PART III.

Now turn we to Plantagenet:

Through all these weary, waiting years,

How many hopes and fears have met'

How many prayers, how many tears!

When the time came that he should come

Back to his fair young wife and home,

Often and often would she say,

"He'll surely come to us to-day."

Pet Marie's best robe was put on

And the poor mother dressed with care--

Glad that she was both young and fair--

"To meet thy father, little one"

Oft standing on the very spot

Where she had parted from Rajotte

She stood a patient watcher long,

And listened eagerly to hear

The voyageurs' returning song

Come floating to her ear

But still he came not, years went by,

Yet she must pray, and hope, and wait,

His form would some day meet her eye,

His step sound at the river gate

Oh! it was hard to hear them say,

"He comes not, and he must be dead

Cease pining all your life away,

'Twere better far that you should wed

And Antoine keeps his first love still,

And Antoine is so well to do,

You may be happy if you will

His pleading eyes ask leave to woo"

'Twas a relief to steal away,

And tell her ebon rosary,

And to the Virgin Mother pray,

Thinking that she in Heaven above,

Remembered all of earthly love,

And human sympathy,

And having suffered human pain--

Known what it was to grieve in vain--

Might bend to listen to her prayer,

And make the absent one her care

In pleading with her Son

She waited while the years went on,

And would not think that hope was gone,

Ever his steps seemed sounding near,

His voice came floating to her ear,

And longing prayer, and yearning pain

Reached out to draw him back again;

And love beyond all estimate

Strengthened her heart to hope and wait

Pet Marie grew up tall and fair,

Her girlish love, her merry ways

Kept the poor mother from despair

Through many weary nights and days.

Spring and high water both had met

Once more at fair Plantagenet;

Once more the island trees were seen

Adorned with leaves of tender green,

Aux Lievres's roar was heard afar,

Where waters dashed on rocks to spray,

Roaring and tumbling in their play,

Kept up a boisterous holiday,

With tumult loud of mimic war.

The wild ducks of Lochaber's Bay

Were playing round on wanton wing,

Rippling the current with their breasts,

Feeling the gladness of the spring,

Pairing and building happy nests

All sounds of spring were in the air,

All sights of spring were fresh and fair

Sad Marie of Plantagenet,

With silver threads among her hair,

And by her side her blooming pet,

As she had once been, fresh and fair,

Stood on the bank that glorious day

Thinking of him so long away

Awhile they both in silence stood,

Then Marie said, "The Nor-west flood

Again another year has come.

You see those water-fowl at play

Come with the flood from far away.

What flood will bring your father home?

'Tis seventeen years ago to-day,

Since, parting here, he went away."

Just then young Marie, glancing round

"Mamma, I hear a paddle's sound,

Look there, those maple branches through,

Below us, there's a bark canoe,

'Tis stopping at our landing place

There's but one man with hair so grey,

And a worn weather-beaten face--

See, he is coming up this way

Mamma, I wonder who is he,

Stay here and I will go and see."

Rajotte who thought he did not care--

That he had conquered even despair,

Could bear to _see_ as well as _know_

That Marie was the Dame Vaiseau,

Came to the parting spot, and there,

In the bright sunlight's happy beams,

Stood the fair image of his dreams

As young as on the parting day,

As bright as when he went away,

As beautiful as when he met

Her first in fair Plantagenet,

His Marie, living, breathing, warm,

Her glorious eyes, her midnight hair

Shading the beauty of her face,

The same lithe, rounded, perfect form,

The look of true and tender grace

Rajotte stood spell-bound, and the past

Seemed fading like a horrid dream.

"Marie," he said, "I'm home at last,

Speak, Marie, are you what you seem?

After all these long years of pain,

Art thou love given to me again?"

The maiden stood with wondering eyes,

Silent, because of her surprise,

But the wife Marie gave a cry

Of joy that rose to agony

She rushed the long lost one to meet,

And falling, fainted at his feet

He held the true wife's pallid charms

Slowly reviving in his arms,

And then he surely learned to know

A little of the grand, true heart

That through so many years of woe

Waited, and prayed, and watched apart,

Keeping love's light while he was gone,

Like sacred fire still burning on

While hearts are bargained for and sold,

In fashion's fortune-chasing whirl,

We simply sing the love and faith

Out-living absence strong as death,

Of one low-born Canadian girl.

A LEGEND OF BUCKINGHAM VILLAGE.

PART I

Away up on the River aux Lievres,

That is foaming and surging always,

And from rock to rock leaping through rapids,

Which are curtained by showers of spray;

That is eddying, whirling and chasing

All the white swells that break on the shore;

And then dashing and thundering onward,

With the sound of a cataract's roar.

And up here is the Buckingham village,

Which is built on these waters of strife,

It was here that the minister Babin,

Stood and preached of the Gospel of Life,

Of the message of love and of mercy,

The glad tidings of freedom and peace,

Of help for the hopeless and helpless,

For all weary ones rest and relief.

Was his message all noise like the rapids?

Was it empty and light as the foam?

Ah me! what thought the desolate inmate

Of the still upper room of his home?

One too many, one sad and unwelcome,

That reclined in his invalid's chair,

With her pale, busy fingers still knitting

Yarn mingled with sorrow and care.

And the brother stood up in the pulpit,

Stood up there in the neat village church,

And he preached of the pool of Bethesda,

Where the poor lame man lay in the porch

Waiting for the invisible mercy,

That shall healing and blessedness bring,

For those soft waters never were troubled,

Until swept by the life angel's wing.

But was that cottage home a Bethesda?

Was the porch up the dark narrow stair?

Were the thoughts of the lonely sister

Brighter made by a fond brother's care?

Ah who knows!--for the chair now is empty,

And the impotent girl is away,

While the night and the darkness covered

Such a deed from the light of the day.

Did she struggle for her dear existence?

Did the wild night winds bear off her cry?

Ere the pitiless, swift surging waters,

Caught and smothered her agony;

And again when the black, whirling eddy,

Drew her down to its cold, rocky bed,

Who was it that stood so remorseless

On the strong ice arched over her head?

Men may join and strike hands to hide it,

And agree to say evil is good;

Mingled with the loud roar of the waters,

Rings the cry of our lost sister's blood.

Mirth and song, and untimely music,

May sound up to the starry skies;

Nought of earth can stifle the gnawing

Of that dread worm that never dies.

PART II

Away in a distant city,

Is a stranger all unknown;

Far, far from the leaping river,

That is rushing past his home.

He lay in the stilly silence

Of a quiet, darkened room,

Feeling that the dread death angel

Stands in the gathering gloom.

One foot on shadowy waters,

One foot on the earthly shore;

He swears to the shrinking mortal,

That his time shall be no more.

The spray of the silent river,

Is cold beaded on his brow,

For Jordan's billowy swellings

Are bearing him onward now

He is floating into darkness,

Going with the shifting tide,

And there is the seat of judgment,

Waits him at the further side.

But his eyes are looking backward,

In pauses of mortal strife,

And he sees the quiet village,

Where he preached the word of life.

And he sees the pleasant cottage,

To which in the flush of pride,

The popular village pastor,

Brought home a most haughty bride

But ever there comes another,

With a pale and pleading face,

So helpless, and so unwelcome,

A burden and a disgrace

And the river roars and rushes,

Leaping past with fearful din,

Its ever foaming caldron

Suggesting a deadly sin.

Saying, "I am partially sheeted,

In the winter's ice and snow,

What's plunged in my dashing waters,

No mortal shall ever know"

So ever with nervous fingers,

He harnesses up his sleigh;

So ever with stealthy movements,

He travels the icy way.

And stops where the yawning chasm,

Shows the yawning wave beneath,

And she knows with sudden horror,

That she has been brought to her death

Her weak hands cling to his bosom,

His ears are thrilled with her cry;

When the last struggling strength went forth

In that shriek of agony.

So his most unwilling spirit,

Still travels memory's track,

Despair staring blindly forward,

Remorse ever dragging back.

Again he walks by the waters,

While innocent mortals sleep,

Asking the pitiless river,

The horrible deed to keep.

Spring comes and the ice is breaking,

Does it break before its time?

Then he knows on God's fair footstool

No shelter there is for crime.

For the rushing, tempting waters,

Have got an accusing roar;

The treacherous sweeping eddy

Has brought the crime to his door.

Then he lives over and over,

That moment of anguished dread,

When the cry arose--awestruck hands

Had found and borne oft his dead.

Thus he, conscience-lashed and goaded,

Feeling as the murderer feels,

Has reached the last, last spot of earth,

The Avenger at his heels

Ah me! to plunge in those swellings,

Along with that ghastly face,

Going out on unknown waters

In that clinging dread embrace

So he floated on to judgment,

What award may meet him there,

Who knows--but his earthly punishment

Was greater than he could bear

OTTAWA.

Hail! to the city sitting as a queen

Enthroned a cataract on either hand,

The voice of many waters in her ears,

And the great river tranquil at her feet,

Smoothing his locks and all his foamy mane

After his wild leap from the rifted rocks,

And while he fawns about her feet, she sits

A young Cybele diademed with towers,

So young yet on her sandals there is blood,

And all the river will not wash it out

Spilt at her feet for being true to her,

So young, and well she doth become her state,

We look, and know her born to be a queen,

Before the mother finger o'er the sea

Touched her, and made her royal with a touch;

For, seated where the thundering waters meet,

Spanned by her fingers, she can lay her hand

On two fair provinces, and call them hers;

Greater than those which swell and pride themselves

In long, loud titles in the older world;

The whirl and hum of industry are here,

And all the fragrance of the enriching pine;

And on the river in the wake of boats

That snort and prance like Neptune's battle steeds,

Pawing the water with impatient steps,

Passes our floating wealth that seeks the sea.

THE LAKE ALLUMETTE.

"One is not."

Have you seen the beautiful Allumette,

The magnificent pine-fringed lake,

In its splendour the sun about to set,

Ere the fair lady moon awake.

The waters are tinged with a golden glow,

With rose and ruby and purple bars;

Heaven's mantle flung on the lake below

Till it fades off beneath the stars.

The distant hills, robed in violet mist

Of the heavenly hues partake,

As they stand, with the sunlight crowned and kissed,

On guard round the beautiful lake.

Over the waters ride gay little boats,

Diamonds flash from the dipping oars;

Laughter and song's mingled melody floats

To ripple and die around the shores.

Life is so gay on the Lake Allumette,

Ah me! does its sky ever frown

On a place unmarked, unheeded, and yet

In that place my brother went down.

Sad hearted we sit by Lake Allumette,

Who saw him go down in the wave;

And question ourselves in anguished regret,

Did we make every effort to save?

For those who are left, to some one so dear.

