders wrought for them thro' the Gospel of St. John.

11 :l,

He told them of the river, whose mighty current gave

Its freshness for a hundred leagues to ocean's briny wave ; • ■■ <•

He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight,

What time he reared the cross and crown on Hochelaga's height,

And of the fortress cliff that keeps of Canada the key.

And they welcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils over sea.

THE DYING SUMMER.

▲NNIB T.. WALKKK,

Gently, sadly, the summer is dying-—

Under the shivering, trembling boughs,
With a low soft moan, the breeze is flying —

CANADIAN POETS. 8^

The breeze, that was once so fresh and sweet,
Is passing as swift as Time's hurrying feet,
And where the withered roses are lying,
The beautiful summer is surely dying. '• '

Gently, sadly, the waves are sighing.

The leaves are mourning that they must fall;
And the plaintive waters keep replying,
They miss the light that has decked them long ;
They have caught the last bird's farewell song ;
And lowly they murmur, from day to day,
" The beautiful summer is passing away."

■ ■ • ■ ' ' ' •■•.,•,':'';

Oently, sadly, the moon reclining . ., ,,

High on her throne of azure and gold, ;; '
With wan clear light, o'er the world is shining :
Wherever she turns there are tear-drops shed.
They will gleam, till the chilly morn is breaking.
And the flowers with their last pale smiles are waking.

■ •'•'■'
Wildly, sadly, the night wind swelling, ,

Chants a measure weird and strange,

Hark ! of the coming storm he is telling,

And the trembling life, that was almost gone,

Flickers and shrinks at the dreaded tone, , . , ,.

And scarcely lingers wherOj lowly lying, i; . ;•

The tender and beautiful summer is dying, , ,; ' . !| .'

•'3

86 SELECTIONS FROM

A CANADIAN SUMMERS-NIGHT.*

( With special emeridatiojia, by the author, for the present work.)

B. J. CHAPMAM.

The purple shadows dreaminj^ly
Upon the dreaming waters lie,
And darken with the darkening sky.

Calmly across the lake we float,

I and thou, my little boat —

The lake, with its grey mist-capote.

We lost the moon an hour ago :
We saw it dip, and downward go,
Whilst all the west was still a-glow.

But in those blue depths, moon-forsaken,
A planet pale its place hath taken ;
And one by one the stars awpken.

* We feel assured that our readers will a<rrpe with us, that there is a peculiar
charm in this tranquil and picturesque description of " A Canadian Summer's
Night," 80 rich with Canadian imagery and associations. There is a vein of quiet,
tender feeling running through the poem, which, like a golden thread on which
these images and incidents are strung, gives unity to tlie whole ; while the intense
sympathy of the poet with the " witchery" of Kature, in her summer life, bears u*
along with him and gives a rare vividness and attraction to his descriptions.
PBOFE88on Chapman's " Song of Charity" unmist.ikably discloses true poetic
power. We regret that the plan of the i)oem and of this work, alike preclude our
placing any fair specimen of it before our readers.

/m>r|

CANADIAN POETS. 87

II.

With noiseless paddle-dip we glide
Along the bay's dark-fring(id side,
Then out, amidst the waters wide I

With us there floated here last night

Wild threatening waves with foam-caps white,

But these have now spent all their might.

We knew they would not injure us,
Those tossing waves, so boisterous —
And where is now their fret and fuss ?

Only a ripple wrinkleth now

The summer lake — and plashes low

Against the boat, in fitful flow.

III.

Still callest thou, thou Whip-poor-Will I
When dropped the moon behind the hill
I heard thee, and I hear thee still.

But mingled with thy plaintive cry
A wilder sound comes ebbing by,
Out of the pine-woods, solemnly.

It dies — and then from tree to tree
Deep breathings pass, and seem to be

The murmurs of a mighty sea.

But hark ! The owl's cry comes anew-
Piercing the dark pine-forest through,
With its long too-hoo, too-hoo I

S8 . SELECTIONS FROM

ly.

Swifter and swifter, on we go; • ' ' '
For though the breeze but feigns to blow,
Its kisses greet us, soft and low. ' ■■■ '

But with us now, and side by side, ' •
Striving awhile for place of pride,
A silent, dusky form doth glide.

Though swift and light the birch-canoe.
It cannot take the palm from you.
My little boat, so trim and true.

"Indian! where away to-night ?" '

" Homewards I wend : yon beacon light

Shines out for me — good night 1 " " Good night!"

Shorewards again we glide — and go
Wliere the sumach shadows flow
Across the purple calm below. " •' ■

There, hidden voices all night long ■

Keep up, the sedgy creeks among, •
The murmurs of their summer song — ■

A song most soft and musical — ■ '
Like the dulled voice of distant fall,
Or winds that through the pine-tops call.

And where the dusky swamp lies dreaming.
Shines the fire-flies' fitful gleaming —
Through the cedars — dancing, streaming!

CANADIAN POETS. 8^

VI.

Who hides in yonder dusky tree,
Where but the bats awake should be,
And with his whistling mocketh mo ?

Such quaint, quick pipings — two-and-two :

Half a whistle, half a coo :

Ah, Master Tree-Frog, gare-ill-Yous 1

The owls on noiseless wing gloom by

Beware, lest one a glimpse espy

Of your grey coat and jewelled eye —

And so, good night ! — We glide anew
Where shows the lake its softest blue,
With mirrored star-points sparkling through.

•- VII. ■ ■ ■ . 'i-

The lights upon the distant shore
That shone so redly, shine no more :
The Indian-fisher's toil is o'er.

And deepening in the eastern skies,
Where up and up new stars arise, '

A pearly lustre softly lies.

Thy witchery waneth. Fare-thee-well,
Summer Night I Thy tender spell
Within my dreams long time will dwell— '

And paint, in many a distant scene,

The lake — the shore — the forfist green,

" The marks of that which once hath been."

SELEOTIONS FHOM

VIGER-SQUAllE.

OEUHOK MARTIN.

Here in this quiet garden shade,
Whose blossoms spread their bloom before md^

The world's gay cheats, — Life's masquerade,

Like evil ghosts from memory fade,

And calm and holy thoughts come o'er me.

Ambrosial haunt ; the orient light

Falls golden on thy soft seclusion ;
And like the lone and shadowy night.
Grim care, abashed, has taken flight,

And joys gleam forth in rich profusion. •*

These odorous flowers that feast the bee,

Those mimic fountains sunward leaping,
And yon red rowans on the tree,
That bring my childhood back to me.

With hallowed scenes of Memory's keeping.

All these, and more, with beauty clad.

Invite the City's weary mortals —
The pale-faced maid, the widow sad,
And sinking merchant, growing mad,

To muse within these peaceful portals.

Here is the stone that sages sought,

Here the famed lamp of blest AlLadden ;
Objects that tell ambitious thought,
" All that thy greed hath ever caught

Cannot like us, console and gladden."

cu^ c«-*-/C(tf»? .;«. /*o t/lu/ / i.^u.0 f[<ip €ii^-t A'xuii- o 4tn^ tv /eixy ^*^ f&< /WA^

CANADIAN POETS. 91

THE CHAUDII:RE falls. . r

Evermore, loud as thunder the welkin that rends,
Haxk that anthem sublime which to Heaven ascends !
Those dark crags in its path seem to quiver with fear ;
They may well dread the shock of the mighty Chaudi^re !

The pround conqueror's might is the boast of a day ;
Thine, river majestic I cndureth for aye.
Strange thought, that just thus upon Time's infant ear
Came the God-speaking voice of the mighty Chaudi^re.

Though, for lips uninspired, it seems almost a crime
To be aught else than mute by a scene so sublime;
Could I paint as I feel while I gaze on it here.
How immortal in song were the mighty Chaudi^re !

BVAN M'COLL. 1;

Where the Ottawa pours its magnificent tide L
Through forests primeval, dark-waving and wide,

There's a scene that for grandeur has scarcely a peer, \

'Tis the wild, roaring rush of the mighty Chaudidre. i

On, onward it dashes — an ocean of spray ; I

How madly it lashes the rocks in its way I j

Like the onset of hosts, when spear breaks against spear, j

Is th' omnipotent sweep of the mighty Chuudiiire, i

SELECTIONS TROM

BRITANNIA.

ALBXANDBR M'LACHLAN.

All hail, my country ! hail to thee,
Thou birthplace of the brave and free j
Thou ruler upon land and sea: ; ... ...

,; ,, ...i- Britannia I, , .

No thing of change, no mushroom state ;
In wisdom thou cans't work and wait ;
Or wield the thunderbolts of Fate :

Britannia!

Oh, nobly hast thou play'd thy part ;
What struggles of the head and heart
Have gone to make thee what thou art,

Bri^uniat

•,'/
n

A'.

\ f

What tho' thy manners „-ay be gruff,

Thy native virtues rude and rough ; . ,^; ;•,.!';

Yet is thy heart the sterling stuff, ,• , ; :1!

Britannia! ..,:.

■ I , .• ' >

Great mother of the mighty dead I

Sir Walter sang, and Nelson bled,

To weave a garland for thy head, ; .'■',!

Britannia! , ,"

And Watt, the great magician, wrought, i?

And Shakespeare ranged the realms of thought,
And Newton soared, and Cromwell fought,
Britannia !

CANADIAN POETS.

And Milton's high seraphic art,
And Bacon's head and Burns' heart,
Are glories that shall ne'er depart,
• ■' Britannia 1 ' '

These are the soul of thy renown ;
The gems immortal in thy crown ;
The suns that never shall go down —

""'' ' -•'' "■"• Britannia!

Still lie thy path in truth divine,
Held sacred by thy seal and sign; i
And power and glory shall be thine,
. Britannia I

• BROCK.

CHARLES BANoeTBB.

'"' ' (Oct. 13th, 1869.*)

One voice, one people, — one in heart
And soul, and feeling, and desire !
Re-light the smouldering martial fire,
Sound the mute trumpet, strike the lyre.
The hero deed cannot expire,

The dead still play their part.

Raise high the monumental stone!
A nation's fealty is theirs.
And we are the rejoicing heirs.
The honored sons of sires whose cares
We take upon us unawares.
As freely as our own.

* The day of the inauguration of the new Monument on QueenBton Ueighta.

)

94 SELECTIONS FBOM

We boast not of the victory,

But render homage, deep and just,
To his — to their — immortal dust,
Who proved so worthy of their trust
No lofty pile nor sculptured bust
Can herald their degree.

No tonr need blazon forth their fame —
Tiiv cheers that stir the sacred hill
Arc but mere promptings of the will
That conquered then, that conquers still ;
And generations yet shall thrill
At Brock's remembered name.

Some souls are the Hesperides

Hciiven sends to guard the golden age,
Illuiuing the historic page
With records of their pilgrimage ;
True Miirtyr, Hero, Poet, Sage :
And he was one of these.

Each in his lofty sphere sublime

Sits crowned above the common throng,
Wrestling with some Pythonic wrong,
lu prayer, in thunder, thought, or song ;
Briarcus-limbed, they sweep along,
The Typhous of the time.

CANADIAN POETS.

11^ MEMORIAM OF OCTOBER 26, 1854.

Written on the occasion of the Balaklava Festival,

I "

JOHN BBADB.

OL ! say not that the chivalry,

That our brave fathers led
To noble deeds of bravery,

In us their sons is dead I
For the same blood that leaped of yore,

Upon the battle plains
Of Crescy and of Agincourt,

Still leaps within our veins.

The times are changed ; the arts of peace
Are cherished more than then,

But until wars for ever cease,
Our country shall have men

To draw the sword for country's good.
To battle for the right,

To shed their heart's best drop of blood
In many a hard fought fight.

All honour to the gppd and brave

Who fought in davs of old,
And shame upon the sordid knave

Whose heart 's so dull and cold.
As not to feel an honest glow

Of patriotic pride.
When he is told that long ago

Such heroes lived and died.

SELECTIONS PROM

But here, to-night, we meet to tell,

Around the festal board, < > i ; i • ■ '

Of those, who, to oppression quell,
As bravely drew the sword.

Who blenched not at the thought of death,
But at their country's cull.

Were willing to resign their breath ■'■'-■''

Unto the Lord of all. '

/->••••.-' '■■■■ .'.■,■■■■ ••■ii;! / ;

And some are here with us to-night, '

Who, on that glorious day, ; ^'

For God's and for a nation's right,

Fought in that bloody fray ;
Who, fearless, mid the cannon's din,

Charged with that hero-band.
That with their own heart's-blood did "win

Fame for their native land.

But some beneath the Eastern sun

Have found a warrior's rest ;
The land on which their fame was won,

Has clasped them to her breast.
And many a heart has sorrowed long

For those that never come ; , , , ,

But God, the God of battles, strong,

Will give their souls a home.

■ ''
Then let us to their memory give,

A grateful, manly thought.

And, if we prize them, let us live

As nobly as they fought ; ^

CANADIAN POETS.

Each life is but a battle field,

The Wrong against the Eight,
Then think, when Right to Wrong would yield,.

Of Balaklava's fight.

THE HIGHLAND EMIGRANT'S LAST FAREWELL.*

(For Music.)

BVAir M'( DLL.

Adieu my native land — adieu

The banks of fair Lochfyne,
Where the first breath of life I drew,

And would my last resign !
Swift sails the bark that wafteth me

This night from thy loved strand :
must it be my last of thee,

My dear, dear Fatherland 1

Scotland ! o'er the Atlanticiroar,

Though fitted to depart,
Nor time nor space can e'er efface

Thine image from my heart.

•This piece has the truo lyrical ring. The deep sensibility, condensed thought,
«nd soul-stirring patriotism of this short ode, would alone vindicate Mr. McCoU's
right to the title of a true bard. The " Mountain Minstrel," as lie is called in his
nati\re land, is much more eytonsively known as a poet in Scotland, than in
Canada. Ho ha? the peculiar fortune of having won distinction by his lyrics, both
in Gaelic and English. A prominent place has been assigned him in MacKenzie's
" Beauties of Gaelic Poetri/, ani Lioes of the IFighland Bards." And his poetry luu
been spoken of in term? of warm admiration by several eminent British critioa.
Ke was born in Scotland in 1303, but has resided in Kingston or many years put.

98 BELEOTIONS FBOM

Come weal, come woe — till life's last throe,
My Highland Home shall seem

An Eden bright in Fancy's light,
A Heaven in Memory's dream 1

Land of the maids of matchless grace,

The bards of matchless song.
Land of the bold heroic race

That never brook'd a wrong !
Long in the front of nations free

May Scotland proudly stand :
Farewell to thee — farewell to thee.

My dear, deax Fatherland 1

HOME-SICK STANZAS.

HON. T. D. H'aSB.

Twice had I sailed the Atlantic o'er,

Twice dwelt an exile in the west ;
Twice did kind nature's skill restore

The quiet of my troubled breast —
As moss upon a rifted tr«^e,

So time its gentle cloaking did.
But though the wound no eye could see,

Deep in my heart the barb was hid.

I felt a weight where'er I went —
I felt a void within my brain ;

My day-hopes and my dreams were blent
With sable threads of mental pain j

CANADIAN POETS.

My eye delighted not to look
On forest old or rapids grand ;

The stranger's pride I scarce could brook,
My heart was in my own dear land.

Where'er I turned, some emblem still
Roused consciousness upon my track ;

Some hill was like an Irish hill,

* Some wild bird's whistle called me back ;

A sea-bound ship bore off my peace,
Between its white, cold wings of woe ;

Oh, if I had but wings like these.

Where my peace went, I too would go.

OUR OWN BROAD LAKE.*

THOMAS M'QUKVN.

We cannot boast of high green hills,
Of proud bold cliffs, where eagles gather-
Of moorland glen and mountain rills.
That echo to the red-bell'd heather.

♦Mr. McQueen was extensively known through Canada West both as a poet and
an editor. He died in July, 1861. The following is extracted flrom a tribute to his
memory, written by W. W. Smith, Esq., editor of the Owen Sound Times, and
published in that paper at the time of his death.

" Mr. McQueen, before his emigration to Canada, was somewhat known in Scot^
land as a Poet. Three little volumes, published between 1886 and 1850, were to
well received, that they have run thro' three editions each. While finding much to
commend in his poetry, we cannot help regretting it took so political a turn ; and
that Nature, the inexhaustible field of the rural poet, was only courted at inter-
vals. Some twelve years ago, Mr. McQueen commenced the publication of the
Signal newspaper at Goderich. Afterwards, he removed to Hamilton, and

100 SELECTIONS FROM

We cannot boast of mouldering towers,
Where ivy clasps the hoary turret —
Of chivalry in ladies' bowers —
Of warlike fame, and knights who won it —
But had we Minstrel's Harp to wake,
We well might boast our own broad lake I

And we have streams that run as clear,
O'er shelvy rocks and pebbles rushing —
And meads as green, and nymphs as dear,
In rosy beauty sweetly blushing —
And wo have trees as tall as towers,
And older than the feudal mansion —
And banks besprent with gorgeous flowers.
And glens and woods with fire-flies glancing,—
But prouder, loftier boast we make.
The beauties of our own broad lake.

The lochs and lakes of other lands.

Like gems, may grace a landscape painting ;

Or where the lordly castle stands,

May lend a charm, when charms are wanting ;

But ours is deep, and broad, and wide,

With steamships through its waves careering;

•tkrted a Reform journal, the Canadian. Not apparently succeeding bo well in
Hamilton aa at Goderich, ho recommenced the Signal at the latter place. Mr,
McQueen was a vigorous writer, and a forcible tliough not a polished speaker
Some of his Canadian pieces in verse, which are not numerous, are very beautiful
Of these, we remember " Our own broad Lake," and others. He entered heartily
though too late in life to effect much with his own pen, into the plans of those who
were and are seeking to established and build up a native literature among lu
Some years ago, he ended an editorial on the subject, with the earnest appeal,
'< Will nobody write a few songs for Canada?"—" Owen Sound Tlmoa," July, 1861

CANADIAN POETS.

And far upon its ample tide,
The barque its devious course is steering;
While hoarse and loud the billows brake
On islands of our own broad lake I

Immense, bright lake ! I trace in thee
An emblem of tlie mighty ocean ;
And in thy restless waves I see
Nature's eternal law of motion ;
And fancy sees the Huron Chief
Of the dim past, kneel to implore thee —
With Indian awe he seeks relief.
In pouring homage out before thee ;
And I, too, feel my reverence wake.
As gazing on our own broad lake 1

I cannot feel as I have felt.

When life with hope and fire was teeming ;

Nor kneel as I have often knelt

At beauty's shrine, devoutly dreaming.

Some younger hand must strike the string,

To tell of Huron's awful grandeur :

Her smooth and moonlight slumbering,

Her tempest voices loud as thunder ;

Some loftier lyre than mine must wake,

To sing our own broad gleaming lake 1

101

CANADA, t-

*■ PAMELIA 8, VINING.

Pair land of peace ! to Britain's rule and throne
Adherent still, yet happier than alone,
And free as happy, and as brave as free.
Proud are thy children, — justly proud, of thee : —

102 SELECTIONS FROM

Thou hast no streams renowned in classic lore,
No vales where fabled heroes moved of yore,
No hills where Poesy enraptured stood,
iio mythic fountains, no enchanted wood ;
But unadorned, rough, cold, and often stem.
The careless eye to other lands might turn.
And seek, where nature's bloom is more intense,
Softer delights to charm the eye of sense.

But we who know thee, proudly point the hand
Where thy broad rivers roll serenely grand —
Where, in still beauty 'neath our northern sky,
Thy lordly lakes in solemn grandeur lie —
Where old Niagara's awful voice has given
The floods' deep anthem to the ear of heaven-
Through the long ages of the vanished past ;
Through Summer's bloom and Winter's angry blast,—
Nature's proud utterance of unwearied song,
Now, as at first, majestic, solemn, strong,
And ne'er to fail, till the archangel's cry
Shall still the million tones of earth and sky^
And send the shout to ocean's farthest shore : —
<Be hushed ye voices I — time shall be no more I'

Few are the years that have sufiiced to change
This whole broad land by transformation strange.
Once far and wide the unbroken forests spread
Their lonely wastes, mysterious and dread —
Forests, whose echoes never had been stirred
By the sweet music of an English word,
Where only rang the red-browed hunter's yell,
And the wolf's howl through the dark sunless dell.

OANADIAlf POETS. * 103

Now fruitful fields and waving orchard trees
Spread their rich treasures to the summer breeze.
Yonder, in queenly pride, a city stands,
Whence stately vessels speed to distant lands ;
Here smiles a hamlet through embowering green,
And there, the statelier village-spires are seen ;
Here by the brook-side clacks the noisy mill,
There, the white homestead nestles to the hill ;
The modest school-house here flings wide its door
To smiling crowds that seek its simple lore ;
There, Learning's statelier fane of massive walls
Woos the young aspirant to classic halls ;
And bids him in her hoarded treasures, find
The gathered wealth of all earth's gifted minds.

Here too, we see, in primal freshness still,
The cool, calm forest nodding on the hill,
And o'er the quiet valley, clustering green,
The tall trees linked in brotherhood serene.
Feeding from year to year the soil below.
Which shall, in time, with golden harvests glow,
And yield more wealth to Labor's sturdy hands
Than fabled Eldorado's yellow sands.

Where once, with thund'ring din, in years bygone,
The heavy waggon labored slowly on.
Through dreary swamps by rudest causeway spanned,
With shaggy cedars dark on either hand —
Where wolves oft howled in nightly chorus drear,
And boding owls mocked the lone traveller's fear —
Now, o'er the stable Rail, the Iron-horse
Sweeps proudly on, in his exultant course,

104

SELEOTIONS FROM

Bearing, in his impetuous flight along,
The freighted car with all its living throng,
At speed which rivals in its onward flight
The bird's free wing through azure fields of light.

Wealth of the forest — treasures of the hills —
Majestic rivers, — fertilizing rills, —
Expansive lakes, rich vales, and sunny plains,
Vast fields where yet primeval nature reigns,
Exhaustless treasures ."^f the teeming soil —
These loudly call to enterprising Toil.

Nor vainly call. From lands beyond the sea.

/ Strong men have turned, Canada 1 to thee, —

Turned from their fathers' graves, their native shore,
Smiling to scorn the floods' tempestuous roar,
Gladly to find where broader, ampler room
Allured their steps, — a happy Western home.

The toil-worn peasant looked with eager eyes
O'er the blue waters, to those distant skies ;
AVhere no one groaned 'neath unrequited toil ;
Where the strong laborer might own the soil
On which he stood ; and, in his manhood's strength,
Smile to behold his growing fields at length ; —
Where his brave sons might easily obtain
The lore for which their father sighed in vain.
And, in a few short seasons, take their stand
Among the learned and gifted of the land.

Could ocean-barriers avail to keep

That yearning heart in lands beyond the deep ?

;

CANADIAN POETS.

No ! — the sweet vision of a home — ^his own,
Haunted his days of toil, his midnights lone ;
Till, gath'ring up his little earthly store,
Boldly he sought this far-off Western shore ;
In a few years to realize far more
Than in his wildest dreams he hoped before.

We cancot boast those skies of milder ray,
'Neath which the orange mellows day by day ;
Where the Magnolia spreads her snowy flowers,
And Nature revels in perennial bowers ; —
Here, Winter holds his long and solemn reign,
And madly sweeps the desolated plain ; —
But Health and Vigor hail the wintry strife,
With all the buoyant glow of happy life ;
And by the blazing chimney's cheerful hearth,
Smile at the blast 'mid songs and household mirth ;

Here, Freedom looks o'er all these broad domains,
And hears no heavy clank of servile chains j
Here man, no matter what his skin may be.
Can stand erect, and proudly say, I'm free !' —
No crouching slaves cower in our busy marts.
With straining eyes and anguish-riven hearts.

The beam that gilds alike the palace walls
And lowly hut, with genial radiance falls
On peer and peasant, — but the humblest here
Walks in the sunshine, free as is the peer.
Proudly he stands with muscle strong and free,
The serf — the slave of no man, doomed to be.
His own, the arm the heavy axe that wields ;
His own, the hands tha i; till the summer fields ;

105

106 SELECTIONS PROM

His own, the babes that prattle in the door ;
His own, the wife that treads the cottage floor ;
All the sweet ties of life to him are sure ;
All the proud rights of manhood are secure.

Fair land of peace ! — may'st thou ever be
Even as now the land of liberty !
Treading serenely thy bright upward road,
Honored of nations, and approved of God I
On thy ftiir front emblazoned clear and bright —
Freedom, Fraternity, and Equal Right !

SONG FOR CANADA.

CHARLES SAN03TBB.

Sons of the race whose sires
Aroused the martial flame,

That filled with smiles

The triune Isles,
Through all their heights of fame !
With hearts as brave as theirs,
With hopes as strong and high.

We'll ne'er disgrace

The honored race
Whose deeds can never die.
Let but the rash intruder dare

To touch our darling strand,
The martial fires
That thrilled our sires

Would flame throughout the land.

CANADIAN POETS.

Our lakes are deep and wide,

Our fields and forests broad ;
With cheerful air
We'll speed the share,

And break the fruitful sod ;

Till blest with rural peace.

Proud of our nistio toil,
On hill and plain
True kings we'll reign,

The victors of the soil.
But let the rash intruder dare
To touch our darling strand,
The martial fires
That thrilled our sires

Would light him from the land.

107

Health smiles with rosy face

Amid our sunny dales,
And torrents strong
Fling hymn and song

Through all the mossy vales ;

Our sons are living men.

Our daughters fond and fair ;
A thousand isles
Where Plenty smiles,

Make glad the brow of Care.
But let the rash intruder dare
To touch our darling strand,
The martial fires
That thrilled our sires

Would flame throughout the land.

108 SELECTIONS PROM

And if in future years

One wretch should turn and fly,
Let weeping Fame
Blot out his name

From Freedom's hallowed sky ;

Or should our sons e'er prove

A coward, traitor race, —
Just heaven ! frown
In thunder down,

T 'avenge the foul disgrace !
But let the rash intruder dare
To touch our darling strand,
The martial fires
That thrilled our sires

Would light him from the land.

THE FOREST.

{From " Son^ of Charity.")

B. J. CHAPMAN.

The Forest's faery solitude.
The violet's haunt be mine :
Where call the free in merry mood
From dawn till day's dcline !
All gentle creatures gather there
From leafy nest and mossy lair :
The little snakelet, golden and green.
The pointed grass glides swift between ;
And there the quaintrcycd lizards play
Throughout the long bright summer-day-

CANADIAN POETS.

109

Under tjie leaves in the gold sun-rain,

To and fro, they glc.ini and pass,

As the soft wind stirs the grass

A moment, and then sleeps again.

And there, the noontides, dream the deer

Close couchiid, where, with crests upcurled,

The fragrant ferns a forest rear

Within the outer forest- world.

And many a petalled star peeps through

The ferny brake, when breathe anew

The soft wind-pantings. And there too.

The hare and the tiny leveret

Betake them, and their fears forget —

Lazily watching with soft brown eye

The laden bees go sailing by,

With many a bright-winged company

Of glittering forms that come and go.

Like twinkling waves in ceaseless flow,

Across those dreamy depths below.

And high above ou the bending bough.

Its gush of song unloosens now

Some forest-bird. Wild, clear, and free

Up-swells the joyous melody

In proud, quick bursts : and then, anon,

In the odorous silence, one by one

Tho thick notes drop, but do not die :

For through the hush, the soul keeps on

With a music of its own —

So runs the forest minstrelsy !

One other sound there soundcfh only

Out of the distance dim and lonely :

110 8ELE0TIONS FROM

Out of the pine-depths, murmuring ever,

Floweth tlie voice of the flowing river :

" Hither" — so seemeth it — " Hither, ye!

Whose toil is over, whose task is done,

Whose soul the wearisome world would shun —
CoTue hither to me !"

THE RAPID

CHARLES BAMaSTEB.

All peacefully gliding,

The waters dividing,
The indolent batteau moved slowly along,

The rowers, light-hearted,

From sorrow long parted.
Beguiled the dull moments with laughter and song :
'* Hurrah ior the Rapid! that merrily, merrily
Gambols and leaps on its tortuous way ;
Soon we will enter it, cueerily, cheerily,
Pleased with its fre&hnes, , and wet with its spray."

