Is a spot my affection worth,
And though dear are the scenes that around me now smile,
More dear is the place of my birth!
There hedges of hawthorn scent the sweet air,
And, thick as the stars of the night,
The daisy and primrose, with flow'rets as fair,
Gem that soil of soft verdurous light.
And there points the spire of my own village church,
That long has braved time's iron power,
With its bright glitt'ring cross and ivy wreathed porch--
Sure refuge in sorrow's dark hour!
Whilst memory lasts think not e'er from this breast
Can pass the fond thoughts of my home:
No! I ne'er can forget the land I have left
In the new one to which I have come!
FAR WEST EMIGRANT.
I.
Mine eye is weary of the plains
Of verdure vast and wide
That stretch around me--lovely, calm,
From morn till even-tide;
And I recall with aching heart
My childhood's village home;
Its cottage roofs and garden plots,
Its brooks of silver foam.
II.
True glowing verdure smiles around,
And this rich virgin soil
Gives stores of wealth in quick return
For hours of careless toil;
But oh! the reaper's joyous song
Ne'er mounts to Heaven's dome,
For unknown is the mirth and joy
Of the merry "Harvest Home."
III.
The solemn trackless woods are fair,
And bright their summer dress;
But their still hush--their whisprings vague,
My heart seem to oppress;
And 'neath their shadow could I sit,
And think the livelong day
On my country's fields and hedges green,
Gemmed with sweet hawthorn spray.
IV.
The graceful vines and strange bright flow'rs,
I meet in every spot,
I'd give up for a daisy meek,
A blue forget-me-not;
And from the brilliant birds I turn,
Warbling the trees among;
I know them not--and breathe a sigh
For lark or linnet's song.
V.
But useless now those vain regrets!
My course must finish here;
In dreams alone I now can see
Again my home so dear,
Or those fond loving friends who clung
Weeping unto my breast;
And bade "God speed me" when I left,
To seek the far, far West.
A WELCOME TO THE MONTH OF MARY.
Oh! gladly do we welcome thee,
Fair pleasant month of May;
Month which we've eager longed to see,
Through many a wintry day:
And now with countless budding flowers,
With sunshine bright and clear--
To gild the quickly fleeting hours--
At length, sweet month, thou'rt here!
But, yet, we do not welcome thee
Because thy genial breath
Hath power our sleeping land to free
From winter's clasp of death;
Nor yet because fair flowers are springing
Beneath thy genial ray;
And thousand happy birds are singing
All welcome to thee, May!
No, higher, nobler cause have we
These bright days to rejoice--
'Twas God ordained that thou should'st be
The loved month of our choice:
It is because thou hast been given
To honor her alone,
The ever gentle Queen of Heaven--
The mother of God's son.
The blossoms that we joyous cull
By bank or silver stream;
The fragrant hawthorn boughs we pull,
Most sacred too, we deem:
For not amid our tresses we
Their op'ning buds will twine,
But garlands fair we'll weave with care
For Mary's lowly shrine.
And when the twilight shades descend
On earth, so hushed and still,
And the lone night bird's soft notes blend
With breeze from glade and hill,
We seek her shrine with loving heart,
And, humbly kneeling there,
We linger long, loth to depart
From that sweet place of prayer!
Oh! who can tell with what gifts rare
Our Mother will repay
Their love who honor thus with care
Her own sweet month of May!
A grace for every flower they've brought
Or 'Ave, they have said;
And ev'ry pious, holy thought
Shall be by her repaid!
NATURE'S MUSIC.
Of many gifts bestowed on earth
To cheer a lonely hour,
Oh is there one of equal worth
With music's magic power?
'Twill charm each angry thought to rest,
'Twill gloomy care dispel,
And ever we its power can test,--
All nature breathes its spell.
There's music in the sighing tone
Of the soft, southern breeze
That whispers thro' the flowers lone,
And bends the stately trees,
And--in the mighty ocean's chime,
The crested breakers roar,
The wild waves, ceaseless surge sublime,
Breaking upon the shore.