We tried feebly warning to set,

We have failed, we look with sorrow and fear

For woe that must come by Lake Allumette.

HOW PRINCE ARTHUR WAS WELCOMED TO PEMBROKE.

Do you know the town Pembroke so loyal and long

And so worthy the praise of a poet in song?

Nestled down by the lake shore, that ripples and shines,

And hemmed in by the hills with their crowning of pines.

Now this town is that town so wondrous and fair,

Long thought to be but a chateau in the air,

Where the sons are all brave and the daughters all fair.

You may guess what great gladness there rang down the street,

Where the wise and the witty so neighbourly meet,

To compare their opinions to hear something new,

As their friends the Athenians of old used to do,

When the news was to all so gracious and good,

"There is coming to see us a Prince of the blood."

Then all our good people grew loyalty wild

To show love for the Queen as they welcomed her child.

Straightway counsel was ta'en as to what should be done

For to greet as befitted her Majesty's son,

In a way to bring credit and praise to the town.

"We must have an arch at the bridge, and a crown,

And '_Welcome to Arthur_,' arranged all so fine

With balsam and tamarack, spruce and green pine;

But the crown shall be flowers, the fairest that blow,

Or are made by deft fingers, from paper you know,

And many a fair one who skilfully weaves

Wreaths and garlands, shall bring them of ripe maple leaves;

And then, as 'Jason Gould' that so snug little boat,

The most cosy, most homelike was ever afloat,

Will not quicken herself for a Prince or for two,

But will at her own pace the Mud Lake paddle through.

It will be about midnight, or later than that,

And as dark as the crown of your grandfather's hat,

When that ponderous boat waddles up to the pier,

A tired Prince will his Highness be when he gets here.

We'll illumine the town, from mansion to cell,

County buildings and cottages, home and hotel,

And the arch with its motto, that triumph of skill,

Shall be seen in its glory by light from the mill,

Which floor upon floor many windowed shall blaze

And light up each bud in the crown with its rays.

We shall have out that carriage, so costly and grand,

Fit to carry the one Royal Prince in this land;

And a crowd bearing torches shall light up the way,

Till along Supple's lane be as brillant as day

And to guard and escort him our brave volunteers

With their swords and their bayonets, which ought to be spears,

Shall wait at the landing for him, and the band

With the noise and the music they have at command,

Shall be heard in the distance before they are seen,

Rolling out the first greeting in "God save the Queen."

Well, the Prince over portages rattled and whirled,

Suspected he drew near the end of the world,

But right royally welcomed, surprised he lit down

In this dazzling, ambitious and long little town.

And the night air was rent with full many a cheer

For joy that the son of our Sovereign was here

And he heard every sound, and he saw every sight,

That the people had planned for to give him delight;

And he felt he was cared for with loyalty's care,

In this wonderful town, so far off, and so fair,

In the whole wide Dominion there is not a town

So loyal so lovely as this of our own

Broad Ottawa washes no happier place,

As it lies in sweet Allumette's tender embrace

Oh, to see it when autumn and sunset unite

To drape earth and sky with one robe of delight,

When the banners of heaven in the west are unrolled,

And the blue lake is barred off with purple and gold,

And the Isle, like the patriarch's favourite son,

Its coat many coloured and royal has on

Thus fair as a vision, and sweet as a dream,

It burst on the gaze of the son of our Queen,

In the glory of fair Indian summer all drest,

And this was the welcome they felt and expressed

THE WELCOME

We welcome thee Prince to the land of the pine,

For thy mother's sake welcome, as well as for thine,

This town highest up in the Ottawa vale,

With the voice of pine forests gives cheer, and all hail

Our welcome as rude as the mountains may be,

But that cheer is the willing voiced shout of the free

And though rude be our welcome, you'll find us, I ween,

Most lovingly loyal to country and Queen.

Come and see our sweet lake, when its waters' at rest

Chafe not round the islands that sleep on its breast

And our woods many tinted in glory arrayed,

Dyed in rainbows and sunsets illumine the shade.

Come and see our dark rocks frowning sterile and high,

Their brown shoulders bare and upheaved to the sky;

Come and see our grand forests, all echoing round

With the strokes that are bringing their pride to the ground;

Where thousands of workers bold, hardy and free,

Carve out wealth for themselves and an empire for thee

Our river now placid, now surging to foam,

Shall echo kind thoughts that will follow thee home.

All good wishes that tender and prayer like arise,

And blessings that fall as the dew from the skies,

Shall be breathed out for thee our young Prince of the blood,

Son of much loved Victoria and Albert the Good.

May thy heart be all fearless, thy life without stain,

As the saint and the hero are joined in thy name.

Forget not the people whose love thou hast seen

God bless thee Prince Arthur thou, son of our Queen

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR AN ONLY ONE

(CLARISSA HARLOW)

Seek not to calm my grief,

To stay the falling tear;

Have pity on me, ye my friends,

The hand of God is here.

She was my only one,

Oh, then my love how great!

Now she is gone, my heart and home

Are empty desolate

I thought not, in my love

That we were doomed to part,

Now I am childless, and my fate

Falls heavy on my heart

O Thou who gave the gift,

Who took the gift away,

Who only can heal up the wound,

Give answer while I pray!

Do Thou send comfort down,

All goodness as Thou art,

Even in Thy last passion, Thou

Didst soothe a mother's heart.

I would not take her back,

From Thee, from Heaven and bliss,

Though yearning for her twining arms,

And happy loving kiss

I miss her bounding step,

Her voice of bird like glee,

Yet thank Thee I had such a child

To give her back to Thee

Father, my child! my child,

Is laid beneath the sod!

and, oh! with quivering lips I try

To kiss the chastening rod

Father, Thy will be done

Oh make my will the same!

And teach me in this trying hour,

To glorify Thy name.

SERVANTS.

They are but servants, say the words of scorning,

As though they meant to say, we're finer clay,

Yet, all the universe holds solemn warning,

Against this pride in creatures of a day

In fashion's last new folly, flaunting slowly,

With white plumes tossing on the Sabbath air

They pass with scornful words a sister lowly.

Do scornful lips know anything of prayer?

Alas! poor human nature's inconsistence,

Up to God's house we go, that we be fed;

And there, as beggars begging for assistance,

Say "Give us, Lord, this day our daily bread."

Without a price, the priceless blessings buying

Which are laid up for us, with Christ in God;

To Him we come as little children crying,

That He may guide us by His staff and rod,

We leave His presence on the Sabbath morning,

Feeling forgiven, feeling satisfied;

Then pass our lowlier sisters full of scorning

Ruffling ourselves as those that dwell in pride.

Yet He to whom we come with wishes fervent,

When He came down as bearing our relief,

It was His will to come in form a servant,

Being despised, being acquaint with grief

Earth's mighty conquerors, it is said, have founded

Orders of merit, after fields were won.

And victors' brows the laurel wreath surrounded,

To tell of daring deeds most bravely done.

Trifles as fading as the classic laurel,

Became the guerdon of each mighty deed,

Titles and stars rewarded mortal peril,

And men for such as these would gladly bleed

But He, our holy, sinless, suffering Saviour,

When He sat down upon a conqueror's throne,

Ordained the soldiers of the cross that ever

They wear the name in which He victory won

Servants to do all things He hath commanded,

To bear the service which our Lord has borne,

To suffer for His name, with false words branded,

To pay with loving service bitter scorn

What was beforetime low, is now the highest,

And that is glory that the world calls shame,

Those who can say "I serve" to Him are nighest

Because the Son hath worn a servant's name

Lift up your heads heed not the words of scorning,

From those whose earnest life is not begun,

Blessed are they who on the judgment morning

Hear from the Master, "Servant, 'tis well done"

ALAS, MY BROTHER!

(P McD)

We waited for him, and the anxious days

Melted to years and floated slowly by

We spoke of him kind words of lofty praise,

Of yearning love and tender sympathy.

We laid by what was his with reverent care--

Started in dreams to greet him coming home--

But hope deferred left no relief but prayer,

And heart-sore longings breathed in one word--Come.

We never dreamed of murderous ambush laid

By savage redskins greedy for the prey--

Of him, our darling, in the forest laid

Alone, alone, ebbing his life away.

He who would not have harmed the meanest thing,

Who carried gentleness to such excess

That, to the stranger and the suffering,

His purse meant help, his touch was a caress.

Ah me! that cruel far off land of gold,

That lured him off beyond the ocean foam,

To roam a stranger among strangers cold--

His blank life only cheered by news from home.

The home that he was never more to see,

While yet his heart was planning his return,

Short, sharp and swift the message came, and he

Passed to his long home o'er the mystic bourne.

And while we watched for him the grass was green

Upon his grave, swept by the summer air;

There grow strange flowers--passes the hunter keen,

The stately caribou and grizly bear.

But never more his mother's eyes he'll bless,

Or with a fond embrace his sisters meet;

No brother's hand will he in welcome press,

Nor his hound's bay tell of his coming feet.

To us remains the mourner's _never more_,

And aching hearts and eyes with sorrow dim;

Thou who at Bethany their sorrow bore,

Draw nigh us also while we weep for him.

I WILL NOT BE COMFORTED BECAUSE ONE IS NOT

There is a gladness over all the earth,

For summer is abroad in breezy mirth,

Nature rejoices and the heavens are glad,

And I alone am desolate and sad,

For I sit mourning by an empty cot,

Refusing comfort because one is not.

And I will mourn because I am bereaved,

Others have suffered others too have grieved

Over hopes broken even as mine are broke,

By a swift unexpected bitter stroke,

And I must weep as weeping Jacob prest,

To grieving lips his last ones princely vest

You tell me cease weeping, to resign

Unto the Father's a will this will of mine,

You say my lamb is on the Shepherd's breast,

My flower blooms in gardens of the blest,

I know it all I say, Thy will be done

Yet I must mourn for him--my son! my son!

TO A FATHERS MEMORY

(J. M. D.)

I thank Thee Father that I feel Thee near,

That it is hand of Thine that's raised to smite,

Oh, make Thy loving kindness to appear,

Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right!

Poor woe-worn watchers! he is going home;

No skill can save him, and no love can keep;

He served his generation--he is gone,

And gathered to his fathers, falls asleep.

We've bitter cups to drain--but his is dry;

Burdens of care--but care has left his breast;

Tears--but they never more shall dim his eye;

Labour,--but he has entered into rest.

Oh, to be with him, toil and care all past,

Sleeping, dear mother earth, within thy breast,

I, too, could lay my hand in thine, O death,

And gladly enter where the weary rest.

ORSON'S FAREWELL.

(ORSON GROUT),

_One of the victims of the Southern Prisons._

Sit by me comrade, thou and I have stood

Shoulder to shoulder on the battle-field,

And bore us there like men of British blood,

But comrade this is death, and I must yield.

