That can please and win a woman's heart;
And many a girl of lineage high
Had looked on his wooing with fav'ring eye:
Inconstant to all, in hall or in bower,
What chance of escape had this forest flower?
Soon, ah! very soon, he tired of her smile,
Her dusky charms and each sweet, shy wile;
And yet it was long ere, poor trusting dove,
Her faith was shaken in the white man's love;
And now one last tryst she had asked of him
In this haunted glade in the forest dim.
He had lightly vowed, as such men will do,
To the place and hour that he would be true;
She had waited since the dawn broke chill,
Till the sun was setting behind the hill;
But for him, amid scenes of fashion gay,
All thought of his promise had passed away.
"I will wait for him here," she softly said,
"Yes, wait till he comes," and her weary head
Drooped low on her breast, and when the night,
On noiseless pinions had taken its flight,
She looked at the sunrise, with eyes grown dim,
And murmured: "I'll wait here for death or him."
It was death that came, and with kindly touch
He stilled the heart that had borne so much;
To the _Manitou_ praying, she passed away
With the sunset clouds of another day,--
No anger quickened her failing breath,
Patient, unmurmuring, even in death.
For days they sought her, the sons of her race,
In deep far-off woods, in each secret place,
Till at length to the haunted glade they crept,
And found her there as in death she slept.
They whispered low of the spirit of ill,
And buried her quickly beside the hill.
That year her false lover back with him bore
A radiant bride to his native shore.
And, with smiling triumph and joy elate,
Ne'er gave one thought to his dark love's fate;
But an All-seeing Judge, in wrath arrayed,
Shall avenge the wrongs of that Indian maid.
A PLEA FOR OUR NORTHERN WINTERS.
"Oh, Earth, where is the mantle of pleasant emerald dye
That robed thee in sweet summer-time, and gladdened heart and
eye,
Adorned with blooming roses, graceful ferns and blossoms sweet,
And bright green moss like velvet that lay soft beneath our
feet?"
"What! am I not as lovely in my garb of spotless white?
Was young bride in her beauty ever clothed in robe as bright?
Or, if you seek for tinting warm, at morn and evening hour,
You'll find me bathed in blushes bright as those of summer
flower."
"But, Earth, I miss the verdure of thy woods and forests old,
The waving of their foliage, casting shadows o'er the wold,
The golden sunbeams peering 'mid the green leaves here and there,
And I sigh to see the branches so cheerless and so bare."
"But oft they're clothed in ermine to the sight and touch more
fair
Than the costly robing monarchs for regal garments wear,
Whilst at times the glitt'ring branches with jewels are ablaze,
The Frost King's pearls and diamonds flashing back the light's
clear rays."
"Well, I grieve to see thy rivers, thy lakes and mountain
streams,
That in summer rippled gaily beneath the suns' glad beams,
As light barks glided swiftly o'er their azure waves at will,
Held now in icy barriers that guard them cold and still."
"But, see their glassy bosom, what scene could be more bright?
How gaily o'er the surface darts the skater, strong and light;
And happy, cheerful voices ring out from shore to shore,
And forms are clearly mirrored on that dazzling crystal floor."
"Ah, Earth, I cannot listen to thy soft, persuasive voice,
Though the pleasures thou can'st offer may make other hearts
rejoice,
For with love and fond regret I recall each cloudless day,
Spent with friends in sunny rambles--when the whole world seemed
at play."
"Why, the time for pleasant converse is the winter's stormy
night,
Its long and quiet evenings, with fire and tapers bright,
The soothing strains of music, laughter, jest and happy song,--
Yes! the dearest of all pleasures to the winter-time belong."
"I yield! Oh, Earth, thou hast thy charms, I grant it freely now,
In winter's sterner hours, as when the spring-buds deck thy brow,
So, a truce to idle grieving o'er summer beauties fled,
Our northern winters we'll accept with grateful hearts instead."
RICH AND POOR.
'Neath the radiance faint of the starlit sky
The gleaming snow-drifts lay wide and high;
O'er hill and dell stretched a mantle white,
The branches glittered with crystal bright;
But the winter wind's keen icy breath
Was merciless, numbing and chill as death.
It clamored around a handsome pile--
Abode of modern wealth and style
Where smiling guests had gathered to greet
Its master's birth-day with welcome meet;
And clink of glasses and loud gay tone,
With song and jest, drowned the wind's wild moan.
Yet, farther on, another abode
Its pillared portico proudly showed.