More swiftly careering.

The wild Rapid nearing.
They dash down the stream like a terrified steed ;

The surges delight them.

No terrors affright them.
Their voices keep pace with the quickening speed :
" Hurrah for the Rapid ! that merrily, merrily
Shivers its arrows against us in play ;
Now we have entered it, cheerily, cheerily,
Our spirits as light as its feathery spray."

CANADIAN POET&.

Fast downward they're dashing,
Each fearless eye flashing,
Though danger awaits them on every side ;
Yon rock — see it frowning I
They strike — they are drowning !
But downward they speed with the merciless tide :
No voice cheers the Rapid, that angrily, angrily
Shivers their bark in its maddening play ;
Gaily they entered it — heedlessly recklessly,
Mingling their lives with its treacherous spray !

FALL.

IBIOORK a. A8CHER.

I hear the sobbing rain,

As if the Heavens weep at Autumn's breath :
I see the leaves of summer fall again,

Their beauty changed in death.

The idle wind is still,

A spectral vapor haunts the barren earth ;
Upon our teeming joys there comes a chill —

The chill of Winter's dearth.

What if the tinted woods

With outward loveliness are gay and fair,
As if around them blushing Summer broods,

Yearning to linger there !

What if their beauteousness

At death's cold touch is strangely glorified !
Their leaves will crumble soon to nothingness,

Or else be swept aside.

112 SELECTIONS FROM

Their change is type of all,

The hectic loveliness forbodes decay,

Steeped with a dying glow before they fall
To mingle with the clay.

All that we love and prize,

Changeth like leaves upon our toilsome way ;
Man's hoarded wealth, but dust before his eyes,

Passing, like life, away.

leaves and blossoms, fall I

An after-life shall rise from out the gloom ;
The Autumn mists are but the outward pall.

That hides perennial bloom.

children of decay 1

Swept by the blast and trodden by the rain,
Your scattered dust shall eloquently say,

That naught will fall in vain.

THE MAPLE.

BEV. H. V. DARNBLL, H.A.

All hail to the broad-leaved Maple !

With its fair and changeful dress —
A type of our youthful country

In its pride and loveliness ;
Whether in Spring or Summer,

Or in the dreary Fall,
'Mid Nature's forest children.

She's fairest of them all.

CANADIAN POSTS.

Down sunny slopes and valleys

Her graceful form is seen,
Her wide, umbrageous branches

The sun-burnt reaper screen ;
'Mid the dark-browed firs and cedars

Her livelier colors shine,
Like the dawn of a brighter future

On the settler's hut of pine.

She crowns the pleasant hill top,

Whispers on breezy downs,
And casts refreshing shadows

O'er the streets of our busy towns ;
She gladdens the aching eye-ball,

Shelters the weary head,
And scatters her crimson glories

On the graves of the silent dead.

When Winter's frosts are yielding

To the sun's returning sway.
And merry groups are speeding

To sugar-woods away.
The sweet and welling juices.

Which form their welcome spoil,
Tell of the teeming plenty

Which here waits honest toil.

113

When sweet-voiced Spring, soft-breathing,

Breaks Nature's icy sleep,
And the forest boughs are swaying

Like the green waves of the deep ;

114 SELECTIONS FROM

In her fair and budding beauty,

A fitting emblem she
Of this our land of promise,

Of hope, of liberty.

And when her leaves, all crimson.

Droop silently and fall.
Like drops of life-blood welling

From a warrior brave and tall.
They tell how fast and freely

Would her children's blood be shed.
Ere the soil of our faith and freedom

Should echo a foeman's tread.

Then hail to the broad-leaved Maple

With her fair and changeful dress —
A type of our youthful country

In its pride and loveliness ;
Whether in Spring or Summer,

Or in the dreary Fall,
'Mid Nature's forest children:

She's fairest of them all.

ill

CANADA'S WELCOME.

HSLEX. M. JOHNSOK.

A nation's hearty welcome take,
■ Heir to a mighty throne ;
Thrice welcome ! for old England's sake,
Thy mother's, and thine own.

CANADIAN POETS.

From crowded street, from hillside green,

From fair Canadian vales,
The prayer goes up^God bless the Queen I

God bless the Prince of Wales I

The rich and poor, the great and small

Their voices join as one ;
Victoria's name is dear to all,

So is Victoria's Son.

Their tribute other queens have laid

Upon the land and sea;
But never earthly monarch swayed

So many hearts as she.

And for her young and gallant heir

A kindred love prevails j
God hear a nation's fervent prayer I

God bless the Prince of Wales I

115

INDIAN SUMMER.*

MBS. HOODIB.

By the purple haze that lies
On the distant rocky height,

By the deep blue of the skies,
By the smoky amber light.

*Mr8. Moodie is too extensirely known to the Canadian public, to require any
notice from our pen. Although much better Icnown as a writer of prose, than as
a poet, yet many of her poems display great naturalness and purity of style, and a
genuine love of Nature in her varied phases, which qualifies her to describe natural
scenery with graphic truthfulness. Thiu vivid description of Indian Summer will
call up to the mind of every Canadian reader, those tranquil autumn days, " when
Nature on her throne sits dreaming."

-e. fiu^ccu. /Til ■ (*u^<. w

^*-<Wvt>y, P-i^i^^^C-r-^" /i^Chv-u'^-

zrhl

*4^ c^ t)U. f

;i^*<-**»^. fTit- %4^^^ -U^

C^>-...fc^»^l

I ta C<sv>. « .(i«

6U<kjU^ vt.fL./'itALt^".

116 8ILE0TI0NS FROM

Through tho forest archcH streaming
Where Nature on her throne nits dreaming,
And the sun is scarcely gleaming,

Through tho cloudlets, snowy white,—
Winter's lovely herald greets us,
Ere tho ice-crowned tyrant meets us —

A mellow softness fills the air, —
No breeze on wanton wing steals by,

To break the holy quiet there.
Or makes the waters fret and sigh,

Or tho golden alders shiver.

That bend to kiss the placid river.

Flowing on, and on forever,

But the little waves are sleeping,
O'er the pebbles slowly creeping,
That last night were flashing, leaping,

Driven by the restless breeze,

In lines of foam beneath yon trees —

Dressed in robes of gorgeous hue.

Brown and gold with crimson blent ;
The forest to the waters blue

Its own enchanting tints has lent ; —
In their dark depths, life-like glowing,
We see a second forest growing,
Each pictured leaf and branch bestowing
A fairy grace to that twin wood,
Mirror'.d within the crystal flood.

'Tis pleasant now in forest shades ; —
The Indian hunter strings his bow,

CANADIAN POETS.

To track through dark entangling glades
The antler'd deer and bounding doe,—
Or launch at night the birch canoe,
To spear the finny tribes that dwell
On sandy bank in weedy cell,
Or pool the fisher knows right well —
Seen by the red and vivid glow
Of pine-torch at his vessel's bow.

This dreamy Indian-summer day,

Attunes the soul to tender sadness j
We love — but joy not in the ray —

It is not Summer's fervid gladness,
But a melancholy glory

Hovering softly round decay.
Like swan that sings her own sad story,

Ere she floats in death away.

The day declines, what splendid dyes,

In fleckered waves of crimson driven,
Float o'er the saff"ron sea that lies
Glowing within the western heaven t
it is a peerless even I
See the broad red sun has set,
But his rays are quivering yet
Through Nature's veil of violet,-^
Streaming bright o'er lake and hill ;
But earth and forest lie so still,
It sendeth to the heart a chill.
We start to check the rising tear,
'Tis beauty sleeping on her bier—

117

118 SELECTIONS FROM

THE LAKE OF THE THOUSAND ISLES.

(For Music.)

EVAN M'OOLL.

Though Missouri's tide majestic may glide,

There's a curse on the soil it laves ;
The Ohio too, may be fair, but who

Would sojourn in a land of slaves ?
Be my prouder lot a Canadian cot,

And the bread of a freeman's toil ;
Then hurrah for the Land of the forests grand,

And the Lake of the Thousand Isles I

I would seek no wealth at the cost of health,

'Mid the city's din and strife ;
More I love the grace of fair Nature's face.

And the calm of a woodland life :
I would shun the road by Ambition trod,

And the lore which the heart defiles ; —
Then hurrah for the Land of the forests grand,

And the Lake of the Thousand Isles I

away, away, I would gladly stray

Where the freedom I love is found ;
Where the Pine and Oak by the woodman's stroke

Are disturb'd in their ancient bound :
Where the gladsome swain reaps the golden grain,

And the trout from the stream beguiles;
Then hurrah for the Land of the forests grand,

And the Lake of the Thousand Isles I

CANADIAN POETS.

119

THE THOUSAND ISLANDS.

OHARLEB BAKQSTEB.

Here the Spirit of beauty keepeth

Jubilee for evermore ;
Here the voice of gladness leapeth,

Echoing from shore to shore.
O'er the hidden watery valley,

O'er each buried wood and glade,
Dances our delighted galley,

Through the sunlight and the shadi
Dances o'er the granite cells.
Where the soul of beauty dwells :

Here the flowers are ever springing.

While the summer breezes blow ;
Here the Hours are ever clinging,

Loitering before they go ;
Playing around each beauteous islet.

Loath to leave the sunny shore, ^

Where, upon her couch of violet, ^^ *t''tj ' *!!, i^^^

Beauty sits for evermore —
Sits and smiles by day and night.
Hand in hand with pure Delight.

Here the Spirit of beauty dwelleth

In each palpitating tree,
In each amber wave that welleth

From its home beneath the sea ;
In the moss upon the granite,

In each calm, secluded bay,

^/UiU«- •v'<-j

120 SELEOTIONS FROM

With the zephyr trains that (jin it

With their sweet breaths all the day —
On the waters, on the shore,
Beauty dwelleth cvcrnjovc I

APPROACH TO QUEBEC.

W. KlUBV.

At length they spy huge Tounnent, sullen-browed,
Bathe his bald forehead in a passing cloud ;
The Titan of the lofty Capes that gleam
In long succession down the mighty stream.
When lo ! Orleans emerges to the sight,
And woods and meadows float in liquid light :
Rude Nature dofl's her savage mountain dress,
And all her sternness melts to loveliness.
On either hand stretch fields of richest green,
With glittering village spires and groves between ;
And snow-white cots adorn the fertile plain.
Where grazing flocks or distant moving wain,
Or human figure, though but half descried,
Pour life upon the landscape far and wide.

Now passed the Island portal ; opens free
A glorious bay, fair as a summer sea ;
Where boats and birds expand their mingled wings,
And many a princely ship at anchor swings.
While the reclining shore's immense concave
Of fields and gardens, drinks the crystal wave,
And sweeps away, till round th' horizon seen,
Enfolding hills, the beauteous vision screen.

CANADIAN POETS.

Afar, Quebec exalts her crest on hipjh,
Her rocks and battlements invade the sky ;
The pride of Canada, her 8trenfi;th and head ;
England's assurance and Columbia's dread.
Her rampired rock appears 'mid nature's charms,
Like Mars reposing in fair Venus' anns,
His ponderous spear with flowery garlands hung,
Peace in his eye and friendship on his tongue.

Softly the king of day reclining, spreads
His mantle o'er the crispi^d stream, and sheds
His slantant rays, rich as the golden shower
That ushered Jove into the Argive bower.
'Neath rows of trees the whitened houses stand,
The fisher's boats lie basking on the strand ;
The light caleche speeds o'er the dusty road.
And peasants tradge beneath their market load.

0, glorious sight I as golden sunset showers
Athwart the long-drawn walls and lofty towers ;
Corruscant rays play round the cross topped spires
And gild each salient point with shimmering fires.
Half screened 'mid countless masts, an endless maze
Of quays and roofs spring from the watery haze ;
While on the Bay's broad bosom, far and wide,
The anchored fleets of commerce proudly ride.
Huge cliff's above, precipitous that frown.
Like Atlas bend beneath another town,
Where all along the grey embrasured steep
In grim repose the watchful cannon peep.
Tall spires, and domes, and turrets shine afar
Behind the arcliM gates, and mounds of war,

121

122 SELECTIONS PROM

While proud Cape Diamond towers above them all,
With aerial glacis and embattled wall ;
Till on the loftiest point where birds scarce rise,
Old England's standard floats amid the skies.

( glorious spot ! The Briton's boast and pride.
Where armies battled and where heroes died,
Where gallant Wolfe led his devoted band,
Rejoiced in death, and waved his dying hand ;
'Mid cheers of Victory rung from side to side,
The hero smiled content, and calmly died.
Though few his years and young his lofty fame.
With greenest garlands, England crowns his name.
And on her roll of glory, proudly reads
The eternal records of his mighty deeds.
And noble Montcalm I well thy honoured bier
May claim the tribute of a British tear.
Although the lilies from these ramparts fell.
Thy name, immortal with great Wolfe's shall dwell :
Like him, the consciousness of duty done.
Soothed thy last pang, and cheered thy setting sun.

THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM.

CHARLES SANOSTBB.

I stood upon the Plain,

That had trembled when the slain
Hurled their proud, defiant curses at the battle-heated foe,

When the steed dashed right and left,

Through the bloody gaps he cleft.
When the bridle-rein was broken, and -the rider was laid low.

CANADIAN POETS.

123

What busy feet had trod

Upon the very sod
Where I marshalled the battalions of my fa ly to my aid !

And I saw the combat dire,

Heard the quick, incessant fire.
And the cannons' echoes startling the reverberating glade.

I heard the chorus dire,

That jarred along the lyre
On which the hymn of battle rung, like surgings of the wave.

When the storm, at blackest night,

Wakes the ocean in aifright,
As it shouts its mighty pibroch o'er some shipwrecked vessel's
grave.

I saw the broad claymore
Flash from its scabbard, o'er
The ranks that quailed and shuddered at the close and fierce
attack ;
When Victory gave the word,
Auld Scotia drew the sword,
And with arm that never faltered drove the brave defenders
back.

I saw two great chiefs die.

Their last breaths like the sigh
Of the zephyr-sprite that wantons on the rosy lips of mom;

No envy-poisoned darts.

No rancour, in their hearts.
To unfit them for their triumph over death's impending scorn.

And as I thought and gazed,
My soul, exultant, praised

124 SELECTIONS PROM

The Power to whom each mi<?hty act and victory are due,
For the saint-like Peace that smiled
Like a heaven-gifted child,

And for the air of quietude that steeped the distant view.

Oh, rare, divinest life

Of peace, compared with Strife !
Yours is the truest splendor, and the most enduring fame ;

All the glory ever reaped

Where the fiends of battle leaped.
Is harsh discord to the music of your undertoned acclaim.

ALMA.

ANNIE L. WALKEB.

There comes a murmur o'er the sea of mingled joy and woe,
From where, Alma ! stained with blood, thy rapid waters flow ;
The shout of triumph blends with sobs of anguish, stem and deep,
Yet love and pride have mighty power to comfort those who weep.

And we, who, wand'ring far from home, in distant lands abide,
Forget not those who on thy banks have nobly fought and died ;
The hope and flower of each fair land together, foes no more,
Brothers in death lie side by side, upon thy fated shore.

The laurels, planted in our hearts and watered by our tears,
Shall live to mark their honoured graves through many passing years ;
And though the land in darkness lie their resting place around,
Yet, where they sleep^the brave and free — is consecrated ground.

kM:

CANADIAN POETS.

125

Rejoice, England ! 'mid thy tears, rejoice to hear it told
How well thy sons maintained tho fame their fathers won of old ;
To show the world that Peace may shed her blessings o'er the land,
Nor weaken one courageous heart, nor rear one feeble hand.

And thou, fair France ! e'en by the bier where sleeps thy gallant

chief,
Let joy and exultation find a place amid thy grief;
Nobly he fills a soldier's grave, although not in the strife,
But worn by sickness long endured, he yielded up his life.

Oh, may the memory of the hearts grown cold by Alma's shore.
Draw closer yet the bands of love between us evermore ;
England and France, together joined, resistless in the fight,
May conquer still for those oppressed, may still defend the right.

THE TWOFOLD VICTORY.

CHABLBB BANOSTBR.

By the famous Alma River

Knelt a Warrior, brave and young,
Through his veins ran Death's cold shiver,

On his lips his last breath hung ;
Far above him rolled the battle.

Downward rolled to Alma's wave.
Downward, through the crash and rattle,

Came the cheering of the brave.

" Comrades," said he, rising slowly.
Kneeling on one bended knee,

" Comrades," said he, feebly, lowly,
" Is that cheer for Victory ?"

126 SELECTIONS PROM

« Yes I— they fly !— the foe is flying 1"
"Comrades," said he, ardently,

" Cheer for me, for I am dying,
Cheer them on to Victory ! "

By that blood-encrimsoned River

Cheered they with a martial pride,
Death's last shaft had left its quiver,

And the Warrior, smiling, died.
Faintly his last cheer was given.

Feebly his last breath went free,
And his spirit passed to Heaven

On the wings of Victory I

THE SOLDIER OF AUVERGNE.

HIBS H. A. WILEINB.

'Twas midnight, and the soldier took

His lone and quiet march ;
The moon's bright rays fell gloriously

Upon the forest arch ;
And through that forest's dreary gloom,

Full twenty leagues away.
The army of the enemy

Waited the dawn of day.

The watcher listened, for he heard
The wild-wolf's dismal howl,

A crashing of the underbrush
Betrayed his wary prowl ;

CANADIAN POETS.

127

Yet where the branches thickest weave,

The soldier took his way ;
He started — for a band of foes

Had seized him as their prey.

He was a captive — one strong hand

Upon his lips did lie,
While in hoarse whispers rung their words,

" Betray us and you die."
Warm love was nestling at his heart.

Warm life was in his veins.
One dream of love, of life, of home,

One dream of captive chains.

'Twas but a moment, and he thought

Of those who slept around,
Safe and secure while he kept watch

Upon the sentry ground.
'Twas but a moment, and a flush

Passed o'er his cheek and brow ;
His voice rang on the midnight air,

" Auvergne ! Auvergne ! the foe !"

The swords that in the moonlight shone

Upon his bosom rushed ;
And from the dauntless soldier's heart

Life's streamlets quickly gushed.
Yet ere his beaming eye was closed,

He saw his brethren's lance ;
Trampling down bush and brake, he heard

The cavalry of France.

128 SELECTIONS FROM

He felt strong arms around him placed,

Ho saw their princely train ;
A nation's thanks were in his cars, —

He had not died in vain.
They laid him, while tlio host pursued

The fast retreatin<jf foe,
Beneath that glorious flag for which

He laid himself so low.

1 may it be that when, if e'or,

So dire a fate we claim,
And througli our country loud resounds

War's fearful, shuddering name —
Then may our hearts and households yield

Then may our foemen learn,
We have such hearts as sleep beneath

The banner of Auvergne.

THUNDER-STORM IN AUGUST,*

W. KIRBY.

But when fierce August suns careering high
Gaze hot and silent from the brazen sky ;
When bird and beast forsake the open glade
And pant all mute within the sultry shade ;
When not a breath doth stir the lightest leaf;
And springs and brooks dried up deny relief;

• " The U. E., a Tale of Upper Canada," published at Niagara in 1869, though
not firee lYom occasional bad rhymo, and inharmonious lines, contains some
striking descriptions of Canadian scenery, seasons, and life, and many passages of
much spirit and force.

CANADIAN POETS.

While Nature lies exhausted in the throes
Of parching thirst the sharpest of her woes ;
Then lo ! a small dark cloud all fringed with red,
Above th' horizon lifts its liquid liead ;
Surveys the scene, and larger grows to view,
While all the legions of the storm pursue.
The muttering thunder with unceasing din
Proclaims the strife of elements within ;
And lurid flashes flood the murky clouds.
As faster on they follow, crowds on crowds.

Eclipsed the sun, his fires at once allayed,
Falls o'er the quaking earth, a dreadful shade ;
A thousand birds aloft in terror rise.
And seek the safest haunts, with piercing cries :
The leaves, they tremble in the breathless woods
And sighing trees confess th' approaching floods.
At once 'mid clouds of dust and flying leaves
The whirlwind sweeps aloft the scattered sheaves ;
Sharp lightning rends the black and marble skies
And thousand-voiced the pealing thunder flies.
The shattered boughs upon the tempest ride ;
And rocking forests groan from side to side ;
While cataracts of rain in deluge pour,
And sweep the smoking land with ceaseless roar.

The wild tornado passes, and the sun
With golden rays peeps through the clouds of dun,
Green Nature glistens, and the piping bird
Within the dripping grove is fluttering heard ;
While down the steaming gullies furrowed wide
The rushing waters pour on every side,

129

130 BELE0TI0N8 PROM

And earth refreshed, emerges from the storm
With smiling luce and renovated form.
So oft in human life, when Fortune's blaze
Makes men forgetful of their Maker's praise;
Observe kind Providence with holy iro
Send on that man its purifying fire,
Reverses, poverty, disease and death,
To stay corruption's foul contagious breath,
To keep alive the spark of truth within,
Purge off the brute and cleanse the pitchy sin.

FROST ON THE WINDOW.

MRS. B. A. FAULKMBB.

There's not a thing that Nature's hand hath made,
However simple be its outward seeming,
To careless eye or listless ear displayed.

But hath a hidden meaning.

Alike, unto the Saint's or Atheist's ear
The anthem of the woodland choir is given ;
One hears "the lurk," what doth the other hear?
A hymn of praise to heaven.

The glowing rainbow steals its silent march
Athwiirt the sky when rain-drops gem the sod,
One sees three gorgeous hues in Heaven's arch,
And one — the law of God.

CANADIAN POETS.

131

The winter moon was shininj; coldly bright:
The birds and leaves had loft the trees together,
Save here and there, one, that on some lone height
Still braved the bitter weather.

And o'er the window crept the hoary frost,
With many a wayward freak and curious antio.
In varied lines, that quaintly blent and crossed
In tracery romantic.

Here, bloomed a wreath of pure pale flowers,
As hueless as the faded cheek of death ;
There, rose tall pinnacles and Gothic towers,
That melted with a breath.

And trees and foliage rich — the dinted oak.
The willow, wan and still, like settled grief,
The hazel, easy bent, but hardly broke,
And varying maple leaf —

— That changes still its greert or crimson hue
With every season, autumn, spring or summer,
A sycophant which wears a livery new,
To welcome each new comer.

The gentle moonbeam kissed the silvery pane
With a most sister-like and chaste caress,
As if it fain a fellowship would claim,
With such pure loveliness.

And still more beautiful, the magic ray
Made all it rested on, leaf, flower and tree,
. And lingered there, like innocence at play
With stainless purity.

132 SELECTIONS FROM

Oh beautiful it was to watch them there,
Those varied forms, so gracefully fantastic,
The handiwork, so delicately fair.
Of Nature's fingers plastic.

And as I gazed, methought such sights were given
Not to our gross material senses solely.
But to the soul, like messengers from Heaven,
Prompting pure thoughts and holy.

There's not a thing that Nature's hand hath made,
However simple be its outward seeming.
To careless eye or listless ear displayed,
But hath a hidden meaning.

SNOW.

JENNIK E. HAIOHT.

Snow — snow — L. '■ iialling snow !
Snow on the house-tops — snow in the street-
Snow overhead, and snow under feet —
Snow in the country — snow in the town,
Silently, silently sinking down ;
Everywhere, everywhere fast-falling snow,
Dazzling the eyes with its crystalline glow I

Snow — snow — ^beautiful snow !
How the bells ring o'er the fresh-fallen snow I—
How the bells ring, as the sleighs come and go t

CANADIAN POETS.

133

Happy-heart voices peal out on the air, '

Joy takes the reins from the dull hand of care ;
Singing and laughter, and innocent mirth,
Seem from this beautiful snow to have birth.

Pure, pure, glittering snow 1
Oh ! to look at it and think of the woe
Hidden to-night 'neath this mantle of snow I
Oh ! but to think of the tears that are shed
Over the snow-covered graves of the dead I
Aye, and the anguish more hopeless and keen,
That yearneth in silence o'er what might have been t

Snow — snow — chilling, white snow !
Who, as he glides through the bustling street,
Would care to follow the hurrying feet,
Crushing beneath them the chilling white snow —
Bearing up fiercely their burden of woe.
Till, weary and hopeless, they enter in.
Where food and fire are the wages of sin ?

Snow — snow — wide-spreading snow !
No haunt is so cheerless, but there it can fall,
Like the mantle of charity, covering all :
Want, with its suffering, — sin, with its shame,
In its purity breathing the thrice blessed name
Of One who, on earth, in sorrow could say —
" The sinning and poor are with you alway."

Oh, brothers, who stand secure in the right,—
Oh, sisters, with fingers so dainty-white, —
Think, as you look on the fast-falling snow —

134 SELECTIONS FROM

Think, as you look at the beautiful snow,
Pure, pure, glittering snow — chilling white snow —
Think of the want, and the sin, and the woe,
Crouching to-night 'neath the wide-spreading snow !

Give of your plenty to God's sufF'ring poor,
Turn not the lost one away from your door :
For his poor He prepareth blest mansions on high ;
Rich in faith, they inherit bright crowns in the sky.
The lost ones, though sunken never so low,
Christ's blood can make them all whiter than snow,
Pure, pure, glittering snow, beautiful snow.

SUNSET SCENE.

PAUELIA 8. YINIMO.

The glorious sun behind the western hills

Slowly in gorgeous majesty retires.
Flooding the founts and forests, fields and rills,

With the reflection of his golden fires.
How beauteous all, how calm, how still,
Yon star that trembles on the hill !
Yon crescent moon that raises high
Her beaming horns upon the sky.

Seem bending down a loving glance
From the unclouded skies.

On the green earth that far away
In solemn beauty lies ;
And, like sweet Friendship in affliction's hour.
Grow brighter still the more the shadows lower.

CANADIAN POETS.

135

AUTUMN.

JAMES M'CAHROLL.

The ripe fields are scattered in eddies of gold
On the verge of the forest that's kindling apace ;
And the orchards that dapple the wide-spreading wold,
Through their loopholes of leaves — as we pause to behold-
Flash their beautiful, festival lamps in our face.

And the amber, coned pear, with the pcachis flushed ball,
And the sunny-cheeked apple that's crimsoned all o'er.
Blends with pleiads of grapes, that in purple showers fall
Over many a green-muflled trellis and wall,
With a thousand bright fancies and dreams at their core.

And its coralline clusters the mountain ash shakes,
Till they rattle in fiery hail to the ground ;
While the briar's red candles are lit in the brakes,
Where the robin besprinkled with glory awakes,
Thrilling out his sweet soul to the echoes around.

And the honey-veined maple, beginning to flout
In the chill morning breadth of the sudden-winged blast,
Soon its deep scarlet leaves shakes so ruthlessly out,
That like clouds of dead butterflies float ^ about,
They proclaim to the landscape, that summer is past.

IN THE WOODS.

REV. JOHN MAY, M.A.

I it is sweet, on summer morn.
When flowers the grassy mead adorn,
To wander in the wild wood glen.
The thicket shade, the quivering fen ;

136 SELECTIONS FROM

To climb the heights and see the spray
Dash'd on the face of toying day ;
To hear the distant waters roar,
Or gather pebbles on the shore ;
To start the hare, or, with your cur,
To know the partridge by its whirr ;
To hear on some tall bough the dove
Utter the soft complaint of love ;
Whilst mocking squirrel on lofty limb
Defies you to get up to him ;
The chipmonk, too, in nimble style,
Darts tim'rously to the stony pile, —
Sits temptingly a moment there,
Then vanishes into his lair ;
Or if, perchance, his house should be
Beneath the root of some tall tree,
He quick descends with sudden squeak ;
For him your dog begins to seek :
First snuiFs awhile, then tears away
The leaves, the rubbish, and the clay,
With many a howl and rapid scratch.
Intent the little scamp to catch :
Perhaps, while thus engaged, his prey
Makes his escape some other way.
Leaving his foe to dig with pain —
As better folks have done — in vain ;
But should the perservering brute
Find him at last beneath the root
The hapless little creature's fate
Is far too mournful to relate !