You have been leal, my friend, and true and tried

In battle, in captivity of me;

Since we went up to worship side by side

O'er the green hills I never more shall see.

From this dread prison pen, thou shalt go forth;

But I, I know it, never more shall rise,

Nor see my home in the cool pleasant North,

Nor see again my wife's dark mournful eyes.

Nor see my children, every shining head

And merry eye, for what know they of grief;

'Twill still their play to know that I am dead;

But childhood's woe, thank God, is always brief.

Try to cheer Annie in her widowed woe;

Let her hear words of comfort at thy mouth;

But, friend, I charge thee, do not let her know

Aught of the tender mercies of the South.

Tell her that I have never been alone,

One like the Son of Man was by my side;

The Everlasting arms were round me thrown

Of my dear Lord who for our freedom died.

I don't regret, that though of British birth,

I have been true to the cause unto death;

'Tis not alone the Union, or the North,

It is the people's cause o'er all the earth.

And it shall prosper, and this slaughter pen

Shall be a monument of Southern chivalry

Before the world;--thus proving to all men

Slave power begets and sanctions cruelty.

From here went up for years the bondman's cry;

In the same glaring sun and rotting dew,

The white war-prisoners' cry of agony

To the great God of Battles rises too.

And He, who was by suffering perfected,

Watches the nation's life, the captive's pain;

And from the strife, beside her martyred dead,

With shield blood-cleansed from slavery's broad stain,

Columbia shall arise renewed, and wear

Her coronet of stars, and round her fold

Her robe of stripes, by righteousness made fair,

Which still exalts the nations as of old.

But I shall rest upon the other side,

Rest in that place of which no tongue can tell,

And thitherward my wife and babes He'll guide;

Friend, life's for thee, and death for me, Farewell'

DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN.

In the Capitol is mourning,

Mourning and woe this day,

For a nation's heart is throbbing--

A great man has passed away

It was yester'even only

Rejoicing wild and high,

Waving flags and shouting people

Proclaimed a victory

For our God had led our armies,

In the cause of truth and right,

It was, therefore, the brave Southren

Had bowed to Northern might.

Then flashed o'er the land the tidings,

The flush of joy to quell,

Fallen is the people's hero,

As William the Silent fell.

The stealthy step of the panther,

The tiger's cruel eye;

A flash--and the wail of a nation

Rang in that terrified cry.

Shame falls on the daring Southren,

Woe on the Southren land,

The stars and bars are quartered

With the murderer's bloody hand

Well--he stood to his duty firmly,

Rebellion's waves rolled high,

He dared to be true and simple

To battle a gilded lie

And the life has died out of treason,

Died with oppression and wrong,

The shame is wiped from the nation

Worn as a jewel so long

But he, in the hour of triumph

Who wise and firmly stood

Planning for them large mercies,

Lies weltering in his blood.

For a cause so vile meet ending,

To set with a murder stain,

The "sum of human villainy"

Should die with the brand of Cain

Lay him down with a nation's weeping,

Lay him down with the heart's deep prayer

That the mantle of the martyr

Fall on the vacant chair

ADDRESSES.

TO HON. MALCOM CAMERON.

By many a bard the Cameron clan is sung,

Their march, their charge, their war cry, their array;

Their laurels that from bloody fields have sprung,

Where they have kept the sternest foes at bay.

The flowing tartan and the eagle plume,

The gathering, and the glories of the clan,

Let others sing, we will not so presume,

We bring our humble tribute to the man.

The man with heart benevolent and kind,

The man with earnest and persuasive tongue;

Would there were many like him heart and mind

To combat with this fashionable wrong;

Who longs to remedy these human ills,

Feeling God made of one blood all the earth;

Whose sympathies have passed his native hills,

And spread beyond the clan that gave him birth.

Is it not sad when in high places so

No sense of honour or of shame remains;

Men who make laws while reeling to and fro,

Statesmen with swaying step and muddled brains!

For scenes disgrace our new-built palace walls,

And Canada on some reformer waits;

Shall vice within the Legislative Halls

Be rampant as the lions on the gates?

Oh for a man of action and of prayer,

Who feels this sin a national disgrace;

A man who has the strength to do and dare

The pluck and courage of the Celtic race.

If thou art he, thou'rt welcome to the van,

To battle for the right in time of need;

To win fresh laurels for the Cameron clan,

And thousands bid thee heartily God speed.

ERIN'S ADDRESS

TO THE HON. THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE.

O thou son of the dark locks and eloquent tongue,

With the brain of a statesman sagacious, and strong,

And the heart of a poet, half love, and half fire,

Thou hast many to love thee and more to admire;

But I bore thee, and nursed thee, and joyed at the fame

Which the sons of the stranger have spread round thy name.

I am Erin, green Erin, the "Gem of the sea."

Listen, then, to thy mother's voice, D'Arcy McGee.

Since the crown from my head, and the sceptre are gone

To the hand of the stranger, who held what he won,

I have borne much of sorrow, of wrong and of shame,

I've been spoken against with scorning and blame;

But still have my daughters been spotless and fair,

And my sons have been dauntless to do and to dare;

For as great as thou art and most precious to me,

Still thou art not my only one, D'Arcy McGee.

At the bar, in the senate, in cassock or gown,

Our foes being judges, they've got them renown;

On the red field of battle, of glory, of death,

They've been true to their colours and true to their faith;

And where bright swords were clashing and carnage ran high,

They have taught the stern Saxon they know how to die.

Well, no wit, poet, statesman or hero can be

More dear to my heart than thou, D'Arcy McGee.

Wild heads may plan glories for Erin their mother,

Weak plans and wicked plans chasing each other;

To me worse than the loss of a sceptre and crown

Is a spot that might tarnish my children's renown,

'Tis the laurels they win are the jewels I prize,

They're the core of my heart and the light of my eyes;

For my children are gems and crown jewels to me,

And art thou not one of them, D'Arcy McGee!

I had one son, and, oh, need I mention his name!

He who well knew where lay both our weakness and shame;

His true, tender heart sought to measure and know

This thing, most accursed, formed of babbling and woe;

And his life did he dedicate freely, to slay

The monster that made my bright children his prey;

In the place where the wine cup flows deadly and free,

The bane of the gifted, oh D'Arcy McGee.

For so well hath the father of lies tried to fling

A false glory around it, so hiding the sting,

Saying wit gets its flash, and high genius its fire,

From the fiend that drags genius and wit through the mire

Ah 'it biteth, it stingeth, it eateth away,

And our best and our brightest it takes for its prey,

'Tis the bowl of the helot, no cup for the free,

As thou very well knowest, my D'Arcy McGee.

Hast thou risen my loved one and cast from thy name

All the shadows that darken thy life with their shame;

Thou hast raised thyself up, against wind, against tide,

Thou art high, thou art honoured, my joy and my pride;

Now the song of the drunkard is chased from thy place,

And my pride is relieved from this touch of disgrace.

Thou wilt help to make Erin "great, glorious and free,"

And I bless thee my silver-tongued D'Arcy McGee.

NORA TO DAVID HERBISON.

There's a place in the North where the bonnie broom grows,

Where winding through green meadows the silver Maine flows,

Every lark as it soars and sings that sweet spot knows;

For the mate for whom it sings,

Till the clear blue heaven rings,

Is brooding on its nest mid the daisies in the grass;

And that psalmist sweet, the thrush,

And the linnet in the bush,

Tell the children all their secrets in song as they pass.

Oh brightly shines the sun there where wee birdies sing,

A glamour's o'er the buds in the green lap of spring,

In happy, happy laughter children's voices ring!

Like some fair enchanted ground,

In memory it is found,

Where my childhood's golden hours of happiness were spent;

There within a leafy nook,

I have pored upon a book

Till romance and fairy lore with every thought were blent.

I mind how fair the world was one bright summer day,

Sitting in a shady place better seemed than play;

Childhood's golden memories never fade away;

My child friend most sweet and fair,

My bright Lily she was there;

We read and mused in silence and spoke our thoughts by turns;

Lily, with her lofty look,

Turned oftenest to her book,

The book that lay between us was the peasant poet Burns.

The heaven-gifted man with winsome witching art,

Who touches at his will the kindly human heart,

'Till it throbs with joy like pain and tears begin to start;

He so tenderly touched ours

With his melting magic powers,

Made feelings which he felt within our bosoms spring,

Where he wished for Scotia's sake,

Some plan or book to make,

Or to write the bonnie songs his country loves to sing.

Fancies wild were ours on that day so long ago,

Stirred by Burns's genius, for we had learned to know

The beauty of sweet Erin and something of her woe;

And in song we longed to tell

Of the land we loved so well,

Singing words of hope and cheer, wailing each sad mishap,

Like the daisies on the sod,

With their faces turned to God,

Clung we to the island green that nursed us on her lap.

I said to Lily, fair, my hand among her curls,

If we were Red Branch Knights, or high and noble Earls,

Or poets grand like Burns, instead of simple girls,

We might do some noble deed,

Or touch some tuneful reed,

Something for the land we love to bring her high renown,

The land where we were born;

Is spoken of with scorn,

Her children's songs should praise her, her children's deeds should

crown.

My fair and stately Lily how thy hand sought mine

Clasped it warm and tender with sympathy in thine,

As I wished that we could make our 'streams and burmes shine'

There's many a ruin old,

There's many a castle bold,

There's Sleive mis with his head in mist, here's the silver Maine,

But who of them will sing

Till the whole world shall ring,

With the melody, and ask to hear it once again?

If one of her own children standing boldly forth,

With eyes to see her beauty, a heart to know her worth,

Would fling the charm of song o'er the green robe of the North

Lily said, sweet friend there's one,

And his name is Herbison,

Who sings of Northern Erin in sunlight and in storm,

Of the legend and the tale,

Of the banshees awful wail,

Of Dunluce upon the sea, of the castle of Galgorm

Of the gallant deeds of the all but vanished race,

The high O'Neils who kept with princely state their place

Of their white armed daughters in beauty's woeful race

In that joyful youthful time

All my pulses beat to rhyme,

I thought what you were doing that I would also do,

I would praise the bonnie North,

And draw its legends forth

From cottage and from castle the pleasant country through

I'd make the land I loved in poesy to shine,

The Maine should flow along in "many a tuneful line,"

Songs praising hills and streams full sweetly should be mine,

And the legends I would sing,

From lip to lip should ring,

My native land should ask for, and hear my humble name;

When like her tuneful son,

Green laurels I had won,

I'd think her love for me was better far than fame.

Blessed be the green recess by the sweet Maine water where

I a little child with my child friend sweet and fair

Built with golden fancies this castle in the air!