There's music in the bulbul's note,
Warbling its vesper lay
In some fair spot, from man remote,
Where wind and flowers play;
But, oh! beyond the sweetest strain
Of bird, or wave, or grove
Is that soother of our hours of pain--
The voice of those we love.
When sorrow weigheth down the heart
The night birds sweetest lay--
The harp's most wild and thrilling art--
Care cannot chase away;
But let affection's voice be heard,
New springs of life 'twill ope,--
One word--one little loving word--
Will bring relief and hope.
MAUDE.
A BALLAD OF THE OLDEN TIME.
Around the castle turrets fiercely moaned the autumn blast,
And within the old lords daughter seemed dying, dying fast;
While o'er her couch in frenzied grief the stricken father bent,
And in deep sobs and stifled moans his anguish wild found vent.
"Oh cheer thee up, my daughter dear, my Maude, he softly said,
As tremblingly he strove to raise that young and drooping head;
'I'll deck thee out in jewels rare in robes of silken sheen,
Till thou shalt be as rich and gay as any crowned queen."
"Ah, never, never!" sighed the girl, and her pale cheek paler
grew,
While marble brow and chill white hands were bathed in icy dew;
"Look in my face--there thou wilt read such hopes are folly all,
No garment shall I wear again, save shroud and funeral pall."
"My Maude thou'rt wilful! Far away in lands beyond the sea
Are sunny climes, where winter ne'er doth wither flower or tree;
And there thou'lt journey with me, till I see thee smile once
more,
And thy fair cheek wear the rose's hue as in the days of yore."
"Ah, no roses shall I gather beneath a summer sky,
Not for me such dreams, dear father, my end is drawing nigh;
One voyage is before me, 'tis no use to grieve or moan,
But that dark, fearful journey must I travel all alone."
"My precious child! last of my race! why wilt thou grieve me so?
Why add by such sad words unto thy grey haired father's woe?
Live--live, my pearl! my stricken dove! earth's joys shall all
be thine;
Whate'er thy wish or will through life, it also shall be mine."
Fast coursed the diamond tear drops down that fair, though faded,
cheek,
And she whispered, but so softly, one scarce could hear her
speak:
"Ah! father, half those loving cares when summer bright was here
Would have kept thy daughter with thee for many a happy year.
"But, ah! thy heart was marble then, and to thy direst foe,
More stern, relentless anger thou couldst not, father, show.
What was my crime? The one I loved, not rich but nobly born,
Was loyal, true, on whom no man e'er looked with glance of scorn.
"He wooed me fairly, father dear, but thou did'st often swear
Thou'dst rather see me in my grave than bride to Hengist's heir.
Reckless, despairing, he embarked upon the stormy main,
To seek an end to grief and care, nor sought he long in vain.
"Calm and untroubled sleeps he now beneath the salt sea brine,
And I rejoice to think how soon that sweet sleep shall be mine!"
No answer made the father but a low and grief-struck moan;
And silence reigned again throughout that chamber sad and lone.
Sudden the girl starts wildly, with bright and kindling eye,
Her cheek assumes a crimson tint like hue of sunset sky,
"Father! that voice, that rapid step, ah, me! they are
well-known,
Hengist who comes from ocean's deeps to claim me for his own!"
Say, does she rave? No. See yon form, with proud and gallant
brow,
Bending above her, whisp'ring low, fond word and tender vow:
"Maude, my own love! no spectral form, no phantom's at thy side,
But thy girlhood's lover, now returned to claim thee as his
bride."
The story runs that love and youth o'er death the victory won,
And again did Maude, a happy wife, play 'neath the summer sun,
While the old lord, grateful to the Power that Hengist's life had
spared,
Henceforth in all his children's bliss, hopes, sorrows, fully
shared.
REJOICINGS AFTER THE BATTLE OF INKERMAN.*
[* Won by the "Allies" during the Crimean war though with great
losses in killed and wounded.]
Rejoice! the fearful day is o'er
For the victors and the slain;
Our cannon proclaim from shore to shore,
The Allies have won again!
