That gleam in the sapphire skies;
Not clearer their radiance, best beloved,
Than the light of thine own dark eyes!
With no thoughts of death or sad decay,
Can they thy young spirit fill;
Through ages they've shone with changeless light,
And yet they are shining still!"
"Ah! they bring before my spirit's gaze
Dreams of that home so blessed,
Where those who have served the Master well
At length from their labors rest;
And do not chide if, despite all ties,
Of close-clinging earthly love,
There are times when I turn a wistful glance
To that distant home above."
THE SUNSET THOUGHTS OF A DYING GIRL.
Friends! do you see in yon sunset sky,
That cloud of crimson bright?
Soon will its gorgeous colors die
In coming dim twilight;
E'en now it fadeth ray by ray--
Like it I too shall pass away!
Look on yon fragile summer flower
Yielding its sweet perfume;
Soon shall it have lived out its hour,
Its beauty and its bloom:
Trampled, 'twill perish in the shade--
Alas! as quickly shall I fade.
Mark you yon planet gleaming clear
With steadfast, gentle light,
See, heavy dark clouds hovering near,
Have veiled its radiance bright--
As you vainly search that gloomy spot,
You'll look for me and find me not!
Turn now to yonder sparkling stream,
Where silver ripples play;
Dancing within the moon's pale beam--
Ah! short will be their stay,
They break and die upon the shore--
Like them I soon shall be no more!
Yes! emblems meet of my career,
Are ripple, cloud, and flower;
Fated like me to linger here,
But for a brief, bright hour--
And then, alas! to yield my place;
And leave, perchance, on earth no trace!
No trace, my friends, save in your hearts,
That pure and sacred shrine--
Where, 'spite life's thousand cares and arts,
A place shall yet be mine;
And love as deep as that of yore--
Though on this earth we meet no more!
ALAIN'S CHOICE.
By the side of a silvery streamlet,
That flowed through meadows green,
Lay a youth on the verge of manhood
And a boy of fair sixteen;
And the elder spake of the future,
That bright before them lay,
With its hopes full of golden promise
For some sure, distant day.
And he vowed, as his dark eye kindled,
He would climb the heights of fame,
And conquer with mind or weapon
A proud, undying name.
On the darling theme long dwelling
Bright fabrics did he build,
Which the hope in his ardent bosom
With splendor helped to gild.
At length he paused, then questioned:
"Brother, thou dost not speak;
In the vague bright page of the future
To read dost thou never seek?"
Then the other smiled and answered,
"Of that am I thinking now,
And the crown which I too am striving
To win my ambitious brow."
"What!--a crown? Thou hast spirit, brother;
Say, of laurels will it be?
Thy choice, the life of a soldier,
Undaunted--joyous--free.
Though by wind and sun undarkened
Is thy blooming, boyish face,
To thy choice thou'lt do all honor,
For 'tis worthy of thy race!
"Am I wrong? Well, 'tis more likely,
With thy love of ancient lore,
Thou would'st choose the scholar's garland,
Not laurels wet with gore;
I'll not chide--'tis surely noble,
By mere simple might of pen,
To rule with master power
The minds of thy fellow-men."
But still shook his head the younger:
"What! unguessed thy secret yet?
Ha! I know now what thou seekest
To deck thy curls of jet:
Bright buds!" and he, laughing, scattered
Blossoms on brow and cheek,
"Pleasure's wreath of smiting flowers
Is the crown that thou dost seek."
"Not so--of all, that were vainest!
'Tis a crown immortal--rare--
Here on earth I must strive to win it,
But, brother, I'll wear it _there!_"
And he raised to the blue sky o'er him
Eyes filled with tender thought,--
Who shall doubt that to him was given
The glorious crown he sought?
THE FINAL RECKONING.
'Twas a wild and stormy sunset, changing tints of lurid red
Flooded mountain top and valley and the low clouds overhead;
And the rays streamed through the windows of a building stately,
high,
Whose wealthy, high-born master had lain him down to die.
Many friends were thronging round him, breathing aching, heavy
sighs--
Men with pale and awe-struck faces, women, too, with weeping
eyes,
Watching breathless, silent, grieving him whose sands were nearly
run,
When, with sudden start, he muttered: "God! how much I've left
undone!"
Then out spoke an aged listener, with broad brow and locks of
snow,
"Patriot, faithful to thy country and her welfare, say not so,
For the long years thou hast served her thou hast only honor
won."
But, from side to side still tossing, still he muttered: "Much
undone!"