My child friend is at rest,

Erin's shamrock's on her breast,

I her little minstrel am all unknown to fame,

For the songs are all unsung,

And not a northern tongue

Has spoken once in praise my very unknown name

But I know heroic souls beyond my feeble praise,

I know of calm endurance like the great of other days,

High deeds for battle song, worth a poet's noblest lays,

Of the pathos of the strife

In the lowly walks of life,

Of many an unknown hero that has won the victor's crown

And the lovely, lovely land,

Landscape fair, and castle grand,

Worthy the coming bard who will sing of their renown.

I love thee well, sweet Erin, though fate led another way;

I'll call thee still, _mavourneen_, when head and heart are grey;

Another one will say and sing what I have failed to say;

But this very day to me,

There has come across the sea

Some pleasant verses bearing a well remembered name;

That has done for Erin's land

What I only thought and planned,

And won a place in Erin's heart that I can never claim.

So unknown beside a pine-fringed lake away beyond the sea,

Half in gladness of remembrance, half in wakened childish glee

I stretch my hand in homage and kindredship to thee,

I greet thee this bright day

From three thousand miles away,

And to thy well earned laurels I'd add a sprig of bay

Glad to know thou'rt rhyming yet,

For thy readers can't forget

Erin's genial loving son,

Poet of the steadfast North kindly David Herbison

DEATH OF D'ARCY McGEE

He stood up in the house to speak,

With calm unruffled brow,

And never were his burning words

More eloquent than now

Fresh from the greatest victory

That mortal man can win

The triumph against fearful odds.

Over besetting sin

'Twas this gave to his eloquence

That thrilling trumpet tone

Moving all hearts with those bright thoughts

Vibrating through his own

Thoughts strong, and wise, and statesmanlike,

Warm with the love of Right

That gave his wit its keenest edge,

His words their greatest might

He little thought his last speech closed,

That his career was o'er,

That those who hung upon his words

Should hear his voice no more.

He walked home tranquilly and slow,

Secure, and unaware,

That there was murder in the hush

Of the still midnight air.

"Tis morning," said he, knowing not

That he had done with time;

That a bloody hand would our country stain

With another useless crime.

He stood before a portal closed

To him for evermore,

Behind him with uncreaking hinge

Oped the eternal door.

And ere the east grew red again,

His life blood's purple flow

Had made that pavement holy ground,

And filled the land with woe.

My country! Oh my country!

What is to thee the gain?

Wilt nourish trees of liberty

In blood so foully slain?

LINES TO A SHAMROCK

A SONG OF EXILE

A withered shamrock, yet to me 'tis fair

As the sweet rose to other eyes might be,

Because its leaves spread in my native air,

And the same land gave birth to it and me.

They were as plentiful as drops of dew

In our green meadows sprinkled everywhere,

Heedless I wandered o'er them life was new,

Now as a friend I greet thee shamrock fair

Because I dwelt with my own people then,

Erin's bright eyes, and kindly hearts and true,

That from my cradle loved me, and again

We'll never meet--spoken our last adieu

I am a stranger here, I have not seen

One friendly face of all that I have known,

And my heart mourns for thee my island green,

Because I am a stranger and alone

So thou art welcome as a friend to me,

Tell me where lay the sod that brought thee forth,

Idly I wonder as I look at thee

If thou hast come, as I did, from the North?

From the green glens that he beside the sea

From cloud capt Sleive mis of the shamrock vest?

From near old castles, where the dread banshee

Waits for the native lords when laid to rest?

Or did the tartaned stranger call thee where

Mount Cashel's Lord rules o'er a fair domain?

Or grass grown ruin all that's left to bear

Of a lost race the all but fading name?

The lovely Maine lingers in flowing through

The peaceful place that was my childhood's home,

Myriads of shamrocks on its margin grew,

Was it from these thy sisters thou hast come?

Such fair broad meadows by Maine water lay,

Erin her mantle green for carpet spread,

In merry childhood there we met to play,

Dashing the dew from many a shamrock's head.

Where sleep the village dead there is a spot

That's dearer far than all the rest to me;

It's interwoven with full many a thought,

And with my young heart's childish history.

She was most fair that sleeps that sod beneath;

The fair form shrined a soul akin to mine,

And the sharp pain of heart ties cut by death,

Has softened been but left unhealed by time

And Erin spread her skirt across her grave,

And there were shamrocks nestling on the breast,

And blue bells and all flowers that softly wave,

Making more beautiful her place of rest.

If 'twas from there the stranger gathered thee

I would forgive the sacrilege, and thou

A precious relic to my breast would be,

Nor prized the less because thou'rt withered now.

Ah me! I know thou canst not answer me,

Yet sight of thee must all these thoughts awake;

Enough, from mine own land thou comest, thou'lt be

Welcome to Erin's child alone for Erin's sake.

LAMENTATION

(WALTER AND FREDDIE.)

From morn to eve, from evening unto morning,

I mourn and cannot rest;

So mourns the mother bird when home returning

She finds an empty nest.

I mourn the little children of my dwelling,

That are forever gone,

Sorrows that mothers feel my heart is swelling,

And so I make my moan.

One little blossom on my bosom faded,

And passed from me away,

But near my door the drooping willows shaded

My little boys at play

My boys that came with flying feet to meet me,

And questions wondrous wise,

And bits of news which they had brought to greet me,

And see my glad surprise

Bitter for sweet no human hand can alter

Nor bid one sorrow pass,

With sudden stroke our darling little Walter

Was laid beneath the grass

Ah then it was to me an added sorrow,

To hear his brother moan,

Where's little Walter, will he come to morrow

I cannot play alone?

The summons for the child had come already

Which said I must resign

The best beloved, the precious little Freddie,

To other arms than mine

How still and lone are the familiar places

Where little pattering feet

Made music for me, and I saw bright faces

Dimple with laughter sweet

My arms are empty that woold fain be folding

My lost ones to my breast,

But well I know, the Father's face beholding,

They are forever blest.

From Christ's dear words my bleeding heart would gather

At length submissive grace,--

He says that in the kingdom of His Father,

They still behold His face.

In the bright garden of the Lord they're staying,

Amid the angels fair;

And heavenly whispers to my heart are saying--

Look up, your treasure's there.

THE SONG OF THE BEREAVED.

(I have borrowed thy pattern, dear Hood, to cut out our mourning

garments.)

With garments for sorrow torn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat by a new-made grave,

Bewailing her slaughtered dead--

Weep! weep! weep!

Tears of remorseful pain;

The sorrow that sorrows without a hope,

Is poured forth above the slain.

Drink! drink! drink!

It slayeth on every side,

Till the blue-eyed baby is fatherless,

And a desolate widow the bride.

O for a gleam of light

On the home, on the friendly hand,

That pours in kindness the burning draught

That maketh a desolate land.

Drink! drink! drink!

The horse-leech ever craves,

There are empty chairs in the desolate home,

And the earth swells with new-made graves.

Cellar, saloon, and bar,

Bar, cellar, saloon,

And a wasted life, and a hopeless death,

Is the tempted victim's doom

O men with the friendly treat!

O women with New Year's wine!

It is not liquor you're pouring out,

But your child's blood and mine,

Drink! drink! drink!

In joyous youthful prime,

Drink that marks out the downward road

To want and disease and crime

Drink in the lordly hall,

Pour out the blood-red wine,--

And grey hairs sorrow over the grave,

That is dug before its time

Drink for the darling son,

Till the softened brain goes mad,

And darkness falls on the father's life

Which is bound in the life of the lad.

Every unwilling slave

Standeth on the bedroom's brink,

But what will free the body and soul

That is enslaved by drink?

Bar, cellar, saloon,

Cellar, saloon and bar

Alas, that the demon of drink slays more

By far than the demon of war

Drink! drink! drink!

Till manhood and pride are gone,

Drink over the grave of self-respect,

And then in despair drink on.

Drink! drink! drink!

Drink at the fearful cost

Of knowing that though still cursed with life,

Yet hope is forever lost.

Our brightest go down to death,

We cannot our dearest save;

And we dare not think of the judgment seat

That lieth beyond the grave.

Drink! drink! drink!

So many are licensed to sell,

Drink; you will surely find the house,

Whose guests find the way to hell.

Oh for the plighted band

Of those who are bound to save

Their fellow men from the fearful doom

That extends beyond the grave!

Alas! they are trying hard

To do, what they cannot do,

To wage a war to the uttermost,

And only hurt a few.

Bar, cellar, saloon,

Cellar, saloon and bar

Are swiftly, surely, doing their work

As those who in earnest are;

And the moderate drinker stands,

Kind, at the head of the way,

And opens the gate, with friendly hands,

Of the road that leads astray.

Of the road that leads astray,

And never will stop to think

That the shroud is sewed, and the grave is dug,

For the lost by moderate drink;

And the banded are loath to strike,

They have friends on the other side,

And therefore "Hell hath enlarged herself"

And opened her mouth so wide

The strong and the brave are lost,

Do we keep the tender and fair?

Does the demon who strikes down fathers and sons,

All the daughters and sisters spare?

Bar cellar saloon

Cellar, saloon and bar,--

Oh! who will preach a new crusade,

Or join in this holy war?

With garments for sorrow torn,--

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat by a new made grave,

Bewailing over the dead

Weep! weep! weep!

How many will weep in vain?

How many will rise in a holy cause,

That the slayer may be slain?

COMFORT YE, COMFORT YE MY PEOPLE

(Noel.)

By the sad fellowship of human suffering,

By the bereavements that are thine and mine,

I venture--oh, forgive me!--with this offering,

I would it were to thee God's oil and wine

I too have suffered--is it then surprising

If to thy sacred grief I enter in?

My spirit draws near thine all sympathising,

Sorrow, like love, "makes aliens near of kin."

Thou'rt weeping for thy gathered blossoms, mother,

The Lord had need of him, and called him soon,

In morning freshness ere the dews of heaven

Were chased before the burning rays of noon.

Thy darling child, like to God's summer blossom,

Was very fair and pleasant to the sight,

The sunny head that rested on thy bosom,

The loving eyes that were thy heart's delight,

Made passers by look on him with a blessing,

Saying, "His mother is not all alone;

Her widowed sorrow, in that sweet caressing,

Will find some comfort for the lost and gone."

I miss him from the doorway, blythely playing,

Where he has turned on me his winsome face;

O lovely child! I said, "by lone hearth staying,

Thou'lt make the widow's home a pleasant place."

The little one, thy comfort in affliction,

With the sweet face earnest and innocent;

That was to thee like Heaven's benediction,

Such children for a little while are lent.