Let our joy bells ring out music clear,
The gayest they've ever pealed;
Let bonfires flames the dark night cheer,
We are masters of the field
But list! dost hear that mournful wail
'Bove the joyous revelry?
Rising from hillside and lowly vale,--
Say, what can its meaning be?
From Erin's sunny emerald shore
It trembles upon the gale,
And rises with the torrent's roar
From the birth place of the Gael.
Fair Albion, too, in every spot
Of thy land of promise wide
Is heard that dirge for the mournful lot
Of thy soldier sons--thy pride.
Them shall no bugle at dawn of day
Arouse from their quiet sleep,
Them shall no charger with shrill neigh
Bear off to the hillside steep.
'Mid the dead and dying stretched unknown
On Crimea's blood stained earth,
Lie the household gods of many a home,
The lights of many a hearth:
While, vainly woman's weeping voice
Calls on each well loved one--
The tender wife on her girlhoods choice,
The fond mother on her son.
And not only from the peasant's cot
Comes that mournful, dirge like cry,
'Tis heard--unto all a common lot--
Where dwell the great and high;
And tears fall fast for the last lost child
Of many a noble race,
Who has perished in that struggle wild,
And left none to fill his place.
Yet if above our laurels bright
Falls many a bitter tear,
Still, still, may we find a gleam of light,
Our stricken hearts to cheer;
They have fallen in the country's cause
That their youth and manhood nursed,
They have fallen true to honor's laws,
In a sacred strife and just.
A FEW SHORT YEARS FROM NOW.
Say, art thou angry? words unkind
Have fallen upon thine ear,
Thy spirit hath been wounded too
By mocking jest or sneer,
But mind it not--relax at once
Thine o'ercast and troubled brow--
What will be taunt or jest to thee
In a few short years from now?
Or, perhaps thou mayst be pining
Beneath some bitter grief,
From whose pangs in vain thou seekest
Or respite or relief;
Fret not 'neath Heav'n's chastening rod
But submissive to it bow;
Thy griefs will all be hushed to rest
In a few short years from now.
Art toiling for some worldly aim,
Or for some golden prize,
Devoting to that glitt'ring goal
Thy thoughts, thy smiles, thy sighs?
Ah! rest thee from the idle chase,
With no bliss can it endow;
Of fame or gold, what will be thine
In a few short years from now?
It may be pleasure's roseate dreams
Possess thy wayward heart,
Its gilded gauds for better things
Leaving alas! no part;
Ah! cast away the gems and flowers
That bind thy thoughtless brow,
Where will their gleam or brightness be
In a few short years from now?
The good thou may'st on earth have done,
Love to a brother shown--
Pardon to foe--alms unto need--
Kind word or gentle tone;
The treasures thus laid up in Heav'n
By the good on earth done now,
These will alone remain to thee,
In a few short years from now.
TO THE SOLDIERS OF PIUS NINTH.
Warriors true, 'tis no false glory
For which now you peril life,--
For no worthless aim unholy,
Do ye plunge into the strife;
No unstable, fleeting vision
Bright before your gaze hath shone,
No day dream of wild ambition,
Now your footsteps urges on:
But a cause both great and glorious,
Worthy of a Christian's might,
One which yet shall be victorious,--
'Tis the cause of God and right:
Men! by aim more pure and holy
Say, could soldiers be enticed?
Strike for truth and conscience solely,
Strike for Pius and for Christ.
Even like the brave Crusaders--
Heroes true and tried of old,
You would check the rash invaders
Of all that we sacred hold.
And though hosts your steps beleaguer,
Full of might and martial pride;
For the conflict be you eager--
God Himself will be your guide!
Soldiers of the Cross, remember
In the cause you fight for now,
'Tis not earthly wreaths you gather
To adorn the dauntless brow;
But the laurels bright--unfading,
Never from you to be riven--
Which will yet your brows be shading
In the shining courts of Heaven.
COME, TELL ME SOME OLDEN STORY.
I.