CANADIAN POETS. 137

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

B. H. DEW ART.

Ere yet I saw the wild magnificence,
Which Nature here witli peerless pomp unveils,
A solemn sound — a stem and sullen roar —
By which the earth was tremulously thrilled,
Awoke a flush of deep expectant joy,
Quickening the pulses of my throbbing heart,
And tingling thro' my veins like fire. But here.
Standing upon this rocky ledge, above
The vast abyss which yawns beneath, gazing
In silent awe and rapture, face to face
With this bright vision of unearthly glory,
Which dwarfs all human pageantry and power,
To me this spot is Nature's holiest temple.
The sordid cares, the jarring strifes, and vain
Delights of earth are stilled. The hopes and joys
Which gladden selfish hearts are nothing here.

The massy rocks that sternly tower aloft,
And stem the fury of the wrathful tide —
Th' impetuous leap of the resistless flood,
An avalanche of foaming curbless wrath —
The silent hills, God's tireless sentinels —
The wild and wondrous beauty of thy face.
Which loam and spray enshroud from sight, as if.
Like thy Creator, God, thy glorious face
No mortal eye may see unveiled and live —
Oh 1 what are noblest works of mortal art,
Column, or arch, or vast cathedral dome,
To these majestic foot-priuts of our God I

138 SELECTIONS PROM

Unique and peerless in thy radiant might,
Earth has no emblems to portray thy splendor ;
Not e'en the bard of Paradise could sing,
All that thy grandeur whispers to the heart
That feels thy power. No words of mortal lips
Can fitly speak the wonder, reverence, joy, —
The wild imaginings, intense and yet serene.
Which now, like spirits from some higher sphere
For whom no earthly tongue has name or type.
Sweep through my soul in waves of surging thought.
My reason struggles with a vague desire
To plunge into thy boiling waves, and blend
My being with thy wild sublimity.
As thy majestic beauty sublimates
My soul, I am ennobled while I gaze,
Warm tears of pensive joy gush from my eyes,
And grateful praise and worship silent swell
Unbidden from my thrilled and ravished breast :
Henceforth this dream of beauty shall be mine —
Daguerreotyped forever on my heart.

Stupendous power ! thy thunder's solemn hymn,
Whose voice rebukes the shallow unbeliefs
Of men, is still immutably the same.
Ages ere mortal eyes beheld thy glory,
Thy floods made music for the listening stars,
And angels paused in wonder as they passed :
Thousands, who here have once enraptured stood,
Forgotten lie in death's lone dreamless sleep ; ~
And when each beating heart on earth is stilled,
Thy tide shall roll, unchanged by flight of years.
Bright with the beauty of eternal youth.

CANADIAN POETS.

139

Thy face, half-veiled in rainbows, mist and foam,

Awakens thoughts of all the beautiful

And grand of earth, which stand through time and change

As witnesses of God's omnipotence.

The hoary mountain, stern in regal pride,

The birth place of the avalanche of death —

The grand old forests, through whose solemn aisles

The winter winds their mournful requiems chant —

The mighty rivers rolling to the sea —

The thunder's peal — the lightning's awful glare —

The deep, wide sea, whose melancholy dirge,

From age to age yields harmony divine —

The star-lit heavens, magnificent and vast.

Where suns and worlds in fadeless splendor blaze

All terrible and beauteous things create
Are linked in holy brotherhood with thee,
And speak in tones above the din of earth,
Of Him unseen, whose word created all.

God of Niagara ! Fountain of life !

At whose omnific word the universe

Arose ; whose love upholds all worlds, and guides

Each orb in its mysterious path through space ;

Around whose throne the Morning-Stars of light

Bend low in wondering adoration, or

With lofty hymns of love and joy proclaim

Thy power and grace, boundless — immutable I

I, a poor erring worm of earth, a child

Of sin, am all unworthy to behold

This faint reflection of thy glorious power ;

How then can I approach thy holy throne ?

Or dare to breathe in thine offended ear,

140 SELECTIONS FROM

The wants and woes of my polluted heart ?
Father of mercy, hear my trembling prayer !
To me let love and light divine be given,
To guide my erring feet in paths of truth,
And purify my dark and sin-stained heart ;
That while I muse upon thy glorious works,
And mark the tokens of thy presence here,
I may behold Thyself, and find in Thee
My Strength, my Light, my everlasting Friend.

SUNSET.

J. F. M'DONNELL.

'Tis joy to gaze upon the west,
Where sinks the glorious sun to rest,
Upon the sleeping ocean's breast —

In purple even.
When crimson clouds are backward rolled.
Like some gay banner's broidered fold.
From the wide arch of shaded gold —

As bright as heaven.

The splendor of the evening rays

Upon the rippling water plays,

Far brighter than the jewel's blaze —

Or rich gem's glory.
The Island summit crowned with pines.
Bathed in its gay tints far outshines
The lustre of all fabled shrines —

In song or story.

CANADIAN POETS.

And gently still the twilight fades,
Beneath the twisted old oak's shades,
And the dim forest's leafy glades —

Are sunk in shadow.
But lingering last the faint grey light
Withdraws its ray — once dazzling bright —
From mountain's crest and rocky height—

From hill and meadow.

Thus when we glide unto our rest^
may it be when in the west —
The sunset gilds the ocean's breast —

In purple even.
When crimson clouds are backward rolled
From the wide arch of shaded gold,
On some such eve may we behold —

One glimpse of heaven 1

141

MAY.*

t^-

ALBXANDKR M'LAOHLA»,

sing and rejoice I
Give to gladness a voice ;

Shout, a welcome to beautiful May !
Rejoice with the flowers,
And the birds 'mong the bowers.

And away to the green woods, away.

• There is in this poem a dancing, sparkling gladness, strikingly in keeping with
the exuberant joyousness of the season and scenery it describes. In the introdao-
tion to this work, we have expressed our liigh estimate of Mr. McLnohlan's genius.
It is no empty laudation to call him the " Burns of Canada." In i» . umour, in

142 SELECTIONS PROM

0, blithe as tlic fawn,
Let us dance in the dawn

Of this life-n;iving glorious day.
'Tis bright as the first
Over Eden that burst;

welcome, young joy-giving May.

The cataract's horn
Has awakened the luorn.

Her tresses are dripping with dew ;
hush thee and hark !
'Tis her herald the lark

That is singing afar in the blue ;
Its happy heart's rushing,
In strains mildly gushing,

That reach to the revelling earth,
And sink through the dcfitsks
Of the soul, till it leaps

Into raptures far deeper than mirth.

natural pathos, in graphic portraiture of character, ho will compare favorably with
the great peasant bard ; while, in moral grandeur and beauty, he frequently strikea
higher notes than ever echoed from the harp of Burns. Those who vill be most for-
ward to question the propriety of any comparison between Burns and McLachlan,
will be just those whom strong national and educational prejudice disqualify for
exercising an impartial judgment. 3Ir, McL. has published, at intervals, three-<^'-
small volumes of poems. The last of these, " The Emigrant and other poem,"
especially, exhibits poetic power oi a high order. But in spite of qualities that
justly entitled it to a warm recei)tion, and an extensive sale, we learn with regret,
that it was so shamefully neglected, that its publication involved the author in
financial embarrassment, from which he is not yet Ihlly free. But pioneers, in all
departments of activity, must expect to suflTer. Mr. McLachlan was born in Scot-
land, in 1820; and resides at present at Erin, near Guelph. Last year he was
appointed by the government to lecture in Great Britain on the advantages of
emigrating to this country. lie acquitted himself in this mission with great
efSciency, for he has the gifts of an orator as well as those of a poet.

CANADIAN POETS.

143

All Nature's in keeping,

The live streania are leaping,
Aud laughing in gladness along ;

The greit hills are heaving;

The dark clouds are leaving;
The valleys have burst into song.

We'll range through the dells

Of the bonnie blue-bells,
And sing with the streams on their way ;

We'll lie in the shades

Of the flower-covered glades,
And hear what the primroses say.

crown me with flowers,

'Neath the green spreading bowers.
With the gems and the jewels May brings ;

In the light of her eyes,

And the depth of her dyes.
We'll smile at the purple of kings !

We'll throw off our years,

With their sorrows and tears.
And time will not number the hours

We'll spend in the woods,

Where no sorrow intrudes,
With the streams and the birds, and the flowers.

NOVEMBER— A DIRGE.

J. R. RAMSAY.

The old oak tree is dying.
The storm-tanned branch of centuries is bare.
The bark is riven from the trunk, and lying.

(Oo-Y-

'9i

rnh-t,$i.

144 8ELE0TIONS FROM

Distant and near ;
The last fair robo of summer leaves is flying,
Withered and sear.

Departing wild birds gather
On the high branches, ere they haste away,
Singing their farewell to the frigid ether,

And fading day,
To sport no more on withered mead or heather ;

No longer gay.

And sullenly assuming
His throne, to vindicate the summer past,
Stern Autumn stops the thunder's distant booming,

And lightning's blast ;
While from the north the dreary clouds are coming,

Sombre and vast.

The little cricket's singing.
Sounds lonely in the crisp and yellow leaves.
Like by-gone tones of tenderness up-bringing

A thought that grieves :
A bell upon a ruined turret ringing

On Sabbath eves.

The " tempest-loving raven,"
Pilot of storms across the silent sky.
Soars loftily along the heaving heaven,

With doleful cry,
Ut'ring lone dirges. Thistle-beards are driven

Where the winds sigh.

CANADIAN POETS. \'i^

And yot here is a flower

Still lingering, by the changing season spared^

And a lone bird within a leafless bower-
Two friends, who dtircd

To share the shadows of misfortune's hour,
Though unprepared.

THE FISHERMAN'S LIGHT.

A BONO OF TBK BACKWOODS.
UVLB. MOODIB,

The air is still — the night is dark —
No ripple breaks the dusky tide,
From isle to isle the fisher's bark,
Like fairy meteor, seems to glide —
Now lost in shade — now flasning bright,
On sleeping wave and forest tree,
We hail with joy the ruddy light.
Which far into the darksome night
Shines red and cheerily.

With spear high poised and steady hand,
The centre of that fiery ray,
Behold the skilful fisher stand.
Prepared to strike the finny prey —
" Now, now 1" the shaft has sped below-
Transfixed the shining prize we see,
On swiftly glides the birch canoe —
The woods send back the long halloo
In echoes loud and cheerily !

146 SELECTIONS FROM

Around yon bluff whose pine crest hides
The noisy rapids from our sight,
Another bark — another p;lides —
Red spirits of the murky night —
The bosom of the silent stream
With mimic stars is dotted free,
The tall woods lighten in the beam,
Through darkness shining cheerily.

TO AN OWL.

JOHN MA88IE.

Hoot awa hoolet, alane on the tree,
Hoot awa, bird 1 are you hooting at me ?
Or is it a change in the weather you bring ?
Or do you rejoice in the birth o' the Spring?
Or wailing the past sadly mourn o'er thy lot,
Till the depths of the forest re-echo thy note ?

When the music of birds and the humming of bees
Are hushed on the breast of the evening breeze ;
When Nature is laid in the lap of Repose,
And Harmony reigns in the bosoms of foes;
When the world is asleep, and the last ray of light
Is swept from the earth with the besom of night, —
You are seen on the wing — though we cannot well see.
For thy daylight is darkness, mine darkness to thee ;
You are seen on the wing, by the pale moonlight
To flit like a ghost on the shadoi^ of night.
Or perched on a tree are heard nightly to croon.
Thy sorrowful tale to the wanderinj, mora.

CANADIAN POETS.

child of the night ! cease to echo along
The mournful " too-whoo" of thy midnight song,
Or the sprites of the night will assemble to hear,
Or tliC elfs o' thii wood will be caught in a tear.
Do you mourn in sad numbers a lover's disdain,
Or pour out thy passion in amorous strain ?
Oh surely thy notes are the language of care,
Commingled with tenderness, love and despair.
Mayhap the sole friend of thy bosom has fled.
And left thee to wail o'er the bones of the dead ;
Or the feathering brood, that so often were pressed
With a motherly tenderness close to thy breast.
Have fled thee ungrateful, and. left thee to mourn
O'er thy woes and thy sorrows alone and forlorn.

147

Hoot awa, hoolet, thy song on the tree
Is wae to my saul, and is tears to my e'e.
For my lot may be dark, and like thee I may mourn
Over joys that have fled and can never return j
Forsaken by friends, and forgotten by foes,
I may sink in the arms of unconscious repose,
May read the last lesson of life's rugged page
With no one to soothe in the sorrows of age.

child of the night I on thy sentinel tree.
Why not take a lesson of patience from thee ?
Why weep o'er the transient woes of a day ?
For though dark be my youth, yet my end may be calm.
And the evening of light bathe my sorrows in balm.
And the spirit, long pent in this casket of clay,
Spread its pinions aloft, and go smiling away.

148 SELECTIONS FROM

WHIP-POOR-WILL

ALEXANDEK M'LACHLAN.

There is a lonely spirit

Which wanders thro' the wood,
And tells its mournful story

In every solitude ;
It comes aDi'oad at eventide

And hangs beside the rill,
And murmurs to the ear of night

" Whip-poor-will."

Oh 'tis a hapless spirit

In likeness of a bird,
A grief that cannot utter

Another woeful word,
A soul that seeks for sympathy,

A woe that won't be still,
A wandering sorrow murmuring

" Whip-poor-will."

HAUNTS OF A DEMON.

{From Saul.)

CHARLES HEAVYPBOB.

The Jewish king now walks at large and sound,
Yet of our emissary Makah hear we nothing :
Go now, sweet spirit, and, if need be, seek
This world all over for him : — find him out,
Be he within the bounds of eaith and hell.

CANADIAN POETS. 149

He is a most erratic spirit, so

May give thee trouble (as I give thee time)

To find him, for he may be now diminished,

And at the bottom of some silken flower,

Wherein, I know, he loves, when evening comes,

To creep and lie all night, encanopied

Beneath the manifold and scented petals ;

Fancying, he says, he bids the world adieu,

And is again a slumbcrer in heaven :

Or, in some other vein, perchance thou'lt find him

Within the halls or dens of some famed city.

Give thou a general search, in open day,

I'th' town and country's ample field ; and next

Seek him in dusky cave, and in dim grot ;

And in the shadow of the precipice.

Prone or supine extended motionless ;

Or, in the twilight of o'crhanging leaves,

Swung at the nodding arm of some vast beech.

By moonlight seek him on the mountain, and

At noon in the translucent waters salt or fresh ;

Or near the dank-marged fountain, or clear well.

Watching the tad-pole thrive on suck of venom ;

Or where the brook runs o'er the stones, and smooths

Their green locks with its current's crystal comb.

Seek him in rising vapors, and in clouds

Crimson or dun ; and often on the edge

Of the gray morning and of tawny eve :

Search in the rocky alcove and woody bower;

And in the crow's-nest look, and every

Pilgrim-crowd-drawing Idol, wherein he

Is wont to sit in darkness and be worshipped.

150 SELECTIONS FROM

If thou shouldst find him not in these, search for him

By the lone melancholy tarns of bitterns ;

And in the embosomed dells, whereunto maidens

Resort to bathe within the tepid pool.

Look specially there, and, if thou seest peeping

Satyr or faun, give chase and call out ** Malzah 1"

For he shall know thy voice and his own name.

EVENING SCENE.* [^

FBOM THE BANKS OF THE DETROIT RIVKE.

CHARLES BANQ8TBR.

I stood upcTn a bank that faced the West,
Beyond me lay Lake Erie, softly calm.

Calm as the thoughts that soothe the dying breast
As the Soul passes to the great I AM.

* We are disposed to think that any just estimate of Mr. Sanostkr's poetry will
assign him the first place among Canadian poets. Other? may have written as well
and aa sweetly on some themes as ho could have done ; but no one has contributed
80 largely to enrich Canadian poetry. No one has attempted so much. No one
has displayed equal freshness and variety of imagery, in the treatment of national
themes. Indeed, in the variety of subjects selected from the scenery, seasons, and past
history of this country, and in tlie success and originality with which he has treated
them, ho has no corApetitor whatever. His genius is more truly Canadian than that
of any other poet of distinction in this Province. Many other Canadian poets,
having spent their youth ii) some other land, though cherishing a strong regard for
the country of their adoption, keep their tendorest affection for the land of their
birth; selecting their principal imagery and illustrations from its scenery and
associations, somewhat to the neglect of the materials, which nature so profusely
lavishes on the scenery of this country. But Mr. S., while cherishing a loyal
attachment to the mother land, gives Canada the chief place in his heart. Her
mighty lakes and rivers— her forests and hills— her history, religion, and laws— her
homes and liberties— her brave sons and fair daughters— are all objects of his most

CANADIAN POETS. 151

One solitary bird melodiously

Trilled its sweet vesper from a grove of elm,
One solitary sail upon the sea

Rested, unmindful of its potent helm.

There lay the Island with its sanded shore,

The snow-white Lighthouse, like an Angel-friend

Dressed in his fairest robes, and evermore
Guiding the mariner to some promised end.

And down behind the forest trees, the sun.
Arrayed in burning splendors, slowly rolled,

Like to some sacrificial urn, o'errun
With flaming hues of crimson, blue and gold.

And round about him, fold on fold, the clouds,
St3cped in some rainbow essence, lightly fell,

Draped in the living glory that enshrouds
His nightly entrance to his ocean shell.

ardont affection, graven alike upon the pages of his poetry, and upon the tablets of
Ilia heart. The most proi>iinont charnctoristics of his genius are, a wonderAil
fertility of thought, wliich innhlcs him to pour forth images, and forms of exprea-
sion with lavish prodigality;— an intense sympathy with Nature, in all her varied
moods and forms ; — and that peculiar freshness and originality of language that isi
the sure distinction of those, to whom belong " the vision and the faculty divine."^
Occasionally, too, wo catcli glimpses of a philosophic spirit, capable of grappling
with the deep problems of the world of mind. Jlr. Sangster was born in Upper
Canada, in 1822, and resides at Kingston. Ilis whole lite 'ins been one hard battle
with unpropitious circum-stancos ; but ho has held on his way with a brave and
unflinching heart. His two volumes, " The St. Lnwi-encc n»(l Hie Sagtienay,"
published in 1856, and " HcuperuK," published in 1860, are rich in poetic power and
beauty, though like all other ventures in Canadian poetry, they have not awakened
interest, or secured patronage, at all proportionate to their merit.

152 . SELECTIONS FROM

The woods were flashing back his gorgeous light,
The waters glowed beneath the varied green,

Ev'n to the softened shadows, all was bright,

Heaven's smile was blending with the view terrene.

The lofty woods, in summer sheen arrayed.
The trembling poplar with its silver leaf,

The stately walnut rising o'er the glade,
The willow bending with its load of grief :

The graceful elm, the energetic oak,

The red-leaved maple, and the slender pine,

The grove of firs, half hidden by the smoke
From the white cottage clotiied with jessamine ;

The thirsty cattle drinking from the spring,
Or standing mid-deep in the sunny stream,

The stream itself, like Joy, meandering, —
A silver shaft shot down a golden beam :

The ruddy orchard with its tempting fruit.
The juicy apple, and the mellow pear.

The downy peach, and near the garden, mute
With eager visions of a fruitful share.

Lolled the young urchin on his bed of grass.
Thinking of Autumn, with her red ripe-store—

So Boyhood smiles to mark the seasons pass.
And Manhood sighs that they return no more :

On these the parting Day poured down a stream

Of radiant, unimaginable light,
Like as in some celestial spirit-dream

A thousand rainbows melt upon the jight,

CANADIAN POETS.

163

Setting the calm horizon all ablaze

With splendors stolen from the crypts of heaven,
Dissolving with their magic heat the maze

Of clouds that nestle to the breast of even.

The fisher ceased his song, hung on his oars,
Pausing to look, a pulse in every breath,

And, in imagination, saw the shores
Elysian rising o'er the realms of Death.

And as he dreamed, the sunlight passed away,
The stream gave back no deep cerulean hue.

Eve's purple finger closed the lips of Day,
And a dim glory clothed the upper blue.

And down on tip-toe came the gradual Night,
A gentle Twilight first, with silver wings,

And still from out the darkening infinite
Came shadowy forms, like deep imaginings.

There was no light in all the brooding air,
There was no darkness yet to blind the eyes.

But through the space interminable, there
Nature and Silence passed in solemn guise.

THE WATCHER.

HELEN M. JOHNSON,

Night comes, but he comes not ! I fear
The treacherous ice; what do I hear?

Bells ? nay, I am deceived again, — ■
'Tis but the ringing in my brain.

154 SELECTIONS FROM

— how tlie wind f^oes shrieking past !
Was it a voice upon the blast ?
A cry for aid ? my God protect !
Preserve his life — liis course direct!
— How suddenly it has grown dark —
How very dark without — hush ! hark !
— 'Tis but the creaking of tlie door ;
It opens wide and nothing more.
Then wind and snow came in ; I thought
Some straggler food and shelter sought j
But more I feared, for fear is weak,
That some one came of him to speak.
To tell how long he braved the storm,
How long he kept his bosom warm
With thoughts of home, how long he cheered
His weary horse that plunged, and reared,
And wallowed through the drifted snow
if> Till daylight faded, and the glow

Of hope went out ; how almost blind.
He peered around, below, behind, —
No road, no track, the very shore
All blotted out, — one struggle more.
It is thy last, perchance, brave heart !
Grod ! a reef ! the masses part
Of snow and ice, and dark and deep
The waters lie in death-like sleep ; —
He sees too late the chasm yawn ;
Sleigh, horse, and driver, all are gone !
Father in heaven ! It may be thus.
But thou are gracious, — pity us.
Save him, and me in mercy spare
What 'twould be worse than death to bear.

CANADIAN POETS.

155

— Hark ! hark I am I deceived again ? /
Nay, 'tis no rinj^ing in my brain,
My pulses leap — my bosom swells —
Thank God I it is, it is his hells I

THE SLEIGH-BELL.

JOHN F. M'DONNELL.

The eve is clear, and the golden light
Plays on the Winter's robe of white.
Smooth is the road on the dazzling snow,
Lightly the sleighs o'er the deep drifts go : —
Ours is a path as wild and free
As a bounding bark's on the stormy sea.
The sleigh-bells chime on the frosty air.
Like the voice of a spirit chanting there,
The joys of the Winter's festive hour.
Though it brings not fruit, nor blooming flower.

Tinkle, tinkle ! — the sleigh-bells' chime
Mounts on the wings of the frosty air,

Like the song of a bird of a summer clime,
"When the woods are green, and the sky is fair.

Over hill and plain, we swiftly glide, —
O'er the ice-bound river's foaming tide.
And deep in the vale where the dark pine trees
Shelter our path from the biting breeze.
The Eve is fading, — the pall of Night
Closeth the East from our straining sight,
And far in the West, a dying glow
Throws a crimson blush o'er the sea of snow

166 SELEOTIONS FROM

Then speed us on, for the sun is set ;
Througli the forest's gloom, we've a lonp; way yet.
Tinkle, tinkle ! — the sleigh bells' chinio

Rings through the forest vales afar,
And from the dome of heaven's bright clime,
Glimmers the ray of the Evening Star.

CAN YOU LEAVE YOUR NATIVE LAND?

(Fo/Music.)

MnS. MOODIK.

can you leave your native land,

An exile's bride to be ;
Your mother's home and cheerful hearth

To tempt the main with me —
Across the wide and stormy sea

To trace our foaming track.
And know the wave that heaves us on

Will never bear us back ?

And can you in Canadian woods

With me the harvest bind,
Nor feel one lingering sad regret

For all you leave behind !
Can those dear hands, unused to toil,

The woodman's wants supply,
Nor shrink beneath the chilly blast

When wintry storms are nigh ?

CANADIAN POETS.

Amid the shades of forests dark,

Our loved isle will appear
An Eden, whoso delicious bloom

Will make the wild more drear —
And you in solitude will weep

O'er scenes bclov'd in vain,
And pine away your life to view

Once more your native plain 1

Then pause, dear girl, ere those fond lips

Your wanderer's fate decide ;
My spirit spurns the selfish wish —

You nmst not bo my bride —
But oh, that smile — those tearful eyes

My firmer purpose move —
Our hearts are one — and we will dare

All perils^ thus to love.

167

SONNET— WINTER NIGHT.

O. HKAVYSEaB.

The stars are setting in the frosty sky,

Numerous as pebbles on a broad sea coast ;
While o'er the, vault the cloud-like galaxy

Has marshalled its innumerable host.
Alive all heaven seems : with wondrous glow,

Tenfold refulgent every star appears ;
As if some wide, celestial gale did blow,

And thrice illume the ever-kindled spheres.

158 SELEOTIONS FROM

Orbs, with glad orbs rejoicing, burning, beam
Ray-crowned, with lambent lustre in their zones j

Till o'er the blue, bespangled spaces seem

Angels and great archangels on their thrones ; —

A host divine, whose eyes are sparkling gems,
And forms more bright than diamond diadems.

WINTER IN CANADA.

MUS. J. L. LUPROUON.

Nay, tell mo not that with shivering fear,

You shrink from the thought of wintering here ;

That the cold intense of our winter time,

Is severe as that of Siberian clime ;

And if wishes could waft across the sea, .

To-night in your English home you would be.

Remember, no hedges there now are bright
With verdure, or blossoms of hawthorn white ;
In dmp sodden fields, or bare garden beds,
No daisies or cowslips show their fair heads ;
Whilst cold chilling winds and skies of dark hue,
Tell, in England, as elsewhere, 'tis winter too.

Raise your eyes to our skies of azure hue, •
Admire their gleaming, metallic blue.
Look round on the earth robed in bridal white,
All glittering and flashing with diamonds bright,
Whilst o'erhcad, her lover and lord, the sun, ■
Shines brightly as e'er in Summer he's done.

CANADIAN POETS. 169

In a graceful sleigh, drawn by spirited steed,

You glide o'er the snow with lightning speed,

Whilst from harness decked with silvery bells,

In sweet showers the sound on the clear air swells,

And the keen bracing breeze with vigor rife,

Sends quick through your veins warm streams of life.

On, with your snow-shoes, so strong and light,
Thick blankct^coat, sash of scarlet bright.
And away o'er the deep and untrodden snow,
Through wood, o'er mountain, untrammelled to go,
Through lone narrow paths where in years long fled,
The Indian passed with light active tread.

What ! dare to rail at our snow storms — why
Not view them with poet's or artist's eye.
Watch each pearly flake as it falls from above,
Like snowy plumes from some spotless dove,
Clothing all objects in ermine of air,
¥&T purer than that which monarchs wear I

Have you not witnessed our glorious nights,
So brilliant with gleaming Northern-lights,
Quick flashing and darting across the sky,
Whilst afar in the starry heavens high,
The shining moon pours down streams of light,
O'er the silent earth robed in dazzling white ?

There are times, too, our woods show wondrous sights,

Such as are read of in " Arabian Nights,"

When branch and bough are all laden with gems.

And sparkle like Eastern diadems ;

And the sun sheds a blaze of dazzling light,

On ruby, opal, and diamond bright.

160 SELECTIONS PROM

But tarry till Spring on Canadian shore,

You'll rail at our winters then no more —

New health and fresh life through your veins shall glow,

Spite of piercing winds, spite of ice and snow,

And I'd venture to promise in truth my friend,

'Twill not be the last that with us you'll spend.

LAKE ERIE.

WILLIAM WYK SMITH.

I looked upon Lake Erie

Before I looked on thee,
And I'll not leave it for thy gold

That lies beyond the sea ; —
Its waves come leaping to my hand.

As if they fcar'd I'd go —
I look upon Lake Erie,

And my heart gives answer no I"

Upon the shores of lilrie,

My cradle-song was sung ;
And round its coves, and o'er its deeps

My childish shoutings rung ; —
Nor think my heart can e'er forget

The old love and the true —
Upon the shores of Erie

That round its magic threw.

Thou bid'st me seek some other land

Away beyond the Line,
Where gold is like the river sand

And spice grows like the pine —

CANADIAN POETS.