From its windows high flowed streams of light,
Mingling with outside shadows of night;
And the strains of music rapid, gay--
Told well how within sped the hours away.
Steal but one glance at that magic scene,
And long you will spell-bound gaze, I ween,
On mirrors and flowers, and paintings old,
And side-boards heaped with vessels of gold;
Proud, stately men and women most fair,
Glitt'ring in toilets, marvellous, rare.
Sharp grief may torture many a heart,
But its pangs are hid with wond'rous art;
Breasts may harbor hate, envy or guile,
But all is concealed 'neath the studied smile;
And carelessly gay is each well-trained face,
As the dancers flash past with magic grace.
Not far away, down yon narrow lane,
Where poverty herds with guilt and pain,
Are _homes_ where the wind finds entrance free,
Searching each cranny with savage glee,
And freezing the blood of those within,
Through their wretched garments, scant and thin.
List to the music that meets the ear!
No sweet strains of _Strauss_ will greet you here,
But the moan of sickness, the feeble wail
Of suff'ring childhood--of mothers pale,
The groan of despair, or, alas, still worse!
The blasphemous jest, or fierce, deep curse.
See! on yon board is their banquet spread,
Coarse broken remnants of mouldy bread;
No cheerful flame in the fire-place bare
To temper the cold of the biting air,
Or the chill of the snow on the rotting floor,
Drifting beneath the ill-closed door.
O, woman, one gem from those that deck
Thy taper fingers, white brow or neck;
Young girl, a rose from thy glossy hair,
One inch of that lace so costly and rare,
Would give food and heat, and cheerful light
To that wretched home, for at least one night.
Revellers met round the festive board,
A hot house fruit from your dainty hoard,
The price of one draught of that wine, so old
That it seems as precious as liquid gold,
Would bring joy to more than one aching breast,
And smiles to lips unused to such guest.
Children of fashion, children of wealth,
Who hear harsh truths, as it were, by stealth,
An hour will come to all who live
Of their stewardship here strict account to give
Before the Great Judge, wise, stern and pure,
Who will justice mete to both rich and poor.
Well for you then if kind word and deed,
Or generous alms to those in need,
Have marked the course of your life's brief dream,
They'll plead for you in that hour supreme,
Outweigh past errors, and justice move
To the side of mercy and pitying love.
BENEATH THE SNOW.
'Twas near the close of the dying year,
And December's winds blew cold and drear,
Driving the snow and sharp blinding sleet
In gusty whirls through square and street,
Shrieking more wildly and fiercely still
In the dreary grave-yard that crowns the hill.
No mourners there to sorrow or pray,
But soon a traveller passed that way:
He paused and leant against the low stone wall,
While sighs breathed forth from the pine-trees tall
That darkly look down on the silent crowd
Of graves, all wrapped in a snowy shroud.
Solemn and weird was the spectral scene--
The tombstones white, with low mounds between,
The awful stillness, eerie and dread,
Brooding above that home of the dead,
While Christmas fires lit up each hearth
And shed their glow upon scenes of mirth.
Silent the weary wayfarer stood--
The spot well suited his pensive mood,
And severed friendships, bright day-dreams flown,
Thronged on his thoughts in that moment lone.
"Yes, happiness-hope," he murmured low,
"All buried alike beneath the snow."
"O, for the right to lay down the load
I've borne so long on life's dreary road,
Heavily weighing on heart and brain,
And as galling to both as a convict's chain;--
No more its strain shall I tamely bear
But join the peaceful sleepers there."
His head on the old wall drooped more low,
Whilst faster came down the sleet and snow,
Sharply chilling the blood in his veins,
Racking his frame with rheumatic pains;
"No matter," he thought, "I'll soon lie low,
Calm--quiet enough--beneath the snow."
Ah! hapless one, thus thine arms to yield
When nearly won, perchance, is the field.
After long struggling to lose at last
The price of many a victory past,
Of many an hour of keen, sharp strife,
Mournfully spent in the war of Life.
But, hark! on high sound the Christmas bells,
Of hope to that mourner their chiming tells,
Of the sinless hours of childhood pure,
Of a God who came all griefs to cure;
And, leaving, he prayed: "O my Father and Friend,
Grant me strength to be faithful to the end!"
OUR MOUNTAIN CEMETERY.
Lonely and silent and calm it lies
'Neath rosy dawn or midnight skies;
So densely peopled, yet so still,
The murmuring voice of mountain rill,
The plaint the wind 'mid branches wakes,
Alone the solemn silence breaks.
