These as an average sample of the gifts,

I mention merely with a view to show

That Gratitude is put to no mean shifts

In kindly hearts whose love keeps them aglow.

Those who have naught but water to bestow

Upon a thirsty Saint, reward will gain

From Heaven's high King, who loves to have it so.

We must from sneering at small gifts refrain.

For the poor widow's mite did great reward obtain.

CXXV.

Surprise and joy that Christian family felt

At this display of love and gratitude;

While with their friends they reverently knelt

To give God thanks, they for rich blessings sued

For the kind donors, now more strongly viewed

As brethren in the very strongest bond.

Each at the Mercy Seat their love renewed,

And heart to heart did fervently respond.

All merely worldly pleasure this is far beyond.

CXXVI.

This past, the marriage knot was quickly tied

For those young well matched couples, who appeared

In all respects well pleased and satisfied

This tended much to keep the parents cheered,

And to the friends around them more endeared

The wedding feast parta'en, they soon prepare

For their long journey, as a change they feared

In the fine weather, which might make roads bare

And the good sleighing spoil--a thing by no means rare.

CXXVII.

On that delightful jaunt I need not dwell,

Only to say that all the drive enjoyed.

When safe returned each had a tale to tell

Of the great Cataract's wonders, never void

Of thrilling interest to minds employed

In viewing Nature right. I now would haste

Lest my dear readers feel themselves annoyed,

To finish what has brought me no small taste

Of Poet's joy, and often has my heart solaced.

CXXVIII.

That earthly pleasure's not without alloy

Poets have sung and sages oft have said,

And none did e'er such pleasure long enjoy

Without being to the same conclusion led.

Our Pastor's dear Louisa took to bed

Soon after New Year's visit to the Falls;

Ere Spring came round she bowed her lovely head

To Death's stern summons! Yet sweet hope consoles

The friends for loss of her, and undue grief controls.

CXXIX.

Her death-bed was a scene I love to view

With chastened pleasure, for her faith was strong.

She to her Savior had for years been true.

And then to be with Him did daily long,

Yet not impatiently, for 'twould be wrong;

But with strong fortitude--so calm and pure

That one who saw her left the World's gay throng,

And since has had great trials to endure,

But found the Savior's aid was ever near and sure.

CVXX.

But little now remains for me to sing,

Not that I matter lack--a large supply

Exists _where I got this from,_ and may spring

Into poetic joy if I should try

Again to tune my harp, this time laid by

At Duty's call. Our friend and spouse live where

We found them first. William and wife are nigh,

And with their children choicest comforts share.

While Joseph of the Red Men's Church takes Pastoral care.

CXXXI.

Luth and Clarissa own a good sized farm,

Well tilled, well stocked and fronting to the Lake.

Around their hearthstone boys and girls do swarm,

So that they soon a larger house must make.

Some members of the Church now sometimes take

Their turns in preaching, and the elder Luth

Shares Pastoral duty for his Master's sake.

As Deacons they have men who love the Truth,

All proving that the Church is in a state most sooth.

CXXXII.

The Lord's _Forget-me-nots_ grow everywhere

Along the Christian's path as he pursues

His Heavenward journey. And a Father's care

Gives each sweet odors and most lovely hues.

And they throughout the darkest days diffuse

A balmy fragrance strikingly delicious!

Yet we, vain mortals, oft these sweets refuse

And choose instead that which is most pernicious,--

Thus wandering far from God, who always is propitious.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

JENNY AND HER PET LAMB.

By the side of lonely moor,

In a humble clay-built cot,

Lived a widow very poor

Who received her daily store

As the Lord's Forget-me-not.

With her lived her little girl,

Blithe and pretty blue eyed Jane;

She wore golden locks in curl,

Which showed Nature was no churl,

If it did not make her vain.

Plain but neatly was she dressed,

With her lot was quite content,

No great cares her mind oppressed,

She with cheerfulness was blessed,

While in work her time was spent.

Came there by the cot one day

Quite a numerous flock of sheep.

Lambs did by their mothers play,

One was in a sickly way,

Which called up Jane's feelings deep.

He who drove them, hard of heart,

Did that sickly lamb abuse;

This increased young Jennie's smart,

It went through her like a dart,

Wondering, "would the man refuse

"To give her that pretty lamb

Which appeared so like to die?"

Came the thought to her like balm,

Her distress of mind to calm,

As she to the man drew nigh.

When to him she made request

Answered he in surly tones,

"She might have the little pest,

For it was at very best

But a heap of skin and bones!"

Joyfully she took the prize

In with her to that rude cot.

Pleasure filled her sparkling eyes,

For the lamb had ceased its cries

Ere it reached so safe a spot.

Like a foster mother she

Nursed it then with gentle care,

Till it grew in time to be

Large as any sheep you see,

Fed upon such scanty fare.

And its wool in one short year

For some better pasture pays

And assists the heart to cheer

Of that widow, who had fear

The coming Winter days.

Came there soon some troubles great

On this poor, small family.

He who owned the large estate

Where they lived, had sunk of late

Into greatest poverty.

Lost he all his wide domain,

Dragged to jail because of debt.

He would not of fate complain,

If that widow might remain,

But consent he could not get.

He who took their kind friend's place

Acted a most cruel part.

All might see upon his face

There was not a single trace

Of a kind or gentle heart.

And the widow was forbid

To remain another week.

Sternly he her pleadings chid,

"All such tenants he would rid,

And fresh quarters make them seek."

Threatened if they would not go

He then all would take away.

This was such a heavy blow

Sickness laid the mother low;

The were thus obliged to stay.

Ere the time had quite expired

Down the angry landlord came

With a man whom he had hired;

Liquor strong their courage fired

Till they felt no sense of shame.

Seize they Jenny's pretty pet,

Cut its throat and leave it there;

Then the household goods they get--

Heed not how the dear ones fret

When their cot was made so bare.

Saw the Lord that wicked deed?

Did the widow's prayer avail?

See you further on may read,

What the Lord had just decreed

In the sequel of my tale.

Thunder clouds hung overhead,

While those shocking acts were done;

Forth the lightning's arrow sped,

Guided there it struck them dead,

Ceased to beat their hearts of stone.

All who heard the widow's case,

Those who saw sweet Jenny's tears,

Got for them a better place,

Bade them wear a cheerful face,

Trust in God and calm their fears.

Said the widow to her Jane,

"Saw you how your darling died?

Did it of the act complain?

Jesus as a Lamb was slain,

As a Lamb was crucified.

"This was in the sinner's stead,

This was done for you and me;

For our sins he freely bled,

Bowed to Death his sacred head

On the shameful cursed tree."

Heard that lovely girl these things?

Yes, and did believe them too.

Faith its blessings to her brings,

And God's goodness oft she sings.

This, dear reader, you may do.

TO A VERY TALL SUNFLOWER.

Gigantic flower with many golden faces,

Why climbest thou so very high in air?

Art loth to show the very smallest traces

Of sweet Humility with aspect fair?

Well, even 'mongst men they are by far too rare!

I oft have heard how thou in deep devotion

Dost follow Sol, the glorious king of Day.

If this be true, perhaps thou seek'st promotion

To his high courts, thy splendors to display,

And dazzle all who view thy bright array.

Poets we know are strangely given to dreaming,

And thus it came--they all thought this of thee.

'Tis true, sometimes thy yellow flowers do seem in

Just such a mood, and this they chanced to see;

But those who watch thee closely will agree

That yet these flowers at times face all the quarters,

East, West, and North as well as sunny South,

And I have seen them like most patient martyrs

Hang thus for days in time of Summer's drouth,

Although such weather did not stop their growth.

Thou tallest of the tall amongst thy fellows

Look'st like a king. So full of majesty

Art thou, that this alone the truth may tell us

Why we no humble mien in thee can see.

Thou only bow'st to God who fashioned thee.

If this be so thou art a lesson teaching

To all who view thy many golden charms;

And all this time a sermon hast been preaching

To me, and now my heart toward thee warms;

Till I would gladly save thee from Frost's harms.

This may not be; already thou art drooping:

A few more days will strip thy splendors off,

And when Frost comes to find thy tall form stooping

He at thy nakedness perhaps may scoff,

But heed not, 'twas not his thy charms to doff.

Sunflower, I leave thee now, and this truth ponder,

Thou hast fulfilled the task allotted thee.

Have _I_ discharged the obligations under

Which I lay to God? the world? Ah me!

A host of imperfections I can see.

Then let me now, before I cease my rhyming

Take thy strong lesson very much to heart,

That while I am up Life's rough ladder climbing

I still may seek to act a proper part,

And strive to fearless meet Death with his dart.

BIRTHDAY THOUGHTS AND ASPIRATIONS.

WRITTEN ON MY THIRTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY, MARCH 20, 1854.

What solemn thoughts crowd o'er my mind

As this eventful day moves on.

I feel most forcibly inclined

To strive some proper words to find,

In praise of God for what he's done.

And why? For seven and thirty years:

He who at first my being gave

Has still upheld me, calmed my fears,

While passing through this Vale of Tears,

And on my journey to the grave.