161

I've heard it all —yet Canada
Has earned so well uiy love,

That when I seek some other land
'Twill be the land above I

ST. GEORGE'S FLAG.

MRS. FAULKNER.

St. George for merry England, ho ! up with the pennon brave,
It hath streamed o'er many a conquered land, o'er many a distant

wave ;
Up with the Red-cross banner ! 'tis a glorious sight to see.
The noblest flag that ever flew, stream out so fair and free.

It floated o'er proud Acre's towers in days long passed away.
When Lion Richard led his host at the holy tomb to pray ;
And still the Crescent paler waned before the hallowed sign,
That flew in triumph o'er thy fields, oh I sacred Palestine.

It cheered Old England's stalwart sons thro' Cressy'r hard won

fray.
It waved o'er Royal Henry's head on Agincourt's proud day ;
The sultry breath of sunny Spain its crimson cross has fanned,
And gallant hosts have borne it on through India's burning land.

Oh I many a flag of gaudier hue the fanning breeze may wave,
But none that bears a nobler name, more stainless or more brave;
None that hath led more dauntless hearts to battle for the right.
None that hath flown more proudly o'er the crimson field of fight.

162 SELECTIONS FROM

Up with the brave old banner then, the peerless and the bold,
True hearts will rally round it yet as in the days of old ;
And still on every Fnglish lip the thrilling cry shall be
St. George for merry England, ho ! God and our own country.

ON-TA-RI-0.

J. GEORGE HODGINS.

On-ta-ri-0, On-ta-ri-o,

How bright thy waters flow !
How joyously they dance along ;

How music-like they go !
The Western wilds have heard thy song —

Have sighed thy passing thence ;
With joy old Ocean's bosom swells

To greet thy coming hence I

On-ta-ri-o, On-ta-ri-o,

Thou beauteous mimic sea I

Thine entrance here,* how grand — sublime-
How dashing, wild, and free !

A thousand anthems tuned their voice,
A thousand thunders rolled.

As on thy surge-like billows swelled
In burnished sheets of gold I

O'er thee, ere white man's foot had pressed

Thy banks of verdant green,
Or on thy bounding billows, wide.

The whitened sail was seen,

♦ At Niagara.

CANADIAN POETS.

163

The sun's bright rays of golden tinge

Fell on the frail canoe,
Which bore the Sovereign of these glades

Swift o'er thy waters blue !

Along thy banks, while in his pride,

The red man's dance and song
In savage triumph — stern and wild —

Rose from each victor-throng,
In proud defiance to their foes,

Through the green forests rung,
Or keenest anguish — tearless grief —

Their stoic bosoms stung.

But where are noio thy dusky chiefs;

That haughty warrior-band,
Who long a mighty sceptre swayed

O'er all this forest land ?
Where are those dauntless spirits now :

Those heroes of the past ?
And where is proud Toronto f gone,

Thy bravest and thy Itist ?

From thy dark caves no answer flows,

No hushed response is borne,
Save the low murmur of thy waves

As they unceasing mourn.
And ever chant a dirge-like strain —

A solenm requiem slow- —
For Chiefs, who ever fearless met,

Nor blanched before the foe !

t Tradition gives the name of Toronto as that of a noted Indian chief iu the
vicinity of the Lake.

164 SELECTIONS PROM

They're gone ! bright Lake ! yet still, in pride,

Thy dark blue waters flow,
As when thy free-born forest -sons

First drew the hunter's bow ;
And now, far o'er thy glittering wave

And billowy crest of snow,
The Star and Meteor banners float ;

Thou'rt still On-ta-ri-o !

I'VE WANDERED IN THE SUNNY SOUTH.

NATIONAL SONG.

JOHN P. M'DONNBl-L.

I've wandered in the sunny South,

Beneath its purple skies ;
And roamed through many a far-off land,

"Where cloudless beauty lies :
I've breathed the balm of tropic eves,

Upon the Southern sea ;
And watched the glorious sunset pour

Its radiance far and free.

But give me still my Northern home, —

Her islands and her lakes ;
And her forests old, where not a sound

The tomb-like silence breaks.
More lovely in her snowy dress,

Or in her vcstui'e green,
Than all the pride of Europe's lands,

Or Asia's glittering sheen.

CANADIAN POETS. 16,5

I've basked beneath Italian suns,

When flowers were in their bloom ;
And I've wandered o'er the hills oi' Greece,

By ruined shrine and tomb ; —
Oh sweet it was to gaze upon

The Arno's silver tide —
And dearer still, the ruins grey

Of Athen's fallen pride.

But dearer unto me that land

Which the mighty waters lave,
Where the spreading maple's glorious hues

Are mirrored in the wave : —
Where music from the dark old woods

Ascends to heaven' s.dome —
Like angel hymns of peace and love —

Around my Northern home.

THE EMBLEMS OF OUR HOMES.

ROBERT STUART PATTERSON.

blessed and free Britannia,

The mistress of the deep,
Around whose shores the subject waves

A watchful vigil keep, —
The Lion crouching by thy side

Is not more nobly brave
Than thy soldiers in the battle,

Thy sailors on the wave.

166 SELECTIONS FROM

Thy emblem flower is fairest

Of all the Floral band ;
But lovelier than Koses

Are the daughters of thy Land.

best beloved Hibernia,

Thou EMERALD-gcnnnc'd Queen,
With crown of wreathed " Arhutus "

And '^triph^leiif" of green,—
The hearts are ever warm and true,

And ever bright the smile
Of the manly sons and blue-eyed maids,

(The children of thine isle.

sternly beauteous Scotia,

The land of hill and glen,
The land of lochs and mountain streams,

The home of warlike men ;
The thorn-girt Thistle on thy crest

Is as the groves of spears
And claymores bright, in the trusty grasp

Of thy hardy Mountaineers.

snow and pine clad Canada,

Old England's loyal child.
With inland lakes like oceans,

With forests dark and wild,
With the fall of thy Niagara

Loud as a rushing sea,
The Beaver and the Maple Leap

Thy emblems still shall be.

CANADIAN POETS.

167

Oh monarch never wore a crown

So richly fair I ween,
As a garland with such emblems formed

To deck our noble Queen.

HOW THEY DIED AT THANSI.*

MIBS MUBHAY.

Scotland ! mother of brave men,

Who battled for the right,
Whose glory gilds thy wildest glen

And sternest mountain height,
And shines o'er many a distant land,

Where Scottish lays proclaim
The worth of that immortal band,

Which thou hast given to fame.

Men of free thought and lofty deed.

Firm, steadfast, strong and true,
Who never in the hour of need

A craven terror knew,
For liberty and thee they fought.

They struggled, suffered, died ;
And left the noble deeds they wrought

To crown thy brows with pride.

*Mi83 Murray, though not extensively known as a poet, is a lady of rare
intellectual gifts, and has won a high reputation in proge-fiction. Hor productions
in this department of literature will compare favourably with those of the most
eminent writers of the day. " The Cited Curate," recently concluded in the
"British American Magazine," evinces more genuine intellectual power than any
Bimilar productioa we have seen Irom a Canadian pen.

168 SELECTIONS FROM

A proud, glad mother should'st thou be,

For still each gallant son
That glory safely guards for thee •

Their elder brothers won.
The free and fearless blood that flamed

Of old in Scottish veins,
By no fierce tyrant ever tamed,

Its ancient fire retains.

Not theirs the limbs that fly or yield ;

That dauntless hardihood.
Which once on Bannockburn's red field

An English host withstood,
Held firm on that Crimean plain,

Where Russian horse assailed
• Brave Campbell's iron men in vain —

In valor triple-mailed.

Still these fought by their comrades' side

Against an equal foe.
With all those aids to manly pride

Brothers-in-arms bestow.
But he whose sad heroic fate

Thrills all who hear it told ;
Whose death in grandeur well may mate

Some hero's death of ojd, —

A hopeless strife could calmly dare
With one slight hand to aid.

One tender woman's heart to share
The gallant stand he made.

CANADIAN POETS.

169

And bravely did she bear her part,

What woman ever fails
When love has sti'un<^ and nerved her heart?

Love over death prevails.

But there arc evils worse than death I

Insult and outrage dread,
The writhing, yelling fiends beneath

May wreak upon her head :
" No, never ! we know how to die !"

He turned to her, and caught
A radiant flash from her bright eye,

That answered to his thought.

" Yes ! let us die, unsullied, free,

Father hear our cry !
Save these two souls that trust in thee, —

To thee for refuge fl}- ! "
He kissed her with a fonder kiss,

A truer, nobler pride,
Than ever in hours of peaceful bliss

A bridegroom kissed his bride.

" True heart ! so tender and so brave.

My faithful, loving wife,
This hand, though powerless now to save,

Still guards thy better life.
Our souls shall find a home in heaven j

My rifle still rings true ;
I murmur not, since God has given •

A brave death shared with you l"

170 SELECTIONS PROM

In his firm hand his rifle *i;ood

Had failed not once that day.
Its dreaded aim that demon brood

Still kept at furious bay.
It failed not now — without a pang

Her pure brave spirit fled.
Again th' unerring bullet rang —

He too had joined the dead.

Give honor to those noble hearts ;

Bravely and well they died ;
The tear that to their memory starts

In proud content is dried.
With Scotland's bravest and her best

She'll give them place, I ween,
And deep within her granite breast

She'll grave the name of Skene I

When tho Indian insurrection broke out at Tliansi, Captain Alexander Skene

and hi8 wile took rel'uge in a tower, and made a brave and protracted defence.

Mrs. Skene loaded lier husband's riflo.«, and he lired till he had shot thirty-seven of

the rebels; when finding it impossible to keep them out any longer, he kissed hie

wife, shot her, and then shot himself.

EVENING.

HELEN M. .JOHNSON.

It is. a lovely scene; the sun has set,
But left his glory in the western sky.
Where daylight lingers, half regretful yet
That sombre Night, her sister, draweth nigh,
And one pale star just looketh from on high j

CANADIAN POETS.

'Tis neither day nor night, but both have blent

Their own peculiar cliarnis to please the eye, —

Declining day its sultry heat has spent.

And calm refreshing night its grateful freshness lent.

The lake is sleeping - on its quiet breast

Are clouds of every tint the rainbows wear.

Some are in crimson, some in gold are dressed.

Oh had I wings, like yonder birds of air,

How I would love to dip my pinions there,

Then mount exulting to the heavenly gate, —

A song of love and gratitude to bear

To II im who gives the lovely and the great,

In earth and sea and sky, so glorious an estate.

It is the time when angels are abroad

Upon their work of love and peace to men, —

Commissioned from the dazzling throne of God,

They come to earth as joyfully as when

The tidings ran o'er mountain and o'er glen,

" A Son is born, a Saviour and a King," —

For they have tidings glorious as then,

Since tokens from our risen Lord they bring,

That life has been secured, and death has lost its sting.

The twilight deepens ; o'er the distant hill

A veil is spread of soft and misty grey ;

And from the lake so beautiful and still,

The images of sunset fade away ;

The twinkling stars come forth in bright array.

Which shunned the splendor of the noontide glare, —

A holy calm succeeds the bustling day.

And gentle voices, stealing through the air.

Proclaim to hearts subdued the hour for grateful prayer.

171

172 SELECTIONS FROM

THE CANADIAN HERD-BOY.

(c4 Song of the Backwoods.)

UIXB. MOODIK,

Throuijjh the deep woods, at peep of day,
The careless herd-boy wends his way,
By piny ridge and forest stream,
To sunuHon home his roving team —
Cobos! cobos! from distant dell
Sly echo wafts the cattle bell.

A blythc reply he whistles back,
And follows out the devious track.
O'er fallen tree and mossy stone,
A path to all save him unknown —
Cobos ! cobos ! far down the dell,
More faintly falls the cattle bell.

See the dark swamp before him throws
A tangled maze of cedar boughs,
On all around deep silence broods.
In nature's boundless solitudes —
Cobos ! cobos ! the breezes swell.
As nearer floats the cattle bell.

He sees them now — beneath yon trees
His motley herd recline at ease ;
With lazy pace and sullen stare
They slowly leave their shady lair —
Cobos ! cobos I far up the dell
Quick jingling comes the cattle bell.

CANADIAN POETS.

173

THE OLD SUGAR CAMP.

HEIiKM M. JOUN8UN.

Come let us away to the old Sugar Camp ;
The Hky is serene thou<i;h the ground may be damp, —
And the little bright streams, as they frolic arid run,
Turn a look full of thanks to the ice-melting sun ;
While the warm Bouthern winds, wherever they go,
Leave patches of brown 'mid the glittering snow.

The oxen are ready, and Carlo and Tray

Are watching us, ready to be on the way.

While a group of gay children with platter arid spoon,

And faces as bright as the roses of June,

O'er fences and ditches exultingly spring,

Light-hearted and careless as birds on the wing.

Where's Edwin? here he comes loading his gunj

Look out for the partridges — hush 1 there is one I

Poor victim! a bang and a flutter — 'tis o'er, —

And those fair dappled wings shall expand nevermore ;

It was shot for our invalid sister at home.

Yet we sigh as beneath the tall branches we roam.

Our cheeks all aglow with the long morning tramp,
We soon come in sight of the old Sugar Camp ;
The syrup already is placed in the pan.
And we gather around it as many as can, —
We try it on snow, when we find it is done.
We will fill up a mould for a dear absent one.

174 SELECTIONS FROM

0, gayest and best of all parties are these,

That meet in the Camp 'ncath the old maple trees,

Renewing the love and the friendship of years, —

They are scenes to be thought of with smiles and with tears.

When age shall have furrowed each beautiful cheek,

And left in dark tresses a silvery streak.

Here brothers and sisters and lovers have met,
And cousins and friends we can never forget ;
The prairie, the ocean divide us from some,
Yet oft as the seasons for sugaring come.
The cup of bright syrup to friendship we'll drain,
And gather them home to our bosoms again.

Dear Maple, that yieldetii a nectar so rare,

So useful in spring and in sunnner so fair, —

Of autuum acknowledged the glory and queen.

Attendant on every Canadian scene.

Enshrined in our homes, it is meet thou should 'st be

Of our country the emblem, beautiful Tree !

THE VOYAGEUR'S SONG.

JOHN F. M'DC ELL.

We track the herds o'er the prairies wide,
Through the length of the bunnner day;

And guide the canoe on the rapid's tide,
Where the waters fl;'.sh in the ray ;

Where the silvery scales of the salmon glance
On the bosom of the pool: —

CANADIAN POETS.

And we rest our wearied limbs at eve,
In the shade of the pine-trees cool.
Let others toil for golden store ;
For riches little we care :

Oh, the happiest life
In this world of strife,
Is that of a Voyageur.

When the red sun sinks in the golden "West,

At evening when he goes
With ministering hosts of the golden clouds.

To seek the night's repose —
We pitch our tents on the soft green sward, —

And we light our evening fire, —
And we mingle strains of our Northern land

.With the notes of the forest choir.
Time flics along, with jest and song,
For our merry men are there :
Oh there's not a life,
In this world of strife,
Like that of a Voyageur.

175

sweet and soft are our couches made.

With the broad green sunnner leaves.
And the curtains spread above the head

Are those which Nature weaves.
, The tall oak and the spreading elm

Are twined in a tangled screen, —
Surpassing far all .the magic skill

Of the sculptor's art e'er seen.

176 SELECTIONS FROM

We shun the noiso of the busy world,
For there's crime and misery there ;
And the happiest life,
In this world of strife,
Is that of a Voyageur.

ADDRESS TO THE RIVER GARNOCK.

{From the "Moorland Minstrel.")

THOMAS M'QUKKX.

Oft, Garnock, oft in this lone spot.

In boyhood's brighter day,
With feelings ne'er to be forgot,
I marked thy waters onward float —

Wave after wave away.

And I was young- -and on this brow

Grief ventured not to trace
Those furrows that becloud it-now;
Nor had my young soul learned to bow

Beneath the world's disgrace.

And I marvelled much, as speedily

Thy dark waves floated on.
What length and breadtli had floated by —
Whence wast thou — whither went'st — and why

Thy waters ne'er were done.

CANADIAN POETS.

But years on years have' sped away,

And in their devious course
Have blent my auburn locks with gray,
And scattered wrinkles and decay,

And tremblings of remorse.

The sucred ties of life's young day
Were long since forced to sever,
And the holy sounds of love's sweet lay.
Youth's melody and mirth so gay.
Are silent now forever.

Less lovely Spr-ing's green robes appear, —

Less bright the moon's pale beam,
The summer's sun looks dull and drear,
And the former charms of Nature wear
The semblance of a dream.

The lightsome heart — the laughing eye —

The hope that lured mo on —
The voice that sung my lullaby,
And the youthful peers that shared my joy-

Theso all arc dead and gone.

The budding spring — the blooming May —

The blackbird's soothing strain —
The schoolboy's gambols on the way,
But bring to mind a happier day.
That cannot come again.

I've drank the common cup of woe

From Friendship's frozen hand ;

I've wandered heartless to and fro,

And suffered pangs that none can know,

'Mid simpering follies bland.
M

177

178 SELECTIONS FROM

Again I come — but changed in all

Save the unborrowed name,
To list the once-loved waterfall
Pour forth its midnight madrigal,
Eternally the same.

No change has come on thee — the years

That fleetly have gone by,
And mingled sorrows, sighs, and tears,
And blighted hopes and fostered fears.
Have failed to drain thee dry.

Ages elapsed have seen thee glide,

Thou lonely moorland river ;
Yet on thy undiminished tide,
Wave after wave thy bubbles ride
Majestical as ever.

In pyramid, or tower or tomb,

Man struggles to obtain
Reversion of the dreaded doom,
Of being lost in time to come ;

But, ah ! the hope is vain.

Yon tower, of rude, unchartered day,

That frowns above thy stream,
In crumbling atoms seems to say : —
''Man and his labours pass away
Unheeded as a dreamt

And thou wert ere Glengarnock's wall

Had reared its feudal head ;
Thou saw'st the glories of its hall,
Thou sing'st the requiem of its fall.
When countless years have fled.

CANADIAN POETS.

Yea, thou wert ere frail fleeting man

Earth's flowery surface trode,
Thou saw'st him first presume to scan,
And reason falsely from a plan

That told him of a God.

Thou saw'st his Druid altars dyed

With blood of burning men ;
With bow and quiver by his side,
He ranged for prey the forest wide.

The mountain and the glen.

He changed his painted skin and hair,

His creed and sacrifice —
And, humming through the woods of Blair
Thou heard'st Saint Winning's evening prayer

To countless deities.

Thou seest him still the child of change,

Nor less the child of thrall.
Abjuring Nature's healthy range
For prison-toil and commerce strange.

With scarce a God at all.

And yet thou art unchanged ; the flood

Hath foamed and fled away,
Leaving thy calm and native mood
To sing to hill and vale and wood.

Thy philosophic lay.

Down, down to ocean's dread abyss

Thy waters, as of yore,
In endless waves successive press ;
Yet, strange ! thy stream grows nothing less.

Nor grows the ocean more.

179

180 SELECTIONS FROM

Roll on, thou liquid glassy sheet ;

Roll on, methinks I see,
In thy unbroken waters fleet,
A sign, a pledge, an emblem meet,

Of immortality.

My toil-worn frame, like thine may seem,

Fast sinking to decay ;
My life, my spirit, like thy stream,
Lit up at heaven's unfading beam,

Must glow and glow for aye.

Glide on, thou moorland river — roll

Thy dark waves to the sea —
So speeds my fleeting, deathless soul,
To some far, strange, mysterious goal
In vast eternity.

^iiSic^lUueouiSi iUi(i^!Si*

HEROES !

ALSX, M'LACULAN.

All hail to the chiefs of thought.

Who wield the mighty pen !
That light may at last be brought

To the darkened souls of men.
To the gifted seers who preach —

To the humble bards who sing ;
To all the heads that teach

Id truth's enuhantcd ring ;

CANADIAN POETS.

To the soldiers of the right-
To the heroes of the true ;

Oh ! ouis were a sorry plight,
Great conquerors, but for you I

ye are the men of worth !
ye are the men of might I

ye are the kings of earth.

And your swords are love and right.

'Tis not at the beat of drum,

Earth's great ones do appear ;
At the nation's call they come,

But not with the sword or spean
Then hail to the brave who lead

In the humble paths of peace !
To the hearts that toil and bleed,

That wrong may the sooner cease I

what are the robes we wear,

Or the heights to which we climb !
'Tis only the hearts we bear

Can make our lives sublime.
'Tis only the good we do,

That lives throughout all time ;
'Tis only the faithful few

Who reach the height sublime.

181

Then hail to the chiefs of thought,
Who wield the mighty pen !

That light may at last be brought
To the darken'd soul of men !

182 SELECTIONS FROM

To the soldiers of the rights
To the heroes of the true ;

Oh ! ours were a sorry plight,
Great conquerors, but for you I

THE NIGHT COMETH.

ANNIE L. WALKBB.

Work I for the night is coming ;

Work ! through the morning hours ;
Work ! while the dew is sparkling ;

Work ! 'mid the springing flowers ;
Work ! while the day grows brighter,

Under the glowing sun ;
Work ! for the night is cominj;,

'Of

Night — when man's work is done.

Work I for the night is coming ;

Work ! through the sunny noon,
Fill the bright hours with labor ;

Rest cometh sure and soon.
Give to each flying minute

Something to keep in store ;
Work ! for the night is coming ;

Night — when man works no more.

Work ! for the night is coming ; .

Under the sunset skies,
While their bright tints are glowing.

Work ! for the daylight flies.

j:^ A^ /^ nu^^^a.. i'-L^. u-i/L . ^.,^^'*^^

CANADIAN POETS.

188

Work I till the last beam fadeth,
Fadeth to shine no more ; —

Work while the night is darkening,-
Night, when man's work is o'er.

COLIN.

CHARLES BANQBTBR.

Who'll dive for the dead men now,

Since Colin is gone ?
Who'll feel for the anj'juished brow,

Since Colin is gone ?
True Feeling is not confined
To the learned or lordly mind ;
Nor can it be bought and sold
In exchange for an Alp of gold ;
For Nature, that never lies,
Flings back with indignant scorn
The counterfeit deed, still-born.
In the face of the seeming wise,
In the Janus face of the huckster race
Who barter her truths for lies.

Who'll wrestle with danger dire,

Since Colin is gone ?
Who'll fearlessly brave the maniac wave,
Thoughtless of self, human life to save,
Unmoved by the storm-fiend's ire ?
Who, Shadrach-like, will walk through fire.

Since Colin is gone ?

184- SELECTIONS FROM

Or hanj» liis lifo on so frail a breath '

That thurc's but u step 'twixt lite and death ?

For courage is not tlio heritage

Of the nobly born ; and many a sage

Has clinibud to the temple of fame,

And written his deathless name

In letters of golden flame,

Who' on glancing down

From his high renown,

Saw his unlettered sire

Still by the old log tiro,

Saw the unpolished dame —

And the hovel from which he came.

Ah, ye who judge the dead

By the outward lives they led,

And not by the hidden worth

Which none but God can see ;

Ye who would spurn the earth

That covers such as he ;

Would ye but be:ir your hearts,

Cease to pl;iy borrowed parts,

And come down from your self-built throne :

How few from their liouse of glass.

As the gibbering secrets pass,

Would d irc to fling, whether serf or king.

The first accusing stone !

Peace, peace to his hannless dust I

Since Colin is gone ;
We can but lope and trust ;
Man judgeth, but God is just ;

Poor Colin is gone !

CANADIAN POETS.

186

Had he faults? Ills heart was true,

And warm as the summer's sun.

Had he failinf»s ? Ay, but few ;

'Twas an honest race he run.

Let him rest in the poor man's pjrave,

Ye who grant him no liigher goal ;

There may be a curse on the hands that gave,

But not on his simple soul 1

UNSELFISH LOVE.

BKV. J. A. ALLEN.

"l^^^li.

Love, like verdant spring,
Bright, beautiful thing,

Steps forth from the winter of self;
Yet, like the fair dawn
On the poor man's lawn.

Is too rich to bo purchased by pelf.

Pure love, like the root,
Exists for the fruit.

Content to lie hid from our view,
Beneath the cold sod :
The image of God,

Who, pervading all things through and through,

Works ever the same,
Unheeding of blame

Or praise— like the stillness of night —
In the untrodden waste,
And provinces vast

And peopled concealed from all sight.

t-»vtx«-q<

. ' ^ r - -- . -^ -. - • VIA, /M-VV4C bV

186

SELECTIONS FROM

Pure love is the flower

That laughs when clouds lower,

Expecting the soft vernal rains
To ripen the seed,
But takes little heed

Of the ills her own beauty sustains :

Or like the fair star,
That shineth from far,

When all things are buried in night ;
But when the bright day,
With worthier ray,

Robes nature in vesture of light,

So gently retires.
Till darkness requires

Hei' aid, when she noiselessly steals
Once more to her post
Of duty, and lost

To all selfish interest, feels

The pure joy of love ;
But soon as, above

The sky verge, orbed Luna is seen,
She leaves night so fair,
As best, to her care,

And retires to the blue depths serene.

A VOICE FOR THK TIMES.

JENNIE £. HAIQHT.

Raise the hammer, strike the anvil,
Let the wide earth feel the blow ;

Let her quake from zone to centre,
Tropic, vale, and peak of snow.

CANADIAN POETS. 187

Right, with sword drawn for the contest,

Takes the field against the Wrono — *

Sound aloud the deep-toned clarion,
Let its notes he clear and long.

Human hearts with anguish bleeding,

Human nature, held in thrall.
Myriads, waiting for redemption,

Marshal at the trumpet's call.
Hold aloft your glorious banner,

Let it float against the sky.
And with Truth's bright sword uplifted,

Vow to conquer, though ye die.

Let no heart quaij in the onset —

From above, around, beneath,
Countless eyes the strife are watching,

Through the war-cloud's dusky wreath,
Side by side all firm and valiant,

In the God of Battles strong,
Grapple with each rampant error,

In the serried ranks of Wrono.

Though the clouds, with thunder laden.

Darken o'er the source of day —
Though the fork'd and fiery lightnings

Flash and dart around your way ; —
Echoed loud above the thunder

Let your watchword, ' Victory,* sound;
And, amid the jagged lightnings.

Inch by inch maintain your ground.

188^ SELECTIONS FROM

Whefe intrenched in hoary bulwarks, ■

Error and his chieftains dwell,
Scale the rampart, strike the ensij]^ ;

Track them to the gates of hell.
Not till then the waiting scabbard

May receive the glitt'ring steel ;
Not till then, earth's groaning millions

Freedom's bounding pulse may feel.

On the distant, dim horizon,

Faintly glim'ring through the night,
Shines a star whose noon-tide glory

Truth's triumphal march shall light }
And e'en now, in far-off murm'rings

O'er the future's restless sea,
Faith may catch a premonition

Of the world's great jubilee.

THE STUDENT.

{iYom Song nfCliarity.)

B. J. CHAPMAN.

How quiet is the antique room,
How darkening in the deepening gloom ;
How quiet the dreaflier dreaming there —
The floweret still in his hand.
That has led his thoughts all unaware
Into the far dream-land.
The twilight-gloom steals on apace ;
But a windowed door on the garden looks,
And lets in light enough to shew

CANADIAN POETS.

The calm sad smile on the dreamer's face ;

And the walls of the room all dark with books,

And, piled against the sides below,

Huge coral-forms, and strange-life things.

Awakening up imaginings

Of palm-isles set in a tropic sea.

And at the back, a glittering store

Of instruments. Rare balances,

And lamps, and flasks, and furnaces,

By which men win the golden lore

Time-fruited from old alchemy.

And heaped around on shelf and floor.

Shells rock-entombed, and shining ore.

And mammoth-tooth, and saurian-bone ;

And many a dull discolored stone,

The use of which she cannot see —

The good old servant, Margery !