Pilgrims and strangers are we in our praying,

But birds of passage to a brighter shore;

Yet build our nests as if for ever staying,

We and our treasures, here for evermore

But when our nestlings by the Master taken

Up in God's Paradise to safely sing;

And by the empty nest we wail forsaken,

In the great loneliness of suffering.

We lift our tearful eyes in sorrow's blindness,

And cry to him for very helplessness,

Then He reveals to us His loving kindness,

Even in bereavements 'tis His will to bless

He says "Look up," that we may cease our crying,

Seeing our treasures in glad safety there,

And there our hearts will be--for upward flying

In longing love, they cast off earthly care

Thy home is silent all the rippling laughter,

The sound of racing feet at play, is fled,

But he, thy darling led up by the Master,

Is with the living--not among the dead

Thy little ones within the jasper portals,

There by the crystal sea he learns to sing

The new song only known to the immortals,

Promoted to the presence of the King

The child is safe within the Father's mansion

Safe on the hills of God in light to range,

And heart ties stretched unto their utmost tension,

Will, by God's touch, to golden harp strings change

On which the Master will soft music render,

Soothing with heaven's airs thy pathway dim,

On which love's messages all sweet and tender

Shall run between thee and thy angel kin

And they will draw thee upward growing stronger,

When flesh and heart will one day faint and fail,

And thou wilt care for earthly things no longer,

For all thy treasures are within the veil

MAJORITY.

So friend of mine 'tis thy birthday morn,

And friends with fair gifts around thee come,

Outside the circle I stand forlorn,

My hands are empty my lips are dumb.

O Thou who seest in secret still,

Who reads the heart when no word is said,

The wishes that rise in prayer fulfil

In royal blessings to crown his head.

Entering the portals of manhood now,

The boy we loved from our knowledge slips,

With fresh consecration seal his brow,

With thy altar fire retouch his lips.

He girds himself for the strife anew,

And love foresees what the dangers are;

But thou, O Captain, art tried and true,

'Tis at thy charge he goes forth to war!

My empty hands to thy throne I lift,

While parting sorrow my spirit swells,

Lord, thou wilt give him a birthday gift

Out of the place where Thy fulness dwells.

He's called and chosen to dare and do,

To uphold Thy banner on battle field;

Be Thou to him strength and wisdom too,

In the day of strife, his sword and shield.

More than I ask Thou wilt give, O King!

What is my friendship or care to Thine!

To the banquet house Thy hand will bring

And refresh his lips with the kingdom's wine.

MY OWN GREEN LAND

It was in the early morning

Of life, and of hope to me,

I sat on a grassy hillside

Of the Isle beyond the sea,

Erin's skies of changeful beauty

Were bending over me.

The landscape, emerald tinted,

Lying smiling in the sun,

The grass with daisies sprinkled,

And with shamrocks over run,

The Maine water flashed and dimpled,

Still flowing softly on.

The lark in the blue above me,

A tiny speck in the sky,

Rained down from its bosom's fulness

A shower of melody,

Dropping through the golden sunlight,

And sweetly rippling by

Afar in the sunny distance,

O'er the river's further brim,

Like a stern old Norman warder,

Stood the castle tall and grim,

And, nearer a grassy ruin,

Where an old name grew dim

I knew that the balmy gladness

Was brooding from sea to sea,

But I felt a note of sadness

That sobered my youthful glee,

The love of my mother Erin

Stirred all my heart in me

Oh Erin! my mother Erin,

Thou land of the tearful smile,

Hearts that feel, and hands of helping

Are thy children's blessed Isle'

The stranger is so no longer

That rests on thy breasts awhile

Be he Saxon, Dane or Norman,

That steps on thy kindly shore,

Who sets his foot on thy daisies

Is kinder for evermore,

For thy _cead mille failtha_

Thrills warm to his bosom's care.

But Erin, never contented

Struggles again and again,

As all proud and free born captives

Must strive with the conqueror's chain.

That, if ever snapped asunder,

Is riveted firm again

The words of an Hebrew exile,

Like to some sweet song's refrain,

That sweetly goeth and cometh

And echoes through heart and brain,

"Be sure that the day is coming

"When Erin shall rise again

"She only of all the nations,

"Since in dust our temple lies,

"Has not our blood on our garments

"Has brought no tears to our eyes,

"He says, they prosper who love us

"Thy Erin at last shall rise."

I waited, watched for the blessing

Promised, oh so long ago,

I looked for the brilliant future

The end of the long drawn woe,

My hopes, with my years, Time the reaper,

Hath laughingly laid them low.

Oh Erin! my mother Erin!

Will "to be" repeat what has been?

Will your sons ever "shoulder to shoulder"

Be strong and united seen?

Will ever the foreign lilies

Blend with the nation's green?

For in other lands the peoples,

Quite forgetting ancient wrong,

Have blended and fused, becoming

Because of their union strong,

Leaving all old feuds and battles,

As themes for romance and song

From party's Promethean vulture,

When wilt thou get release?

When will the strife of races,

The strife of religions cease?

And the hearts of thy loving children

Mingle and be at peace?

BEREAVEMENT.

(Job iii. 26)

It was not that I lived a life of ease,

Quiet, secure, apart from every care;

For on the darkest of my anxious days

I thought my burden more than I could bear.

The shadow of a coming trouble fell

Across my pathway, drawing very near;

I walked within it awestruck, felt the spell

Trembled, not knowing what I had to fear.

The hand that held events I might not stay,

But creeping to His footstool I could pray.

With sad forebodings I kept watch and ward

Against the dreaded evil that must come;

Of small avail, door locked or window barred,

To keep the pestilence from hearth and home.

The dreadful pestilence that walks by night,

Stepping o'er barriers, an unwelcome guest,

Came, and with scorching touch to sear and blight,

Drew my fair child into her loathsome breast;

Nothing had ever parted us till then,

O child! when shall I hold thee once again?

As if the plague's red cross upon my door,

With "Lord have mercy!" scared the passers by,

So friends of mine that I had had before,

Fled from the face of my calamity.

Shut in, and yet shut out, my days went on,

Shut in with woe, shut out from human kind

Within my boundaries, watching sad and lone,

Hope with despair kept struggling in my mind.

It is not always human hearts can say

To Him who smites, "I trust Thee though Thou slay."

They're taught of God who say "Thy will be done,"

When in the presence of the thing they fear,

Both flesh and spirit fail when hope is gone,

And what we dread the most is drawing near;

I said, "an end comes to the darkest day,

And the bright, sunshine follows after rain,

This fearful pestilence will pass away,

And I can comfort those she holds in pain;

I'll take them to my heart, nor will I care,

That her touch marred the faces I thought fair"

I clung to hope I would not let it go--

And praying thoughts went up with every breath,

For when the sickness came I did not know

That with her came the angel they call Death.

My child will be restored to me I said,

Death took her hand-and almost unawares,

She slipped away from me and joined the dead

Back on my heart fell my unanswered prayers,

Stunned I took up my child that was so sweet

And wrapped her poor form in the winding-sheet

All desolate I bore her to her bier

With unaccustomed hands I laid her down,

With grief too hard and deep to shed a tear

We stood beneath the heavens gathering frown,

And then the storm burst on us in its might,

The loosened winds rushed round to moan and rave,

'Twas fittest so--they bore her from my sight,

Through the wild ram and laid her in her grave,

Then conscious only of a dreadful loss,

I sat with sorrow underneath my cross

The little ones whose mother's with the dead

Came with their many wants around my knee

And added, needless burden some one said,

But ah! they were God's messengers to me,

For here were duties that my hands must do,

Although my wound might only bleed and smart,

And so there came some solace to me through

The helpless hands that touched my aching heart

Ah! little children bringing everywhere

God's blessed comfort mingled in with care

And so I do my task, my daily task,

Working the work that's given me to do,

Getting the daily strength for which I ask,

The needed courage still to help me through;

And my great sorrow passes out of sight,

I have not time to sit and make my moan;

But in the solemn stillness of the night,

My woe comes back to me with heavy groan.

And yet our Father weaves His golden thread

Into the warp of duty's homespun web.

OUT OF THE DEPTHS.

Thou art, and, therefore, Thou art near, oh God!

Thick darkness covers me, I cannot see;

Is this the Shepherd's crook, or the correcting rod,

And by Thy hand, O Father, laid on me?

I cry to Thee, and shall I cry in vain?

My soul looks up as if through prison bars,

Up through the silent Heaven, ah, turn again

Thy face to me, hide not behind the stars.

Thy presence hath been with me in the past,

Where "heaps of witness" mark out all the way;

Thy years change not, Thy love is still as vast,

I look to Thee, I trust Thee though Thou slay.

My friends walk on the hills the sun hath kissed,

Flowers at their feet, their sky is blue and fair;

I'm prisoned in this vale of tearful mist,

Shut in with sorrow, darkened by despair.

I, too, once walked with footsteps glad and free,

Light round my head, and in my mouth a song;

Manna fell round my dwelling-place for me.

For me the living waters flowed along.

Thy hand had set my feet upon a rock,

That Rock stands fast, why then this loss and harm?

I cannot find the footsteps of the flock,

I cannot feel the Well-Beloved's arm.

They hold me in derision, for they say,

Where is the God in whom you seemed to trust!

Righteous art Thou O Lord! and if I may

But find Thee I will lay me in the dust.

Saying, awake, arise my God, to me

Turn in Thy love the mercy of Thy face;

Then shall the day break, and the shadows flee,

And I will sing of Thy sufficient grace.

ERIN, MAVOURNEEN.

A Prize Poem.

I know Canada is fair to see, and pleasant; it is well

On the banks of its broad river 'neath the maple trees to dwell;

But the heart is very wilful, and in sorrow or in mirth,

Mine will turn with sore love-longing to the land that gave me birth;

And I wish that, oh but once again! my longing eyes might see

The green island that lies smiling on the bosom of the sea;

That is fed with heaven's dew and the fatness of the earth,

Fanned by wild Atlantic breezes that sweep over it in mirth.

Its green robe is starred with daisies; it is brilliant fresh and

fair,

With a verdure that no other spot of earth affords to wear.

It has banks of pale primroses that like bits of moonlight glow;

There are hawthorn hedges blossomed out like drifts of perfumed snow,

Bluebells swinging on their slender stems and cowslips on the lea.

I was better for the lessons they in childhood taught to me;

And still sweet is every memory, and blessed each regret

That twines round that dear island home, which our hearts cannot

forget.

From where Antrim's giant columns at the north are piled on high,

The sentinels of centuries tow'ring up against the sky,

From mountain top and purple heath, from valleys fair to see,

Where streams of flashing crystal bright are flowing merrily,

To Kerry's lakes of loveliness that dimple in the sun.

'Tis fair as any spot of earth that heaven's light shines upon.