'Tis then but right that I should take

A retrospect of my past days.

This done in faithfulness will make

My humble lyre aloud to wake

Its every string in God's pure praise.

Then let my memory recall

Each striking scene through which I've passed.

What strong emotion fills my soul,

As they in quick succession roll

Before my wondering gaze at last!

I feel my childhood's joys once more,

Again I pass its sorrows through.

Of richest mercies what a store,

In health or else in sickness sore,

As if by magic spring to view.

With all my sins upon my head

I see two near escapes from death;

Then is a feast before me spread,

And I on heavenly food am fed,

The precious gift of God through faith.

Lo, there I see Him guard me round,

Lest strong temptations me o'ercome;

Here I am in his favor found,

While others in perdition drowned

Were long since hurried to the tomb!

O, what a miracle is this,

That I am saved from hell and sin!

Predestined by pure Grace to Bliss,

My soul in transport bows submiss

To God, and hopes a crown to win.

Then may I mourn my past neglect

Of all thy goodness, O, my God!

Henceforward may I more respect

Thy just commands and still detect

Those lurking sins that bring thy rod.

Should I be spared another year,

May one great thought my bosom fill;

To let it to mankind appear

That I am but a pilgrim here,

Just left awhile to do Thy will.

But Lord, thou know'st I am but weak;

Impart fresh strength that I may be

More and more anxious still to seek

The good of souls with spirit meek,

And thus prove my sincerity.

And here I would once more record

The fervent breathings of my soul,

That thou would'st richest Grace afford

To all my children through the Word,

And still our every act control.

SONG TO THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

Lily of the valley, this brief poetic sally

At the very least is due unto thee.

Thy fragrant wax-like flowers all freshened by Spring showers

Seem purity embodied unto me.

_Lily of the valley blooming near the alley_

_Of the little garden close to my home!_

Lily of the valley, I fain would gladly rally

All the powers of sweet Fancy to my aid

To describe thy form retiring, which I cannot help admiring

As it peeps from its broad, leafy shade.

_Lily of the valley_, etc.

Lily of the valley, thou very well dost tally

With my notion of a modest, gentle maid.

Thy delicate bell-cluster may lack in grandeur's lustre,

Yet thou in true beauty art arrayed.

_Lily of the valley_, etc.

Lily of the valley, Sol scarce with thee dare dally;

He plants no rose-blushes on thy cheek,

Yet indebted to his power art thou from hour to hour,

And his beams play with thee _hide and seek_.

_Lily of the valley_, etc.

Lily of the valley, deem not my rhyming folly,

For I love both thy form and thy scent;

And this is chiefly true as thou kissest in the dew,

While thy head in pure modesty is bent.

_Lily of the valley_, etc.

Lily of the valley, bloom near my garden alley,

And shed forth thy fragrancy around;

I'll think as thou art growing of the lessons thou art showing

To me when in musing I am found.

_Lily of the valley blooming near the alley

Of the little garden close to my home._

DAISY, I HAVE SOUGHT FOR THEE.

Daisy, I have sought for thee

In the garden, on the lea,

Ever since I learned to roam

From my much loved English home.

Once I owned a little thing

Called a daisy here about,

And it bloomed awhile in Spring,

But the Winter froze it out.

'Twas a pigmy flower at best,

Though in red robe it was dressed.

English daisy's lively mien

Never in its face was seen.

When it died I did not fret,

Nor a dirge sung o'er its bier.

Some few plants that I have met

Claimed at least from me a tear.

Now what is it that I see?

Daisies growing on a tree!

White and double--white as snow,

Hundreds of them in full blow.

Let me look awhile at them,

Even through sweet fancy's eyes.

Every flower's a perfect gem.

And as such I will it prize.

But let Fancy stand aside,

Common folks might me deride.

Thinking something ailed my brain,

Should I such a thing maintain.

Well, 'tis all as one to me,

Fancy still shall have the sway.

That _Daisies here grow on a tree_

_I_ mean to insist alway!

[Footnote: The blossoms of the double flowering cherry tree. They bear

a great resemblance to the white double daisy of English gardens, and

in fact were pronounced to be the same by a lady friend of mine. I took

the hint and wrote the above.]

THE CHARMS OF JUNE.

INSCRIBED TO MY WIFE.

The lilacs are now in the full flush of beauty,

The fruit trees have blossomed, the tulips are gay,

And birds' gushing melody points out our duty

To God who doth bless us so vastly each day.

Brilliant verbenas in rich robes are glowing,

And spireas their fair silver glories maintain,

While violets and lilies their charms are bestowing

To add to the splendors of sweet Flora's reign.

O, soon will the odors of bright blushing roses

Unite with the woodbines in fragrance complete;

For hoards of their incense this fine month discloses,

To all who are fond of a garden retreat.

Viburnum Opulus its snowballs is forming,

The peonies are ready to burst into bloom,

Rude Boreas has ceased for awhile his dread storming,

And Nature at last has got rid of her gloom.

[Footnote: Guelder Rose.]

In flower-bedecked fields or vast woods at this season

I would 'twere my privilege to frequently roam;

But fear such indulgence might well be termed treason

Against the sweet duties and pleasures of Home.

Then since this solacement by God is denied me,

I'll joy that in fancy it still is my lot

To rove with my own lovely Ellen beside me,

Through scenes that can never by us be forgot.

TO DR. LAYCOCK, ON HIS LEAVING BRANTFORD ON ACCOUNT Of

ILLNESS.

NOVEMBER, 1854.

Doctor, you must not hence depart

Ere I address a parting lay

Fresh gushing from an honest heart,

Which grieves because you cannot stay.

To Rhyme I make but small pretence,

Yet what I write is what I feel;

And should it prove but common-sense,

Many defects this will conceal.

I have oft wished since you came here,

That we might years together spend;

And now I hang 'twixt hope and fear,

In strange uncertainty, my friend.

Right glad, dear Doctor, would I be

If you left here in perfect health;

I know 'tis prized by you and me

As far before the greatest wealth.

And well it may! For that is wealth

In most men's hands but splendid dross

To purchase _friends_ who leave by _stealth_

Their friend, when he has found its loss.

Yet 'tis I own, when rightly used,

A goodly thing for you and me,

Who can't of hoarding be accused

At least from all that I can see.

Then take what I most freely give--

A wish sincere that you may yet

Return in health near us to live,

An honest livelihood to get.

And may your partner live to share

With you for years fresh joy and peace.

For this I urge an earnest prayer

To God who makes my joys increase.

TO MR. COWHERD, FROM HIS FRIEND, H. S. LAYCOCK.

[Perhaps my readers will have the goodness to pardon me if I here

present them with an exact copy of a Rhyming Letter which I received in

answer to the poem above from my much respected and greatly lamented

friend, the late Dr. Laycock, of Woodstock, Ont. I place it here

because of the compliment he was kind enough to pay me on my rhyming

abilities, and chiefly in relation to those Pieces to my Children. I

candidly acknowledge that it was his opinion, so freely and perhaps

flatteringly expressed, which weighed with me greatly as an inducement

for giving so many of them in these pages.]

Dear friend, though a poor hand at rhymes, I'll try

In _kind_ to your _kind_ verses to reply.

Together we have passed some happy hours,

Pleasantly loitering in the Muses' bower;

Not with the Bards who sing of Wine and Love,

But those who can the nobler Passions move

To finer sympathies, and by their art

Instruct, amend as well as cheer the heart!

Such Bard our COWPER. Oft his pleasing strains

Have won us to forget the cares and pains

The world lays on us all; WORDSWORTH the same;

And other bards besides _less known to fame;_

_Thyself,_ dear friend, amongst the rest. Thy rhymes

Flow from a heart in tune with Nature's chimes,

And breathings of Sweet Home, Domestic joys,

The opening graces of thy girls and boys,

And themes like these _to Nature dear_ please all

Whose souls like ours respond to Nature's call.

Nature, to whom proud Art can _lend a grace,_

But whom if absent _Art can not replace!_

Take these poor lines in haste and sickness penned,

As tribute from a warm and grateful friend,

Who, though thy kindness he can not repay,

Will ne'er forget thee, Cowherd, nor thy lay.

BRANTFORD, Nov. 16, 1854

TO MR. JAMES C----T

NOVEMBER, 1853.

"A friend in need's a friend indeed."

My friend much respected, 'tis hardly the thing

That I on some subjects so often should sing,

And yet never manage a rhyme to bestow

On one whose great kindness I'd gratefully show.

It oft has been spoken, as oft has been penned

That "It cannot be ever too late to amend."

And as I'm unconscious of lacking respect,

Will do what I can to repair my neglect.

O, can I look back to the time of my need,

When thou, under God, prov'dst a kind friend indeed,

And feel no emotion my bosom to swell?

'Twere baseness of conduct too shocking to tell.

Time was when chill penury stared in my face,

And I was made feel it almost a disgrace.

As a fruit of thy kindness that time has gone by,

So I to be thankful would constantly try.

O, well I remember how often I thought

My business endeavors would all come to naught;

That I, 'midst my toiling should surely stick fast,

And most sad disappointment meet me at last.