Then the wife, with moan of anguish, like complaint of stricken
dove,
Murmured: "Husband, truer, fonder, never blessed a woman's love,
And a just and tender father both to daughter and to son"--
But more feebly moaned he ever: "Oh! there's much, there's much
undone!"
Quickly, then, a proud, stern soldier questioned: "Say, will not
thy name
Long descend in future story, linked with honor and with fame,
For thine arm was prompt in battle and thy laurels nobly won;
Patriot, citizen and soldier, what, then, is there left undone?"
Then the dying man upraised him; at his accents loud and clear
Into silence men lapsed quickly--women checked each sob and tear;
And he said: "To fame, home, country, all my heart, my thoughts
I've given,
But, Oh dreamers, can you tell me what I've done for God--for
Heaven?
"It was not for Him I battled with the sword or with the pen,
Not for His praise that I thirsted, but that of my fellow-men;
And amid the light now flooding this my life's last setting sun,
I can see, misguided worldling! that there's much I've left
undone."
Thicker, darker, fell the shadows, fainter grew his flutt'ring
breath
Then a strange and solemn stillness, 'twas the awful hush of
death:
Hope we that a tender Saviour, unto gentle pity won,
Judged that dying man with mercy, whatsoe'er he left undone!
IN MEMORY OF THE LATE G. C. OF MONTREAL.
The earth was flooded in the amber haze
That renders so lovely our autumn days,
The dying leaves softly fluttered down,
Bright crimson and orange and golden brown,
And the hush of autumn, solemn and still,
Brooded o'er valley, plain and hill.
Yet still from that scene with rare beauty rife
And the touching sweetness of fading life,
From glowing foliage and sun bright ray,
My gaze soon mournfully turned away
To rest, instead, on a new made grave,
Enshrouding a heart true, loyal and brave.
At rest for aye! Cold and pulseless now
That high throbbing breast and calm, earnest brow;
Laid down forever the quick, gifted pen
That toiled but for God and his fellow men;
Silent that voice, free from hatred or ruth,
Yet e'er boldly raised in the cause of truth.
For the prize of _our faith_ grateful he proved,
Breaking from ties and from scenes once loved,
From rank and fortune, and the lures of pride,
That tempt the gifted on every side,
To devote his genius--his pen of fire--
To aims more holy and themes far higher.
He was true to the land he had made his home,
And true to the grand old faith of Rome,
At whose feet he laid powers rarer than gold,
As knights laid their lances and shields of old,--
That Church on whose loving maternal breast
He peacefully sank to eternal rest.
Oh! no tears for him who passed away
Ere frame or spirit knew touch of decay,
Ere time had deadened one feeling warm,
Or his genius robbed of one single charm.
As he was when death struck, his image shall dwell
In the countless hearts that loved him so well.
ON SOME ROSE LEAVES BROUGHT FROM THE VALE OF CASHMERE.
Faded and pale their beauty, vanished their early bloom,
Their folded leaves emit alone a sweet though faint perfume,
But, oh! than brightest bud or flower to me are they more dear,
They come from that rose-haunted land, the bright Vale of
Cashmere.
Cashmere! a spell is in that name! what dreams its sound awakes
Of roses sweet as Eden's flowers, of minarets and lakes,
Of scenes as vaguely, strangely bright as those of fairy land,
Springing to life and loveliness 'neath some enchanter's wand!
Cashmere! poetic in its name, its clear and brilliant skies
That seem to clothe earth, flower and wave in their own lovely
dyes;
Poetic in its legend lore, and spell more dear than all,
Enshrined in poet's inmost heart, the home of "Nourmahal."*
Yes, there oft fell her fairy feet, there shone the glances
bright,
That won for her the glorious name of harem's queen and light;
There, as she wandered 'mid its bowers, her royal love beside,
She taught him to forget all else save her, his beauteous, bride.
Cashmere! what would this heart not give to see thy favored
earth,
So rich in nature's peerless gifts, in beauty's dazzling worth,
Rich in a name that in mine ear from childhood's hour hath rung,
The land of which impassioned Moore with such sweet power hath
sung.
Yet, were I there, oh! well I know the time would surely come
When my yearning heart would turn again to my far Canadian home,
Longing to look once more upon its wintry wastes of snow,
And the friends whose hearts throb like mine own, with
friendship's changeless glow.
[* The heroine of Moore's beautiful poem The Light of the Harem.]
HARVESTS.
Other harvests there are than those that lie
Glowing and ripe 'neath an autumn sky,
Awaiting the sickle keen,
Harvests more precious than golden grain,
Waving o'er hillside, valley or plain,
Than fruits 'mid their leafy screen.