O Erin, my mother Erin, dear land more kind than wise,

I think of thee till loving tears come thronging to my eyes.

Thou hast nourished on thy bosom many sons of deathless fame;

Who, while the world will last, shall shed a lustre on thy name.

While Foyle's proud swelling waters roll past Derry to the sea;

While yet a single vestige of old Limerick's walls there be;

Shall those who love thee well, fair land, lament that feuds divide

The sons of those who for each cause stood fast on either side.

From every ruined castle grey, well may the banshee cry

O'er bitter waters once let loose that have not yet run dry

O would the blessed time might come when, party feeling done,

The noble deeds of both sides will be gathered into one!

On the battle-fields of Europe thy sons quit themselves like men,

Till those who made them exiles longed for their good swords again,

Wherever fields were fought and won, in thickest of the fray,

Where steel bit steel, thy sons have fought and laurels bore away

And thou hast bards in deathless song thy heroes' praise to sing,

Or make hearts throb responsive when for love they touch the string

Thou hast lovely, white-armed daughters so tender and so true,

As modest as the daisies, and as spotless as the dew,

With flashes of sweet merriment, and virtue still and strong

They fire the patriot's heart and charm the poet into song

Thou hast nourished those right eloquent to plead with tongue and pen,

For those eternal rights which men so oft deny to men,

And land of saints in song like mine, but little can be said

Of those who stand for God between the living and the dead

Thou'rt not without His witnesses for children of thy sod,

In lofty and in lowly life, are found who walk with God

Land of the hearty welcome! who travels thy valleys o'er

Knows more of human kindness than he ever knew before.

While some are kind to friends alone, thy sons whate'er befal

More like the blessed sun and rain have kindliness for all.

O Erin, my mother Erin! much my love would say of thee,

Were my lips but half so eloquent as my heart would have them be.

As Moses longed for Lebanon, so I long that once again

My feet might press the shamrocks in the meadows by the Maine.

Oh to see the wee brown larks again, once more to hear them sing,

As up to heaven's blessed gates they soar on tireless wing!

I'd watch them till I'd half forget the burden of my years,

And tender thoughts of childhood would well up in happy tears.

I may never see thee more, _mo run_, but with each breath I draw

Thou art still to me _mavourneen_, so _an slainte leat gu bragh._

WRITTEN FOR THE O'CONNEL CENTENARY.

Sons of the bright, green island,

Gathered by the pine-fringed lake,

In honour of his memory,

Who battled for your sake,

Listen, we too pay our tribute

To a fame that well endures;

He, who ventured much for liberty,

Is ours as well as yours.

Men fought in vain for freedom,

And lay down in felon graves;

"Your noblest then were exiles,

Your proudest then were slaves"

When the people, blind and furious,

Maddened by oppression's scorn,

Struggled, seethed in wild upheaval,

Was the Liberator born.

Who took the sword fell by the sword,

This man was born to show,

How thoughts would win where steel had failed

One hundred years ago

By force the patriot tried in vain

To stem oppression's might,

This man arose and won the cause,

By pleading for the right.

He stood to plead for liberty

On Dunedin's Calton-hill;

No man had ever greater power

To move men's hearts at will

Erin, without name, senate, flag,

This, her advocate and son,

Pleaded for those who tried and lost,

With those who tried and won

He stood to ask for justice,

For ruth and mercy's grace,

For a people of another faith,

And of another race

He stood on ground made holy

By resistance unto wrong,

And Scotia's freemen gathered round,

Full twenty thousand strong

And rock and distant city,

The broad Forth gliding clear,

Yea, every heath-clad hill-top

Had hushed itself to hear,

From the shades of hero martyrs

Of patriotic fame,

From the land they thought worth fighting for,

High inspiration came

He won the cause he strove for,

With bold undaunted brow,

And his name and fame roll brightening on

Along the years till now,

All honour to his memory,

May his words, where'er they fall,

Bring forth the love of liberty,

And equal rights to all

WE LAMENT NOT FOR ONE BUT MANY

'At last he is dead'

So the wondering, horror-struck neighbours said,

A skilful touch of his knife

Has cut the thread of a wasted life

He has reached the end of the downward road,

And rushed unbidden to meet his God,

Over every duty past every tie,

Unwarned, unhindered, he rushed along,

Through the wild license of sin, and wrong,

And into the silent eternity

Relax thy anguished watch, O wife

And fold thy hands--and yet--and yet,

After all the tears which thou hast wept,

Through nights when happier mortals slept,

Thou only wilt weep with fond regret,

Over the corpse of the hopeless dead

For the cause accursed, of drink he has bled,

For that cause he lived and suffered and died

Many deaths in one horrible life,--

The death of his honour, the death of his pride,

On that altar he sacrificed child and wife

Hope, liberty, purity, more than life

Lifes life, God's image, he crushed and killed,

Tore and defaced, wasted and spoiled,

Uncurbed in passion, iron willed,

For _this_ long years he has laboured and toiled,

Devoted his talents, his time his breath,

And at the last his blood he has shed

Truly the wages of sin is death

He was once a babe on a mother's breast,

Tenderly nourished, cared for, caressed

Watched with a mother's love and pride

Dreams of the future warm and bright,

High hopes ambitions in rainbow light

Clustered around him a fairy swarm

Of tender fancies sweet and warm,

As she hung over his cradle bed,

In all this world there's none so bright,

So clever as mother's heart's delight

My child of promise," she proudly said

Oh would to God that he then had died

Died when the anguish of heartstrings torn,

The sudden stilling of childish laughter,

The awful vacance that fills the place

Of the soft, warm touch, of the dear, dear face,

Of the sweet dead child that the heart gropes after

For God's own voice to the mourner saith,

"Be still, I am God, there is hope in his death'

Alas! for the woe that under the sun

Can find no comfort! this child lived on.

What must be his mother's sorrow and sin,

If she held the glass to his infant lips

Taught him the taste of sweetened gin,

As a cure for every childish pain,

To be tried and tampered with once and again

If she taught him to worship at fashion's shrine,

In its magic circle to look on wine.

To pour it sparkling in ruby light,

The adder's sting the serpent's bite,

Came to him at last among evil men,

But he once was a boy,

A mother's joy,

Clever and gifted with tongue and pen,

The cup of temptation

Was inspiration,

Oh would to God he had died even then

The mother's tears shed over the slain,

Had then had hope in their bitter pain

O mothers, stronger than life is love

And your love is most like God's above,

And power likest God's to you is given,

With the greatest trust that is under heaven

He gives to your hands to have and to hold

More precious than rubies, better than gold

God's little children to teach and to train,

And to lead them upward to Him again

God keep you and save you from earning the curse

That shadows the life with hopeless remorse

He once was a lover an innocent maid

Into his keeping gave up her life,

Into his hand her own she laid

For better, for worse

As a blessing, a curse,

Took on her the sacred name of wife,

And stood at her post through all these years

Of sorrow and sin, of anguish and tears

There have been martyrs for God and right,

Passed through blood and fire into endless light

Count all the martyrs to right that died

Since Abel's blood to Jehovah cried

There are but few in that shining throng

Compared to the martyrs of sin and wrong

Count not that woman's life by years,

Count by the dropping of heart-wrung tears

To the common lot of toil and care,

That dims the eye and the heart strings wring,

He added, of woe that none could share,

Whole ages of sorrow and suffering

She bore her torture for duty's sake,

Firm as saint in the tower and at the stake,

Bore want and woe, and his evil name,

For him who for years was dead to shame

She saw his brood about her knee

Into an evil lot they were born

To bear for his sin the cruel scorn

Of the world unthinking, hard and cold

Prematurely saddened, early old,

They never knew home as a place of rest,

Except when their home was the mother's breast,

And worse than all she had to see

Them taught the secrets of sin and woe,

Which happier children never know

Alas! that such a thing should be

Her darlings were made to pass through the fire

To the Moloch of vice and sinful desire,

The father's example of life and tongue

Brought the knowledge of evil to them while young,

And in sorrow and shame,

That none may name,

In strife and sin all tempest-tost

The innocence God gives to babes was lost

All is over, nought's left but dishonoured clay,

But the evil men do lives longer than they.

Of a truth the saddest for tongue or pen

Are these words o'er a ruin--"He might have been,"

And sadder the words in jest set free

"This is; but alas! it should not be."

He has passed into darkness who lived in vain;

But what shall their future portion be,

Who, passing by on the other side,

Themselves from the curse secure and free,

No plan of relief or rescue tried?

Or worse, made profit out of his pain,

And lured him on to his death for gain?

LINES FOR THE BRIDAL

They will place a bridal wreath, maiden,

To crown all your shining hair;

The mist-like cloud of the bridal veil

Will float round a face most fair.

They will dress you in bridal robes, maiden,

And the holy words be said,

And the ring put on and two made one,

And the maiden we love be wed.

You'll give him your virgin hand, maiden,

And become a wedded wife;

That hand will mingle "honey for two"

To sweeten the bitter of life.

They will give you costly gifts, maiden,

And many a wish beside

Will rise in prayer in blessings come down

On thy head O fair young bride

And kind will the bridegroom be maiden

True and tender as years roll on

Who learns to love in the school of Christ

Will cherish what he has won

And so what can I say more maiden

Wooed and won and to be wed,

Pray that His blessing who loved till death

May rest on your fair young head

In the hollow of His hand maiden,

He will keep you who fainteth not

He will cause the splendour of His face

To shine on your happy lot

WELCOME HOME

You are coming home with the breath of spring

Flying home to a love-lined nest,

Most loving care hath made it fair

Your hands will do the rest

And the bridal robe you have laid aside

And the vail all of lacy foam,

The maiden's wed, the tour is sped

So welcome, welcome home

The past is laid by with the bridal wreath

The bride has come home a wife,

And now we pray that blessings may

Crown all your wedded life

What shall be the blessing, my dearest dear,

When it's all that we have to give?

That peace and love, from God above,

Be yours while ye both shall live.

That high love that makes of the wife a queen,

Of a cottage a palace home,

The coarse web fine, life's water wine,

The fire-side chair a throne.

Love that drops like dew from heaven to fill

With all blessing your earthly cup;

That draws you nigh to Him Most High,

Bidding your souls look up

Unto Him who has ordered all your lot,

To the Hand that will give the best,

That bids you come up to His home

To be His wedding guest.

BAPTISM IN LAKE ALLUMETTE

Oh Allumette, hemmed with thy fringe of pine,

Watched over by thy mountains far away,

Thy waters have been troubled oftentime,

Never before as they have been to day!

The red man on the war path, with light stroke,

Hath cleaved thy waters moving stealthily;

Hunter and hunted deer thy surface broke

With splash and struggle of the living prey.