The Lord sent thee to me at such time of trial,

When exercised well with the grace Self-denial.

Thy kind way of speaking took from me my sadness,

And left in its place a rich increase of gladness.

And oft since that time though a much chequered life

Amidst this world's bustle, its turmoil and strife

My mind has been solaced with thoughts of thy love,

Which does thy relation to Christ clearly prove.

Under the weakness of age thou art bending,

Yet no doubt have I that the Lord is still sending

The joy of His presence thy spirit to cheer,

By doing thy duty while thou stayest here.

And Oh, may it please our kind Father and God

Thy steps to support with his "Staff and his Rod;"

Then cause his bright Angels thy way to attend,

And thus bring thee safely to Life-journey's end.

May thy good example to those that remain,

Be useful in showing Religion is gain,

That they may still follow the path that Christ trod,

And join thee in singing the praises of God.

TO THE CHRISTIANS OF BRANTFORD.

OCTOBER, 1853.

Christians of Brantford, list awhile,

An humble Rhymer speaks to you.

Perhaps the fact may cause a smile,

Though I speak not from motives vile,

But with your interest full in view.

You are engaged in warfare great

With that great sin which oft has made

A loving husband full of hate,

A young wife's beauty quickly fade,

And early death become her fate.

You have to grapple with that fiend

That oft has made poor children weep,

Bereft them too of every friend,

Who would unto their wants attend--

When they were sick afford relief.

You are engaged in mortal strife

With that huge serpent which ere now

Has poisoned all the joys of life,

Made many homes with discord rife,

And sunk poor human nature low.

With him that oft has torn away

The laurel from the Sons of Fame,

Caused them from Wisdom's paths to stray,

Has turned to darkness their bright day,

And covered them all o'er with shame.

Young as some are, all must have seen

His potent arm stretched forth to strike

As victims those who long had been

Striving on human aid to lean.

Mind friends you never do the like!

Oh, have you thought upon his power,

And learned how weak are mortal men

When brought into temptation's hour,

And "storms arise and tempests lower?"

The _strong_ may even falter then.

And feeling weak have you been led

To put your trust in God alone,

Who with his bounteous hand hath fed

You all your lives, and in the stead

Of guilty man did sin atone?

If you have not done this before

O flee, my dear young friends, away

To Jesus Christ, the friend who bore

Our sins, that he might us restore

To God and Bliss and Endless Day.

TO THE SAME.

NOVEMBER, 1854.

Christians, arouse you! Quick, up and be doing!

The monster Intemperance stalks through our land!

Unfurl wide your banners, and good still pursuing,

On "No Truce with Tyrants!" let each take his stand.

Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!

The might of this evil but few can withstand!

Shrieks and groans from the dying are heard all around you,

And heartrending sights every day are displayed;

While blasphemous curses may well nigh astound you,

And dangers fast thicken; yet be not dismayed.

Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!

If these things appal you your help they demand.

Thousands of widows and orphans call on you

Who lost their support from this tyrant's attacks,

And he with his legions may soon fall upon you,

If you now shrink from duty or show him your backs.

Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!

Your own peace and safety your efforts demand.

Our Jails and Asylums are full to o'erflowing

With victimized wretches struck by this fiend's hand,

And many poor youths unsuspicious are going

To destruction, led on by his magical wand.

Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!

The doom which hangs o'er them gives forth the command.

Then muster your forces and stand forth unyielding,

In the name of Humanity heed not his rage.

Mind not his blandishments--evil still gilding--

But ever determine to war with him wage.

Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!

In this monster's overthrow firmly now stand.

Christians, arouse you! Quick, up and be doing!

For help look to God's own Omnipotent Arm!

Let no Tempter charm with the soft voice of wooing,

Or frighten your hearts by the sounds of alarm.

Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!

'Midst trials and dangers like true heroes stand.

VERSES WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER READING HORACE SMITH'S

"BACHELOR'S FARE."

1854.

He who wrote these lively verses

Hath his talents misemployed,

While he marriage ills rehearses--

The conjugal life asperses

Which so many have enjoyed.

And each brown or blue eyed charmer,

Let her rank be high or low,

Must have felt such verses harm her--

Must have felt her cheek grow warmer

With just indignation's glow.

Were he then as bachelor living

He might speak of bachelor life.

But such men need not be giving

Crabbed views of man and wife.

If he were to fair one married

Greater still would be the shame;

It would prove love had miscarried,

He alone perhaps to blame.

Were it shown that he was jesting,

Jests like this with ills are rife;

Poets should be still attesting

This plain truth--Mankind are blest in

Chaste and sweet Conjugal Life.

Marriage is of God's ordaining,

Serving purpose wise and good.

Those who are from it abstaining,

Should be found always refraining

From treating it in jesting mood.

From experience I am speaking,

In protesting I prefer

A wedded life. If you are seeking

To have pockets with no leak in,

From it let naught you deter.

But this thing make up your mind in,

Choice should fall on one of worth.

Love of wealth some men are blind in;

For a wife may be worth finding,

Though she be of humble birth.

If you are a true wife blest in,

Mind you well fulfill your part,

That you may, all cares distressed in,

Prove the warmth of woman's heart.

I have proved it in rich measure,

And with honest brow declare,

Married life for sweetest pleasure

Can with any life compare!

STANZAS ON THE PEACEFUL STRUGGLE IN EUROPE.

APRIL, 1854.

England's real strength is in the Lord of Hosts

Slumbereth now the British Lion,

In his sweet green Island lair?

No! He rushes forth to die on

Europe's plains, or crush the Bear.

Now he may well hope for glory,

Warring in defense of Right.

Will he soon be faint and gory

From the Czar's most lawless fight?

Oh, forbid it, God of Battles--

In whom we would place our trust!

Ere is heard his cannon's rattles

Quench the Bear's most savage lust!

Turn him back to his own regions,

Though a wild and bitter clime;

Wide disperse his barbarous legions

In Thy own good _way_ and _time_.

If in Wisdom thou ordainest

This dread war shall still proceed--

Let us feel thou ever reignest

Through the saddest hours of need;

That thou still as Sovereign rulest

O'er the Nations of this world;

That thou yet mad Despots schoolest,

Ere they to the dust are hurled.

O preserve our generous Lion,

And his partners in the War;

Bid their hosts thy arm rely on;

Guard each soldier, shield each tar.

Let we see them soon returning

To their now deserted domes;

Let pure joy instead of mourning

Fill their fondly cherished homes.

May we profit by the lesson

Which events like this should teach--

Seek to put away transgression,

Act as healers of each breach.

Then we long may share God's favor--

From the Queen upon her throne

To the lowly son of labor

Toiling his poor crust to own.

LINES WRITTEN ON THE MORNING OF THE DREADFUL FIRE WHICH

CONSUMED THE B. B. & G. R. R. DEPOT BUILDINGS.

Oh! there has come on us a dreadful calamity,

Our fine Depot Buildings in ruin lie low.

And works which for months were in earnest activity,

To Fire's fearful ravage have been made to bow.

If the watchmen were both in the right path of duty,

How came it we every one heard with amaze,

That they saw not the fire till it fiercely was bursting

Right through the gable in one perfect blaze.

I would not indulge in ungrounded suspicion,

But truly the matter looks dark to my mind.

And I trust before long a most strict inquisition

Will be instituted, the faulty to find.

But should this be done would it rear up the buildings

That now form a rubbish heap blackened and hot?

Ah, no! and the Muse peering into the Future

Fears never such structures shall rise on that spot!

Then mourn, Brantford, mourn! for thy sad, sad misfortune

May well make thy sons to remember this day;

And all may well sigh and feel strongest emotion,

For troubles now thicken in blackest array.

And oh, it would tend to thy weal in the future,

If thou such events as a warning would take

To cleanse from thy dwellings Sin's dreadful pollution,

Lest God's greater judgments against thee awake.

TO THE REV. J. W AND HIS BRIDE

A MARRIAGE DAY

October 4, 1853

An humble poet--save the mark!

Wishes to give to you a lay

In honor of your wedding day,

But somehow labors in the dark,

And fears from etiquette to stray.

And why? No invitation came

To bid me tune my simple lyre--

To fan my low poetic fire,

Nor yet a hope of deathless fame

Which might for risk, serve me for hire.

I'll run the risk and fearless strike

A lyre too apt to slumber long,

And pour my thoughts in artless song.

Many there are who do the like,

And yet in this may do no wrong.

Now, I would hope sweet blessings may

Flow to you from our Father kind:

The rich gift of a happy mind,

In Wisdom's paths content to stay,

And purest peace in that to find.

I trust you will be filled with love,

Such love as God alone can give;

That you may still before Him live.

Placing your hopes always above,

May you his Spirit never grieve.

O, may you still, as man and wife,

Mutual confidence possess;

For this will free from much distress

Your family in after life,

And make your care and sorrow less.

May both such lovely patterns be

Of what your character requires,

That if brought through Affliction's fires

Mankind your purity may see;

And which to see God most desires.