Not alone for the preacher, man of God,
Do those harvests vast enrich the sod,
For all may the sickle wield;
The first in proud ambition's race,
The last in talent, power or place,
Will all find work in that field.
Man toiling, lab'ring with fevered strain,
High office or golden prize to gain,
Rest both weary heart and head,
And think, when thou'lt shudder in death's cold clasp,
How earthly things will elude thy grasp,
At that harvest work instead!
Lady, with queenly form and brow,
Gems decking thy neck and arms of snow,
Who need only smile to win;
'Mid thy guests, perchance the gay, the grave,
Is one whom a warning word might save
From folly, sorrow or sin.
Let that word be said, thine eyes so bright
Will glow with holier, softer light
For the good that thou hast done;
And a time will come when thou wilt reap
From that simple act more pleasure deep
Than from flatt'ring conquests won.
Young girl in thy bright youth's blushing dawn,
Graceful and joyous as sportive fawn,
There is work for thee to do,
And higher aims than to flirt and smile,
And practise each gay, coquettish wile,
Admiring glances to woo.
Ah! the world is full of grief and care,
Sad, breaking hearts are every where,
And thou can'st give relief;
Alms to the needy--soft word of hope
That a brighter view may chance to ope
To mourners bowed by grief.
That gauzy tissue yon bud or flower
That tempt thee at the present hour,
To be worn, then cast aside,
Bethink thee, their price might comfort bring,
Fuel or food to the famishing
And help to the sorely tried.
Such harvest fruits are most precious and rare,
Worthy all toil and patient care,
Think of the promised reward!
Not earthly gains that will pass away
Like morning mist or bright sunset ray,
But Christ Himself, our Lord!
A WORLDLY DEATH-BED.
Hush! speak in accents soft and low,
And treat with careful stealth
Thro' that rich curtained room which tells
Of luxury and wealth;
Men of high science and of skill
Stand there with saddened brow,
Exchanging some low whispered words--
What can their art do now?
Follow their gaze to yonder couch
Where moans in fitful pain
The mistress of this splendid home,
With aching heart and brain.
The fever burning in her veins
Tinges with carmine bright
That sunken cheek--alas! she needs
No borrowed bloom to-night.
The masses of her raven hair
Fall down on either side
In tangled richness--it has been
Through life her care and pride;
And those small perfect hands on which
Her gaze complacent fell,
Now, clenched within her pillow's lace,
Of anguish only tell.
Sad was her restless, fev'rish sleep,
More sad her waking still,
As with wild start she looks around
Her chamber darkened--still;
Its silence and the mournful looks
Of those who stand apart,
Some awful fear seem to suggest
To that poor worldly heart.
"Doctor, I'm better, am I not?"
She gasps with failing breath--
Alas! the answer sternly tells
That she is "ill to death."
"What! dying!" and her eyes gleam forth
A flashing, fearful ray,
"I, young, rich, lovely, from this earth
To pass so soon away?
"No, no, it must not, cannot be,
Surely your skill can save--
Can stand between me and the gloom,
The horrors, of the grave!"
Breathless she listens, but no word
Breaks that dull pause of grief,--
Her pitying listeners turn away,
They cannot give relief
Tossing aloft, in fierce despair,
Her arms, with frenzied cry,
She gasps forth, "Save me--help, O help!
I must not, will not die."
But One can grant that wild appeal,
Can stay her failing breath--
Of Him she never thought in life
Nor thinks she now in death.
Without one prayer, one contrite tear,
For past faults to atone--
For wasted talents, misspent life,
She's gone before God's throne!
Prying that wilful, wayward heart
That leaned on gods of clay,
For calmer, holier death than hers
With solemn heart we pray.
THE CHOICE OF SWEET SHY CLARE.
Fair as a wreath of fresh spring flowers, a band of maidens lay
On the velvet sward--enjoying the golden summer day;
And many a ringing silv'ry laugh on the calm air clearly fell,
With fancies sweet, which their rosy lips, half unwilling, seemed
to tell.
They spoke, as maidens often speak, of that ideal one
By whom the wealth of their warm young hearts will at length be
wooed and won--
Fond girlish dreams! and half in jest and half in serious strain,
Each told of the gifts that could alone the prize of her love
obtain.
The first who spoke was a bright-eyed girl, with a form of airy
grace,
Mirth beaming in every dimple sweet of her joyous smiling face:
"I ask not much in the favor'd one who this dainty hand would
gain;--
No ordeal long would I ask of him--no hours of mental pain.