Whatever changes the seasons bring,--
The birds, the buds of joyous spring,
The glories that come with the falling year
The snows and storms of winter drear,--
Are all unmarked in this lone spot,
Its shrouded inmates feel them not.
Thoughts full of import, earnest and deep,
Must the feeling heart in their spirit steep,
Here, where Death's footprints meet the sight:
The long chill rows of tombstones white,
The graves so thickly, widely spread,
Within this city of the Dead.
Say, who could tell what aching sighs,
What tears from heavy, grief-dimmed eyes,
Have here been shed in silent woe,
Mourning the cold, still form below;
Or o'er past harshness, coldness, hate,
Grieving, alas! too late--too late!
Oh, man, vain dreamer of this life,
Seeking 'mid restless toil and strife
For wealth, for happiness, for fame,
Thirsting to make thyself a name,
See, unto what thy course doth tend,
Of all thy toils--there is the end.
Woman, of grace or beauty proud,
Seeking alone gay fashion's crowd,--
Thine aim, admiring looks to win,
E'en at the price of folly or sin,
That beauty now to thee so dear,
Would'st thou know its fate? Look around thee, here.
But not alone such lessons stern
May we within the grave-yard learn:
'Tis here the servant wise and good,
Who loyal to his trust hath stood,
Will joyously at length lay down
The heavy cross to receive the crown.
And hope, sweet messenger of God,
Poised lightly 'bove the charnel sod,
With upturned brow and radiant eyes,
Pointing unto the distant skies,
Whispers: "Oh, weary child of care,
Look up! thy heavenly home is there!"
MONUMENT TO IRISH EMIGRANTS.
It will be in the recollection of many of our readers that during
the famine years of 1847 and 1848 there was an unusual emigration
from Ireland to Canada and the United States. Numbers of those who
thus left their native land expired from ship fever, caused by utter
exhaustion, before they reached the American continent; others only
arrived there to die of that fatal disease. The Canadian Government
made extensive efforts to save the lives of the poor emigrants. A
large proportion were spared, but at Montreal, where the Government
erected temporary hospitals, on an immense scale, upwards of 6000 of
these poor people died. Their remains were interred close to the
hospitals, at a place that is now mainly covered with railway
buildings, and in close proximity to the point whence the Victoria
Bridge projects into the St. Lawrence. All traces of the sad events
of that disastrous period would have been obliterated but for the
warm and reverential impulses of Mr. James Hodges, the engineer and
representative of Messrs. Peto, Brassey & Betts in Canada. Through
his instrumentality, and by his encouragement, the workmen at the
bridge came to the determination of erecting a monument on the spot
where the poor Irish emigrants were interred. An enormous granite
boulder, of a rough conical shape, weighing 30 tons, was dug up in
the vicinity, and was placed on a base of cut stone masonry, twelve
feet square by six feet high. The stone bears the following
inscription: "To preserve from desecration the remains of 6000
emigrants who died from ship fever in 1847 and 1848 this monument is
erected by workmen in the employment of Messrs. Peto, Brassey, &
Betts, engaged in the construction of the Victoria Bridge, 1859."
Several addresses were delivered on the occasion, and in the course
of that made by the Bishop of Montreal he alluded in feeling terms
to the many good deeds for which the Dame of his friend, Mr. James
Hodges, will be gratefully remembered in Canada. Thanks to the
latter, the plot of ground on which the monument is raised is set
apart for ever, so that the remains of those interred there will
henceforth be sacred from any irreverent treatment.
THE EMIGRANTS' MONUMENT AT POINT ST. CHARLES.
A kindly thought, a generous deed,
Ye gallant sons of toil!
No nobler trophy could ye raise
On your adopted soil
Than this monument to your kindred dead,
Who sleep beneath in their cold, dark bed.
Like you they left their fatherland,
And crossed th' Atlantic's foam
To seek for themselves a new career,
And win another home;
But, alas for hearts that had beat so high!
They reached the goal, but only to die.
Let no rich worldling dare to say:
"For them why should we grieve?
But paupers--came they to our shores,
Want, sickness, death to leave?"
Each active arm, jail of power and health,
And each honest heart was a mine of wealth.
'Twas a mournful end to day-dreams high,
A sad and fearful doom--
To exchange their fever-stricken ships
For the loathsome typhus tomb;
And, ere they had smiled at Canada's sky,
On this stranger land breathe their dying sigh.
The strong man in the prime of life,
Struck down in one short hour,
The loving wife, the rose-cheeked girl,
Fairer than opening flower,
The ardent youth, with fond hopes elate,--
O'ertaken all by one common fate.