And may you ever useful prove

In making known Christ's saving Name;

Your minds not swayed by worldly fame--

In urging souls to taste that Love

Which cheers our hearts through scorn and shame.

And should you by His Grace become

A numerous, holy, happy band,

Still he'll uphold you by His Hand,

Till all at last come safely home

Unto that glorious Spirit Land.

STANZAS ON HEARING AN AUCTIONEER QUOTE THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE OF

SCRIPTURE: "THERE WAS SILENCE IN HEAVEN ABOUT THE SPACE OF HALF AN

HOUR."--

REV. VIII, I.

Yes, vain Scoffer! so the Scriptures tell us,

But awful was the silence at that time;

A prelude of the wrath of God most jealous,

Expressed in dreadful thunderbolts sublime.

Oh! hast thou ever marked the scene that follows,

When the first Angel did his trumpet take

And blow a blast heard through all Earth's vast hollows,

Which did the mountains to their bases shake?

Or realize "the hail and fire commingling

With blood, and all cast down upon the Earth?"

To mention this should set thine ears a-tingling,

And check at times thy loud uproarious mirth.

But read thou on with most profound attention:

Dire woes stand forth in gloomy vividness!

Ah! would'st thou shrink from some vague apprehension

That the perusal might cause thee distress?

Know thou, what follows is but the beginning

Of plagues more fearful than we can conceive.

This thou must see, and yet thou keep'st on sinning,

As if such madness Conscience could relieve.

Stop, then, at once, lest in Eternal ruin

Thy soul engulfed shall see her folly great.

Flee now to Christ; become a suppliant suing

For pardon from Him ere it be too late.

WINTER'S RAVAGES,

AN APPEAL TO THE RICH ON BEHALF OF THE POOR.

NOVEMBER, 1857.

Stern Winter on foul mischief bent

Left his cold region of the North;

As his Advance-guard early sent

Loud howling blasts and snow storms forth.

These warriors hastened to obey

The mandate of their frost-robed King,

And as they came the Orb of Day

Withdrew his rays which gladness bring.

They, gathering strength as nigh the drew

Unto our homes, spread ruin round,

And thus transformed each beauteous view,

And in white mantle clad the ground.

Before their track lay pastures green,

While root crops in abundance told

How fruitful had the Summer been

Ere she away from us had rolled.

Behind them was a widespread waste

Of leafless trees and drifting snows,

And still with most malicious haste

They dealt around their chilling blows.

Anon their King in ice-car rode

With furious speed, and placed his seal

Upon the devastation broad,--

Exulting in his savage zeal.

This done, fair Nature at his feet

Lay prostrate in the arms of death!

And now the poor lack food and heat,

Benumbed by his dread icy breath.

For in our great Commercial World

Loud storms have rung their changes round,

While some are from high station hurled

And in chill Penury are found.

Our Workshops, erst with men well filled,

The scenes of Trade's most busy strife,

Are almost silent now, and skilled

Mechanics want the means of life.

And shall it e'er be said of those

Who have of means a full supply,

That avarice has their heart's blood froze,--

That they can see their brethren die?

Forbid it, O Thou gracious One,

From whom we every good obtain;

O, melt the hardest heart of stone,

And quell its cruel thirst for gain!

That those who have may freely give

Of food and clothes a plenteous store

To help the needy now to live:

"Those tend to God who help the poor."

A CANADIAN NATIONAL SONG.

Tune, "Auld Lang Syne."

O, no; I'm not an Englishman,

Though it is something great

To have for birthplace English soil,

And live in such a State;

Yet I'm not _now_ an Englishman,

For why? I crossed the sea

And live in dear Canadian clime,

The Land of Liberty

I am not _now_ a leal Scotchman,

Though born 'midst Scotia's hills,

And recollections of her scenes

My bosom ever thrills,

For I have sailed o'er ocean vast,

And to this land have come,

Where Freedom waves her banner o'er

My new, adopted home.

O, no, I'm not an Irishman,

Though sprung from Erin's bowers,

And Memory often takes me back

To those most happy hours

When, roaming o'er her fair green Isle,

With warmth I pressed her sod,

And felt my own, my native Land,

The best that foot e'er trod.

[Footnote: The writer's main object in writing this song was to do what

he could toward breaking down all remains of clannish feeling in this

highly important country. Should a company, consisting of one or more

persons from each of the countries mentioned, desire to sing it, each

one might take the part applicable to him, and when the several

sections have been gone through all join as full chorus in the last

stanza, or slight verbal alterations may be so made that any single

individual may sing it.]

For I have come to Canada

To settle on her land,

And to all her inhabitants

Give Friendship's honored hand.

I am no longer German now

Though "Fatherland" I loved,

And vowed remembrance to take

Of her, where'er I roved.

For here on this prolific soil

I own a splendid farm,

And lovely children growing up

Call forth my feelings warm.

I would not be a Frenchman deemed,

Though sprung of Gaulish race,

And their pure blood I freely can

In my forefathers trace.

For I would feel as much at home

As ever man can be

Back in our woods or in our towns,

Whilst I have liberty.

O, yes; we are Canadians now,

Wherever we were born;

And we will strive in time to come

To heal a land so torn

By party strife, by clannish fire,

And aim to live in peace.

Then put united efforts forth,

Till life itself shall cease,

To make her what she ought to be--

Acknowledged on each hand

A noble, free, and powerful State,

A great and glorious Land!

A CALL TO THE SOIREE* OF THE MECHANIC'S INSTITUTE, DECEMBER 23,

1857.

"Endeavor always to combine real good with pleasurable enjoyment."

Come, friends, to the Soiree; O why will you tarry

When good things are waiting you there?

For, after the eating, our friends, for this, meeting

Have speeches prepared with due care.

Let all upper classes give ladies cash passes,

'Twill cost but a very small price;

And what they may spend in a way that will end in

Real good, is a blow unto vice.

Come, merchants and doctors; come lawyers and proctors,

And treat all your clerks to the feast.

Fear not that your kindness will make them more mindless

Of what is your interest, the least.

Come, all ye mechanics, for no dreadful panics

Will meet you with grim spectre-faces.

Bring also your spouses, nor leave in your houses

Those charmers who wear childhood's graces.

Come, each son of labor, and do us the favor

Of tasting the good things provided.

A truce to your moiling! for hard daily toiling

Gives Rank that must ne'er be derided.

Haste all to the Soiree; none need to be sorry

For giving our Institute aid.

The good you may do us'll diffuse itself through us

To the townsfolks of every grade.

* Pronounced as nearly as possible, _swarry_.

AN ADDRESS BY THE MEMBERS OF THE "INSTITUTE" TO THEIR FRIENDS

AT THE SOIREE.

Dear friends, to this our social feast,

We bid you welcome gladly,

And trust you will not in the least

Spend moments with us sadly.

For though we've no great Bardling's strain

Joined to rich organ's pealing,

Yet none the less may Pleasure's train

Be softly near us stealing.

And should she deign to show her face,

To smile on us benignly,

Let's give to her a chaste embrace,

By no means most supinely.

What though we lack exciting cause

For loud, uproarious laughter?

Our temperate fare will not dispose

To heart-upbraidings after.

Yet we may well of mirth-enjoy

A reasonable measure;

And even skill and time employ

To gain so bright a treasure.

Avoiding still too great extremes,

Enjoy in moderation

The blessings which our Father deems

Best for us in each station.

Then we need have no vain regrets,

No consciences unruly,--

For sense of doing right begets

A sense of peace most truly.

ALCOHOL'S ARRAIGNMENT AND DOOM.

Alcohol! Alcohol! who are thy victims?

Come, answer me quickly; stand forth to the bar!

That frown most defiant

Will not make me pliant,

I've pledged myself firmly to wage with thee war.

For years thy dread shock

I have borne like a rock,

Still leaning for help on God's mighty aim.

Say, Alcohol, truly, who are thy victims?

"Of the rich and the poor, the good and the fair,

Mankind of each standing,

Know well I've a hand in

The havoc and ruin they see everywhere!

Daily with fury

From Still and from Brewery

I'm dealing out death without much alarm.

"Princes and Statesmen I count 'mongst my victims,

With painters and poets, philosophers sage,

Rich merchants, skilled doctors,

Cute lawyers, keen proctors,

Mechanics and laborers of each sex and age

Are found in my ranks,

And lured on by my pranks,

While I care not a pin what comes to them."

Then, Alcohol, tell me what do thy victims

In such vile standing while here in this world?

"They're spending their money

Not for milk and honey,

But for what will cause them to be quickly hurled

To that dreadful place

Where there is not a trace

Of richest mercy they here do contemn."

Alcohol, tell me what more are thy victims

As fruits of their orgies accomplishing here?

Asylums they're filling,

While jails by their swilling

Are constantly crowded, or far off or near;

And orphans are made

By this great liquor trade,

In thousands as all may very soon see!

Alcohol, listen the doom which awaits thee:

More than half of thy doings thou'st kept out of sight.

Every good man and true

Deems it is but thy due

That thou should'st be banished to Regions of Night.

And heart-broken mates,

With all orphans' sad fates,

Compel us to give forth this doom on thee.