Already on his brow and face
Had time and suffering left their trace;
But in his eyes, and in his smile,
The light of youth yet lived a while.
And the rare freshness of the days gone by
Still kept his heart full faithfully :
Although, amidst the living green.
Long-withered hopes that once had been
Life's holiest spells all thickly clung —
For he had loved when life was young,
With all the pure deep faith of Youth,
With all that heart's strong simple truth :
Loved ! — and for two soul-garnered yeajrs
He lived as though the world had not
Upon its face a single spot

199

190

SELECTIONS FROM

That ever had known a stain of tears.
Then the dream broke : and blackness fell ,
Over his life ; for she — ah well,
The world is full of it : 'twas nothing new —
She changed — and soon between the two
There stood a barrier like the grave I

Thus passed the promise that his young life gave,
And he was left hope-wrecked and desolate
To strujrgle with his weary fate ;
And with a white-robed ghost, that ever,
With thick fair hair and violet eyes,
Stood by his soul, but gave replies
To his passionate breathings — never I
Yet he would not, would not part
With those old memories of his heart,
For all the weary ache they brought it :
They kept its fount of kindness free,
A fount of flowing sympathy.
For other hope-wrecked hearts that sought it.

THE APPLE WOMAN.*

GEO. jIaRTIW,

She often comes, a not unwelcome guest,
With her old face set in a marble smile,

And bonnet ribbonless — it is her best.

And little cloak — and blesses you the while,

* Mr. Martin has been for some years, a contributor to the Montreal Prese. He
poieesBes a vigorous and original imagination : but the degree of time and atten-
tion he has given to Foesie, has been too limited to enable him to do juBticc to his
n»tunl talents.

CANADIAN POETS.

191

And cracks her joke, ambitious to beguile
Your heart to something human,

Then sets her basket down — a little rest f
The Apple Woman.

Her stock in trade that basket doth contain ;

It is her wholesale and her retail store,
Her goods, and chattels, — all that doth pertain
To her estate, a daughter of the Poor ;
ye who tread upon a velvet floor,

Whose walls rich lights illumine,
Wound not with word or look of high disdain
The Apple Woman.

She is thy sister, jewelled Lady Clare,

" My sister ! fling this insult in my face? "
How dare you then, when in the house of prayer,
Utter, " Our Father?" the difference of place
Nulls not the consanguinity of race,
And every creature human
Is kin to that poor mother, shivering there,
The Apple Woman.

She sits upon the side-walk in the cold,

And with her scraggy hand, hard-shrunk and blue,
And corded with the cordage of the old,
She reaches forth a/ameuse, sir, to you,
And begs her ladyship will take one too,
And if you are a true man
Your pence will out ; she never thinks of gold,
The Apple Woman.

102 SELECTIONS FROM

She tells mo — and I know she tells me true,

" My Good man, — God be kind I — hud long been sick,
And one cold morning when the snow storm blew,
He said, Dear Bess, it grieves me to the quick
To see you venture out, — give me niy stick,
I'll come to you at gloamin.
And bide you home," — she paused, the rest I knew.
Poor Apple Woman.

Behold her then, a type of all that's good,

Honest in poverty, in suffering kind ;
And largo must be that love which strains for food,
Through wind and rain, through frost uud snows that
For a sick burden that is left behind ; [blind,

Call her but common ;
God's commonest things are little understood,
Poor Apple Woman.

Two April weeks, I missed her, only two.

Missed her upon the side-walk, everywhere,
And when again she chanced to cross my view,
The marble smile was changed, it still was there,
But darkly veined, an emblem of despair;
A God-knit union
Grim death had struck,whose dark shock shivered through
The Apple Woman.

A widow now, she tells the bitter tale,
Tells how she sat within their little room

In yon dark alley, till she saw him fail.

Sat all alone through night's oppressive gloom,
Sat by her Joe as in a desert tomb.

CANADIAN POETS. »

No candle to illumine
His cold dead face 1 God only heard her wail,
Poor Apple Woman ! *■

Now, when you meet her of the Basket-Store,

Her of the little cloak and bonnet bare,
Keach forth a friendly hand and something more,
When your portemonnaie has a coin to spare.
Dear are the hopes that mitigate thy care,
Dear the unbought communion
Whose tall vine reaches to the golden shore,
Poor Apple Woman !

193

MEMORY BELLS

FAHELIA B. VUHNO.

Up from the spirit-depth ringing,

Softly your melody swells,
Sweet as a seraphim's singing,
Tender-toned, memory bells!
The laughter of childhood,
The song of the wildwood.
The tinkling of streams through the echoing dell ;
The voice of a mother,
The shout of a brother,
Up from life's morning melodiously swell.

Up from the spirit-depths ringing,

Richly your melody swells,
Sweet reminiscences bringing.

Joyous-toned memory bells !
N

194 SELECTIONS FROM

Youth's beautiful bowers,

Her dew-spangled flowers,
The pictures which Hope of futurity drew ;

Love's rapturous vision

Of regions elysian,
In glowing perspective unfolding to view.

Up from the spirit-depths ringing.

Sadly your melody swells,
Tears with its mournful tones bringing,
Sorrowful memory bells I
The first heart-link broken,
The first farewell spoken.
The first flow'ret crushed in life's desolate track ;
The agonized yearning
O'er joys unreturning,
All, all, with your low, wailing music come back.

Up from the spirit-depths ringing.
Dirge-like your melody swells ;
But Hope wipes the tears that are springing,-
Mournful-toned memory bells ! —
Above your deep knelling.
Her soft voice is swelling.
Sweeter than Ange.-tones silvery clear !
Singing : in Heaven above,
All is unchanging love,
Mourner, look upward, thy home is not here !

CANADIAN POETS.

195

FOR AN HOUR OF CHILHOOD!

SAMUEL PAYNE VOBD.

for an hour of childhood I

One of those golden hours
When life was bright with sunshine,

And garlanded with flowers j
Ere the happy family circle,

That sat by the old stone hearth,
Was tearfully torn asunder

And scattered about the earth.

Could my childish wish be granted,

And Time turn back in his flight ;
Which one of those hours of gladness

Woi.ld I have return to-night ?
They are all of glad remembrance,

Though a few are dimmed with tears;
Say, which of those precious moments

Shall 1 call from the mist of years ?

Shall I ask for the festal evening,

When father, and mother, and all
Were gathered together yejoicing

In the crowded Christmas hall ?
And the gay, glad hours flew speedily,

With music and mirth, and chat?
Ah, no 1 for I see in the distance

A pleasanter hour than that.

loe*

SELECTIONS FROM

Shall I ask for a summer morning,

When the birds are singing of love,
With never a cloud to darken

The bright blue sky above ?
And trip with my little sister

All over the verdant lawn,
Plucking the flowers that blossom

As day begins to dawn ;
And then spring cheerily forward

To the top of the pine-clad hill,
To see the sun rise in his beauty ?

There are happier momtents still.

Shall I ask for a time so often

Enjoyed in the " long ago,"
When after an hour's careering

So merrily over the snow,
An army of laughing loved ones.

All happy, and merry and strong,
We cheerfully tuned our voices

And joined in some sweet old song ?
1 passing pleasant those houre were.

Nor shadowed by one regret,
Still ever there cometh the memory

Of holier moments yet.

May I have but one hour only?

I would have one most like heaven,
One calm, sweet hour, with all at home

On some quiet, Sabbath even ?
Would list again to the voice of prayer

From hearts to God devoted,

CANADIAN POETS.

And join again in the songs of praise
That round the old rooms floated ?

Would kneel again at my mother's knee,
Beneath her smile of light,

And fall asleep with her lips on mine,
Kassing a fond " good-night " ?

197

WHERE'ER WE MAY WANDER.

ALBZ. M'LAOHLAV.

Where'er we may wander,

Whate'er be our lot.
The heart's first affections

Still cling to the spot
Where first a fond mother

With rapture has prest,
Or sung us to slumber,

In peace on her breast.

Where love first allured us,

And fondly we hung
On the magical music

Which fell from her tongue,
Tho' wise ones may tell us,

'Twas foolish and vain.
Yet when shall we drink of

Such glory again ?

Where hope first beguiled us,
And spells o'er us cast,

And told us her visions
Of beauty would last,

198

SELECTIONS FROM

That earth was an Eden,

Untainted with guile,
And men were not destined

To sorrow and toil.

Where friendship first found us,

And gave us her hand,
And linked us for aye, to

That beautiful band.
Oh still shall this heart be

And cold as the clay.
Ere one of their features

Shall from it decay.

Fortune, thy favors

Are empty and vain.
Restore me the friends of

My boyhood again,
The hearts that are scattered,

Or cold in the tomb,
give me again, in

Their beauty and bloom.

Tho' green are my laurels.

And fresh is my fame,
And sweet is the magic

Which dwells in a name.
How gladly I'd give them.

To grasp but the hand
Of her that's away to

The shadowy land.

Away with ambition.
It brought me but pain ;

CANADIAN POETS.

give me the big heart

Of boyhood again.
The faith and the friendship,

The rapture of yore, —
O shall they revisit

This bosom no more ?

199

GOOD-NIGHT

HELEN M. JOHNSON.

Mother, good-night ! my work is done,—
I go to rest with the setting sun ;
But not to wake with the morning light,
So dearest mother, a long good-night I

Father, good-night ! the shadows glide
Silently down to the river's side,
The river itself with stars is bright.
So dearest father, a long good-night !

Sister, good-night ! the roses close

Their dewy eyes for the night's repose,

And a strange damp mist obscures my sight.
So dearest sister, a long good-night I

Brother, good-night 1 the sunset flush
Has died away, and a midnight hush
Has settled o'er plain and mountain height.
So dearest brother, a long good-ni^-ht 1

Good-night ! good-night I nay, do not weep ;
I am weary of earth, I long to sleep ;
I shall wake again with the dawning li^ht
Of eternal day — good-night I good-night !

200 SELECTIONS FROM

DREAMS*

HR8. AHODA A. FAULKMEB.

Dreams, mystic dreams, whence do ye come ?
In what far land is your fairy home ?
From whence at night do ye hither stray ?
Where do ye flee at the dawn of day ?
Ye never can fold your wand'ring wings,
Ye wild, unfathomable things.

Come ye from a beautiful world afar?

The land where the lost and the loved ones are,

That ye bring back so oft, in your shadowy reign,

The sound of their voices to earth again.

And their sunny smiles, and their looks of light,

In the silent hours of the quiet night.

Ye have brought again to the mother's breast
The child she hath laid in his grave to rest,
And she hears him prattling at her knee.
And she watches with joy his infant glee,

♦The selections from Mrs. Faulkner In this collection, disclose the true spirit
of poetry. They are taken from a little work, entitled " Wild Notes from the Back
Woods," by R. A. P. (Rhoda Ann Page,) published in pamphlet form at Cobourg,;**..
in 1860. During the compilation of these " selections," wo wrote to Mrs. Faulkner
for some contributions for the work. Her husband replied, stating that, througli
severe illness, she was unable, for the present, to comply with this request. A few
weeks after, " Wild Notes" was sent to the editor, by Dr. Powell of Cobourg, witli
a request to insert some pieces from it in this work, and stating at the same time
that the author had died the week before. We feel, therefore, a melancholy plea- "
sure in preserving a few of her poems in a more permanent form, and introducing
them to a wider circle of readers. We know nothing of what she has written, since
the publication of " IVild Notes."

CANADIAN POETS.

201

And kisses again that fair young brow, / ^
That meets but a worm's caresses now.

Ye have opened the captive's prison door,
And he stands on his own hearth-stone once more,
And his sire is there with words of blessing,
And his mother with tears and fond caressing.
And a sister's form to his heart is clasped.
And a brother's hand in his own is grasped,
And he feels nor fetter, nor galling chain, —
He is safe I He is free i I He is home again 1 1 !

The murderer lies in his murky den.
His crime is hidden from human ken.
Few of his victim's fate may know,
None may tell who hath struck the blow,
But ye have brought to his sight again,
Him, whom his own red hand has slain —
With ghastly smile and with glassy eye.
And finger pointing in mockery.
Dreams, ye are strange and fearful things.
When ye come in the might of conscience-stings.

The child lies down in his cradle bed.
His soft hand pillows his drowsy head,
And his parted lips have a cherub smile.
Untouched by sorrow, unstained by guile ;
Falls Heaven's light on his baby brow,
And he lists to the " Angel's whisper " now.
Dreams, ye are bright and beautiful things,
When ye visit the child on Seraph's wings.

202 SELECTIONS FROM

Not in the hours of sleep alone,
Dreams, is your airy empire won.
Wild tho' the phantoms of midnight are,
Our wakin;:; visions are wilder far,
Wilder and vainer ; and wise is he
Who taketh them not for reality.

The soldier dreams of the laurel wreath,
As he rushes on to the field of death ;
The minstrel dreams of the fadeless bay,
While pouring liis soul in his fervid lay ;
And the soldier lies with thousands as brave,
And the minstrel filleth a nameless grave.

The statesman dreams of ambition's dower,
Of the pride of wealth, and the pomp of power.
Of a people's trust and a people's love,
That the waning years of his life may prove ;
And when age hath palsied both brain and limb,
Oh sad is the waking awaiting him I

The lover dreams of a mortal brow

That shall shine ever blessed and bright as now,

Of an earthly love which no power may change,

No sorrow darken, no time estrange.

That shall know no shadow, no fear, no fall, —

Oh his is the wildest dream of all !

We are dreamers all, we shall still dream on,
Till the vision of life itself be done,
Till the weary race to the goal is run —

CANADIAN POETS.

Till the fevered pulses are checked and chilled,
Till the fluttering heart is for ever stilled,
Till the final struggle at length is o'er,
And we lie down in quiet to dream no more.

203

WEAVING.

ISIDORE O. A8CHEB.

A maiden was weaving at noonday,
A maiden with gold-rippling hair,

Whose heart was as warm as the sun-raya
That softly encircled her there ;

And her eyes were like starlights in shadow.
And her thoughts were like sweet summer air,

I knew by the light of her smiliqg,
She was weaving a tissue of dreams,

A web of a million of fancies,

Illuming her life with their gleams;

That she saw the far future before her
O'ertinted with halcyon beams.

I did not disturb her with questions,
Nor mar those sweet thoughts with my own

For the sunlight that played with her fancies
From heavenly pathways had flown,

And she wound them in hues of the rainbow
As she sat in the noonday alone.

204 SELECTIONS FROM

And soon when the shadows had fallen,
An old man with grey-silvered hair

Was weaving a tissue of visions

In the gloaming that fell on him there ;

And his thoughts were like hues of the evening,
In the chamber so ghostly and bare.

I knew by the lines on his temples,
And by the wan smiles on his face,

That from the dead past he was calling
A host of regrets from their place :

And so he kept weaving his sorrows,
In a dream that was mournful to trace.

And thus we are weaving forever
Our hopes, our r^rete, sud our fears,

And time soon dispels ever) vision.

Or we summon them back with our te^xs;

And still, we are none of us wiser,
As we glide thro' life's current of years !

BIND THE ROSE IN THY GOLDEN HAIR.

W. W. SMITH.

Bind the rose in thy golden hair ! —

Sweetly it blows, and it speaks no sorrow ; —

'Tis fanned to-night by the gentle air,
And washed in the silver dew to-morrow I

Gaily it grows by the green burn-side.

And scatters its sweets o'er the moorland wide, —

CANADIAN rOETS.

205

Lightly it blooms on the upland lea,
Where the dun-deer trips by the oaken tree,
And scents the gale in the glen below.
Where the maiden lilta to the streamlet's flow ;
And wreathes, where the the rose and the hawthorns

gather.
The flowers of Love and Hope together —
Or sings of the time, when in fairy bowers
The rose was crowned the Queen of Flowers.
Queen of flowers the rose shall be.

Bound in the midst of thy locks of yellow I —
Then turn on me thy dark blue e'e,

That is mild as the light of you sunbeam mellow.

Pluck ye the daisy on the lea, —

That gems the green sod with a winsome glory
Fringed with the blushes of morning's e'e,

And silver'd within by the starlight hoary :
Meekly it lifts its humble eye,
And asks but to gaze on the clear blue sky,
And hold up its drop of the pearly dew
To be kissed by the morning winds anew; —
Wherever the rain and the sunbeams fall,
By valley, or hill, or garden wall —
The daisy is scattered, wild and sweet.
And Innocence claims the emblem meet, —
Then bind the daisy on thy breast,
And its leaves unfading there shall rest.
Soft the evening draws her veil,

And the mist on the mountain tops is weeping ;
Then gather the rose and the daisy pale,

For my heart in their tender leaves is sleeping.

206

SELECTIONS FROM

TOUJOURS FIDELE

BOBKIIT BWEKNY.

Toujours Fidtile, the warrior cried,

As he seized his courser's rein,
And, bending over his weeping bride,
He whispered the liopc, which his heart denied,

That they soon niiglit meet again :
And fear not, he said, though the wide, wide sea

Betwixt us its billows swell ;
Believe me, dearest, thy knight will be
To France and to honor — to love and to thee,
Toujours Fidele.

Then proudly her forehead that lady rears,

And proudly she thus replied —
Nay, think not my sorrow proceeds from fears —
And the glance which she threw, though it shone through

Was the glance of a soldier's bride, [tears.

Not mine is the wish to bid thee stay,

Though I cannot pronounce, ''farewell;"
Since glory calls thee — away, away —

And still be thy watch-word on battle day,
Toujours Fid(^le.

One moment he gazed — the lingering knight —

The next, to the field he sped :
Why need I tell of the deadly fight.
But to mark his fate ? — for his country's right

He battled — and he bled.

CANADIAN POETS.

Yet he died as the brave alone can die —

The conqueror's shout his knell ;
His sleep was the slumber of victory —
And for her whom he loved his latest sigh,
Toujours Fidele.

207

THE PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA.*

JOHN BREAKKMUIDOK.

Onward ! Still on ! — the relics of a host

Whose fame hath made earth's proudest monarchs quake-
They rush, like Ocean's waves, tumultuous, tost —

Bloodshed and famine mingling in their wake.
There, in one mass, behold the proud array —
The boast of France I Ere yet shall close that day,

Not e'en his voice his minions shall awake;
Nor yet a mother's eye — if such be there —
Shall tell, amid the ghastly heaps, the son she barie !

Onward they press ; for ever in their rear

The foeman sweeps relentless on his way ;
The cannon speaks in thunder to the ear ;

No voice can bid that fearful torrent stay ;

♦From " The Crusades and other Poems" by JohnBueakenridqe, published by
subscription at Kingston in 1846. This volume possesses considerable poetic merit,
tliough portions of it are somewhat prosaic and diffuse in style. It is distinguished,
both in choice of subjects and treatment, by a martial and chivalrous spirit.
Three of the poems, " T/ie Crusades," "Napoleon Bonaparte and the French
Revolution," and " Laiza," are lengthy poems of an epic character. The volume
is probably now out of print.

208

SBLEOTIONS PROM

For flash on flaah, and gleaming steel, appear !
What reck they aught of war, save mortal fear,
That bids them not from safety madly stray,
But seek that boon in flight ! For, wild and dread.
O'er many a dreary plain the Hettman'a Cossacks spread !

Behold the spectral corses grimly strew

Their brethren's path ; and all unheeded lie,
Save by the warrior foes' marauding crew,

Whose knives gleam swiftly on the closing eye —

Waked but to hear the curse that bids them die !
And then the banner once that proudly flew.

War-worn and soiled, lies stiffening in the hold
Of him who, to his honored standard true.

Binds to his heart that pall with one convulsive fold I

Onward ! still on I for now before their view

The sullen river rolls its darkling flood ;
The clang of war behind them bursts anew ;

No time have they o'er sad defeat to brood.

Onward, o'er dying friends, so late who stood
The sharers of their toil — for life, for life,

The madd'ning race begins ! In that dark hour.
With every horror fraught — with danger rife —

Who dreamt of kindred ties, or felt sweet friendship's power ?

And fast, and wild, in gathering crowds they come ;

And shrieks and groans from out that mingling mass
Tell that the anguished spirit wingeth home

Its weary flight ! They win that narrow pass,

But ever and anon the thund'ring bass
Of guns that, rumbling in the distance, boom —

Waking to one continuous peal I Alas !

CANADIAN POETS.

209

Is there no hope for that once victor-host ?

The despot's arm, earth's scourge, and Gaul's triumphant boast ?

None I For the tempest-breath of heaven awakes,

And darkly green the swollen waters flow ;
The wintry blast upon them coldly breaks — »

The rear-guard yields to the victorious foe I

It heaves — it yawns — 0, God ! with one dread throe,
The crowded bridge beneath the pressure shakes,

And thrice ten thousand souls are hurled below
Into that "hell of waters," fierce and strong.
Whose waves relentless bear the flower of France along !

Aye ! and her vine-clad valleys long shall hear

The voice of mourning for her sons who lie,
Thrown by the sated wave on deserts drear ;

And long shall ring " that agonizing cry,"

And haunt his dreams when none to soothe is nigh !
And, fortune flown, shall thunder in his ear

'Mid courts and camps — the worm that ne'er shall die ;
And tell to every age, like Heaven's own wrath,
The vengeance dire that waits on the invader's path !

AFTER DEFEAT.

{From Saul.)

OHABLXB HEAVTSEOB.

All's over here; — let us withdraw and weep
Down in the red recesses of our hearts.
Or, in our spirits, silent, curse the cravens
Whom uttered execrations too much honor.

210 8ELE0TIONS FROM

Homo, homo, let us, dishonored, — homo if there

Bo yet for U8 ii houic, and the rhiliHtincs

Drive ua not forth to nii.serii])le exile.

Will they allow us, like to a hrcathed hare,

Spent, to return and repossess our form ?

Will they endure us in Giibeah ? or must wo

Discover some dark den on Lebanon,

And dwell with lions ? or must we with foxes

Burrow, and deixind on cunning for our food ?

Better with lions and with fttxes nuitinj^.

Than be companions of the brood of Israel ;

Yea, better with the hill-wolf famishinj^.

Than battening with the drove that forms the world.

LITTLE F L 11 A.

HAUniBTT A. WILKIN9.

A little bark afloat

On life's rough ocean —
A little flower that blooms
'Mid earth's commotion ;
Long be that fair and time-unwritten brow
As free from lines of mournfulness as now,

And those blue eyes,
Untarnislied by the tear, like stars that shine
In summer skies.

We would no blight may pass

Over the blossom ;
We would no storm may rise

O'er ocean's bosom ;

CANADIAN POETS. 211

Wo would — but swelling breakers will be cold,
And sweetest UoworH liuvu rootlets in the mould ;

Tbo storm, the clay,
Still mingle with the .sunsliino and the gold

Upon our way.

Mother 1 whose heart of love

Thy child is blessing —
Father ! who with delight.
Meets her caressing —
keep the precious flower from dangers free,
And point the voyager to that calm sea

Where storms come not ;
Ah I on the precious treasure given to ye
Lies Woman's lot.

Her lot, to watch untired

By beds of anguish ;
Her lot, to cheer the heart.
When Hope's beams languish ;
To cheer, and yet to yearn for some kind tone,
That from the board or from the hearth is gone —

To keep love's lamp
Still burning, beautiful and clear,
'Mid mist aud damp.

Parents ! in earnest prayer.

For this your daughter.
That safe through Life's cold blast,
And Death's deep water.

212 SELECTIONS FROM

A strength o'er which the foe prevaileth not ;
A love, that change and time assaileth not —

May win and weep,
Till in the Everlasthig Arms,

She falls asleep.

A FllAGMENT.

J. B. 11A.MSAT.

What phantoms rise and flit along

The silent stream of vanished time :
Forms grief-subdued and still and pale,

As hope transfixed with untold crime.
Even now upon my longing sight

A well remembered scene appears.
Where parted clouds let down the light,

Then close on all the coming years.

Among the sun-fields of the* West,

Where roll our country's grandest streams.
There lived a maiden lovelier far

Than fancy's fairest, fondest dreams.
Oft, when the sun's descending beams

Spread splendors o'er the western sky,
We met beneath the blooming thorn

And watched the wondrous glory die.

There, in the golden eventide,

Bene tth the fragrant hawthorn tree,

She, wl om my spirit deified,

Qavi all her promised years to me.

CANADIAN POETS.

213

That sun has set. An unknown grave

Is there alone upon the hill,
And all the scene is silent, save

The vesper of the whip-poor-will.

Behold ! the very hill-side trees

Seem mournin<j; o'er that lost sun-glow,
And up towards the west their arms

Wave in the twilight to and fro.
Angels of liglit who throng the road

Thro' Ilinnom's dim lone solitudes :
My spirit longs for that abode

Where everlasting stillness broods.

IDEAL LAN]).

D. J. WALLACE.

The twilight.hour has come again,

And, like an angel's wing.

It sheds a holy, heavenly calm,

O'er everything.

Within my soul a quiet reigns.

And peace and joy flow there,
In noiseless waves, till I have quite
Forgotten care.

I know not why it is, but y^t

The twilight ever brings
A peace, for which I would not take
All earthly things.

214 SELECTIONS FROM

And wliile the soul is lulled to rest,

How sweetly do the dreams
Of other days flow back again,
In half-hid streams.

To-day I walked the city's streets,

Where rolls life's varied tide ;
And felt alone, though thousands were
Upon each side.

But here, within my little cot.

With Twilight on her throne,
I think of absent ones and feel
I'm not alone.

With keys thrown to me by the hand

Of the departed Day,
I ope the portals of a land

Where loved ones stray.

Mysterious land ! for there the dead
And living arc as one ;

bliss 1 I meet them all as I

In life have done.

They all seem beings of a clime
Ilncursed with grief or care ;
And free from toil's corroding hand
They wander there.

Some of them live, and some are dead.
Yet, an unbroken band,

1 often meet them all within

Ideal Land.

CANADIAN POETS. 215

OUR LITTLE BOY.

p. H. DKWAUT.

When Autumn had stripped the trees

Of* their gorgeous crimson and gold,
And the murmur of every breeze

The desolate Winter foretold,
A cherub-hoy to our household came —

Like a beam of golden liglit
Sent down from the world of joy and love,

To brighten life's gloomy night.

Our Sunbeam has opened new mines of love.

Whose wealth was unknown before ;
He has kindled a light, in homo and heart,

That shall burn till life is o'er. »
We often bend o'er his placid sleep,

To imprint a kiss on his brow ;
Ah ! little ho knows of the watch we keep,

And the love that encircles him now —

Every tiny form and childish voice

Brings our little boy to mind ;
He has made my heart to those opening flowers

More thoughtfully, tenderly, kind.
I hear the patter of little feet

With emotions before unknown, —
To our joy-lit hearts the world has changed.

Since baby has taken his throne.

216 SELECTIONS PROM

Every playful trick of childish glee
Has Ji clianii for our wondering eyes ;

And even his prattling broken speech
' Seems <{uaint and wondrously wise.

His eye is bright, and his voice is sweet
As JI wood-bird's matin hynm —

We feel in our silent grateful joy,
That there never was child like him.

And yet, in the flush of my joy and pride,

There comes a shadow of pain.
As I wistfully glance along life's tide,

Towards Eternity's boundless main :

what if the ruthless Angel of Death,
Should steal in some fatal hour,

And bligiit with his terribly icy breath
Our precious and beautiful flower 1

1 often muse on his future fate,

And picture what it may be,
Till darkness comes down on my musing soul,

Like night on the siu'ging sea.
which shall he choose, when youth has flown,

The path of sorrow or joy ?
And if I should fall and leave him alone.

Who will watch o'er my fatherless boy ?

Father in heaven ! our oris(ms hear ;

And shield him from sin aiul from harm ;
May our love be tempered with wisdom and fear,

And our strength be thy holy arm ;

CANADIAN POETS.

May the feet of otir darling never stray

In the paths of folly and woe,
May he choose the pleasures that never decay,

Above all that sparkle below.

If father and mother should droop and die,

And sorrowful fortune ix)rtend,
Be Thou his defence when danjirer is nitrh,

A pitying father and friend.
Be Thou his guide through life's perilous way

Till temptation and conflict are past,
And wherever o'er eartli his feet may stray

Bring him home to Thyself at last.

217

« OMEMEE "—THE DOVE.

UOIJEUT a. PATTHRSON.