Long since forgotten--here they rest,
Sons of a distant land,--
The epochs of their short career
Mere footprints on life's sand;
But this stone will tell through many a year,
They died on our shores, and they slumber here.
LOOKING FORWARD.
How busily those little fingers soft
That within mine own are clasped so oft
Have been, throughout this bright summer day,
With pebbles and shells and leaves at play.
They have sought birds' nests, plucked many a flower,
Have decked with mosses the garden bower,
Built tiny boats, without helm to steer,
Yet floated them safe o'er the lakelet clear.
Ah! a time will come, and that ere long,
When those soft hands will grow firm and strong;
When they'll fling all boyish toys aside
In the dawning strength of manhood's pride;
Disdaining the prizes, the treasures gay,
That they seize with such eager haste to-day;
And parting with youth's joys, hopes and fears,
Seek to grasp the aims of manhood's years.
Be it, then, thy care, my gentle boy,
That new-born strength to well employ;
Thine hand to raise in defence of right,
To protect the weak 'gainst unjust might;
Or in steadfast toil to spend its power,
That toil--our birthright, our earthly dower--
A God-given law from which none are free,
Whether of lofty or low degree.
And that childish voice, so sweet and clear,
That like music falls on my charmed ear,
Waking the echoes with laugh and song,
'Mid wood and field through the hours long;
Mocking the warbling bird in yon tree,
Or lisping thy prayers beside my knee,
When thy voice shall thrill with a deeper tone,
Say, how wilt thou use it, my child, my own?
To defend the cause of each sacred truth
Thou hast learned to prize in thy early youth,
In kindly word to the sad, the poor,
To those whose cross is hard to endure;
Wilt thou raise it in telling thy Maker's praise,
In winning souls to His love and ways?
But never in proud or unholy strife,
Or in words with wrong to a brother rife.
And thy guileless heart whose truth, my boy,
Is to me a source of the purest joy,
In whose sinless depths I can plainly see,
That as yet from all thought of ill 'tis free;
When manhood's down shall have clothed thy cheek,
When pleasure shall tempt and passion speak,
When beset by snares that have others beguiled,
Ah! what wilt thou do with thy heart, my child?
Guard it as treasure of price untold,
In value beyond earth's gems and gold,
Guard it from breath, from shadow, of sin--
No tempter must foothold gain therein.
Let love of thy God and love of thy kind,
Like tendrils around it closely wind;
Blending those feelings of purest worth
With love for Canada, land of thy birth.
If my prayer be answered, with tranquil breast
I shall go content to my final rest,
When death's icy finger has touched the brow
That bends above thee so fondly now:
Till then, I will daily ask of Heaven
That, in manhood, it may to thee be given
To devote thy voice, thy heart and thy hand,
To God, thy kind, and thy native land.
THE HURON CHIEF'S DAUGHTER.
The dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre,
The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their vengeful ire.
It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude,
To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood.
Yet 'mid those guilt-stained men could any vile enough be found
To harm the victim who there stood, in helpless thraldom bound?
A girl of slight and fragile form, of gentle child-like grace,
Though woman's earnest thoughtfulness beamed in that sweet young
face.
Oh! lovely was that winsome child of a dark and rugged line,
And e'en mid Europe's daughters fair, surpassing might she shine:
For ne'er had coral lips been wreathed by brighter, sunnier
smile,
Or dark eyes beamed with lustrous light, more full of winsome
wile.
With glowing cheek and curving lip, she stood, in silent pride,
A queen in simple majesty, though captive bound and tied,
Nor could that sight of death, though fit to turn a strong heart
weak,
Chase back the deep scorn from her brow, the color from her
cheek.
And, yet, it was not wonderful, that haughty, high-born grace,
She stood amid her direst foes, a Princess of her race;
Knowing they'd met to wreak on her their hatred 'gainst her name,
To doom her to a fearful death, to pangs of fire and flame.
But, mindful of the teachings stern of childhood's early years,
She had firmly vowed no plaints of hers, or womanish weak tears
Would glad her foes but, as became her rank and lineage high,
That she would, like a Huron maid, nobly and bravely die.
One moment,--then her proud glance fled, her form she humbly
bowed,
A softened light stole o'er her brow, she prayed to heaven aloud:
"Hear me, Thou Great and Glorious One, Protector of my race,
Whom, in the far-off Spirit land, I'll soon see face to face!