TO MY BELOVED FRIEND MR. JAMES WOODYATT.

A CHRISTMAS LAY.

Woodyatt, this Christmas I devote

Some portion of my time to tell

In humble verse what God hath wrought

For us who're snatched as brands from hell.

The best of all my coaxing powers

To lure the Muse I'll freely spend,

Nor heed a whit the fleeting hours

Until my pleasing task shall end.

For I have found a friend in thee,

Such as I strove in vain to find

For twenty years; and this may be

A wonder to thy generous mind.

But so it is; and I would prize

The gift my God has kindly sent,

Nor quell the feelings which arise

Within my breast, till life be spent.

So, while my unlearned lyre I take,

Most gracious Muse, thy aid impart!

Thou canst not at such time forsake

Thy humble friend in this his Art.

No paltry theme shall form my lay

To such a friend at such a time.

Then let my thoughts in rich array

Come forth in gently flowing rhyme.

Nor wealth nor earthly pleasures make

The sum and substance of my song;

Such themes let grovelling rhymsters take,

Who write to please a worldly throng.

For him and me a better way

Remains, and I will freely sing

Of pleasures with most lustrous ray,--

Of those which from religion spring.

And well indeed may'st thou, dear friend,

Rejoice with me that God hath brought

Such sinful creatures to attend

Unto His voice who pardon brought.

I more than twice ten years have been

Within the Way to Endless Life.

Thou in the last few months hast seen

That Way with richest blessings rife.

And now, when seated round our fires,

Or when we take our walks abroad,

We seem as one in strong desires

To speak the praises of our God.

Big thoughts our kindred bosoms swell,

Deep gratitude our ardor fires,

Until we long for words to tell

The fervency that Love acquires;

And ponder as so well we may

Upon our present happy state

Compared with that in which we lay--

Objects of wrath at hell's dread gate.

We ask each other, Why is this?

Why are we favored thus of God?

Why are we made joint heirs of Bliss,

Destined to dwell in His abode?

Quickly the answer comes to hand:

Simply because of God's pure Grace.

And does not Love like God's demand

That we all seasons should embrace--

To speak to others of Christ's worth,

That they with us may fully share

The glories of our heavenly birth,

The riches He can freely spare?

Then let us, brother, with our might,

Work for Him while 'tis called To-day;

Looking above for strength, for light,

Press forward in this thrice-blest way.

Let us dig deep into that mine

Of hidden wealth stored in the Word,

And with strong faith all else resign

Just clinging solely to the Lord.

O, should our lives for years be spared,

May not one word or thought or deed

Unworthy God, be by us shared,

Who are from Satan's bondage freed.

1856.

TRIBUTARY VERSES,

WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY ON HEARING OF DR. O'CARR'S DEATH.

APRIL 18, 1854.

Sorrow stealeth o'er my spirit,

For I hear O'Carr is dead.

Once I tried to sing his merit,

After health began to fade.

Then I thought his end was nigh,

That he very soon would die,

When I saw that he was leaving

His sweet home for distant Isle,

Oft the thought my soul was grieving

"He might linger for a while

And then leave his wife and babe,

Far away o'er Ocean's wave."

Yet I know our loving Father

Often hears his children's prayers;

That he would at all times rather

Ease them of their ills and cares,

Than lay on a single stroke,

If not needful 'neath his yoke.

And I thought he then would listen

To our supplications strong;

That each countenance might glisten

With sweet joy ere very long:

Joy from seeing him come back,

Having of good health no lack.

When I heard of his returning,

And how he was sinking fast,

Soon my soul was strongly yearning

To be with him ere he passed

From these earthly scenes away

To enjoy Eternal Day.

This, my wish, kept growing stronger,

As each day flew o'er my head,

Till I felt I could no longer

Brook delay, when lo! he's dead.

Now I prize this pleasing thought,

He to Bliss is safely brought.

While hot tears bedim the vision

Of dear friends who mourn his death,

May they manifest decision

By the wondrous power of Faith,

In belief that those who sleep

Safe in Jesus shall not weep.

We are not forbid to sorrow,--

Jesus wept at Lazarus' tomb.

Soon will come the glorious Morrow

Which shall chase away our gloom;

If we put our trust in God,

And still seek to kiss His Rod.

STANZAS,

SUGGESTED BY THE DREADFUL RAILWAY ACCIDENT AT THE DESJARDINS

CANAL, MARCH 12, 1857.

Deep gloom pervades my spirit, and great sorrow fills my breast

With an overwhelming sense, which leaves me but little rest,

For a dreadful stroke has fallen on the town in which I live,

And sympathy and condolence I would most gladly give.

I have gone through many a street since this event transpired,

Seen the faces of my townsmen in grief sincere attired,

Heard them make sad remarks, seen tears bedim their eyes,

While from every feeling bosom burst forth responsive sighs.

The stranger in our midst might well wonder why we're sad,

For tokens of prosperity can everywhere be had.

The river has not risen to a mighty swelling flood,

Nor raging fire destroyed the homes of the Evil and the Good.

No pestilence like a serpent, with dread envenomed fangs

Has seized the young and beautiful and filled our souls with pangs.

Then why has gloom profound so settled on each face,

And the finger-prints of sorrow left on us so dark a trace?

Ah! loving hearts left homes all filled with family delight.

Full of hope and joyous feelings, never dreaming of a blight

To prospects of enjoyment that awaited their return,

Where the smiles of wives and children make true love the brighter

burn.

In such a happy state of mind they to Toronto went,

And accomplished all their objects in the time which had been spent.

Now, with still lighter hearts they make for home again,

And in the cars meet many of their traveling fellow men.

Drawn by the snorting Iron Horse along the track they flew,

What danger might be lurking near was hidden from their view.

On, on, still on they went to a bridged precipice,

When the Bridge gave way and all were hurled into the dread abyss!

The locomotive like a demon took first the fatal leap,

Dragging the human-freighted cars with speed into the deep

One plunged with him beneath the dark and icy wave,

And one stood upright on its end, as if some few to save.

Oh, my soul shrinks back with horror from dwelling on the scene

Which met the gaze of anxious friends who to that place have been.

I'd rather dwell upon the fact that Death to some was Life;

That they have gained by having done so soon with earthly strife.

What thoughts filled all the bosoms of that mixed devoted band

Is only known to God Most High, who, in his mighty hand

Holds all our life and breath as his own most sovereign gift,

And who alone can mortals shield from such destruction swift.

O, I know that some there died who had tasted of his grace,

And sudden death to them was summons to the place

Prepared by Jesus for his Saints in the mansions of the Blest,

And they now are drinking of the sweets of Everlasting Rest.

Amongst these we gladly number the three* whom we have lost,

In sympathy with the bereaved would try to count the cost;

But oh, 'twould prove a fruitless task; then, while we feel so sore,

Let us humbly bow our hearts to God and worship and adore.

*Mr. and Mrs. John Russell and Mr. Secord, who were well known as

consistent Christians by all who had the pleasure of their

acquaintance. All left large families and a numerous circle of friends

to mourn their shocking and untimely end.

TRIBUTARY STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LAYCOCK, WHO WAS ACCIDENTALLY KILLED WHILE

ON A PROFESSIONAL JOURNEY, DECEMBER 10, 1857.

Tumultuous feelings like a torrent rush

Athwart my soul and bear my spirit down.

Pent up awhile they from my bosom gush

In such wild measure as I scarce have known.

For one I loved as friend for many years

Has met a shocking end in Manhood's prime!

And this dire stroke prospective pleasure sears,

As grass is scorched by Sol in torrid clime.

Living as neighbors, Friendship's sacred bond

Grew stronger every time we visits paid.

He, undeterred by business would respond

To my desire, and list the songs I made.

Oft at such times he has my Mentor proved,

Doing his best to aid me in my Art,

By prudent counsel which I dearly loved,

Proceeding as it did from kindly heart.

Now with bold hand I strike my rude harp's strings,

And sing a funeral dirge o'er his sad bier.

Up, up, my Muse, and sail aloft on wings

Of tuneful pathos while I shed a tear.

No more shall this kind friend thy efforts guide,

Listening thy mournful or thy joyous strains.

Death suddenly has torn him from the side

Of her he loved, who shared his joys and pains.

And I no more on Earth shall see his face,

Or hear his praise or censure of my songs,

Nor yet will he most critically trace

What of true poesy to them belongs.

No more will he, well pleased, sweet music bring

From our melodeon, while we join in praise.

His soul untrammeled now on high will sing

In God's pure worship and angelic lays.

His frame, too weakly for his ardent soul,

Will feel fatigue no more by night or day.

But then no more he'll take with me a stroll

By our fine stream, soft murmuring on its way.

Nor yet, with pleasure great, hold deep discourse

On many subjects dear alike to both:

Tracing the stream of Truth up to its Source,

To do which fully he was nothing loth.

No more will he to an attentive throng

Give well-timed lectures for his Country's weal;

Yet his remembrances will live among

Those whom his conduct taught his worth to feel.

Ah me! that it should e'er have been my lot

To sing in soul-wrung anguish this sad strain!