Come tell me some olden story
Of Knight or Paladin,
Whose sword on the field of glory
Bright laurel wreaths did win:
Tell me of the heart of fire
His courage rare did prove;
Speak on--oh! I will not tire--
But never talk of love.
II.
Or, if thou wilt, I shall hearken
Some magic legend rare--
How the Wizard's power did darken
The sunny summer air:
Thou'lt tell of Banshee's midnight wail,
Or corpse-light's ghastly gleam--
It matters not how wild the tale
So love be not thy theme.
III.
Or, perhaps thou may'st have travelled
On distant, foreign strand,
Strange secrets have unravelled
In many a far-off land;
Describe each castle hoary,
Each fair or frowning shore--
But should love blend in thy story
I'll list thy voice no more.
IV.
Thou askest with emotion,
Why am I thus so cold,
Urging all thy past devotion,
Well known--well tried of old;
Hush! bend a little nearer
That sad, o'erclouded brow--
Could love vows make thee dearer
To me than thou art now!
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS.
DIED JANUARY 26th, 1864, THE HON. JAMES B.
CLAY, OF ASHLANDS, KENTUCKY, ELDEST
SON OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS HENRY CLAY.
Another pang for Southern hearts,
That of late so oft have bled,
Another name to add to the roll
Of their mighty, patriot dead;
A vacant place 'mid that phalanx proud.
Of which each glorious name
Is dear to a mighty nation's heart,
And dear to undying fame.
The God-given gift of genius his,
The patriot's holy fire,
For he we mourn was a worthy son
Of a great and glorious sire:
Ah! whate'er the changes time may bring,
Shall never pass away
From the people's mind, in North or South,
The deathless name of Clay.
Yet an exile in a foreign land,
His spirit passed from earth,
Far from the old dear scenes of home,
The loved land of his birth,--
The land he had well and truly served,
With heart, with sword, with pen,
Since first he had joined the march of life,
By the side of his fellow men.
No Southern breezes, soft and sweet,
Played around his dying bed,
No Southern flowers in glowing bloom,
Rich fragrance round him shed;
The wintry light of a Northern sky,
Earth robed in snowy vest,
Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze
As he passed into his rest
But near him gathered devoted hearts,
Wife, children, at his side,
Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked,
With fond, revering pride,
On him who had ever been to them,
Throughout his life's career,
A model of all that honor high,
Or virtue holds most dear.
And other mourners leaves he too,
Who had learned to love him well.
Though short the time since he had come,
Within our midst to dwell:
Friends who will keep his name fore'er
'Mid those they we set apart,
To cherish deeply, and revere,
Within their inmost heart.
Montreal, Jan. 27, 1864
WHEN WILL IT END?
Written during the Civil War in the United States.
O when will it end, this appalling strife,
With its reckless waste of human life,
Its riving of highest, holiest ties,
Its tears of anguish and harrowing sighs,
Its ruined homes from which hope has fled,
Its broken hearts and its countless dead?
In fair Virginia the new-made graves
Lie crowded thick as old ocean's caves;
Whether sword or sickness dealt the blow,
What matters it?--They lie cold and low;
And Maryland's heights are crimsoned o'er,
And its green vales stained, with human gore.
The stalwart man in the prime of life,
Sole stay of frail children and helpless wife;
The bright-eyed, ardent, and beardless boy,
Of some mother's fond breast the pride and joy,
And the soldier-love, the idol rare
Of maiden and matron, gentle and fair.
The men of the North so dauntless and free,
The flower of the Southland chivalry,
The best and the bravest on either side,
Their citizen soldier, the nation's pride,
Carelessly cast in each narrow, dank bed,
And fruitlessly numbered among the dead.
Are you nearer the end than when Sumter's gun
Answered the summons of Charleston,
And the nation plunged in this deadly strife,
That has wrecked its happiness, wealth and life,--
Say what is your answer to foe or friend?
"'Tis a strife of which none can guess the end."