"Let him but come in the pomp of rank, endowed with wealth and
pride,
To woo to a lofty palace home his youthful, worshipped bride,
Heaping my path with presents rare, with radiant jewels and
gold,--
Love's flame 'neath poverty's breath, 'tis said, soon waxes faint
and cold."
Outspoke another, with proud dark eye, and a stately, regal mien:
"Thou saidst thou wast easily pleased, May, and so thou art, I
ween,
Thou askest paltry rank and wealth--aim higher would be mine!
Rare mental gold--the priceless fire of genius divine."
"And I," said a third, with soft sweet voice, "would exact still
less than ye,
No need for glitter of lofty state, no gold or jewels for me;
Nor ask I that genius' lofty power in his ardent soul should
dwell,
Enough, if he love but me alone, and love me only well!"
Another said that her choice would fall on manly beauty and
grace,
That he she would love must matchless stand, the noblest of his
race,
Excelling in sports of flood and field, and as lion brave in war,
Yet, with hand and voice, in lady's bower, attuned to light
guitar.
And now, with one accord, they turned to a dove-like maiden mild,
With a seraph's purity of look, and soft graces of a child;
"Speak out, speak out now, sweet shy Clare, we anxious wait for
thee,
Coy, gentle one! fear not to say what thy heart's young choice
will be."
A moment paused she, and then a flush, like sunset, dyed her
brow,
And softly she murmured "Sisters, dear, I have made my choice
ere now,
And the rarest gifts that you could name, be they earthly or
divine.
In strange perfection--God like grace--will be found all, all in
mine."
She ceased, and a thoughtful silence stole o'er those youthful
brows of mirth,
They knew she spoke of the Bridegroom King--the Lord of Heaven
and earth;
And e'er fleet time of another year had sounded the passing
knell,
The maiden Clare and her Bridegroom fair were wedded in convent
cell.
TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. SISTER
THE NATIVITY, FOUNDRESS OF THE CONVENT
OF VILLA MARIA (MONKLANDS.)
Oh, Villa Maria, thrice favored spot,
Unclouded sunshine is still thy lot
Since first, 'neath thy mortal old,
The spouses of Christ--working out God's will,
Meekly entered, their mission high to fill
'Mid the "little ones" of His fold.
But grief's dark hour, that to all must come,
At length is on thee, and as a tomb,
Hushed, joyless, art thou to-day,
For the lofty mind that thy councils led,
To womanly sweetness so closely wed,
Has been called by death away.
"One 'mid a thousand!" no words could tell
The peerless worth that, like holy spell,
Won all souls to saintly love;
And that knowledge rare of the human heart
That, with heavenly patience and gentle art,
The coldest breast could move.
Oh! girlish natures, good blended with ill,
That she trained with such watchful, wondrous skill
To be noble women and true--
The bliss of those households whose hope you are,
Where your worth shines steady as vesper star,
Unto her is surely due.
And those chosen souls, called to holier state,
That on the Heavenly Bridegroom wait,
Their cell an Eden below,
Whom she guided safely through wile and snare,
Making virtue appear so divinely fair,
How much unto her they owe!
And many now sleeping 'neath churchyard sod,
But whose souls are reigning on high with God
Through her teachings true and blessed--
With what strains of rapture, ravishing, sweet,
Their teacher and guide did they once more meet,
As she entered on her rest.
When to Villa Maria will come again
Spring, with opening buds and gentle rain,
Though her place be vacant there,
The spirit of her teachings will ever dwell
In the earthly home she loved so well,
Treasured with sacred care.
The winds of winter, with sob and sigh,
And dirge-like voices go wailing by,
Waking echoes in every breast.
As they sweep o'er the snow-clad reaches wide,
And the cold pale shroud where, on every side,
The eyes are forced to rest.
And the stars shed their radiance pure, yet faint,
Like aureole round the brow of a saint,
As on earth they calm look down;
And raising our tearful and heavy gaze
On high, to their solemn, silvery rays,
We whisper--"Thus shines her crown."
Mother beloved, O sainted nun,
Disciple true of the Crucified One,
Thy teachings we keep for aye,
Till, our life's brief course wrought out, we meet
At our Father's glorious judgment-seat,
In realms of cloudless day!
December 23rd, 1875.
SEA-SHORE MUSINGS.
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,
Whilst billows wash the golden sand,
And break around my feet.
Lovely thou art when dawn's red light
Sheds o'er thee its soft hue,
Showing fair 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;
And I bethink me of past tales,
Of ships that left the shore,
And meeting with thy fearful gales,
Have ne'er been heard of more.