For, while his friendship will not be forgot,

I long may wait to find such friend again.

BRANTFORD, December 12, 1857.

SONG OF THE CANADIAN CRADLER.

1858.

With my cradle scythe, feeling brisk and blithe,

In the breeze-tempered heat of this fine day;

I'll haste to the field with the wheaten yield,

And there will I manfully cut my way.

Now in all my walks, with broad, rapid strokes;

I bring down the waving grain quite low.

Every sweep I try seems to make it sigh,

But cheerful on, and still on I go.

I heed not the sweat, making my clothes wet,

The toil and care will be well repaid;

For this golden store drives want from my door,

And the surplus is farmers' profit made.

Binder now keep pace, for this hard-run race

Will tell on the field ere night come in;

And rest will be sweet in our plain retreat,

Until a new day with its toil begin.

O, I think I see with exhuberant glee,

The _shocks_ in good order standing round,

And well-laden teams in my bright day-dreams,

Are now trotting briskly over the ground.

Then hasten the day when our grain and hay

Well secured beneath our good barn dome--

Will inspire our hearts to perform their parts

In the cherished joy of Harvest Home.

STANZAS,

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. B. HOWARD AND HIS FAMILY AS A TRIBUTE

OF RESPECT ON THEIR DEPARTURE FROM BRANTFORD, AUGUST, 1858.

Howard, thy fervid Christian zeal,

Combined with large amount of love,

So blessed to bonny Brantford's weal,

So truly owned by God above,

Lead me, ere from our midst thou move

With those who form thy family,

To seek assistance from that Dove--

Inspirer of true Poesy,

That I may sing a well-timed lay;

One which may thy best feelings suit,

And thou may'st read when far away

With pleasure, as the genuine fruit

Of well-spent years that are not mute,

But which have spoke in loudest tone

To some who have been most astute,

As I in truth would frankly own.

They've told us of a work begun

Amongst thy people, brought quite low

By worldliness, which Saints should shun

If God's pure will they seek to know,

Or wish in safety's path to go.

Thou foundest them in this sad state

And to the yoke thy neck didst bow

With ardor, for thy soul was great.

Satan, no doubt, with jealous eye

Watched keenly for thy halting then;

But thy Redeemer, ever nigh,

Made much of his dread malice vain.

He spake the word and wicked men

Fell down before the high-raised Cross,

And forthwith steadily refrain

From pleasures now viewed but as dross.

Backsliding Christians trembling came

To that blest place--neglected long,

And there rekindled worship's flame,

And freely owned they had been wrong.

Then, feeling sense of pardon strong,

Afresh they family altars raise--

On which to offer sacred Song,

And join sweet prayer to grateful praise.

But 'tis a small, small part indeed

Of what God had for thee to do

Which I can sing; so I proceed

To waft my meed of tribute through.

For I would name, with pleasure too,

The part performed by thy good wife.

O, that I could in measure due

Descant upon her Christian life.

No party motives sway my soul,

Nor thirst for paltry worldly fame;

But feelings I need not control

Prompt me to dwell on her dear name.

Sweet sufferer, deem me not to blame

If I have sacred rapture felt

In noting freely since you came,

The virtues that with you have dwelt.

I frequent heard from one who saw

You lying oft on bed of pain,

How bright in you was love's pure glow,

Meek Patience following in his train.

Now, could we see our loss your gain,

Pleased we would bid you all depart;

And might from vain regrets refrain

Glad still to cherish you at heart.

GRUMBLINGS.

Man professes to be humble,

Signs himself "your servant, sir!"

But he's very prone to grumble,

Till it forms his character.

Grumbles he about the weather,

Now too hot, anon too cold;

Fancies oft 'tis both together

Ere the day is twelve hours old.

Then the dryness of the season

Rouses up anew his ire;

Next its wetness without reason

Makes him grumbling bolts to fire.

Grumbles he of prospects darkening,

Now, because _hard times_ have come,

And to evil promptings hearkening

By much grumbling spoils his home.

Hard to please in point of dinner,

Flings he grumblings at his wife,

Breaking her dear heart--the sinner!

Inch by inch in daily life.

Nor at night are matters mended;

Grumbles he if supper's late.

She had need to be offended,

Being tied to such a mate.

For a little kind enquiry

Of existing state of things

Might well curb his temper fiery,

As each day her troubles brings.--

Bonny Fred's about his teething,

Jane is sick in bed of mumps,

Chris from croup has labored breathing,

Maid-of-all work has the dumps.

Often thus are grumblings marring

Man's great duties in the world;

Filling it with strife and jarring,

Till God's judgments forth are hurled.

Grumblers sometimes vent their spite in

Gross abuse of those in power,

Promise well to show their might in

Doing right, had they their hour.

Give it them, and still they grumble,

Having not got all they want;

Neither are they longer humble,

Which but proves them full of _cant_.

Many will not cease their grumbling

Till death puts a stop to it.

May God save all such from tumbling

Into the eternal Pit!

VERSES,

SUGGESTED BY THE FEARFUL ACCIDENT ON THE GREAT WESTERN R. R.

NEAR COPETOWN, ON THE NIGHT OF THE 18TH MARCH, 1859.

March, with his usual terrors armed,

Resolved again to mark his flight

O'er the "Great Western," which has swarmed

With human freight by day and night.

Leagued closely, with a mischievous crew,

Held by stern winter in reserve,

He up and down the doomed track flew,

But did not from his purpose swerve.

His eye he fixed upon a part--

A deep embankment on a slope,

And joy o'erflowed his chilly heart

While lingering near the town of Cope.

Musing, he to himself thus spoke:

"Here shall my darling scheme be tried;

I and my gang at one bold stroke

Can easily produce a slide.

"Better to serve my purpose foul

I'll fix it for the eighteenth night,

And raise such storm as may appal

The bravest soul that lacks daylight!"

Then, as by some mysterious spell

He called for elemental strife.

Forth came dread clouds as black as hell

That seemed with every mischief rife.

Impelled by many a howling blast,

Uniting in terrific roar,

They down their fearful contents cast,

And quickly a deep chasm tore.

The midnight train came rushing on,

Nor dreamt the passengers of death.

Nor thought perhaps that ere day's dawn

God would call some to yield their breath.

With furious speed the Iron Horse

Plunged headlong in the new-formed deep,

While raging elements their force

Spend as if laughing at the leap.

Dragged swiftly down is every car

Save one, the last of all the train,

And still the storm prolongs the war

With drifting snow or pelting rain.

Imagination scarce conceives

The shrieks, the groans, the heart-wrung wails,

Which rent the air! One yet believes

They did exceed what's told in tales.

And still the wind its keenest darts

Hurls at the living and the dead.

Blest then were those whose fearful hearts

Could cling to Christ who for them bled.

A TRIBUTE

TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. THOMAS FAWCETT WHO LOST HIS LIFE BY

THE ACCIDENT ABOVE MENTIONED.

Fawcett, twelve years have swiftly fled

Since first we one another knew.

Then mutual sufferings quickly led

To friendship which but stronger grew.

The Angel Death hath ta'en thy wife

From thy loved arms to dwell above;

I the sweet partner of my life

Had lost, and sadly missed her love.

Joy seized our sympathetic souls

As each to each his trials told;

We found that Bible Truth consoles

For loss of wives--worth more than gold.

Left with young families each was soon

Compelled again to seek a mate;

In love Heaven gave once more the boon

Of partners suiting well our state.

Laboring as Gospel Minister,

Thou Brantford left for other place,

Yet did thou not, I can aver,

Neglect to tell of God's rich grace.

Nobly thy work thou did'st pursue,

With a fair share of good success;

Daily grew clearer in thy view

The Scripture plan of Happiness.

At last amongst the poor Red Men,

Who needed much thy pastoral care,

Thy lot was cast, and O how fain

They were such ministry to share.

Of this we had the fullest proofs

When thy sad end to them was known;

Wailings were heard beneath their roofs,

And other signs of grief were shown.

They'll miss thee much, as Sabbath day

Brings fresh thy memory to their mind,

And gratefully a tribute pay

To thee--in thine thus left behind.

Oh! how can I now further sing?

How tell the horrors of that blow

Which caused thy death, when each rude string

Of my poor lyre doth tremble so?

Ah, me! that one on mercy bent,

Hasting to his sick brother's side,

Should be from life thus strangely rent,

And have his faith so greatly tried!

Peace! God All-wise gave this dread shock

And took his soul with Him to dwell.

He to the last stood on that Rock

Which can withstand the rage of Hell.

A TRIBUTE

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. RICHARD FOLDS, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE

APRIL 21, 1859.

"The Righteous are taken away from the evil to come."

This truth may to Christians in darkness be shrouded,

While mourning for friends in the grave newly laid,

But a time will soon come when the Dayspring unclouded

Of doubt, from our souls shall dispel every shade.

These words to his people by God have been spoken,

To light up their passage on Life's dreary way,

And each day's fresh mercy is from Him a token

That he will prove to them a Comfort and Stay.