Oh! keep your young strength for some stranger foe,
Let not brother's rash hand lay brother low;
Remember one soil your childhood nursed,
In the past together your bonds you burst;
Together for freedom you learned to strike,
And brave Washington honored you both alike.
You have proved to the nations your mutual might;
You have proved you can suffer, struggle and fight;
By hundreds and thousands lie heaped your slain,
Your life-blood crimsons hill, stream and plain;
Prove of nobler struggle you are able yet,
And your mutual wrongs forgive and forget.
Oh, Father of mercies! stay now each hand,
Put back in its sheath the blood stained brand,
Whisper sage counsel to rulers proud,
Calm the wrath of the people, fierce and loud,
So that their hates and their strife may cease,
And their land know once more the boon of peace.
MOONLIGHT REVERIES.
The moon from solemn azure sky
Looked down on earth below,
And coldly her wan light fell alike
On scenes of joy and woe:
A stately palace reared its dome,
Within reigned warmth and light
And festive mirth--the moon's faint rays
Soft kissed its marble white.
A little farther was the home
Of toil, alas! and want,
That spectre grim that countless hearths
Seems ceaselessly to haunt;
And yet, as if in mocking mirth,
She smiled on that drear spot,
Silvering brightly the ruined eaves
And roof of that poor cot.
And then, with curious gaze, she looked
Within a curtained loom,
Where sat a girl of gentle mien
In young life's early bloom;
Her glitt'ring light made still more bright
The veil and bridal flower,
Which were to wreathe the girl's fair brow
In the morrow's solemn hour.
With changeless smile she gleamed within
A casement, gloomy, lone,
Where lay a cold and rigid form,
A death bed stretched upon.
The fixed gaze of the half closed eyes,
The forehead chill and white,
The shroud and pall, more ghastly looked,
Wrapped thus in still, silv'ry light.
Long, sadly, gazed I, then a thought,
Sharp, bitter, filled my heart
'Gainst that cold orb, which in our joys
And sorrows took no part;
Which shone as bright o'er couch of death,
In prison's darkened gloom,
As o'er the festal scenes of earth,
Or stately palace room.
An inward voice reproved the thought,
And whispered, soft and low,
"Unto that glorious orb 'twas given
Its Maker's power to show.
Throughout long ages has it shone
With pure, undying flame,
His will obeying Dreamer, go,
And do thou, too, the same!"
THE CLOUDS THAT PROMISE A GLORIOUS MORROW.
The clouds that promise a glorious morrow
Are fading slowly, one by one;
The earth no more bright rays may borrow
From her loved Lord, the golden sun;
Gray evening shadows are softly creeping,
With noiseless steps, o'er vale and hill;
The birds and flowers are calmly sleeping;
And all around is fair and still.
Once loved I dearly, at this sweet hour,
With loitering steps to careless stray,
To idly gather an opening flower,
And often pause upon my way,--
Gazing around me with joyous feeling,
From sunny earth to azure sky,
Or bending over the streamlet, stealing
'Mid banks of flowers and verdure by.
You wond'ring ask me why sit I lonely
Within my quiet, curtain'd room,
So idly seeking and clinging only
Unto its chastened, thoughtful gloom.
You tell me that never fragrance rarer
Did breathe from clustering leaf and bough;
That never the bright spring was fairer
Or more enchanting than she is now.
Ah, useless chiding! The loved ones tender,
Who shared my rambles long ago,
Whose cherished accents could only render
Words of affection soft and low,
Are parted from me, perchance for ever,
By miles of distance, of land or main,--
Death some has taken, and them, oh never
Upon this earth shall I meet again.
'Tis thus this hour of gentle even
Brings back in thought the friends long gone,--
Loved ones with whom this earth was Heaven
But who have vanished, one by one.--
'Tis thus I cherish with wilful sadness
The quiet of my lonely room,--
Careless, unmindful of all earth's gladness,
Or of her lovely evening bloom.
EARTH'S MOMENTS OF GLOOM.