Where the wild-vines creeping,

Threw a pleasant shade,
Lovely, lone and weeping,

There stood an Indian maid.
Loudly, sweetly, clearly,

TliQ piping })lue-birds sang —
And through the forest cheerily.

The voice of insects rang !

She stood there gazing sadly.
With eyes of midnight hue —

From which the tears gushed madly.
Like diamond drops of dew ;

218 SELECTIONS FROM

Whilfi tlio (niivcrin-j: leaves, in pity,

Wore wliispcriiiu; above —
And soothing called her "Onieniee!"
" Sweet Oineniee !" the dove !

That Indian maid is praying,

In the forest depths alone :
For her lover's spirit straying —

To " I*o)ie»ialt's'-'^' realm" lias flown —
And now she seeks to follow him,

Where the " Jiaiia-wa-wn" f sounds
To braid his moccasins and belt

In the happy hunting grounds.

I Her mellow tones rose mildly,

Up through the wafting air;
And the busy echo, wildly,

Reverberates her prayer
Till rolling o'er the prairies

To the waters of the west
'Tis heard by " Gltche Mamtou" I

In the wigwams of the blest.

Gently smiled the Great One

As he heard Omemee pray,
And pouring forth a cloud storm.

Upon the blushing day,
It wrapped the trees in dusky folds —

The teeming earth it kissed —
Then, upward to the sky it rolled,

Like a noiseless car of mist I

♦The Laud of tbo lleroaflor. t I'assing Thunder,

tfhe Great Spirih

CANADIAN POETS. 219

Again through branches peeping,

Tlic 8UU shines round and fair —
TliG wild-vines still arc creeping

But no Indian maid is there !
For a fountain now is spriugin"-

Wliere the sweet Unienieo stood

In silvery sliowers flinging

Its freshness tlirougli tlie wood I

From that pure spring, flowing;
A streamlet takes its rise —

Still broad and deeper growing,
As swift it onward liies :

Fast gurgling o'er the pebbles-
Smooth, running o'er the sand,

And coying with the rushes,
Which bend on eitlier hand I

Now through meadows gliding —

Now tumbling down the hill —
It sweeps through Omcmcc village,

And turns the clattering mill.
Through rice swamp, and through forest, |ii:

It wandering winds along ; ''

Till its stream is lost for ever

In the bosom of " Chemonir."

But tlie trees its flood o'crhanirin'^
Still breathe Omemee's name.

And the birds through b'ranches flying
Softly sing the same,

220 SELECTTONS FROM

And tlic " Mnd-wu-ausJika'^ -'^ sighing
Tells how she died of love ;

And men still call Omcniee's stream
" The river of the Dove."

GIVP]N AND TAKEN.

Mils. .T. L. J-KI"XIOIION.

The snow-flakes wore softly falliniG;

Down on the landscape white,
When the violet eyes of uiy firstborn

Opened unto the li,!i;lit,
And I thought as I pressed him to uie

With loving, rapturous thrill,
He was pure and fair as the snow-flukes

That lay on the lundscajx) still.

I smiled when they spoke of the dreary

Length of the Winter's night,
Of the days so short and gloomy, —

The sun's cold cheerless light —
I listened, but in their murmurs,

Nor word nor thought took part.
For the smiles of my gentle darling

Brought light to my home and heart.

quickly the joyous spring-time
Came back to our ico-bound earth.

Filling fields and woods with sunshine,
And hearts with hope and niirth ;

* The uoiso of tho waves on tUo shoro.

CANADIAN POETS. 221

But Still on earth's dawning beauty,

Rested a gloomy shade,
For our tiny household idol

Began to droop and fade.

Shuddering, I felt that the frailest

Flower in the old woods dim,
Had perchance a surer and longer

Lease of life than him ;

In the flush of Summer's beauty,

On a sunny, golden day,
When flowers gemmed dells and woodlands,

My blossom passed away.

How I chafed at the brilliant sunshme

Flooding my lonely room,
How I turned from the sight of nature

So full of life and bloom.
How I longed for past wintry hours

With snow-flakes falling fast.
And the little form of my nurslin^
' In my loving arms clasped.

They put up each tiny garment

In an attic chamber high, WM

His coral— his empty cradle— ^^

That they might not meet my eye;
And his name was never uttered,

Whate'er each heart might feel,
For they wished that the wound in my bosom

Might have time to close and heal.

222 SELECTIONS FROM

It has (lono so, thanks to tliat Power

That has l)ec!i my earthly stay,
And shouhl you talk oi' my (hirling,

1 coukl listen now all day.
For I know each passing minute

Brings nic nearer life's last shore,
And nearer that cloudless kingdom

Where we both shall meet once more.

CONSCIOUS MADNESS.*

{From Saul.)

CnAULKS IIKAVYSEQE.

What ails mo ? what impels mc on, until
The big drops fall from off my brow ? Whence comes
This strange affliction ? — Oh, thus to be driven
About ! — I will stand still : now move me aught
That can. Ah, shake me, thing ; shake me again
Like an old thorn i'th' blast I 'Tis leaving mej
Oh, that it were for ever ! Oh, how long
Shall this fierce malady continue, these

* No extract can give any adequate idea of the dramatic power displayed in
" Saul."_ We have not instituted any comparison between Mr. Heavysege and
other distinguished Canadian i)oets, ))ecaus<> tlie department of poetic art in which
he has won hij;h distinction, docs not liiirly admit of comparison with lyric and
descriptive poetry. 3Ir. Heavysoge has received tlio highest praise from eminent
critics, as exhibiting rare subtlety of tliought and creative power. But in spite of
all this, "Saul" has shared the neglect and inditference that Las hitherto been
the birthright of nearly every volume of poetry i)ublished in Canada. It is " more
in sorrow than in auger," we so fretjuently relbr to this neglect of the productions
of Canadian authors, so discreditable to the iutelligeuce, patriotism, and literary
taste of the people of Canada.

CANADIAN POETS.

22:j

Dread visitntions ? Sco, 'tis liero ii^ain !

What's licro a<'airi ? Or who ? ] lore's none save I ;-

And yet there's (sonic one here. 'Tis licre, 'tis here

Within my hrain : — no, it is in my heart, —

Within my sonl; where rise ai^ain Mack thoughts

And horrihlc conceptions, that from hell

Might have come up. All blasphemies that my ears

Ever heard ; my horridest ideas in dreams j

And impi(ms conceits, that even a fiend

Methinks could scarcely muster, swarm within

Me, rank and black as summer flies on ordure.

Oh, what a den this monient is my breast I

How cold I feel, how cruel and invidious.

Now let no child of mine approach me ; neither

Do thou come near to me, Ahinoam,

Their mother and the wife I dearly love ;

For now the universe appears one held

On which to spend my rancor. Oh, disperse,

Fit, nor return with thy o'erwhelming shadows !

Oh that it would begone and leave me in

My sorrow ! Surely 'tis enough to live

In lone despair. To reign is care enough,

Even in rude health ; but to be harassed thus

By an unnamed affliction ; — and why harassed ?

Oh, why am I thus harassed ? I luive heard

Of wretches raging under shar]> remorse ;

Of cruel monarchs, in their latter days,

Falling a prey to an accusing conscience ;

But why should I, whose faidts smite but myself,

Be thus tormented ?

224 8EI.KCT10NS FROM

S I S E U A .

J. UKAUH.

" Tlio motlior «)i' NiMora loukoil out at u window, atui orknl through th«IttUoo;
Why Is hid chariot ho long in comiiiKT why turry the wliooU of his ohulot?" fco.
—,ludg€$, V. 28 ft Mcif,

Why comes ho not? why comes he not,

My briivo luid noble Hon ?
Why comes ho not with liis w«rUko men,

And the trophies liis might has won?
How slowly roll his chtiriot wheels 1

How weary seems the day !
Pride of thy lonely mother's heart,
Why dost thou still delay ?

He comes not yet ; will ho never como,

To gladden these heavy eyes,
That have watched and watched from mom till eve,

And agaiti till the sun did rise ?
Shall I meet no more his look of joy.

Nor hear liis manly voice ?
Why comes he not, with the spoils of war,

And the damsels of his choice ?

Years rolled along in their ruthless course,

But Sisera came no more,
With his mighty men and his captive maids,

As he oft had come before.
A woman's hand had done the deed

Tiiat laid a hero low ;
A woman^s heart had felt the grief

That none but mothers know.

CANADIAN POETS.

225

TWILIGHT.*

JOHN V. M'DONMKLL.

The twilight shrouds tho eastern sky, —

The iniHt-cloud falls on hill and rivor,—
The red li^iits on the water lie,

And in soft beams of brightness quiver.
Tho parting day, in one rich cloud

Of fleecy j^old, iuuigs o'er tho city ;
And o'er the calm wave echoes loud
Tho mariners wild ringing ditty.
Witii murmurs deep,
Like troubled sleep,
The mighty tide is onward flowing; —
And, see, afar,
Tho Evening Star ; —
Its lonely ray, in beauty, glowing.

The northern sky looks dim and grey, —

The mountain tops are clothed in shadow, —
The night breeze wanders forth, in play ;

And, rippling, breathes across the meadow ;
The scented buds their leaflets close ;

The dew-drops gleam on tree and flower ; —
And Nature, with new beauty, glows

Beneath the witching twilight hour :

* It IB to be regretted, that one who can write so musically, and with such deep
appreciation of nature's beauty and power, sliould renounce the muses, to tho extent
Mr. McDonnell has latterly done. Mr. McDonnell formerly contributed extensively,
both to the American and Canadian press, but has, wo believe, written scarcely any
poutry for several years ija^t. lie is a native of Quebec, born in 1838, a member of
tho legal profession, and at present connected with the Quebec press.

226 fiELECTlONS FROBI

While, o'er my soul,

Bright fancies roll.
That drive away the gloom of sorrow,

And bid me still,

In good or ill,
Hope for a better, happier morrow.

I love to see the noon of day,

In suni;iy robes of splendor beaming ;
I love to see the wavelets play.

Beneath the silvery moonlight streaming : —
But sweeter far than sun or moon, —

The glories of the purple even.
When Night's dark mantle spreads, too soon.
Across the bright expanse of heaven.
Thus Beauty's bloom
Ends in the tomb ;
By breath of Time, its glories shaded ; —
Thus Pleasure's flower
Blooms for an hour ;
Then — like the twilight eve — 'tis faded.

WEARY.

J. H. KINO.

Build me a cot by some woodland stream,
Some lonely spot where my heart may dream.
Where nought of song save the streamlet's flow
May call me back to the long ago :
And make me a couch of the lichen green,
That wraps the grove with its emerald sheen :

CANADIAN POETS.

227

Oh, build me a cot in the dark green wood,
Where the hum of life may never intrude 1

I pine for the place where the wild bird's throat

Yields the only song my ear can note ;

Or the silver hymn of the mountain rill

As it leaps from its home in the rock-bound hill.

I long for the place where the matin song

Is lost in the solemn vespers' throng,

By a vast unbroken silence awed

That speaks of an ever-present God.

I weary to flee from this constant strife,
This ceaseless clangor, this clash of life ;
I long for a place by no power possessed.
Where my heart can whisper, here is rest.
I have sought for this place in the lordly hall,
In the peasant's cot where life's shadows fall,
'Mid the sorrowing group, mid the joyous fair,
I've searched them all, but it was not there.

Oh where shall I seek, — without, — within, —

That earth hath no leprosy of sin ;

That the power of ambition, the pride of wealth,

Hath not stained the heart or poisoned health ?

Aye, where shall I seek for solitude.

Free from the taint of earth's harpy brood ?

E'en solitude, could I find her cell.

Would shrink away from her own voice knell.

The past, where cherished memories rife
Are sadly counting the sands of life ;
The past is there, but her wreath of flowers
Is withered and dead ', they fall in showers

228 SELECTIONS FROM

O'er the urn of hope, where cold and lone,
Her relics repose without a stone ;
No wreath, no relic Falernian-crowned,
Save one lonely spot, a grassy mound.

And I, oh, alas I where shall I flee

To find that rest that's so dear to me,

I've sought it in vain and wearied now,

I turn from the search with an aching brow.

But I must seek in a brighter clime

Afar beyond the shadows of time ;

I'll seek it there — earthly gain is loss —

And rest in the shade of the hallowed cross.

THE SHIPWRECK.*

SAMUEL PAYNK FORD.

Gallantly over the proud sea's foam

Doth the noble vessel ride.
She hath braved the storm in her voyage home.

And the hurricane's blast defied ;
Full faithfully hath she borne her load

To the far-off sunny shore,
And over the Storm-King's dark abode

Is returning home once more.

Hopefully to their rest at night

Go an anxious-hearted band,
For the captain hath said, *' With the morning light

You shall gaze on the wished-for land."

* Mr. Ford was born and brought up in the nciglibourliood of Peterborough.
His poetry is distinguislied by purity and elevation of moral sentiment, strong'
human sympathies, and sweetness and gracoi'uluess of style.

CANADIAN POETS. 229

And with many a dream of home and friends,

And of loved ones far away,
Drawn near by the charm that dreamland lends,

They wait for the coming day.

But, alas ! ere the water-weed shall bow

To the morning's perfumed breath.
There are many who dream so peacefully now

Shall sleep the sleep of Death ;
For the dark-winged angel is hovering nigh.

And brooding above the deck,
And the morn shall reveal to the passer-by

Not even a shapeless wreck.

The mysterious midnight hour is past.

With naught to affright or harm,
When wild and high on the wailing blast

There is borne a fierce alarm ;
And the dreamers awake from their peaceful sleep,

Aroused by the sudden shock.
To find, alas ! that their noble ship

Hath struck on a sunken rock.

There were many and mingled cries that night,

Arose on the stormy air;
Loud anxious calls for the mornins: lisrht.

And a few low sounds of prayer ;
We know not but their prayers were heard

By the God who rules the wave.
But at morn the winds and the wild sea-bird

Sang a requiem over their grave.

f'l

23ft SELECTIONS PROM

ROSA.

JOHN KKADB.

Thou art gone, sweet love, to take thy rest,
Like a weary child, on thy mother's breast ;
And thou hearest not, in thy calm deep sleep,
The voices of those that around thee weep.

Thou art gone, where the weary find a home.
Where sickness and sorrow can never come :
A flower too fair for earthly skies
Thou art gone to bloom in Paradise.

Thou art gone, and I hear not thy gladsome tone,
But my heart is still beating '^ alone, alone" —
Yet often in dreams do I hear a strain
As of angels bearing thee back again.

Thou art gone, and the loorld may not miss thee long.
For thou didst not care for its idle throng ;
But this fond bosom, in silent woe.
Shall carry thine image wherever I go.

Thou art gone, thou art gone ; shall we meet no more
By the sandy hill or the winding shqre ?
Or watch as the crested billows rise.
And the frightened curlew startling cries ?

Thou art gone, but oh ! in that land of peace
Where sin, and sorrow and anguish cease.
Where all is happy and bright and fair.
My own sweet love, may I meet thee there I

CANADIAN POETS. 231

LAY HER DOWN SILENTLY.

BBV. H. F. DAKNKLL, M. A.

Lay her down silently

'Neath the green grass;
Like dews of the morning,

Her spirit doth pass ;
Why shouldst thou mourn her

With sob or with sigh ?
Angels have shrined hpr

In glory on high.

Lay her down hopefully;

Earth's flowers die
Ere the keen blasts of winter

Go bitterly by ;
But she, like those flowers,

Shall blossom anew,
When the Spring of Eternity

Breaks on the view.

Lay her down trustingly ;

Dear though she be,
Is she not dearer

To Christ than to thee ?
Thougl now from thy treasure

His wisdom may sever,
'Tis only to give her thee

Brighter than ever.

232 SELECTIONS FROM

Lay her down fearlessly ;

Darkness and doom
May fold their deep wings

Over her, and her tomb ;
But the dawn of Eternity

Scatters each cloud,
Gives garments of glory

For pall and for shroud.

Lay her down thankfully y

Let her sleep on ;
Learn to say cheerfully

" God's will be done I"
The scenes of futurity
1 Thou canst not know,

May be He takes her

From guilt or from woe.

Lay her down prayerfully —

Not that she needs
Now the deep words

With which man intercedes ;
But pray that her exodus,

Sad though it be,
May open a pathway

To glory for thee.

THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW PANE.

CHARLK3 SANQSTER.

A joy from my soul's departed,
A bliss from my heart is flown,

As weary, weary-hearted,
I wander alone — alone !

CANADIAN POETS.

The night wind sadly sigheth

A withering, wild refrain,
And my heart within me dieth

For the light in the window pane.

The stars overhead are shininf

As brightly as e'er they shone.
As heartless — sad — repining,

I wander alone — alone !
A sudden flash comes streaminf^.

And flickers adown the lane.
But no more for me is gleaming

The light in the window pane.

The voices that pass are cheerful,

Men laugh as the night winds moan ;
They cannot tell how fearful

'Tis to wander alone — alone !
For them, with each night's returnins.

Life singeth its tenderest strain.
Where the beacon of love is burning —

The light in the window pane.

Oh sorrow beyond all sorrows

To which human life is prone :
Without thee, through all the morrows,

To wander alone — alone !
Oh dark, deserted dwelling I

Where Hope like a lamb was slain,
No voice from thy lone walls welling,

No light in thy window pane.

233

234

SELECTIONS FROIVI

But Memory, sainted angel 1

Rolls back the sepulchral stone,
And sings like a sweet evangel :

" No — never, never alone !
True grief has its royal palace.

Each loss is a greater gain ;
And Sorrow ne'er filled a chalice

That Joy did not wait to drain 1"

INVOCATION.

W. H. HAWLB7.

Spirits of earth ! Spirits of air 1

Come to me over the silver sea ;
Lay the locks of my tangled hair,

For the lov'd, the lost one is coming to me I

I see her sailing on yon light cloud,
With wreaths of roses upon her hung,

And wildly around her moon-beam shroud
Her glistening looks of jet are flung.

I see the light of her polished brow —
I feel the beam of her laughing eye !

Come, invisible Spirits, now,

And bear me away to yonder sky !

Spirits of earth I Spirits of air !

Throw your spells on the flying shade I
For she slowly fades from the moon-light's glare,

And tells me not where her rest is made.

CANADIAN POETS. 235

GLIMPSES OP HIGHLAND SUPERSTITION.

;

DONALD M'INTOSH.

Superstition ! though beset
By Erudition's gun and net,
And made ignobly to retreat

Before the pedant's rod ;
Yet do thy visions dread seem fair
To me who breath'd the mountain air,
And sought the red-deer's secret lair

'Mid wilds but seldom trod ;—

Wilds haunted by the lone Banshee
Whom shepherds in the gloaming see,
As homeward hums the laden bee.

And midges skim the lake ;
When all beside in silence sleeps,
Save cascades rushing down the steeps,
And Echo, whom their music keeps

Perpetually awake.

Then forth thou led'st thy spirit-host —

Of goblin, kelpie, witch and ghost

Of wanderer in the snowdrift lost, m

When madly raved the storm —
Lost where now oft with smothered wail
And hollow eye, and visage pale.
And noiseless step, along the vale
Is seen that shadowy form !

236 SELECTIONS FROM

And quaintly dressed in robes of green \

Elfins may then be dimly seen,
Attendant on tiieir sylvan Queen

Upon some mossy knoll ;
Or with flint-pointed arrows keen
Waylaying mortals who in vain
May there be seeking to regain

The child the fairies stole I

The scene is changed — and, hark that sound !
Yon rocky cave a tongue hath found,
And hunter's voice and bay of hound

Are on the night-wind borne ;
And shades of Fingal and his band,
Who once inhabited the land,
Soon issue forth with bow in hand

And far-resounding horn.

The chase awakes the sleeping Night,
The phantom stag bounds fur in flight,
The traveller, shuddering with aff"right,

Prays Heaven his path to guide j
The fox seeks out his den secure.
The house-dog crouches on the floor,
While fast along the heathy moor

Those spectral hunters glide !

Such, Superstition, is thy might —
Thus dost thou people Scotia's night;
Oft have I faced with dread delight
Its glamour and its gloom.

CANADIAN POETS. 237

*Ti8 true we have no warlocks here,
No haunted dells, no sprites to fear,
Yet do I not the less revere

My own loved Highland home.

Dread Power I full well I mind the day,
When thought of vengeful ghost or fay
Sufficed my wayward steps to stay

From evil deed or word.
Let sceptics, if they will, ignore —
Better that such as own thy power
Believe the truth and sometiiinq more,

THAN BOTH ALIKE DISCARD. '

THE GREY LINNET.*

JAMES M'CAHBOLL.

There's a little grey friar in yonder green bush,
Clothed in sackcloth — a little grey friar
Like a druid of old in his temple — but, hush
He's at vespers : you must not go nigher.

Yet, the rogue ! can those strains be addressed to the skies.

And around us so wantonly float,

Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread flies

From the silvery reel of his throat ?

When he roves, though he stains not his path through the air

With the splendor of tropical wings,

All the lustre denied to his russet plumes there,

Flashes forth through his lay when he sings.

•There is exquisite humour, and true poetry, in tliis little piece. Mr. McCarrolI
iiasbeen long and favourably Icnown to the Canadian public as a writer of verse.
Be is a native of Ireland ; and at present resides in Toronto.

238 SELECTIONS PROM

For the littlo grey friar's so wondrous wise,

Though in such a plain garb ho appears,

That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes,

He steals in through the gates of your ears. :

But, the cheat ! — 'tis not heaven he's warbling about — ^t

Other passions, less holy, betide —

For, behold I there's a little grey nun peeping out

From a bunch of green leaves at his side.

WORDS.

JOHN RBADR.

Every heart that throbs must know

Fountains sweet and bitter ;
Either we may cause to flow,

By the words we utter. I

Idle words may pierce the deep

Of the gentlest spirit, —
Waking sorrow from its sleep,

Treading roughly near it.

Words of love may lull to rest * |

Care, or grief, or anguish, —
Rousing hope within the breast,

Where it seemed to languish.

Then let none misuse the gift

God for use has given ;
Through him, every word may lift

Some one nearer heaven.

CANADIAN POETS.

239

WHY DO YOU ENVY ME?

WILLIAM WYB HMITH.

I have an estate in the Land of Dreams,

And thither I often flee,
It brinj^s mo joy in as many streams •

As any wealth I see; —
And you may lay claim to a wide domain

That lies by a sunny sea;
Then go to the land whwe I have been,

For why do you envy me ?

I have a sweet bark on the sea of love.

That carries me whither I will, —
With its gleaming wings like an arrowy dove,

And the sun on its pathway still ;—
There's gems at hand on the farther strand,

And pearls beneath our lee —
There's other barks on the golden sand

Then why do you envy me ?

I have a light heart in this breast of mine,

Like a singing bird in June,
Or a sparkling stream where the roses twine,

That murmurs its endless tune.
I look for my share of toil and care,

Nor yet shall unhappy be; —
A conscience at rest will make you blest

Then why do you envy me ?

240

SELECTIONS FROM

TO MY SON *

WILLIAM WYK SMITH.

Too gentle for the ruder winds of earth

To chill and wither —
Too many tokens of a heavenly b'rth

Not to flee thither —
No wish of mine, though it had magic worth,

Should draw thee hither.

For I am sad amid these damps sublunar,

But happy thou !
And I shall doubtless wear that Peace the sooner

Upon my brow —
That I am left, like vine behind the pruner,

Lopp'd in each bough !

Yet oh my heart goes out in bitter yearning,

For love so lost ! —
A smouldering fire whose embers still are burning

On altar toss'd.
That human pride, that only now is learning

How love is cross'd.

♦ " Alazon and other roEMS" was published by Mr. Smith, at Toronto, in
1850. Tliough 8ome of tlio pieces are not froo from signs of immaturity, yet, as
a whole, the volume contained much promise. " Alazon," the longest poem,
though rather too fanciful und unreal in its general conception, evinced a mastery
of the difficulties of the Hponscrian stanza, that was in itself an omen of higher
achievement*. The pieces by Mr. Smith in this volume, with the exception of
" Bind THB Rose," have been written since the publication of " Alazon." Mr.
.Smith is a native of Jedburgh, Scotland, born in 1827. He has resided in Canada
for many years ; and is at present editor of the Owen Sound Times and of the
Stmday-School Dial. Co/w^ if Cca^^j^^. / Ti>1. (!Wia»>-<iAs— <»^ nvit*.*t^. 'tdu^

^'aU\

,-)/VAiv A-

CANADIAN POETS.

Loved and Lost I 'tis thus the lot of all:—

The loved arc gone —
And lost to circle of the hearth and hall

The Angel Oxr;
That come to every house— whom Angels call

Too soon upon !

241

MINNIEBEL.

PAMKLIA H. VININQ.

Where the willow weepeth

By a fountain lone,
Where the ivy creepeth,

O'er a mossy stone,
With pale flowers above her,

In a quiet dell,
Far from those who love her,

Slumbers Minniebel.

There thy bed I made thee,

By that fountain side.
And in anguish laid thee

Down to rest, my bride !
Tenderest and fairest.

Who thy worth may tell ?
Flower of beauty rarest,

Saintly Minniebel !

Weary years have borrowed
From my eye its light^

242

SELECTIONS FROM

Time my cheek has furrowed,
And these locks are white ;

But my heart will ever
'Mid its memorip'' dwell,

Fondly thine forever,
Angel Minniebel,

IMPROMPTU ON A BEAUTIFUL BUTTLivFLY.

JAMES M'CAIIROLL.

Frailest of all earth's lovely things,
Uncertain wanderer that swings
Upon those gaudy, rose-leaf wings

In yonder sky,
What of the blight that Autumn brings

To thee by and by ?

fi'

Half helpless in the summer air.

The sport of wanton breezes there,

How, thoughtless creature, shalt thou bear

The ruthless blast
That, with the chill of time and care,

Strikes thee at last ?

Flushed gossamer, thou hast thy day —
Thy morn and noon of sunny play ;
And, sportive creature, tell mc, pray.

What more have we ?
We flutter, too, and pass away,

Bright thing, like thee.

CANADIAN POETS.

DAWN.

JAMK8 M'CAUROLL.

With folded wings of dusky light
Upon the purple hills she stands,
An angel between day and night,

With tinted shadows in her hands-
Till suddenly transfigured there,

With all her dazzling plumes unfurl'd
bhe climbs the crimson flooded air
And flies in glory o'er the world !

243

TAAPOOKAA-AHURON LEGEND.

CHARLES 8AN08TEB.

The clouds roll over the pine trees,
Like waves, that are charged with ire ■

Golden and glory-hued their crests.
Ablaze with a gorgeous fire.

The sun has gone down in splendor.
The heavens are wild with flame,'

And all the horizon is burning
With colors that have no name.

And over the mighty forests
The mystical hues are spread,

As calm as the smiles of angels '
As still as the peaceful dead.'

244

SELECTIONS PROM

And the lake, serene and thoughtful,
And the river, deep in dreams,

And the purple cliif in the distance,
Are robed with the glory-gleams,

Until earth seems a sacred temple,
Where spirits of light have trod,

Where man should not dare to enter ;
Too sacred for aught but God.

Calm eve over lovely Huron,
Calm eve in the sombre wild.

And over the rude bark wigwam
Of the swarthy forest-child.

There's a gathering of the red men,
Of their youths and maidens fair,.

Of the mothers of braves and heroes,
And the feast is spreading there.

From the banks of the Cadaracqui,

From Niagara's solitudes,
Where the song of the Water Spirit

lloUed vast through the primal woods

From Superior's rocky ddfiles,
Her grand and rugged shores,

From Utawa and blue-waved Erie,
Came the Chiefs and Sagamores,

Bringing gifts from the distant lodges.
Rare gifts for the lovely bride —

Taapookaa, the fairest maiden
That ever for true-love sighed.

CANADIAN POETS.

Taapookaa, the loved, the lovely,
No beauty was there like hers,

And through all the tribes of the forest
The Braves were her worshippers.

But whore is her young Sioux lover,
The pride of her trusting heart ?

The Brave that her love hath chosen.
Whose life is of hers a part.

Away from the bridal revels.
Away from the feast, he roves ,

Alone over lonely rivers.
Alone in the lonely groves I

Taapookaa must wed another.
The Chief of i neighboring tribe ;

Neither force nor friends can save her.
Neither tear nor prayer can bribe !