This friend, who by conduct to us so endearing

Has drawn from us sympathy, called forth our love,

Is gone--O, the thought is transportingly cheering!

To join the glad throng of Redeemed Ones above.

And we who have witnessed his pure conversation

Have listened to Truths which he uttered so well,

Rejoice that the theme of Christ's glorious Salvation

Was that upon which he delighted to dwell.

His constant infirmities were but refining

A soul well endowed by both choice gifts and rare,

And he through a long course of years has been shining

By light gained from Heaven, which guided him there.

Friends, let these remembrances cheer and delight you,

And patiently wait till your own change shall come.

The death of dear Richard should not now affright you,

Since he through that portal has passed to his home.

TO THE HUMMING BIRD.

1859

Hail to thee, Humming Bird

Beauteous and bright,

That flitt'st like a spirit

Before my rapt sight!

I bid thee a welcome

To sip from my flowers

The rich, honied produce

Of sunshiny hours.

O, be not so easily

Moved to depart!

Thy presence is cheering

To my saddened heart.

Thine shall be the treasures

Of clove-currant trees

And bells of the Columbine

Prized by the Bees.

My odorous tulips

I will with thee share,

Nor grudge thee the blossoms

Of apple or pear.

The sweet-scented woodbine

I shall not withhold,

Nor rare perfumed lilies,

Like pure burnished gold.

O then, pretty Humming Bird,

Stay thou with me,

Midst bright blushing roses

So charming to see.

I'll hail thee at morning

Or woo thee at noon--

Thy presence at all times

Regard as a boon.

Then why be so anxious

My garden to leave?

Know'st thou that I never

Attempt to deceive?

I would not confine thee

In cage if I could:

I glory in Freedom--

The best earthly good.

Then, Humming Bird, listen

My earnest appeal;

The love I have for thee

I cannot conceal.

My children, too, love thee,

My wife does the same,

And I am in transports

At sound of thy name.

TO THE SAME.

JUNE, 1859.

Whence, and what art thou? O thou beauteous little thing!

That like a dazzling sprite

Appearest in my sight,

Sipping from sweet flower-cups the honey stores of Spring.

I have sought for many days to find a proper word

As a fitter name for thee

More pleasing unto me,

But cannot find a better than that of Humming Bird.

True, I might thee call A Fluttering Ray of Light

Decked in prismatic hues,

Which a radiance diffuse

Just like a beam of glory straying from a Seraph bright.

Yea, I could picture thee as a new-born infant's soul,

Bidding adieu to Earth

A moment after birth,

But having love for flowers which it scarcely can control.

Or, I might describe thee as a precious, new-coined thought

Illumined by the Truth,

Always enjoying youth,

Till into Wisdom's Temple 'tis by its Builder wrought.

Yet, whatever thou may'st be, or howsoever called,

Thou'rt welcome to remain--

My garden sweets to drain,

And a lonely _Vision_ be evermore enrolled.

FIRE SONG.

TUNE, "AULD LANG SYNE."

When the wild cry of fire is heard

Borne on the midnight air,

And those who listen soon are stirred

To anxious ask "Where? Where?"

Our Firemen brave, full bent to save,

Rush to their engine room;

And flushed with hope they grasp each rope,

And with the "Rescue" come.

CHO.--Hurrah, then! for the firemen brave!

Who with stout hearts and arms

Are bent our lives and goods to save--

Not fearing fire's alarms.

While still the cry is going round,

And bells peal forth their notes,

The engine comes with rumbling sound,

Dragged by our bold "Red Coats."

And there too, rush, as if they'd crush

The ground on which they tread,

The band of "Hook and Ladder," who look

Truly devoid of dread!

CHO.--Hurrah, boys! for the fire brigade--

The men resolved to stand

In danger's front and bear the brunt

Of this foe to our land.

When fire is reached and water got;

In haste the hose they lay;

They fall to work, each brave "red coat,"

By night as well as day.

And now the hook and ladder boys--look!

Have made their "grapples" fast

To that huge frame midst glowing flame,

And down it comes at last.

CHO.--Hurrah, then! for the Fire Brigade,

Who heed not flame and smoke;

They work as though such working made

The zest of some good joke!

THE FIRE ALARM.

JUNE, 1859

Fire--fire--fire! Nigher still and nigher

Seem the tones of the "Alarum bell" borne on the air!

Awaking with a start, what a sinking of the heart

Even the strong are apt to feel, ere they are well aware!

Fire--fire--fire! Higher now and higher

Leaps the madly raging flames as the cry goes round!

In the darkness of the night what a truly awful sight

Is the burning up of homes, while we listen to the sound.

Fire--fire--fire! Behold the havoc dire!

When the black, wreathing smoke a moment clears away--

The flames both hiss and roar as the brave firemen pour

Constantly the crystal streams from Engines in full play.

Fire--fire--fire! Fresh force it does acquire!

The rising wind has sent the blaze unto the other side!

Yet men are standing round in torpor most profound;

Rouse ye up! now fall to work, and let your strength be tried!

Fire--fire--fire! Two blocks seem one vast pyre.

Oh, pity the poor houseless ones--fleeing now away!

Screen them from Winter's blast, for they are on you cast--

That sympathy in measure their losses may repay.

Fire--fire--fire! Thank God, the flames expire!

For a cold, but drenching rain most opportunely comes.

Now honor that Brigade which has such efforts made,

And don't forget your neighbors who have just lost their homes.

MY OLD ARM CHAIR.

1859.

My old Arm Chair! The wear and tear

Thou hast endured for me,

Long ere this time deserved a rhyme

Expressly made to thee.

When I thee bought, thy varnished coat

And well proportioned frame

My house adorned, and no one scorned

Thee Rocking Chair to name.

But since that day, my bairns in play,

Have tumbled thee about,

Till thou appears well struck with years,

And truly nigh worn out.

Dear to my heart--I'm loth to part

With such a well tried friend;

Yet even repairs to old arm chairs

Must some time have an end.

I've patched thee oft; and cushions soft

Those patches somewhat screen;

Still, thy poor arms--reft of paint's charms

Are scarce fit to be seen.

The rockers, too, I did renew--

Will hardly yield a rocking.

But out of sight to cast thee quite

Would, to my mind, be shocking.

I therefore say: Thou here shalt stay

As long as I remain;

And no neglect I can detect

Shall cause thee to complain.

Farewell, Arm Chair! thou canst not fare

Much worse than I have done;

For, by my pen, from fellow men

Large share of scorn I've won.

A TRIBUTE

TO THE BRAVERY OF MY COUSIN, MRS. T. A. COWHERD, WHO CROSSED

THE ATLANTIC IN MID-WINTER WITH THREE HELPLESS CHILDREN, AND UNDER VERY

TRYING CIRCUMSTANCES.

1855.

Dear cousin, I hail you as Mother most brave,

Who crossed in mid-winter Atlantic's broad wave!

What you had to suffer in part I conceive,

Though no gloomy story you made me believe.

Assisted by Fancy I see your sad plight,

Before busy Liverpool passed from your sight;

On shipboard I view you with three little babes,

While the vessel rides proudly o'er blue ocean waves.

One small, year-old infant then hangs at your breast,

And one child much older disturbs your night's rest

By her frequent wailings from sickness most sore.

The third is but young and yet needs watching o'er.

I still look and wonder how you could bear up,

When drinking so deeply of this bitter cup.

I picture you gazing, with tears in your eyes,

Upon the poor sufferer and hushing her cries.

The vessel by dread winter tempests is tossed,

And many more favored give all up for lost.

But Hope--that sweet Angel! your courage supports,

And in these great trials to _trust God_ exhorts.

I fancy I see you while nearing the land,

On the ship's crowded deck in sorrow now stand,

Still watching your babe as she gives her last sigh;

Yet Thomas, your husband, to help is not nigh.

And then is most vividly brought to my view

_That_ Coroner's Inquest so trying to you;

The bearing your loved one away to the grave,

Though you, quite dejected, are still on the wave.

Oh, then I can paint, it is true but in part,

The anguish and grief of your warm loving heart,

Expecting at lodgings your partner to see,

As anxious as any fond mother can be.

Your painful suspense as day passed after day,

And trifle of money was melting away;

The pleasure which beamed in your calm, patient face,

When _that_ friend was able your sojourn to trace.

Your journey so cold and so cheerless at last,

Till you and the two tender children were cast

On kindness of strangers in reaching our town,

While Winter put on his most terrible frown.

My own keen emotions I need not express

When you first came here and I saw your distress.

Once more I would hail you as Mother most brave,

Who crossed in mid-winter Atlantic's broad wave.

CANADIANS' WELCOME

TO H. R. H. THE PRINCE OF WALES, 1860.

Canadians, welcome now the Prince--

Victoria's noble, first-born son;

Who comes amongst us to evince

How much his Mother's love we've won.

He comes not as, a despot's heir

From serfs their homage to demand.

He comes not with that outward glare

So suited to a slave-cursed land,

But as a freeman to the free,

His errand is of vast concern.

Then let us show our loyalty

By aiming sordidness to spurn.