They say thy depths hold treasures rare,
Groves coral--sands of gold--
Pearls fitted for a monarch's wear
And gems of worth untold;
But these could not to life restore
The idol of one home,
Nor make brave hearts beat high once more
That sleep beneath thy foam.
But I must chase such thoughts away,
They mar this happy hour,
Remembering thou dost but obey
Thy Great Creator's, power;
And in my own fair inland home,
Mysterious, moaning main,
In dreams I'll see thy snow-white foam
And frowning rocks again.
THE WHISPERS OF TIME.
What does time whisper, youth gay and light,
While thinning thy locks, silken and bright,
While paling thy soft cheek's roseate dye,
Dimming the light of thy flashing eye,
Stealing thy bloom and freshness away--
Is he not hinting at death--decay?
Man, in the wane of thy stately prime,
Hear'st thou the silent warnings of Time?
Look at thy brow ploughed by anxious care,
The silver hue of thy once dark hair;--
What boot thine honors, thy treasures bright,
When Time tells of coming gloom and night?
Sad age, dost thou note thy strength nigh, spent,
How slow thy footstep--thy form how bent?
Yet on looking back how short doth seem
The checkered coarse of thy life's brief dream.
Time, daily weakening each link and tie,
Doth whisper how soon thou art to die.
O! what a weary world were ours
With that thought to cloud our brightest hours,
Did we not know that beyond the skies
A land of beauty and promise ties,
Where peaceful and blessed we will love--adore--
When Time itself shall be no more!
THE DEATH OF THE PAUPER CHILD.
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 thy hands and thank thy God--
Thy darling is at rest.
Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lids
Over the violet eyes,
Whose liquid light was once as clear
As that of summer skies.
Is it not bliss to know what e'er
Thy future griefs and fears,
They will be never dimmed like thine
By sorrow's scalding tears?
Enfold the tiny fingers fair,
From which life's warmth has fled,
For ever freed from wearing toil--
The toil for daily bread:
Compose the softly moulded limbs,
The little waxen feet,
Spared wayside journeys long and rough,
Spared many a weary beat.
Draw close around the lifeless form
The shreds of raiment torn,
Her only birthright--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!
See'st thou yon angel fair,
With flowing robes and starry crown
Gemming her golden hair?
Changed, glorified in every trait,
Still with that beauty mild;
Oh! mourning mother, thou dost know
Thine own, thy late-lost child.
An heir to heaven's entrancing bliss,
Veiled in its golden glow,
Still thinks she of the lonely heart
Left on this earth below.
Courage!--not long thy weary steps
O'er barren wastes shall roam,
Thy daring prays the Father now
To quickly call thee home!
VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ.
THE BRIDE OF A YEAR.
She stands in front of her mirror
With bright and joyous air,
Smoothes out with a skilful hand
Her waves of golden hair;
But the tell tale roses on her cheek,
So changing yet so bright,
And downcast, earnest eye betray
New thoughts are hers to-night.
Then say what is the fairy spell,
Around her beauty thrown,
Lending a new and softer charm
To every look and tone?
It is the hidden consciousness--
The blissful, joyous thought
That she, at length hath wholly won
The heart she long had sought.
To-morrow is her bridal day,
That day of hopes and fears,
Of partings from beloved friends,
Of sunshine and of tears:
To-morrow will she says the words,
Those words whose import deep
Will fix her future lot in life--
Well might she pause and weep!
Yet, only once, a passing cloud
Rests on her girlish brow,
Her dark eye gleameth restlessly--
She's thinking of her vow.
But quick as light and fleecy clouds
Flit o'er a summer sky,
The shadow passeth from her brow,
The trouble from her eye.
In silvery tones she murmurs forth
"My heart is light and glad,
Youth, beauty, hope, are all mine own,
Then, why should I be sad?
To graver hearts leave graver thoughts
And all foreboding fears,
For me, life's sunshine and its flowers,--
I am too young for tears!"
AFTER THE BALL.
Silence now reigns in the corridors wide,
The stately rooms of that mansion of pride;
The music is hushed, the revellers gone,
The glitt'ring ball-room deserted and lone,--
Silence and gloom, like a clinging pall,
O'ershadow the house--'tis after the ball.
Yet a light still gleams in a distant room,
Where sits a girl in her "first season's bloom;"
Look at her closely, is she not fair,
With exquisite features, rich silken hair
And the beautiful, child-like, trusting eyes
Of one in the world's ways still unwise.
The wreath late carefully placed on her brow
She has flung on a distant foot-stool now;
The flowers, exhaling their fragrance sweet,
Lie crushed and withering at her feet;
Gloves and tablets she has suffered to fall--
She seems so weary after the ball!