For this have the Chieftains gathered,
Great Chiefs from the wilds afar ;

They have prayed to Manitou freely,
And saluted the Bridal Star.

All things for the feast are ready,

All ripe for the revelry,
And the bridegroom-chief is waiting,—

But Taapookaa, where is she ?

Like the zephyr that bends the flowers.
That bendeth but may not break,

So, lightly, her footstep treadeth
The cliff o'er the calmy lake.

245

246

SELECTIONS FROM

The stars are all weeping for her,
The moon hath a look forlorn,

For the beautiful maid, all blushes,
All blushes, and truth, and scorn I

The breeze has a mournful cadence,

A sigh for the fairest fair ;
It cooleth her maiden blushes.

And fingers her jetty hair.

Like a tragic queen she standeth,

On the jagged cliiF alone ;
All nature has paused to shudder,

And the stricken forests moan.

A prayer for her young Sioux lover.
That wanders the wilds forlorn.

And she leaps from the cliff, all daring,
And maidenly truth, and scorn.

At night when the stars are shining.
And the moon, with silvery hue.

Illumines the lake with radiance.
Is seen a white canoe :

Two shadowy forms within it,
Two faces that seem to smile, —

The maid and her brave Sioux lover
Returned from the Spirit-Isle.

CANADIAN POETS.

247

GARIBALDI!

ALEX. M'LACHLAN.

sons of Italy awake,

Your hearths and altars are at stake,—

Arise, arise, for Freedom's sake,

And strike with Garibaldi I

The Liberator now appears,
Foretold by prophets, bards and seers,
The hero sprun.2; from blood and tears,
All hail to Garibaldi !

Let serfs and cowards fear and quake,

Venice, Naples, Rome awake,
Like lava of your burning lake.
Rush on with Garibaldi !

Up and avenge your country's shame,
Like ^tna belching forth her flame,
Rush on in freedom's holy name
And strike with Garibaldi !

'Tis freedom thunders in your ears ;
The weary night of blood and tears.
The sorrows of a thousand years.
Cry, On with Garibaldi !

The shades that hover round your fanes,
The blood of heroes in your veins.
Keep shouting, Rise and break your chains.
And on with Garibaldi!

248 SELECTIONS FROM

And toiif^ues in many u dungeon stone,
And prison walls are shoutirifj on,
And sweep tlie madman from his throne,
Then on with Garibaldi I

The Roman Eagle is not dead,
Her mighty wings again arc spread.
To swoop upon the tyrant's head,
And strike with Garibaldi I

The drum of Bomba's doom does beat,
The shadows of the murdered meet,
To drag him to the judgment seat.
Then on with Garibaldi !

The land wherein the laurel waves.
Was never meant to nourish slaves.
Then onward to your bloody graves,
Or live like Garibaldi I

DRINK.

I. a. ASCIIER.

There's a sound of woe in the cheerless street,

And a shriek in the midnight air,
For a drunken sot is reeling along,
In the gathering darkness there ;
And I hear the meaningless words that come
From the depths of his heart's despair ;
'Tis a moan for drink, —
For he'll drink and drink,

CANADIAN POETS.

Till the earth seems to reel and swim —
Till his hope in God and his trust in man

Are lost in his pitiless cries-
Till he loatlies his life, and i^o loathing, dies,
And all for the sake of drink !

He cries not for aid from a merciful God,

He craves not a pittance of bread,
But shrieks for drink to the hollow winds,

That echo his tottering tread ;
And his fieshless bones clasp the cold, dumb stones,

That serves for his pillow and bed, —
For he'll drink and drink
Till his eyes are dim —

Till his senses ache with pain, —
For his trust in God and his faith in man

He'll never on earth regain.
While ho hates the sight of both day and night

For the sake of the demon drink !

Has he sipped the cup of a direful doom ?

Has care made him grovel low ?
Has penury cankered his youthful hopes,

Or darkened their rainbow glow ?
Has Heaven deserted this homeless man

Whose words seem the gasping of woe ?
'Tis the poison drink
That maddens the brain —

That has made his bosom a hell,
While a drunkard's gloom, like a fearful doom

In his heart and home does dwell.
Where fell disease and famine have sped, —

And all for the sake of drink !

249

250 SELECTIONS FROM

Raise liiin from wliero lie crouclios and creeps

On the slime and mud at Jiis feet, -
Bear him where blossinjjs shall scatter in night,

The curses his lips would repo:it ;
Raise him, but bsuiish the muddriniuij; cup —

The curse of the home and street, —
And wape a war with the demon drink,

The tempter to crime below,
That makes a hell of the purest dell,

Where flowers mi<>;ht bloom nnd trrow —
That surely gives birth on this beautiful earth

To the direst sin and woe.

THE PRODIGAL'S SOLILOQUY.

8AMUKL PAYNK FORD.

Ah ! I know it ; the way of transgressors is hard ;
I have walked in that way, and T have my reward;
I have drained off the fluid that flashed in the bowl,
And the poison it held is destroying my soul.

I have revelled for years 'mid the pleasures of earth,
Have been drunk with its music, its madness, its mirth,
But the fruits, fair as dew which the honey-bee sips.
Like the apples of Sodom, were dust on my lips.

I have sown my wild oats with a bountiful hand,
And cherished their growth with the fat of the land,
But alas! in the premature blight of my years,
I am reaping the harvest of trouble and tears.

CANADIAN POETS.

251

Long ago, when the flowers of my youth were in bloom,
And the song-birds enlivened the dear halls of home,
I seemed happy, almost as the angels above,
While I bathed in the sunlight of friendship and love.

But the flowers are all faded, the songsters have flown,
And both homeless and hopeless, I wander alone,
Not a dear one to love me, nor friend to console.
Though I lavished on friemls all 'he wealth of my soul.

The fair, fragile form of my mother is laid
Where the cypress and willow wave over her head,
And the true, noble heart upon which she relied,
Lies ruthlessly broken and torn by her side.

They had prayed for their boy with unfaltering faith.
Till their footsteps went down in the river of Death,
And their last exclamation, ere set of the sun.
Was, " 0, Father, remember the wandering one."

And that sisterly voice that implored me to stay.
When I spoke of my purpose to wander away,
Is rejoicing, perchance, in yon bright world of bliss.
For I heard it no more 'mid the shadows of this.

Oh ! a flood of fierce anguish continues to roll,
Like a tempest of fire, o'er my agonized soul,
For I know, by a torturing instinct I have.
That I hurried them on to a premature grave.

I would pray, but a mountain of guilt rises up.
Shutting out from my soul the last vestige of hope;
And like Cain I am forced in my utter despair,
To exclaim, " It is more than my spirit can bear!"

252 SELECTIONS FROM

And while others arc pjainin;? the portals of bliss,
I am nearinu; ft torture more dreadful than this,
Where the worm dieth not, and the flatncs of the fire,
Like ft burniufi; volcano, flash brighter and higher.

But stay ! what is that ? 'tis a sound that I hear.

Falling, soft as the dropping i)f dew on my ear ;

It resembles a voice that I heard long ago,

Ere my soul had grown wayward, and callous with woe.

And it bids me look up, nor by doubt bo deterred,
For the prayers that were offered for me have been heard,
And the Angel of Mercy is now on the road.
To convey the repenting one back to his God.

Ah, mother ! thy pleadings are answered at last,
Though the day of salvation seemed certainly past :
And I. cherish a hope that when life shall be o'er.
Thou wilt welcome me home to the glorified shore.

CHILDHOOD

J. J. PROCTER.

Blushes are on the snow

Where the Western sun is dying.
And night comes creeping above and below,

And the evening breeze is sighing ;
I sit by my little one's bed

Watching her quiet sleep,
While around on the fire-lit wall and o'erhead

The flickering shadows creep ;

C ;

CANADIAN POETS.

Wutcliinj; tlic blaze that strcnius

From the ruddy lip.s of the lire,
And my ehild tliut .sleeps while its mother dreams

Of her diirliMg bube uiid its eirc —
What in the days to come,

Shall my own little one be ?
The pride and the joy of her happy homo,

And her God's to eternity i*

How sweetly the downcast lid

On the sleeping eye reposes,
And the bloom of her cheek, half seen, half hid.

Gleams like the buds of roses.
The little hand is at rest.

Under the golden hair,
And the snow-white coverlet over her breast

Seems scarce with her breath to stir.

263

What docs my baby see,

That a smile comes over her face ?
Does my pretty one think of her father and me.

And her little sister's grace ?
What childish fancy pleases her now

That she looks so sAveet and mild.
And brightens up from lip to brow.

With the grave calm smile of a child ?

A smile, and nothing more.

Quiet and soft, and seldom seen,

Stealing like summer breezes o'er.

And leaving the baby face serene ;

264 SELECTIONS FROM |

ft,

A ri|iplo upon the wave, T

Fading away in the joy of its birth, *^.

And leaving the water cahn and grave, I-

In a beauty not known by earth. f

Is she not mine, God-given ? ,,

And now, when she laughs in her dreams, I know y-

Her angel speaks with her Father in heaven, f

Of her who sees Him in visions below :
I gaze with awe, and with half-stayed breath.

For methinks, not faintly shadowed, I trace-
The peace that I pray may be hers till death.

And the joy that rests on an angel's face.

THE LITTLE SHOES.

CHAIILES SAKQSTKB.

Her little shoes ! we sit and n.use

LTpon the dainty feet that wore them ;
By day and night our souls' delight

Is just to dream and ponder o'er them.
We hear them patter on the floor ;

In cither hand a toy or rattle ;
And what speaks to our hearts the more —

Her first sweet words of infant prattle.

I see the face so ftiir, and trace

The dark -blue eye that flashed so clearly;
The rose-bud lips, the finger-tips

She learned to kiss — 0, far too dearly !

CANADIAN POETS.

The pearly hands turned up to mine,
The tiny arms my neck caressing;

Her smile, that made our life divine,
Her silvery laugh — her kiss, a blessing.

Her winning ways, that made the days

Elysian in their grace so tender.
Through which Love's child our souls beguiled

For seeming ages starred with splendor :
No wonder that the angel-heirs

Did win our darling life's-joy from us.
For she was theirs — not all our prayers

Could keep her from the Land of Promise.

255

THE CHILD OF PROMISE.

A TRANSLATION PUO:\r THE OABLIC OP EVAN M'COLL, BY THE LATK
REV. DR. BUCHANAN, OF METHVEN, PERTHSHIRE.

She died — as die the roses
On the ruddy clouds of dawn,

When the envious sun discloses
His flame, and morning's gone.

She died — like waves of sun-glow

Fast by the shadows chased ;
She died — like heaven's rainbow

gushing showers effaced.

She died — like flakes appearing
On the shore beside the sea ;

Thy snow as bright ! but, nearing
The ground-swell broke on thee.

256 SELECTIONS PROM

She died — as dies the glory
Of music's sweetest swell;

She died — as dies the story
Wlien tlie best is still to tell.

Siic died — as dies moon beaming
When scowls the rayless wave ;

She died — like sweetest dreaming,
That hastens to its grave.

She died — and died she early :
Ileavch wearied for its own.

As the dipping sun, my Mary,
Thy morning ray went down I

THE SONG OF A GLORIFIED SPIRIT.

GEORGE MAHTIN.

A youth knelt down by a new made grave, I

Unseen by the world, and wept; I

A sister whose beauty no love could save I

Beneath in the darkness slept. *

'Twas a calm sweet eve, and on hill and plain {

The sunnner had lavished her dower ;
But the full, full heart of the youth could gain |

No solace from sun or flower.

The big warm tears he wiped from his cheek,

As he thought, with a struggling faith,
" God, if I could but hear her speak ! —

mystical Life of Death 1"

CANADIAN POETS.

In silence and sorrow he lingered long,

And just as he rose to depart,
In the heavens was warbled this saintly song,

Which fell like a balm on his heart :

" Beautiful are my walks in the sky,
Beautiful, beautiful I

Here the amaranths never die.

Here the sweet winds murmur and sio-h

Beautiful, beautiful I

." Joyfully glide my golden hours,

Joyfully, joyfully !
Here the leaves of the hyacinth flowers

Whisper around my love-lit bowers

Joyfully, joyfully !

" Lovingly smile my comrades here.
Lovingly, lovingly !
All the bright shapes of this blissful sphere

Tell how that each unto each is dear

Lovingly, lovingly |

" Merciful is my Father, my all,

Merciful, merciful!
Here the white-cheeked lilies, so tall,

Sing in their place by the jasper wall

Merciful, merciful 1"

257

258

SELECTIONS FRO.

A NORTHERN RUNE.

CUABLE8 SAWaSTEB.

Loud roUeth the rune, the martial rune

Of the Norse-King-Harpist bold ;
He's proud of his line, he's erect as the pine

That springs on the mountains old.
Through the hardy North, when his song goes forth,

It rings like the clash of steel ;
Yet we have not a fear, for his heart's sincere,

And his blasts we love to feel.

Chorus ;

Then, hi ! for the storm,

The wintry storm, ^

That maketh the stars grow dim :
Not a nerve shall fail.
Not a heart shall quail.

When he rolls his grand old hymn.

0, hale and gay is that Norse-king gray,

And his limbs are both stout and strong ;
His eye is as keen as a falchion's sheen

When it sweeps to avenge a wrong.
The Aurora's dance is his merry glance,

As it speeds through the starry fields;
And his anger falls upon Odin's Halls

Like the crash of a thousand shields.
Then, hi ! for the storm, &c.

CANADIAN POETS. 259

His stately front has endured the brunt

Of Scythian rack and gale,
As the vengeful years clashed their icy spears

On the boss of his glancing mail ;
When he steps in his pride from his Halls so wide

He laughs with a wild refrain,
And the Eldns start from the iceberg's heart.

And echo his laugh again.

Then, hi ! for the storm, &c.

When the woods are stirred by the antlered herd,

He comes like a Nimrod bold.
And the forest groans as his mighty tones

Swoop down on the startled fold ;
In his mantle white he defies the Night,

With the air of a King so free :
Then hurra for the rune, the North-King's rune.

For his sons, his sons are we.

Then, hi 1 for the storm, &c.

SUMMER-EVENING.

AUGUSTA BALDWYN.

Calm is the evening. Not a ripple stirs
The crystal waters of yon limpid stream.
That blushes deep beneath the last bright ray
The sun has left at parting, and which throws
A lovely radiance round. Not e'en the breeze
Ruffles a moment one pure tranquil wave
But breathes soft whisp'ring music through the woods,
Bending the flowers on the mossy shores,

260 SELECTIONS FROM

And graceful willows o'er the silent brooks,
To bathe in coolness there. Afar the hills
Are glowing in the sunshine ; while below
O'er the low valley gentle evening casts
Her veil of pensive shades. I love this hour
Of melancholy calmness, for my heart
Hath sympathy from nature. I feel
No more my spirit's loneliness ; no more
I sigh for draughts to fill the longing mind,
The bosom's emptiness. My spirit soars,
And seems to roam 'mid nature's loveliness.
And in her beauties and her stillness finds
Mysterious happiness. The gentle air,
Laden with odor from the sylvan groves,
Breathes bliss around me, and its low sweet voice
Seems the soft whisperings of joy to soothe
The weary heart ; and softly peace descends,
Lulls to repose the ruffled waves of grief,
Casts to oblivion every earthly thought,
Making fa' Nature's solitudes appear
Fraught - ^h some bliss of heaven, for we feel
The presence of Jehovah ! His power is seen.
His works proclaim him, and his voice is heard
In nature's harmonies.

CALL ME BY MY CHRISTIAN NAME.

WILLIAM P. LETT.

Call me by my Christian name,

'Tis sweetest to my ear :
Far dearer than the voice of fame.

From Friendship's lips to hear

CANADIAN POETS.

261

The fond familiar accents of Youth's dear days gone by,

When life was young, and Hope's fair star shone brilliantly on high.

Call me by my Christian name,

If thou art of the few
Who with me in the garden
Of happy childhood grew :
If thou art one with whom I played when life was in its spring,
Thou art welcome thus to call me as the Robin is to sing.

Together to the village school
We went for many a day ;
Together on the self-same stool
Perhaps we've whiled away
The hours, when " the master's " eye was wandering elsewhere ;
Then call me by my Christian name just as you did when there. .
I

The wanderer returning home

From some far-distant strand.
Treads anxiously the pathways
Of his own loved native land :
He sees but strangers, till a voice falls sweetly on his ear ;
He hears his name, he's home again, some friend of youth is near.

Then call me by my Christian name :

Whatever be my lot,
I would not that the cherished sound
Should ever be forgot ;
In memory's magic numbers it strikes the sweetest key ;
Then call me by my Christian name, 'tis music still to me.

262

SELECTIONS FROM

THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG !

J. W. D. MOODIK.

the days when I was young 1

A playful little boy,
Wlien my piping treble rung

With the notes of early joy.
the sunny days of Spring !

When I sat beside the sliore
And heard the wild-birds sing:

Shall I never hear them more ?

And the daisies scattered round,

Half hid amid the grass,
Lay like gems upon the ground

Too gay for me to pass.
How sweet the milk-maid sung,

As she sat beside her cow.
How clear her wild notes rung ;

There's no music like it now.

As I watched the ship's white sail,

'Mid the sunbeams on the sea,
Spreading canvas to the gale,

Plow I longed with her to be ;
I thought not of the storm

And the wild cries on her deck,
When writhed her graceful form

'Mid the hurricane and wreck.

CANADIAN POETS. 2(>3

And I launched my little ship

With her sails, and hold beneath,
Deep laden on each trip,

With berries from the heath.
Ah I little did I know,

When I longed to be a man.
Of the gloomy cares and woe

That meet in life's brief span.

the happy nights I lay

With my brothers in our beds I
•Where we soundly slept, till day

Shone brightly o'er our heads;
And the blessed dreams that came

To fill my heart with joy, —

that I now could dream
As I dreamt — a little boy I

The sun shone brighter then,

And the moon more soft and clear,
For the wiles of crafty men

I had not learned to fear ;
But all seemed fair and gay,

With the fleecy clouds above,

1 spent my hours in play,

And my heart was full of love.

I loved the heath-clad hill.

And I loved the silent vale.
With its dark and purling rill »

That murmured in the gale.

264

SELECTIONS FROSf

Of sighs — I'd none to spare, —
They were stored for riper years,

When I drained the dregs of care
With many bitter tears.

My simple daily fare

In my little tiny mug,
How fain was I to share

With poor Cato on the rug.
Yes, — he gave his honest paw,

And he licked my happy face ;
He was true to Nature's law.

And I thought it no disgrace.

There's a voice so soft and clear,

And a step so gay and light,
That charms my listening ear

In the visions of the night ;
And my Father bids me haste,

In the deep fond tones of love,
To leave this dreary waste

For brighter realms above.

Now, I am old and grey,

My bones are racked with pain,
And time speeds fast away —

But why should I complain ?
There are joys in life's young morn.

That dwell not with the old,
Like flowers the wind hath torn

From the stem, — all bleak and cold.

CANADIAN POETS.

The weary heart may mourn

O'er the withered joys of youth,
But the flowers so rudely shorn

Still leave the seeds of truth :

And there's hope for hoary men,

When they're laid beneath the sod

For we'll all be young again

When we meet around our God !

265

SING ME THE SONGS I LOVE.

JOHN READB.

Sing me the songs I love, once more,

The songs your lips have made so dear,
For many a day must pass before

Again your music fills my ear.
And when you are no longer near,

I'll, in my loneliness, rejoice,
Deep in my inmost heart, to hear

The gentle music of your voice.

'Tis not in words that friendship lies.

E'en when those words in music move;
But words have power that never dies,

When said or sung by those we love.
So, when in weariness I rove

Through the world's desert, seeking rest,
The memory of your songs shall prove

A solace to my lonely breast.

266

SELECTIONS PROM

And when you sinp^ those songs again,

For gayer hearts and brighter eyes,
And thinking upon "now" as '< then,*

Metnoriea of other days arise,
Believe that none more dearly prize

The strains your lips so sweetly pour.
Than he who asked 'neath other skies

" Sing me the songs I love, once more."

MY COUSIN.

D. J. WALLAOB.

I have a gentle cousin,

A fair and laughing maid,
Whose presence is my sunshine,

Whose absence is my shade.
When sadness o'er my feelings

Has thrown its gloomy pall,
Her soft and sunny eye-beam

Soon banishes it all.

She's grander than the lily.

And gayer than the rose.
As glad as morning sunshine,

Yet spotless as the snows;
She's gentle as an angel,

And trusting as a dove —
A brighter earthly being

Was never formed to love.

CANADIAN POETS.

I know tiot why it is nO;

Yet ahvjiys round my heart
Her presence throws a ghidness

With wliich I would not part.
I Beck her out at even,

When weary all the day,
Then how like clouds of heaven

The moments melt away I

She always loves what I do,

No matter what it be ;
I blame her for this sameness

While she is blaming? mc.
We often road together,

My choice is always hers —
There's not a book I cherish

But that she, too, prefers.

We sing together sometimes —

Her voice is like a spell ;
Within her tones all trembling

What heavenly numbers dwell !
The music of the mermaid.

Soft echoing from the shore, —
Though I have never heard it,

Could not delight mc more.

We wander through the forest,
When autumn leaves are strewn,

And hear, with pleasing sadness,
The low wind's pensive moan ;

267

268 SELECTIONS FROM

And talk of joyous moments
That have too quickly passed,

For our hearts have learned the lesson
That pleasures cannot last.

And through the wood we wander,

When first the spring comes on
To clothe the leafless branches

In verdure all its own ;
Then if our sky is clouded,

As sometimes it may be,
Hope, in our hearts reviving,

Bids every shadow flee.

'Tis thus my gentle cousin

Sheds joy around my way.
And scatters, with profusion.

Bright flowers where'er I stray.
I feel her influence round me,

Like some deep-hidden spell.
And though I've other cousins,

There's none I love so well..

THE ANGELS OF THE BLIND.

JAMES M'CARKOLL.

Though on the dark, drear walls of the lonely blind man's sku'.I
A picture's never hung by the glow'ig hand of Light,

But in the gloomy catacomb his brain beats, thick and dull,
Like some huge lazy death-watch slowly wearing out the night ;

CANADIAN POETS. 269

And though along the pavement of that cavern never pours
One beam of all the beauty or the life that 'round us teems,

And Nature, as in wantonness, has shut its outer doors,
And almost made a desert of the very land of dreams j

Yet, there are viewless angels that surround him night and day,
Who sport throughout that sepulchre as if it were a grove,

And though he never sees them, still he hears their wings at play,
And knows they are the voices of the ones he learned to love.

"LITTLE WILLIE."

SAMUEL PAYNK FORD.

" Good night, dear Willie," his mother said,
As she laid him down in his cradle bed.
And folded the coverlet, soft and warm,
Around his delicate little form.

" Gov d-night, mamma," the child replied,
As his mother bent o'er the cradle side,
And, clasping her arms around his neck.
Imprinted a kiss on her darling's cheek ;

While her beating heart, uplifted high,
With all of a mother's fervency.
Sought aid of an All-sufficient arm
To shield her innocent boy from harm.

The morning has dawned, as oft before ;
The robins are chirping around the door ;
And often in wonder his mother hath said,
" What keeps little Willie so long in his bed ?

270 SELECTIONS PROM

" Come, Willie, dear Willie !" aloud she cries,
And " Willie" the echo alone replies;
Then, softly approaching his little bed.
She places her hands on his curly head.

Ah 1 mother, no sound in the little room
Was heard in the midnight hours of gloom,
For an angel band had softly borne
Thy Willie away to a brighter morn.

A smile still plays on his ruby lips.
But his eyes are darkened in death's eclipse ;
The beautiful curls still shine like gold.
But the heart is still, and the form is cold.

F A 11 E W E L L.

MRS. FAULKNKR.

Go, and God speed thee ! sundered wide may be
Our future paths through life, — and yet, and yet,
Though our lone dwelling may be far from thee.
Yet, wheresoever turn thy footsteps free,
Wilt thou forget ?

Wilt thou forget ? when round thine own hearth beaming,
Kind faces greet thee with their looks of cheer,
Those whom the bitter tears of parting streaming,
And all affection's fond and anxious dreaming,
Have made so dear ?

Wilt thou forget ? when, sparkling bright around thee.
Are leaf and blossom, all with dew-drops wet,
When Nature's gentle influences surround thee.
And like a holy spell their charm hath bound thee.
Wilt thou forget?

CANADIAN POETS. 271

Wilt thou forget ? when lowly thou art bending,
In thy still chamber's solitude, thy knee, —
When up to Heaven the low-voiced prayers ascending,
With thine owi>. name, oh ! will not theirs be blendinjr,
Who pray for thee ?

Wilt thou forget? No, for thy heart is thrilling
With youth's warm feelings, and thy dimmed eyes tell
Of more of grief than the proud lip is willing
To utter ; go, for tears mine own are filling,
Farewell, farewell.

HOPE IN SORROW.

KEV. T. CLKWORTH.

My Saviour trod the earth,

Within her folds he lay ;
And he shall raise to second birth

This lifeless form of clay.

Consign it to the dust,

Weep o'er it gushing tears.

But leave the pledge in Jesu's trust,
Until he re-appears.

Fair in its youthful dress

The faded floweret lies ;
The essence of its loveliness

Is garnered in the skies.

The Prince of Life will come,

A nd all its grace restore ;
The withered bud shall rise and bloom

Upon a deathless shore.

272

SELECTIONS FROM

The dewy night of tears
Foretells the radiant mom,

When, rising from our dream of fears,
A thousand joys are born.

The tears of earth are shed
To gild the flowers above ;

While over all the beams are spread
Of Grod's restoring love.

THE BEECH-NUT GATHERER.

PAMELIA S. VININO.

All over the earth like a mantle,

Golden, and green, and gray.
Crimson, and scarlet, and yellow,

The Autumn foUage lay ; —
The sun of the Indian-Summer

Laughed at the bare old trees,
As they shook their leafless branches

In the soft autumnal breeze.

Gorgeous was every hill side,

And gorgeous every nook,
And the dry, old log was gorgeous,

Spanning the little brook ;
Its holiday robes the forest

Had suddenly cast to earth,
And, as yet, seemed scarce to miss them
In its plenitude of mirth.

CANADIAN POETS. 273

I walked where the leaves the softest

The brightest, and goldenest lay ;
And I thought of a forest hill-side,

And an Indian-Summer day,
An eager, little child-face.

O'er the fallen leaves that bent.
As she gathered her cup of beech-nuts

With innocent content.

I thought of the small brown fingers.

Gleaning them one by one ;
"With the partridge drumming near her

In the forest bare and dun,
And the jet black squirrel, winking

His saucy jealous eye
At those tiny, pilfering fingers.

From his sly nook up on high.

Ah ! barefooted little maiden !

With thy bonnetless, sun-burnt brow,
Thou glean 'st no more on the hill-side —

Where art thou gleaning now ?
I knew by the lifted glances

Of thy dark, imperious eye.
That the tall trees bending o'er thee

Would not shelter thee by and by.

The cottage by the brook side,

With its mossy roof is gone,
The cattle have left the uplands.

The young lambs left the lawn,

274

SELECTIONS FttOM

Gone are thy blue-eyed sister,
And thy brother's laughing bro\f,

And the beach-nuts lie ungathered
On the lonely hill side now.

What have the returning seasons

Brought to thy heart since then,
In thy long and weary wand'rings

In the paths of busy men ? —
Has the Angel of grief or of gladness

Set his seal upon thy brow ?
Maiden ! joyous or tearful,

Where art thou gleaning now ?

THE LIFE-FOllGE.

JBNNIB U. HAIQUT.

Blow the bellows — faster, faster,

In the busy forge of life ;
Heap the coals on — higher, higher.

Sevenfold heat for sevenfold strife !

In this forge must ore be melted,
Out of which, with curious plan,

And incessant toil, to fashion
And build up the perfect man.

Here must thought be shaped to action,

Passion moulded into Will,
And upon time's batter'd anvil

Every blow be dealt with skill.