"The heart knoweth its own bitterness"
The heart hath its moments of hopeless gloom,
As rayless as is the dark night of the tomb;
When the past has no spell, the future no ray,
To chase the sad cloud from the spirit away;
When earth, though in all her rich beauty arrayed,
Hath a gloom o'er her flowers--o'er her skies a dark shade,
And we turn from all pleasure with loathing away,
Too downcast, too spirit sick, even to pray!
Oh! where may the heart seek, in moments like this,
A whisper of hope, or a faint gleam of bliss?
When friendship seems naught but a cold, cheerless flame,
And love a still falser and emptier name;
When honors and wealth are a wearisome chain,
Each link interwoven with grief and with pain,
And each solace or joy that the spirit might crave
Is barren of comfort and dark as the grave.
Lift--lift up thy sinking heart, pilgrim of life!
A sure spell there is for thy spirit's sad strife;
'Tis not to be found in the well-springs of earth,--
Oh! no, 'tis of higher and holier birth.
AUTUMN WINDS.
"Oh! Autumn winds, what means this plaintive wailing
Around the quiet homestead where we dwell?
Whence come ye, say, and what the story mournful
That your weird voices ever seek to tell--
Whispering or clamoring, beneath the casements,
Rising in shriek or dying off in moan,
But ever breathing, menace, fear, or anguish
In every thrilling and unearthly tone?"
"We come from far off and from storm-tossed oceans,
Where vessels bravely battle with fierce gale,--
Mere playthings of our stormy, restless power,
We rend them quickly, shuddering mast and sail;
And with their, stalwart, gallant crews we hurl them
Amid the hungry waves that for them wait,
Nor leave one floating spar nor fragile taffrail
To tell unto the world their dreary fate."
"But He who holds you, wrathful winds of Autumn,
Within the hollow of His mighty hand,
Can stay your onward course of reckless fury,
Your demon wrath, or eerie sport command,
Changing your rudest blast to zephyr gentle
As rocks the rose in summer evenings still,
Calming the ocean and yourselves enchaining
By simple fiat of Almighty Will."
"We've been, too in the close and crowded city
Where want is often forced to herd with sin;
And our cold breath has pierced through without pity,
Bare, ruined hovel and worn garments thin;
Through narrow chink and broken window pouring
Draughts rife with fever and with deadly chill,
Choosing our victims 'mid old age and childhood,
Or tender, fragile infancy at will."
"Oh, Autumn blasts, He, whose kind care doth temper
The searching wind unto the small shorn lamb,
To those poor shiv'ring victims, too, can render
Thy keenest, sharpest blasts, both mild and calm
Rave on--rave on, around our happy homestead
Upon this dark and wild November night,
Ye do but work out your God-given mission,
Mere humble creatures of our Father's might."
"But, listen, we come, too, from graveyards lonely,
From mocking revels held 'mid tombstones tall,
Tearing the withered leaves from off the branches,
The clinging ivy from the time-stained wall,--
Uprooting, blighting every tiny leaflet
That hid the grave's bleak nakedness from sight,
Driving the leaves in hideous, death like dances,
Around the lowly mounds, the grave-stones white."
"And, what of that, ye cruel winds of Autumn?
Spring will return again with hope and mirth,
Clothing with tender green the budding branches,
Decking with snowdrops, violets, the earth;
And, oh! sweet hope, sublime and most consoling,
The sacred dust within those graves shall rise
In God's good time, to reign on thrones of glory
With Him, beyond the cloudless, golden skies."
FLOWERS AND STARS.
"Beloved! thou'rt gazing with thoughtful look
On those flowers of brilliant hue,
Blushing in spring tide freshness and bloom,
Glittering with diamond dew:
What dost thou read in each chalice fair,
And what does each blossom say?
Do they not tell thee, my peerless one,
Thou'rt lovelier far than they?"
"Not so--not so, but they whisper low
That quickly will fade their bloom;
Soon will they withered lie on the sod,
Ravished of all perfume;
They tell that youth and beauty below
Are doomed, alas! to decay,
And I, like them, in life's flower and prime
May pass from this earth away."