Across thy bosom venturous Champlain

And faithful Brule have pursued their way;

Seeking for distant golden Indian vain

Finding Coulonge while searching for Cathay

The knights of industry the sons of toil,

Trouble thy waters in the eager strife

To win success and wealth, the glittering spoil

For which men daily peril more than life

'Twas a new motive from their homes to day

That drew an eager wondering people out,

Like those who from Mount Zion took their way,

From Judah and the regions round about

It might have been the Jordan flowed along

Or that, sweet stream where people met for prayer,

Still expectation held the gathering throng

By the lake shore, in the hushed Sabbath air

And earnest, fervent pleading prayer was made

Rose the sweet strains of the old Scottish psalm

And words of witness for God's truth were said,

The only sound that broke the sacred calm

Then down into the waters of the lake,

The preacher and believer slowly came,

Not heeding scornful words for His dear sake,

Who bore the cross for us despised the shame

Buried with Him by baptism to death

Following the path which He the Sa lour trod,

To rise with Him to that new life He saith

He hath laid up for us with Christ in God

GOOD-BYE.

(To Miss E E.)

I cannot write, my tears are flowing fast,

Yet weeping is unnatural to me;

Oh! that this hour of bitterness was past--

The parting hour with all I love and thee

If I had never met or loved thee so,

To part would not have caused me this sharp pain;

Parting so oft occurring here below,

And they who part so seldom meet again.

Yet over land or sea, where'er I go,

My home, my friends, shall flit before my eyes--

And oft I anxiously shall wish to know,

If in thy bosom thoughts of me arise.

Oh, I will think of bygone days of glee,

Though on each point of bitter sorrow driven;

I will not bid thee to remember me,

But oh! see to it that we meet in Heaven.

1844.

WEEP WITH THOSE WHO WEEP.

(Mary Maud.)

O friends, I cannot comfort, but will share with you your grieving,

In the valley of the shadow where you sit in helpless tears;

Greater is the parting anguish, than the joy of first receiving

The sweet gift that was your treasure through five happy, golden

years

When I laid within your arms the dear babe that God had given,

There was hidden in the future all the tears that you must weep,

Ah! the little ones so tangled in our heart-strings, they are riven

In the parting, are but treasures lent not given us to keep

There's silence in the places her voice filled with happy laughter,

Stillness waiting for the echo of the patter of her feet,

You are gazing on her picture, and your heart is longing after

The tender touch of the little hands, the mouth that was most sweet

In the valley of the shadow, where by God's will you are sitting,

Earthly sounds shut out and stilled, yea, and heaven so very near,

That the little golden head, through the open doorway flitting,

Might come smiling any moment and be greeted without fear

With earthly toil and serving we will not get encumbered,

Our hearts rise to our treasures that are laid up with the King,

There your little maiden, Maud, with His jewels fair are numbered,

There she learns the songs of gladness that the heavenly children

sing

Among those pure and precious who have known no earthly sinning,

The Beloved's fair white lilies in the Paradise of God,

Those He looked upon and loved, when their lives were but beginning,

And brought home before their tender feet grew weary of the road

There clothed on with his beauty, round the child all bliss will

gather,

All the brightness of the Father's face when looking on His own;

For the little children's angels see the bright face of the Father,

And gather on the rainbow steps that are around the throne.

For evermore in safety, by the Lamb led to the valleys,

Where the light of God is brooding, and life's storms are ever

furled;

No more watching, no more praying, no more guarding from the malice

Of all evil, lest her garments should be spotted by the world.

Heaven draws nearer in our sorrow, and the earth-born cares keep

silence,

And the still, small voice says kindly, "Though the child may come no

more,

Time is passing, and the moment approaches from the distance,

When the message to come after will appear within the door."

Oh, well it is for baby, safe, and past all toil and grieving,

The dear head is laid so early on a loving Saviour's breast;

Be not faithless, oh my friends, but submissive and believing,

The Hand that makes no blunders hath laid the babe at rest

TO ELIZABETH RAY

First of women, best of friends

Take what a village rhymer sends,

A tear wet trifle sent to tell

The giver must bid thee farewell!

And shall I then when o'er the sea

Forget thee? No, it cannot be

When thinking of much loved Grace Hill,

[1] Its drops of joy, its drafts of ill

I shed the fond regretting tear,

For those I did I do hold dear,

First shall mid those I parted with

Stand Friendship's Ray Elizabeth

[Footnote 1: Burns]

1844

FAREWELL TO LORD AND LADY DUFFERIN

In leaving us, whom thou hast governed well

Holding the helm of state through all these years

The land at large unites in a farewell

That's mingled with regret akin to tears

My Lord, we welcomed you in coming here

As one our gracious Queen thought fit to send

Your term of office hath so made you dear

We say farewell to you as friend to friend

It is not homage paid to honours worn

Lightly, as that which comes to one unsought;

Nor to thy high desent, oh nobly born

Nor to the aristocracy of thought.

And yet we do not undervalue here

Honours the nobles of our land enjoy;

We hold in high esteem the British Peer,

Warm to the ancient name of Clandeboye.

Warmly we feel to one who is akin

To that most marvellous genius Sheridan;

But warmer still the tribute that you win,

Paid, not to Lord, or Viceroy, to the man,

Who of no party, yet both far and near,

In distant wilderness and crowded mart,

With words that rouse and stimulate and cheer,

Has drawn the whole Dominion to your heart.

From Essex, by thy waters, sweet St. Clair,

To Gaspe, sentry on a stormy coast;

From Prima Vista to Vancouver, where

Will your departure be regretted most?

No Viceroy of this land has ever left

Such large regrets, as you my Lord, will do;

For admiration, confidence, respect

Are felt for you the wide Dominion through.

The miner at his work, the axeman where

He hews out fortune with enduring toil;

The farmer with his plenty and to spare,

For laughing harvests crown our fruitful son.

The fisher on our coast, the pioneer

Who strives the distant wilderness to tame;

The Indian hunter, wild unknown to fear,

On his swift horse swooping upon his game

From settlers fanned by keen Atlantic air,

To those the broad Pacific's breezes cool,

To forest shade and prairie verdure, where

Sit Indian maidens in the mission school

Never did Governor before receive

Such loyal homage as your heart has won,

Nor left so fair a record as you leave,

Or stood so near to us as you have done

You have the kindly sympathetic heart

Of her who loved the common people well,

The noble lady who with witching art

Taught us to sing the "Emigrant's Farewell.'

And the dear lady who has reigned your queen

Over the gaieties of Rideau Hall,

Her genial, gracious courtesies have been,

A talisman to win the hearts of all

Oh, Earl, and Countess, if good wishes may

Add anything to your most brilliant state,

The wide Dominion with one heart will pray

You may be blessed of God as well as great

A WELCOME

THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING

Gather, oh gather! gather, oh gather

On with the philabeg every man

And up with the bonnet and badge of your father,

Belt on the plaid of the great Campbell clan

From the heather clad hills of that island

In whose straths and glens your fathers were born

They come, and so gather, ye hearts that are Highland,

Welcome the Lord and the Lady of Lorne!

Gather, oh gather, &c.

Ocean to ocean the welcome is ringing,

Fair Indian summer, with blush and with smile,

O'er forests her right royal vesture is flinging

To welcome the bride and heir of Argyle.

Princess of Lorne, we rise to receive her,

First royal lady our country has seen,

To this, the wide land of the maple and beaver,

We welcome thee Princess, child of our Queen.

Gather, oh gather, &c.

We had regret we sought not to smother--

Kind Earl, dear Countess were called to depart;

But thoughtfully, kindly, the fair Queen our mother,

Sends the son of her choice, the child of her heart.

There is a stir, a bustle, a humming,

The tartans are waving, plumes floating free,

While trumpet and drum sound, "The Campbells are coming"

We are all Campbells in welcoming thee.

Gather, oh gather, &c.

Son of Argyle, so near to the sceptre,

And Princess Louise fair child of a throne,

We welcome to stand for our Queen in this empire,

Rule us, and love us, and make us your own

Blow, wild pibroch, that welcomes no other!

Shout million-voiced _failte_, wave banners the while;

She's worthy, fair child of so royal a mother,

He's worthy the name and fame of Argyle.

Gather, oh gather, &c.

DEATH OF NORMAN DEWAR

(Mr Norman Dewar, commission merchant, a native of Glengarry, Canada

who had been assisting Captain McCabe as commissary of the Memphis

Relief Committee, died of yellow fever after three days illness A

brave and gentle nature, he was loved by a host of friends and will

long be remembered as among the noblest of the band of gallant men who

during this fearful epidemic died at the post of duty)

Far away from stricken Memphis

Came the tidings sad and sure

That among the many fallen,

Fell the clansman Norman Dewar

There are eyes unused to weeping

With the tears of sorrow dim,

Hearts with nature's anguish heaving,

Yet 'tis wrong to weep for him

None who fell in glorious battle,

In the shock of meeting steel,

Fell more bravely, died more nobly

More like son of true Lochiel

When the cry arose in Memphis

That the yellow death had come,

When the rich in fear were fleeing,

And the poor with terror dumb,

Famine following the fever,

Want of all things awful death,

When forsaken by their kindred,

Human souls gave up their breath,

There were men who felt God's pity,

Strong to do and to endure,

And among these brave and noble,

At his post stood Norman Dewar

Firm and gentle, true and tender,

Knowing all the danger well,

This true son of old Glengarry

Stood on duty till he fell

Highland hearts have breasted battle,

Highland veterans show their scars,

Highland blood has flowed like water

In our Gracious Sovereign's wars.

We have praised in song and story,

Those who bravely fought and fell,

For Old England's might and glory,

For the Queen they love so well.

And shall we this time be silent

O thou clansman firm and true,

Shall not loyal brave Glengarry,

Through her tears feel proud of you

Thou hast fought the sternest battle,

Thou hast met the grimmest foe;

Christ-like stood by the forsaken

Stood till death has laid thee low.

Praise thy sons, dear old Glengarry,

Prompt to do, calm to endure;

And among your very noblest,

Set God's hero Norman Dewar.

THE SHADOW OF THE ALMIGHTY

The Rev Mr Young was one stormy day visiting one of his people, an

old man, who lived in great poverty in a lonely cottage a few miles

from Jedsburg. He found him sitting with his Bible open upon his

knees, but in outward circumstances of great discomfort, the snow

drifting in through the roof and under the door, and scarcely any fire

in the hearth. "What are you about to day, John?" asked Mr Young on

entering "Ah, sir," said John, "I am sitting under His shadow with

great delight."

They only see the snow heaped on the moor,

The bare trees shivering in the winter's breath,

The icy drift that sifteth through the door,

Me, old and poor, waiting the call of death.