CANADIAN rOETS. 275

Oft the metal must be heated

In temptation's burning glow ;
Oft be cool'd in baths of sorrow

Fill'd from founts of deepest woe.

Ere, with temper firm, yet pliant,

Heart to foe! and head to plan,
Stanip'd with God's approving impress,

Wo can say, " Behold a Man !"

Blow the bellows— faster, faster,

In the busy forge of life ;
Heap the coals on — higher, higher,

Sevenfold heat for sevenfold strife I

In tliis ago of thought and action,

Men are needed, true and tried ;
Men, with intellect far-reachin"-

Men with souls to God allied ;

Men with loyal hearts, and lovino- ;

Men, with willing hands and strong;
Feeling for the woes of others.

Fighting bravely 'gainst the wrong.

When from out the smoke and clamor

Of life's forge there spring to birth
Such men, loyal, brave and loving,

There is hope in store for earth.

And each passing day more clearly

Proves that there is worth in man j
That, amid earth's jar and tumult,

God is working out his plan —

276

SELECTIONS FROM

Raising up our fallen nature
Purified from every stain,

And, by earthly toil and trial,
Fitting it with him to reign.

SEA-SIIOKE MUSINGS.

MIIS. J. h. LlcrUOHON.

How oft I've longed to gaze on thee.

Thou proud and mighty deep !
Thy vast horizon, boundless— free —

Thy coast so rude and steep ;
And now entranced I breathless stand,

Where earth and ocean meet, —
Thy billows wash the silver sand,

And break around my feet.

Lovely thou art when dawn's red light,

Sheds o'er thee its soft hue,
Showing far ships, a gallant sight,

Upon thy waters blue ;
And when the moonbeams softly pour

Their light on wave or glen,
And diamond spray leaps on the shore.

How lovely art thou then !

Still, as I look, faint shadows steal
O'er thy calm, heaving breast,

And there are times I sadly feel
Thou art not thus at rest;

CANADIAN POETS. 277

And I bethink mc of past tales,
Ships that have left the shore,
And meeting with thy fearful gales,
Have ne'er been heard of more.

They say thy depths hold treasures rare,

Groves of coral — sands of gold —
Pearls fit but for monarch's wear,

And gems of worth untold ;
But these could not to life restore

The idol of one homo,
Nor make brave hearts boat high once more,

Who sleep beneath thy foam.

But I must chase §uch thoughts away,

They mar this happy hour,
Remembering thou dost but obey

Thy great Creator's power —
And in my own Canadian home,

Mysterious, boundless main,
In dreams I'll see thy snow-white foam

And frowning rocks again.

THE ENGLISHMAN'S FAREWELL.

JOHN St^OHLE.

England, my native land, farewell 1
Where'er I rove, where'er I dwell,
Dear shall thy memory be to me.
As music's richest melody :
Queen of the sea, imperial isle.
May Heaven on thee propitious smile !

278

SELECTIONS PROM

Thy sons are brave, thy maidens fair,
Of noble race, and princely air ;
The virtues of their sires they prove
In arms, in honor, and in love.

Queen of the sea, &c.

Thy laws are right, thy judges pure,
Thy statesmen wise, thy throne secure,
The slave and exile find in thee
The cliosen home of liberty :

Queen of the sea, &c.

From India to the Arctic Pole,
Peoples and tribes thy laws control :
Mother of nations thoii shalt be,
And own a glorious progeny :

Queen of the sea, &c.

All love and loyalty be to thee,
Thou sceptred mistress of the sea ;
Bright are the records of thv fame.
And glory circles round thy name :
Queen of the sea, &c.

Health to our Sovereign lady Queen,
Long may she reign in peace serene ;
Long may her people, great and free.
Extend thy power, and honor thee.
Queen of the sea, imperial isle.
May Heaven on thee forever smile !

CANADIAN POETS. 27%

THE NIGHT-WIND.

JOHN F. M'DONNKLL.

An elfin strange is the Night-Wind,

As it sweeps o'er vale and wood,
And ripples the broad, bright mirror

Of the river's sleeping flood ;
It plays in the lonely hollow —

It steals o'er the dusty ground,
And it lingers in garden alleys

With a weird and ghost-like sound ;
And the pines give forth a murmur.

Like a many-voiced prayer,
From the aisles of the forest swelling

On the wings of the evening air.

Where the lilac wreaths are densest

It plays 'mid the scented gloom ;
Where the thorn blossoms cluster

It breathes a rich perfume ;
In the grass of the waving meadow

It gambols wild and free ;
And a store of sweets it bringeth

From the distant flowery lea ;
It gathers the thousand odors

Of leaf, and tree, and flower.
To shed o'er the mystic beauty

Of the balmy vesper hour.

280 SELEOCIONS FROM

I stroll through the crowded city,

And the noise of busy life,
But my heart is 'mid summer landscapes,

Far from the din and strife ;
The woods are dim and distant, —

I cannot hear their sons:,
But I feel their breath on my forehead.

When the Night-Wind sweeps along.
And oft, when the deepening twilight

Veileth the golden west —
This world and its cares forgetting —

I dream of a Land of Rest.

THE PEARL.

JAMK8 M'CARROLL.

The Seasons are b t Nature's jewelled ring.

Where, set in chc.jging splendors, we behold
The pearly winter and the em'rald spring.

The ruby summer and the autumn's gold
In the rich ceinture ever varying :

And where the dazzling fingers of the sun.
That fling the tinted shuttles of the light,

Present the jewels to us one by one.
Forever circling and forever bright;

And where, when all the fervid heats are done,
The cool, pale pearl is turned upon our sight.

That we may revel in a new delight,
And to our Autumn, Spring, and Summer lays,
A»d yet one other song of grateful praise.

CANADIAN POETS. 281

THE EARTH'S COMPLAINT.

PAMELIA 8. VININO.

I plucked a fair flower thut grew
In the shadow of summer's green trees —
A rose-petalled flower,
Of all in the bower,
Best beloved of the bee and the breeze.
I plucked it, and kissed it, and called it my own-

This beautiful, beautiful flower.
That alone in the cool tender shadow had grown
Fairest and first in the bower.

Then a murmur I heard at my feet —
A pensive and sorrowful sound ;

And I stooped me to hear,

While tear after tear
Eained down from my eyes to the ground,

As I, listening, heard

This sorrowful word.
So breathing of anguish profound :

" I have gathered the fairest and best,
I have gathered the rarest and sweetest; —
My life-blood I've given
As an oft'ring to Heaven
In this flower, of all flowers the completest.
Through the long, quiet night
With the pale stars in sight —
Through the sun-lighted day
Of the balm-breathing May,

282 SELECTIONS PROM

I have toiled on, in silence, to bring

To perfection this beautiful flower —
The pride of tlie blossoming bower —

The queenliest blossom of spring.

" But I am forgotten — none heed
Me — the brown soil where it grew ;
That drank in by day
The sun's blessed ray
And gathered at twilight the dew ; —
That fed it by day and by night
With nectar drops slowly distilled
In the secret alembic of earth,
, And diflfused through each delicate vein,
Till the sunbeams were charmed to remain,
Entranced in a dream of delight —
Stealing in with their arrows of light.
Through the calyx of delicate green —
The close-folded petals between
Down into its warm hidden heart; —
Until, with an ecstatic start
At the rapture so wondrous and new,
That throbbed at its innermost heart,
Wide opened the beautiful eyes ;
And lo ! with a sudden surprise,
Caught the glance of the glorious sun —
The ardent and worshipful one —
Looking down from his heavenly place :
And the blush of delighted surprise
Remained in its warm glowing dyes.
Evermore on that radiant face.

CANADIAN POETS. 283

" Then mortals in worshipful mood
Bent over my wonderful flower,

And called it * the fairest,

The richest, the rarest,
The pride of the blossoming bower.'
But I am forgotten. Ah me !

I, the brown soil where it grew ;
That cherished and nourished
The stem where it flourished.

And fed it with sunshine and dew !

" Man I will it always be thus,
Will you take the rich gifts which are given

By the tireless workers of earth.
By the bountiful Father in heaven ;

And, intent on the worth of the gift.

Never think of the Maker, the Griver? —
Of the long patient eflbrt — the thought

That secretly grew in the brain

Of the poet to measure and strain,
Till it burst on your ear richly fraught

With the wonderful sweetness of song? —

" What availeth it, then, that ye toil-^
You, thought's patient producers — to be
Unloved and unprized^
Trodden down and despised.
By those whom you toil for like me —
Forgotten and trampled like me ?"
Then my heart made indignant reply.
In spite of my fast falling tears —
In spite of the wearisome years

284 SELECTIONS FROM

Of toil unrequited that lay
In the track of the past, and the way
Thorn-girded I'd trod in those years.

So be it, if so it mxist be ! —
May I know that the thing
I so patiently bring
From the depths of the heart and the brain,
A creature of henut\/ goes forth,

'Midst the hideous phantoms that press
And crowd the lone paths of this work-weary life,
'Mid the labor and care, the temptation and strife.
To gladden, and comfort, and bless.

So be it, if so it must be ! —
May I know that the thing
I so patiently bring
From the depths of the heart and the brain.
Goes forth, with a conqueror's might,
Through the gloom of this turbulent world j

Potent for truth and for right,
Where truth has so often been hurled
'Neath the feet of the throng.
The hurrying, passionate throng !

What matter though I he forgot,
Since toil is itself a delight ?
Since the power to do.
To the soul that is true,
Is the uttered command of the Lord
To labor and faint not, but still
Pursue and achieve,
And ever believe
That achievement alone is reward I

CANADIAN POETS. 285

TO MY SISTER.

SAMUEL PAYNE FORD.

I've been thinking, sister Lizzie,

Of the happy days of yore,
When our spirit-freighted life barques

Glided gaily out from shore ;
And, with scarce a cloud above them,

Or a ripple at their side.
Started boldly for the haven

To be found across the tide. >

#
And in tracing faded footsteps

By the light that Memory lenf^s,
I have glanced again at childhood,

With its happy home and friends ;
And the magic re-appearance

Of each well-remembered face.
Has repaid me for returning

To the old familiar place.

delightful, dearest sister,

Where those bright and happy hours.
When our atmosphere of sunshine

Was perfumed with fragrant flowers ;
And the music of the song-birds

Singing sweetest strains of love,
Made our earth seem like a picture

Of the Paradise above ?

286

SELECTIONS FROM

But we've breasted many a billow

On IH'e's stormy sea since then ;
And borne many a fierce encounter

With unfriendly fellow-men ;
And the wailing winds have whistled

Wildly round us like a foe,
That would bear us on, resistless,

To feome wilderness of woe.

O'er the faded forms of loved ones

Who have passed the mystic bourne,
Whence no traveller e'er returneth

We have oft been called to mourn.
And our parting salutations

Have been often interchanged,
As in sunshine, or in sadness,

O'er the wide, wide world we ranged.

But the sky is growing brighter

As the clouds are moving past.
And beyond their " silver lining,"

1 can see the end at last ;
And up near the pearly portals

That bedeck the other side,
I behold the friends we parted from

Away back in the tide.

And they greet us with rejoicing,

As we hasten to the shore,
Where the sound of lamentation

Shall assail us nevermore ;
But the angels' grand " Te Deiim,''

And the songs of the forgiven.
Shall reverberate forever

Through the azure vault of heaven.

CANADIAN POETS. 287

SAUL STRUGGLING WITH MALZAH.

(h\om Saul.)

CHAnLEB IIKAVYSKQE.

Creature, begone, nor harrow me with horror I
Thine eyes arc stars ; oh, cover them, oh, wrap
Them up within thy cloudy brows : stand off,
Contend not with me, but say who thou art.
Methinks I know thee, — yes, thou art my demon,
Thou art the demon that tormcntest me.
I charp;e thee, shy, mysterious visitant,
At whose behest thou comest, and for what
Offences deep of mine: nay, nay, stand off:
Confess, malicious goblin, or else leave me ;
Leave me, oh goblin, till my hour is come :
I'll meet thee after death ; appoint the place ;
On Gilead, or beside the flowing Jordan ;
Or, if parts gloomier suit thee, I'll repair
Down into Hinnom, or up to the top
Of Horeb in th' wilderness, or to the cloud-
Concealiid height of Sinai ascend.
Or dwell with thee 'midst darkness in the grave.

ACROSS THE RIVER.

MUS. F. L. HANKY.

I am standing near a river —
They tell me it is death ;

Its breezes, cold and chilly.
Fan me with their icy breath.

288 SELECTIONS FROM

There's a mist above its waters,
Which stretches to tlic land,

Where it casts a sombre shadow
O'er the margin wliere I stand.

I am drawing nearer, nearer

To the dark descending brink.
And my flesh begins to tremble,

Tliough my spirit does not shrink;
For I know across the river

Lies a valley green and fair,
Where the pure and holy wander —

I am longing to be there.

I am weary, weaiy living

In this cloudy atmosphere.
Where the brightest eye that sparkles

Is no stranger to a tear.
But across the river, yonder

Where the pure and hply stray,
By the hand of the Redeemer,

Every tear is wiped away.

Here are faces bright and winning,

Though the heart is full of guile;
And the foe who would deceive us

First allures us with a smile —
In the land across the river.

Which I now in spirit view,
On the faces of the holy.

There are smiles — but they are true.

CANADIAN POETS. 289

Here how often I have parted -

With the friends I love the most —
Here my choicest vase is broken,

And my rarest treasure lost ;
In the country of the holy,

In the land of endless day,
There my friends will never leave me,

Nor my treasures know decay.

I am drawing nearer — nearer —

But I shudder not nor start,
Though the billows lave my footsteps,

And the cold spray chills my heart ;
I bare my pulseless bosom

To the cold and ruthless wave,
For the faith that nerves my spirit <

Bids defiance to the grave.

Now a light gleams o'er the waters.

From the bright and holy land,
And the king in all his beauty

Gently leads me by the hand j
The sting of death is over, —

Earthly friends, a long adieu I
I am passing o'er the river.

With the holy land in view.

DESPONDENCY.

C. 8ANUHTKB,

There is a sadness o'er my spirit stealin^^
A flash of tire up-darting to my brain,

Sowing the seeds— and still the seeds concealing—
That are to ripen into future pain.

T .

ag,

290 SELECTIONS FROM

I feel the germs of madness in me springing,
Slowly, and certain as the serpent's bound,

And my poor hopes, like dying tendrils clinging
To the green oak, tend surely to tlie ground ;

And Reason's grasp grows feebler day by day,
As the slow poison up my nerves is creeping,
Ever and anon through my crushed heart leaping.

Like a swift panther darting on its prey ;
And the bright taper Hope once fed within.
Hath waned and perished in the rueful din.

THE FALLING SNOW.

ISIDORE O. ABCUBR.

Fall, like peace, gossamer snow !
While the searching winds are roaming abroad ;
Fall, in your wealth, on the world below,
Like a blessed balm from God I

Fall like kisses upon the earth.
That is cold and cheerless, and full of woe,
And fill its heart with a sense of mirth,
Silent and loving snow !

Fall in your wonderful purity,
Fair as a bride's unsullied dress ;
Fall from the heaven's immensity,
On our autumn dreariness.

Fall like a lover's phantasy.

That the heart of a maiden might yearn to know ;

Fall like a loving memory

On a soul o'erladen with woe.

CANADIAN POETS. 291

Pall like the li;j;htof an infant's smilo,
That sweetly bo.iins for a mother alone ;
Fall like hope, when it dawns awhile
On a doubting heart of stone.

Fall like tears that Ic^ve us resif^ed
When the soul submits to a hapless doom; "
Fall like light that falls on the blind,
On a life o'er-steepcd in gloom.

Fall like the bounties God has given,
While the mournful winds are piping abroad j
Fall like the hints we have of heaven,
Like a blessed balm from God I

THE RED-MEN— A SONNET.

CHARLES 8AN03TBB.

My footsteps press where, centuries ago.

The Red-Men fought and conquered; lost and won.
Whole tribes and races, gone like last year's snow,

Have found the Eternal Hunting Grounds, and run
The fiery gauntlet of their active days,

Till few are left to tell the mournful tale :
And these inspire us with such wild amaze,

They seem like spectres passing down a vale
Steeped in uncertain moonlight, on their way
Towards some bourn where darkness blinds the day.
And night is wrapped in mystery profound.

We cannot lift the mantle of the past :
We seem to wander over hallowed ground :
We scan the trail of Thought, but all is overcast.

292 SELECTIONS FROM

ON THE RIVER.

E. H. DKWABT.

The sun has gone down in liquid gold
On the Ottawa's gleaming breast ;
And the silent Night has softly rolled
The clouds from her starry vest ;

Not a sound is heard, —

Every warbling bird
Has silenced its tuneful note,

As, with calm delight,

In the moon's weird light,
I enter my little boat.

As down the river I dreamily glide, —
The sparkling and moonlit river,
Not a ripple disturbs the glassy tide,
Not a leaf is heard to quiver ;

The lamps of night

Shed their trembling light,
With a tranquil and silvery glory,

Over river and dell,

"Where the Zephyrs tell
To the Night their plaintive story.

I softly time my gleaming oar.

To the music of joy-laden strains,

Which the silent woods, and the listening shore

Re-echo in soft refrains :

Let holy thought,

From this faery spot

CANADIAN POETS. 293

Float up through the slumbering air ;

For who who would profane,

With fancies vain,
A scene so unearthly fair ?

Now dark-browed sorrowful Care retires,
And leaves the bright moments unclouded —
For why should I shade them with vain desires,
For hopes which the darkness has shrouded ?

Like phantoms grim,

From the river's brim,
The trees stretch their shadows before me,

But no shadow mars —

For the blessed stars
Are tenderly beaming o'er me.

On the dark, and rapid stream of life

Are shadows of grief and sin,

But we reck not the gloom of the outer strife.

If no shadows obscure within ;

Though darkness may lower.

It is reft of power
Over hearts that are tempered with love, —

There is fadeless light,

For life's darkest night.
With the bountiful Father above.
In holy thought, from this blissful hour-
While free from earth's darkling strife —
I may garner joy, and be nerved with power
To fight on in the battles of life.

294 SELECTIONS FROM

TO A DANDELION.

MIBS H. M. JOHNSON,

Blessings on thy sunny face,
In my heart thou hast a place,

Humble Dandelion !
Forms more lovely are around thee,
Purple violets surround thee, —
But I know thy honest heart
Never felt a moment's smart
At another's good or beauty, —
Ever at thy post of duty,
Smiling on the great and small,
Rich and poor, and wishing all
Health, and happiness, and pleasure,

thou art a golden treasure 1

1 remember years ago.

How I longed to see thee blow.

Humble Dandelion I
Through the meadows I would wander.
O'er the verdant pastures yonder,
Filling hands and filling lap,
Till the teacher's rap, rap, rap,
Sounding on the window sash '

Dreadful as a thunder crash.
Called me from my world ideal, —
To a world how sad and real, —
From a laughing sky and brook,
To a dull old spelling-book ;
Then with treasures hid securely.
To my seat I crept demurely.

CANADIAN POETS. 296

Childhocfd's careless days are o'er,
Happy school days come no more,

Humble Dandelion !
Through a desert I am walking,
Hope eluding, pleasure mocking,
Every earthly fountain dry,
Yet when thou didst meet mine eye,
Something like a beam of gladness
Did illuminate my sadness.
And I hail thee as a friend
Come a holiday to spend
By the couch of pain and anguish,
Where I suffer, moan, and languish.

When at length I sink to rest,
And the turf is on my breast,

Humble Dandelion !
Wilt thou when the morning breaketh,
And the balmy spring awaketh.
Bud and blossom at a breath
From the icy arms of death,
Wilt thou smile upon my tomb ?
Drawing beauty from the gloom,
Making life less dark and weary,
Making death itself less dreary,
Whispering in a gentle tone
To the mourner sad and lone,
Of a spring-time when the sleeper
Will arise to bless the weeper ?

296

•"•'r

SELECTIONS FROM

LULLABY.

MISS BALDWYN.

Now the Tiight draws near,

And my Willie dear
Must be lulled to his evening rest ;

While the birds fold their wings,

And the zephyr sings,
Let him sleep on his mother's breast,
Oh, Willie, sweet Willie,

Gift from above.
Like an angel of joy
From our pure home on high

He has come, and shall claim our love.

SING ON, SAD BIRD.

JAMK8 MACINTOSH.

' Sing on, sad bird, thou lonely whip-poor-will.

It soothes my grieving breast to hear thy lay ;
Each tone that floats o'er forest, vale and hill
Bids Memory gaze upon a happier day.

When Love and Hope sat on this youthful brow
And smiling vowed that we should never part,

Sing on, sad bird, they're dead and withered now,
Thy mournful notes are balm to this sad heart.

CANADIAN POETS. 207

TWILIGHT AND ITS COMPANIONS.

D. J. WALLACB.

Through the small uncurtained window,

Peers the solemn star of even,
Fairest gem of all the myriads

That bedeck the vault of heaven 1
Softly through the azure heavens,

Fleecy clouds are gently floating;
Oft they linger as if weary,

Or some passing wonder noting.

In the twilight, dim and dusky,

With Night's dark'ning mantle round me,
Talk I by the dying embers

With the spirits that surround me,
From the world of spirits coming.

Coming ever, ever going ;
Like the waters of a fountain.

Flowing ever, ever flowing.

Through the window see them gazing,

In the door-way see them stealing ;
Now appearing in their beauty,

Now their fairy forms concealing.
Softly through my room they wander

Noiseless as the sleeping number
That within the quiet church-yard

Rest in an unbroken slumber.

^M SELECTIONS FROM

Spirits of the long departed,

Spirits of the absent living,
Crowd around me joyously,

I, to each, a welcome giving.
Who, that in the hour of stillness,

Hath once held such strange communion,
Dare deny, or disbelieve, that

Spirit hath with spirit union ?

Bliss ecstatic ! Bliss unequalled !

What to me earth's forms and features?
What the company of mortals

With these fair angelic creatures ?
What the joys of outward being,

What to me the sombre Real,
When compared with what I gather

From the wonderful Ideal ?

Take me not where mighiy waters

Dash o'er rocks with wild commotion ;
Take me not where raging tempests

Plough with furiuus force the ocean !
Leave me at the hour of twilight

Lost in thought's intensity !
Holding converse sweet wiih spirit,

Roaming through immensity !

CANADIAN POETS.

OLD FRIENDS.

G. MARTIN.

299

Ah, one by one they're falling,
And from the far-off shore

I hear a faint voice calling,
" Gay mortal, smile no more."

No longer grouped together,
We sift the gold of thought;

Each grown to each a brother,
And earth with heaven inwrought.

Old scenes have lost their brightness,-
The land, the lake, the sea ; —

My heart has lost its lightness,
Gray mists encompass me.

And through this sunless vapor
They glide away, fore-doomed;

Their life a blown-out taper, —
Blown out ere half consumed.

Dear lights, the mist grows colder ;

The voice exclaims again :
" Thy heart is growing older,

Take rank with wiser men."

Old Friends, — in vain the warning I

I seek no comrades new ;
Enough, that manhood's morning

Revealed its joy with you.

4 >('."

^^^ SELECTIONS PROM

Enouf^h that Faith reminds me,
Your spirits wander far

Beyond the fog that blinds me,
Above each glimmering star.

LAST WORDS OF SAUL.

(From Saul.)

CHAUI-ES nKAVYSEQK,

Now let me die, for I indeed was slain

With my three sons. Where are ye, sons ? Oh let me

Find ye, that I may perish with you ; dying,

Cover you with my form, as doth the fowl

Cover her chickens ! Oh, Philistia

Thou now art compensated, — now are gettin"

Rich with this crimson, hot, and molten tide ;

That waits not patient to be coined in drops.

But rushes, in an ingot-forming stream,

Out of the mine and mintage of my heart I

Oh my three poor dead vsons, where are you ? Ye

Have gone before me into the hereafter

Upon such innocency-flighted steps.

That I, with feet cumbered with clots of blood.

Shall lose of you all glimpse, and then my soul

Shall drop to the abyss. Gush faster, blood,

And gallop with my soul towards Hades,

That yawns obscure.

CANADIAN POETS. 301

BROKEN REEDS.

MRS. BHODA A. FAULKNBB.

" Mine shall be glory," the warrior said,
As away to the battle-field he sped,
And proudly floated his snowy plume.
As he hied him onward to meet his doom.
" Mine shall be glory" at morn he said,
And at eve he lay with the nameless dead ;
Untold, unsung, is each daring deed.
Warrior ! thy hope — was a Broken Reed.

" They shall speak of my fame in a distant age,

I shall charm the world with my glowing page,

When I am low in the silent dust, '

They shall rear my trophy, and carve my bust."

Minstrel ! thine is a well-sung lay.

But the world shall fling it in scorn away ;

And the sneer of the critic shall be thy meed,

Thou hast put thy trust in a Broken Reed.

" Heap higher, higher, the growing hoard,
My barns are full, and my coffers stored ;
Ha, ha ! they may call me weak and old,
But a mighty power is the power of gold,
It shall build a proud and a stately home."
Fool ! it shall buy thee a costly tomb ;
Vainly the learned leech is fee'd,
Thou hast pinned thy faith to a Broken Reed.

302 SELECTIONS PROM

The proud sire looks on his gallant boy,

His inanliood's darling, his age's joy.

" He shall be the staff of my year's decline,

He shall be the first of a noble line."

Old man ! thou shalt live to see them spread

" Ashes to ashes," upon his head,

The fiat is spoken, the doom decreed,

Father ! weep for thy Broken lleod.

The joy-bells ring from the ivied tower,
A merry peal for the bridal hour.
Fond lips are breathing the marriage vow.
Oh ! could they be ever as fond as now.
But the carking cares of the world will come.
And frowns will darken the happiest home ;
And each may prove, in their hour of need,
That earthly love is a Broken Reed.

Yea, Gold, and Glory, and Love, and Fame,
The tale that they tell is still the same.
The best and brightest must fade and change,
And death will sunder, and time estrange ;
Fix not on earth thy hope or love ;
Set thine affections on things above.
So, from the world's dark bondage freed.
Thou shalt lean no more on a Broken Reed.

CANADIAN POETS. 308

TO MY LYRE.

ROBEHT 8WKKNKY.

From thee, my Lyre, as one who bids adieu

To some dear friend he ne'er again shall meet —

Some friend whose counsel kind and converse sweet
Had shed a charm o'er moments as they flow,

Which else had loitered on with leaden feet —
From thee I part in sorrow. Thou, to me,

Didst oft, in woe, thy soothing influence lend ;
Amid tho wilds thou wast society.

Among the faithless thou wast still a friend.
But the world calls me from thee, and we part,

And to another's touch thy chords must swell ;
No more their tones shall vibrate through my heart,

No more my ear must listen to their spell ;
Farewell, beloved Lyre — till brighter hours, farewell I
January 1826.

REST.

JBNNIK B. HAIQHT.

The twilight comes, the daylight goes,
• The moon climbs o'er the hill ;
And through the din of earthly woes
Falls Christ's own " Peace, be still !"

weary hands I aching heart I
tired and throbbing brain 1

How fares it with thee as the night
Sweeps by with starry train ?

, >

304 SELECTIONS FROBf

hands that lovingly have toiled
h( Since morn's first gleam of light I ^

hands by honest labor soiled,
Soft-folded, rest to night!

heart, with many an anguish rent,

With many a sorrow sore ;
heart, wi*h life's fierce conflict spent —

Rest ! for the day is o'er.

brain, o'ertaskod with ceaseless strain
To make time's problem clear ;

brain, deep-questioning, full of doubt,
Rest I for God reigneth here.

, friendly hands and loving heart,
And ever busy brain !
The restful night is now, but soon
The morn will dawn again.

And we must wake and work life's work,
While time's brief years may stay;

Still looking for the night of death,
And Heaven's eternal day.

There every questioning doubt shall oeaae,

There toil no longer tire.
And God, the triune God divine, '

Fill all the soul's desire.

Oh heavenly Rest! holy Rest I
From every conflict here

1 turn to thee, with bright'ning hope,
And hail thee drawing near.

THE END.