"Pour down Thy blessings on my tribe, may they triumphant rise
Above the guileful Iroquois--Thine and our enemies;
And give me strength to bear each pang with courage high and
free,
That, dying thus, I may be fit to reign, oh God! with Thee."
Her prayer was ended, and again, like crowned and sceptred Queen,
She wore anew her lofty smile, her high and royal mien,
E'en though the Chief the signal gave, and quick two warriors
dire,
Sprang forth to lead the dauntless girl to the lit funeral pyre.
Back, with an eye of flashing scorn, recoiled she from their
grasp,
"Nay, touch me not, I'd rather meet the coil of poisoned asp!
My aged sire, and all my tribe will learn with honest pride
That, as befits a Huron's child, their chieftain's daughter
died!"
She dashed aside her tresses dark with bright and fearless smile,
And like a fawn she bounded on the fearful funeral pile;
And even while those blood-stained men fulfilled their cruel part
They praised that maiden's courage rare, her high and dauntless
heart.
AN AUTUMN EVENING AT MURRAY BAY.
Darkly falls the autumn twilight, rustles by the crisp leaf sere,
Sadly wail the lonely night-winds, sweeping sea-ward, chill and
drear,
Sullen dash the restless waters 'gainst a bleak and rock-bound
shore,
While the sea-birds' weird voices mingle with their surging roar.
Vainly seeks the eye a flow'ret 'mid the desolation drear,
Or a spray of pleasant verdure which the gloomy scene might
cheer;
Nought but frowning crags and boulders, and long sea-weeds,
ghastly, dank,
With the mosses and pale lichens, to the wet rocks clinging rank.
See, the fog clouds thickly rolling o'er the landscape far and
wide,
Till the tall cliffs look like phantoms, seeking 'mid their
shrouds to hide;
On they come, the misty masses of the wreathing vapour white,
Filling hill and mead and valley, blotting earth and heaven from
sight.
Silent, mournful, am I standing, gazing from the window pane,
Dimmed and blurred with heavy plashes of the fast descending
rain,
While thoughts chiming with the hour my weary brain are passing
through,
Till the shadows of the evening on my brow are mirrored too.
Rise, although uncalled, within me, memories of the distant past,
Of the dreams, the hopes, the fancies, that round life sweet
sunshine cast;
Whilst the moan of winds and waters, with a strange, mysterious
art,
Seem to awaken drear forebodings in the listening gazer's heart.
Ah! it needs yon pleasant tapers with enlivening, home-like ray,
And the sound of voices sharing, each in turn, in converse gay,
And the flash of fire-light, making happy faces still more glad,
To dispel the mournful thoughts that make the evening hour so
sad.
Turning from this lonely musing, wilful nursing of dark care,
I will join the joyous circle of the dear ones gathered there,
Who with smiles will greet my advent, and in that delightful room
Shake aside the dreary shadows of this scene of autumn gloom.
SISTER M. B.'S ARRIVAL IN MONTREAL, 1654.
It is now two hundred years and more
Since first set foot on Canadian shore
That saint-like heroine, fair and pure,
Prepared all things for Christ to endure;
Resigning rank and kindred ties,
And her sunny home 'neath France's skies.
A lonely sight for her to see
Was the wilderness town of Ville Marie!
The proud St. Lawrence, with silver foam,
Touched softly the base of our island home,
But frowning forest and tangled wood
Made the land a dreary solitude.
Nor mansion, chapel, nor glinting spire
Reflected the sunset's fading fire;
The wigwam sent up its faint blue smoke,
The owlet's shrill cry the stillness broke,
While the small rude huts of the settlers stood
Within frail palisades of wood.
Undaunted by fear of the savage foe,
Wild midnight blaze or th'assassin's blow;
Careless of suffering, famine, want,
That haunted the settlers like spectres gaunt,
Sister Bourgeois had but one hope, one aim--
To humbly work in her Master's name.
Kindly she gathered around her knee
The dusky daughters, unfettered, free,
Of forest tribes, and, with woman's art,
Ennobling, softening each youthful heart,
Fashioned them into true womanhood,
Slow unto evil but prompt to good.
And their pale-face sisters had full share
In this gentle teacher's tender care;
And grew up, holding as holy and dear
The sacred duties of woman's sphere;
Adding the firmness and courage high--
Chief need of our sex in days gone by.
Sister Bourgeois' daughters have nobly all
Responded unto her gracious call;
Through sunshine and joy, through storm and pain--
In one unfailing, unbroken chain
Of teachers devoted--nought left undone
To fulfil the task by their foundress begun.
A TOUCHING CEREMONY.