They think my cot is bare and comfortless,

With broken roof and paper-mended pane,

They see but poverty and loneliness,

And think in pity that my death were gain.

They know not, Master, that Thou art so near,

Thou holdest me, I lean upon Thy might,

I know Thy voice, Thy whisperings I hear,

I stay beneath Thy shadow with delight.

The royal purple of Thy garment died,

From Bozrah, is spread over even me,

All my unworthiness, my want I hide

Under Thy princely vesture shelteringly.

Thy hand is underneath my weary head,

Thy strong right hand that saved me long ago;

I'm cradled in Thy arms and comforted,

What more have I to do with want or woe

What more indeed! so sheltered, so embraced,

For ever Thou art mine and I am Thine,

Thy banner's love, Thy fruit sweet to my taste,

Thou givest to my lips the Kingdom's wine.

How sweetly solemn is this awful place!

Where all of earth fades out and vanishes,

I cannot fear while I behold Thy face,

My help, my friend, the Lord my righteousness.

I do not feel the waters cold and deep,

Waters to swim in through whose waves I come,

The love that holds me up is strong to keep,

'Tis but a little way from this to home

My sight grows dim, my one Redeemer, Lord,

Bring nearer still the brightness of Thy face,

I hear Thy voice, assuring is Thy word,

Close to Thy heart is my abiding place.

We're nearing home--forever all is well,

In through the agate windows I can see

The place prepared--glory ineffable,

To which in royal love Thou leadest me

IN MEMORY OF JOHN LEACH CRAIG

In the midst of Life we are in Death.

What is it that has stilled the usual hurry,

Checking the eager tread of rapid feet?

Why does the business face look sad and sorry

Within the place where merchants choose to meet?

A something not unusual or strange,

One face is missing on the Corn Exchange.

Alas! they say he had uncommon merit,

High the esteem and confidence he won;

He brought to business life a joyous spirit,

And mixed commercial tact with boyish fun.

We miss his breezy laugh, his pleasant face,

The skill that marked him for the foremost place.

There is a ship steaming across the billow,

That should have brought him to his mother's knee;

Did warning dreams hover around her pillow,

Of the dear face she never more shall see?

She sits at home deeming that all is well,

Who shall the tale of her bereavement tell?

She waited for him in the bright May morning,

When the spring buds were blooming in their prime,

And the green earth was crowned with their adorning,

To greet his coming with the summer time.

The mists have fallen and her eyes are dim,

Looking across death's valley after him.

The good ship sailed upon the day of sailing,

And furled her sails in port the voyage o'er;

But in his home waiting is changed to wailing,

For he will come to them on earth no more.

The Master called--he answered speedily,

And sailed away across the "silent sea."

They praise him in the land of his adoption,

Say what he was, and what he might have been,

Speak of the honours that were at his option,

Since he came here a fair lad of nineteen.

That upward has his path been ever since,

To sit among the first a merchant prince.

The "never more" chills through the friendly praises,

Never to see his face, his coming form;

Never his foot shall stand on Antrim daisies,

Or tread again the Parks of old Galgorm;

Nor sleep among his fathers, silent, still,

Beneath the sycamores in fair Grace Hill.

His mother in her island home is weeping,

For what her eyes desired she shall not see;

The fair young wife her widowed vigil keeping

Among her babes on this side of the sea--

One in their sorrow which is all too deep

For comfort--theirs to sit apart and weep.

Mother and wife one in their poignant grieving,

One in their anguish over lifeless clay;

One in the consolation of believing

That he was worthy who has passed away.

By sorrow consecrate and set apart,

To ponder all the past within their heart.

The mother, with her heartstrings quivering after

The Master's stroke, sits underneath the cross;

The sad wife stilling all the childish laughter

Of his sweet babes, too young to feel their loss.

Who wonder in the quiet, darkened home,

Why their glad-voiced papa will never come.

So in his home beside the terraced mountain,

They sit within the shadow of his death;

So they who were the tardy moments counting,

Till he would come to them with summer's breath.

His kith and kin by the Maine water's side,

Weep very sore for love of him that died.

Oh Death is ever coming, loved ones going,

Hearts rent with sorrow because one is not;

The waves of trouble ever swelling, flowing,

Past the tall castle, past the sheltered cot!

"I am bereaved!" is the unceasing moan,

Rising forever to our Father's throne.

O Christ Thou dost remember earthly weeping,

When the bereaved at Thy dear feet have cried,

Beside the grave where the much loved lay sleeping,

"Lord if Thou hadst been here he had not died."

Comfort the mourning friends, the sorrowing wife,

O Thou the Resurrection and the life!

FAREWELL

My brother George has gone from me,

Far away o'er the trackless sea.

His gladdening voice I hear not now,

I see not the light of his sunny brow.

My cheeks with lonely tears are wet;

But go where he will he will love me yet.

O Thou whose blessings the heart enlarge,

Keep from all evil my brother George!

1842.

THE PRINCE OF ANHALT DESSAU.

From Carlisle.

The young Prince of Anhalt Dessau,

The Dowager's only son,

Was a sturdy strong-limbed fellow

And a most determined one.

Shook the tutor his locks of silver,

"And if I have any skill,

This young Prince of Anhalt Dessau,

He will always work his will.

"I cry to the Wise for wisdom,

I cry for strength to the Strong,

That I train him to stand firmly

For the right against the wrong.

"If he grow to gracious manhood,

I shall not have wrought in vain,

And my Fatherland so noble

Shall most surely reap the gain."

The Dowager in her chamber,

With pride did her blue eyes shine;

"Fatherland hath many princes,

But none of them all like mine.

"He has courage, fire and wisdom,

Yet tender of heart is he;

Proud, but just and full of pity;

This is as a prince should be.

"My son, growing up so worthy,

Shall comfort my widowed fears;

And he shall be my strong right hand,

Through the cares of future years."

The Dowager's waiting women

Said; "Our Prince gives up the chase,

And every day his steed reins he

Down there in the market-place.

"He forgets his rank so princely,

To his grievous harm and loss;

A trap for his youth so tender

Is laid by the damsel Fos."

The Princess rode in her chariot,

Away to the market-place,

With her own proud eyes beholding

The beautiful tempter's face.

But she saw a stately maiden,

With such pure and dove-like eyes,

Clothed in beauty like a flower,

Or a saint from Paradise.

"No wonder my son, so youthful,

Fixed his heart on one like thee;

For if I were a Prince of Dessau,

Willing captive I might be.

"But you are a doctor's daughter,

My son's of a princely line;

You may wed with one more humble,

But never with son of mine.

"But my son is very wilful,

We must conquer him with guile;

To foreign courts he shall away,

Where most noble ladies smile.

"One he'll see whose rank is princely,

Fair of form and fair of face;

She shall win him by her beauty

From his love in the market-place."

Said the lily maiden weeping,

"'Twere well we had never met,

Go, my Prince, to be with princes,

Be happy, and so forget."

Said the Prince of Anhalt Dessau:

"What's to be God keeps in store;

I am Prince of Anhalt Dessau,

But your lover for evermore.

"Duty is the yoke of princes,

It is good I go away;

For that widow's son there's blessing,

Who his mother can obey.

"But we who are ruling princes,

Should be patterns of faith and truth,

The Prince thou hast loved, my lily,

Shall never deceive thy youth.

"For as sure as to the ocean

Arrow-swift flows on the Rhine,

I go for my mother's pleasure,

I am coming back for thine."

A year past--the waiting-women

Said: "Our Prince is back again,"

And he shows before the Empire,

That his mother's plans are vain.

He came from the courts of Europe,

He came to his mother's knee;

But first went to the market-place,

The maiden he loved to see.

Said the Princess, "Son, you're welcome,

Anhalt Dessau's hope and pride;

Have you well and wisely chosen

For Dessau a high-born bride?"

"I saw many royal beauties,

Dames courtly and fair and kind,

But with married eyes I saw them,

For my heart was left behind."

Said the lady to her council:

"So our plans have failed thus far,

He'll forget his low-born chosen

When he learns to look on war.

"While he's gone I'll seek to rid me

Of the beauty which I dread,

I will give a precious dower

To him who shall woo and wed."

Said the Doctor to his daughter:

"Here's a life of wealth and ease,

And a fair bridegroom too, daughter,

For we must our Princess please."

"Ah me!" said the lily maiden,

"That I am the cause of strife!

Woeful is the gift of beauty--

I'll be an unwilling wife.

"I have no strength for the battle,

No more than a wounded dove;

O Leopold Anhalt Dessau,

Where art thou, my only love?"

With a moan of helpless sorrow,

From the bridegroom turned her face,

And saw a gallant troop of horse

Drawn up in the market-place.

A strong arm is soon around her,

Young Dessau is by her side,

"Draw and defend yourself, you wretch!

Who would dare to claim my bride."

Then he stood before his mother,

With a stern and angry face;

"I have stopped a gallant wedding,

Begun in the market-place.

"The maid thou wouldst give in marriage,

Is mine by her plighted word;

And his blood who would supplant me,

Has reddened on my good sword.

"Be a queen in Anhalt Dessau,

Let tower and town be thine;

But leave unto me my treasure,

This fair low-born love of mine.

"She's my first love and my last one,

And never we two shall part;

I'll take her--with rites most holy

I will bind her to my heart."

Now the holy words are spoken,

At the young Dessau's command.

He wedded the lily maiden,

And he gave her his left hand.

"What's to be," said Anhalt Dessau,

"Is known but to God above,

But I have obeyed my mother,

Been true to my early love.

"Now must I go to the battle,

Leave mother and bride behind;

My wife, be a child to my mother,

Mother, to my love be kind.

"A soldier's life is uncertain,

Let us sternly do our best,

Love and duty be our watchword,

And leave to our God the rest."

And thus the high Prince of Dessau,

While giving obedience due

To his gracious lady mother,

To his own first love was true.

* * *

He is gone away to battle,

He's always in high command;

As a man of vast resources,

Who is as the king's right hand.

Drilling, battling, planning, seiging,

The bravest of all the brave;

The wisest of all in counsel,

Loyal, courteous, kind and grave.

This was in the time of battles,

Battles for the native land;

Whatever was in safe keeping,

Was held by the strong right hand.

Anhalt Dessau, bold and daring,

Anhalt Dessau wise and slow,

With a brain full of expedients,

To subdue or outwit the foe.

In each conflict still to conquer,

In each counsel wiser grown,

Till he stood above his fellows,

A supporter of the throne.

Till the king in council chamber,

Said: "My lords we must devise

New honours for Anhalt Dessau,

My general brave and wise.

"Leopold of Anhalt Dessau,

First in counsel, first in fight,

What high reward you choose to name

Is yours by undoubted right."