And thus while he inaugurates

The wondrous triumph of Man's art*,

See that our conduct compensates

For right performance of his part.

*The Victoria bridge at Montreal.

Then shall his stay amongst us here

Fill him with memories so sweet

That he may, at no distant year,

Be led his visit to repeat.

And while he views our country, filled

With wonders of the vastest kind,

May grain fields wide, industrious tilled,

And thriving Arts, please well his mind.

Eager to prove ourselves content

With British rule, and land so fair;

We gladly hail the Prince now sent,

And trust he will our blessings share.

A thousand welcomes then to you,

The Heir to loved Victoria's throne;

Canadians still to Freedom true,

Would warmly make their homage known.

BRANTFORD'S WELCOME

TO THE PRINCE OF WALES, 1860.

Welcome, thrice welcome, to our fair town,

Albert Edward, the heir to Brittania's Crown!

We hail this your visit

With feelings exquisite,

And all party spirit most cheerfully drown

In the joy of the day;

While we earnestly pray

That God's richest blessings may compass your way.

No Niagara's vast glories have we,

No Bridge spanning River as wide as a sea;

Yet we have a county

Whose soil, for its bounty,

Surpassed is by none in this clime of the FREE..

_The Garden_, 'tis named,

Of all Canada, famed

For choicest of land, though but lately reclaimed.

We have no splendid buildings to show,

No Millionaire's palace that might notice draw,

But yet we may boast of

A very fair host of

Both women and men who their duty well know.

While sweet girls and bright boys

Sympathize in our joys,

As your Highness can see by their truth-speaking eyes.

Nor yet men with great titles have we;

But some meet you here brave as bravest can be.

These have been no strangers

To greatest of great dangers,

When war's horrid front threatened Liberty's tree.

Both Red Men and White

Mingled then in the fight,

And still live together to stand for the RIGHT.

Our good town, as your Highness well knows,

Is called after one long released from life's woes.

His memory we cherish,

And gladly would nourish

The motives that led him to march against foes.

For brave Captain Brant

Did most eagerly pant

The Flag of true Freedom in these parts to plant.

Welcome, thrice welcome to our fair town,

Albert Edward, the heir to Brittania's Crown!

No niggardly measure

Would we yield of pleasure,

To you and your Suite, as you doubtless will own.

For we British rule prize,

And would strengthen the ties

Binding us to VICTORIA, the good and the wise.

A CALL FOR HELP FOR GARIBALDI.

1860

Canadian freemen, one and all,

Respond to Garibaldi's call,

And help him now to speed the fall

Of fair Italia's foes.

Our God this year abundance sends,

Oh, spend it not for selfish ends,

But give to him who RIGHT defends,

And strives to heal her woes.

See him as he unselfish stands,

Surrounded by his patriot bands--

The admiration of all lands--

Wave Freedom's banner high.

He moves--acclaiming thousands wait

To open wide each city gate.

And trust to him their future fate--

Assured redemption's nigh.

Whole-souled and brave as man can be,

He fights alone for Liberty;

Nor will he rest till Italy

Shake off her tyrants' chains.

This done he seeks not high estate;

Success does not his soul elate;

In lowliness he can be great,

For meanness he disdains.

Can we to such a one deny

Assistance? when to do or die

He passes outward splendors by

In singleness of heart?

Forbid it, ye of British blood!

Forbid it all who seek for good.

Rise! show that you have understood

An honest freeman's part!

Let not this noble Patriot's fate

Be such as was Kossuth's the Great.

May their magnific deeds create

A glow of sympathy

Which shall increase till every chain

Enslaving man be snapped in twain,

And universal Freedom reign

In glorious majesty.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE'S ACCOUNT OF LINCOLN'S

DEPARTURE FROM SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, FOR WASHINGTON.

He stood--the noble Lincoln--calm, though, sad,

About to part from those with whom he lived

So many years in sweetest amity.

Before him prospects which might well appal

The stoutest heart. His country, fondly cherished,

But erst so great and fair, the humbled victim

Of black traitors' arts, and on the verge

Of fearful ruin's widely yawning gulf.

While recollections of domestic bliss,

Such as but few enjoy, might well indeed

Make him quite loth to leave his much loved home.

With steady eye he views the concourse vast,

Big thoughts fast welling from his inmost soul

Too big for utterance. Yet a few choice words

Steal forth and fall upon attentive ears:

"Here have I lived for many, many years;

Here were my children born, and one beneath

The graveyard sod rests now in death, at peace!

I know not when each dear familiar face

Now left behind may glad my eyes again;

But this I know--a duty greater far

Than ever fell to man since Washington

Held Governmental reins, now falls to me.

Without God's aid he never could have known

Success. Upon that Being placed he still

His firm reliance, and succeeded well.

Succeed I cannot without aid Divine

Imparted to me in this hour of need.

I place in God my trust; and oh, my friends,

Pray you for me that I may have His help!

Then shall success, such as we well may crave,

Be mine for certain in this crisis dread.

I bid you all affectionate farewell."

This heard with throbbing hearts the gazing throng;

And, deeply moved within their bosom's depths,

Responded soon, "We will all pray for you!"

Upon this scene might Angels fondly gaze,

And place 't on record in high Heaven's archives,

That Lincoln, feeling his own weakness much,

His burden cast upon the Lord of all.

Go thus, thou chosen one, and firmly stand

For Truth and Freedom in the Halls of State!

Let no time-serving policy be thine;

But, placing round thee men of sterling worth,

Grasp tight the reins of Constitutional sway.

If go they will, let dupes of Slavery go,

And reap the baneful fruit they've nurtured long.

In this they'll find a certain, speedy cure,

For madness such as they have always shown.

Go, Lincoln, then, and if Canadians' prayers

May aught avail, thou may'st their prayers command.

FEBRUARY, 1861.

"Sumpter has Fallen, but Freedom is Saved."

(_New York Tribune, April, 1861_.)

Thank God 'tis so! for now we know

All compromise is ended.

List Lincoln's call, then freemen, all

Who have from braves descended.

Your Stripes and Stars, ye gallant tars,

Keep proudly o'er you waving;

Strike for the _right_ with all your might,

Stern danger freely braving!

Ye Soldier hosts, stand to your posts

Like Anderson, unflinching.

Those Southern foes need heavy blows

To cure them of their "lynching."

A traitor's fate may them await,

But yet their monstrous madness

May work you woe for aught ye know,

And fill the world with sadness.

Innocent blood--of this a flood

For vengeance loud is calling!

And God's light hand shall blast that land

With plagues the most appalling,

Which dares to hold from love of gold

Poor slaves in galling fetters!

Rise, East--West--North! Your might put forth,

For you are Freedom's debtors!

SONG.

MY LOVE IS NO GAY, DASHING MAID.

My love is no gay, dashing maid,

With rosy cheeks and golden curls,

Nor high-born lady well arrayed

In glittering diamonds and pearls.

Yet she is a lovely, loving wife,

Who can blithely sing while working well;

And so happy is our married life,

That I on its pleasures fondly dwell.

O my love is no gay, dashing maid,

But a wife in matronly worth, arrayed.

I've seen young girls of beauty rare,

With ruby lips and sparkling eyes,

Use all their charms to form a snare

By which to carry off a _prize_.

I've noted the wedded life of such,

Oft finding them slatterns void of love;

And none need wonder so very much

If I value high my turtle dove.

For she is no vain, dashing maid,

But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.

Through years of matrimonial care,

And constant toil from day to day,

To me her face has still been fair,

As if her charms would ne'er decay.

And our house is full of girls and boys,

The pledges sweet of a sacred love,

Sent to keep young and bright the joys

Which many with wealth oft fail to prove.

O my love is no gay, dashing maid,

But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.

THE SEWING MACHINE.

1861.

I sing the Sewing Machine,

The blessings it brings to the fair.

Some of those blessings I've seen,

And therefore its praises declare.

'Tis a curious thing

Of which I now sing,

And poets have sung it before me;

But if the theme's good,

'Twill be well understood

I'm right in prolonging the story.

Well finished Sewing Machine!

Whose form is so graceful and neat;

Thou of inventions art Queen,

And to look at thy work is a treat.

Each nice burnished wheel,

With the plate of pure steel,

Thy gold bedecked arms and the gauges,

All speak of the skill

Which the genius at will

Puts forth in the work that he wages.

Wonderful Sewing Machine!

No visions of gloom and despair

Float over my mind serene,

As I thy performance compare

To the old-fashioned stitch,

The dread sorrows which

Accompanied work by the fingers

Of those forced to sew

'Midst a life full of woe.

With pity my soul on it lingers.

Excellent Sewing Machine!

Thy musical click-a-click-click,

Removes far away the spleen

From those who of toiling are sick.

Thy task speeds along,

While the fair ones in song

Give vent to their feelings of gladness.

How diff'rent I ween

From the sight often seen

By HOOD with a heart full of sadness.

[Footnote: See "Song of the Shirt."]

Dutiful Sewing Machine!

Now cheerfully stitching away,

Neatly and quickly, as seen

In the things by my wife made to-day;

Enraptured am I,

For no heart-bursting sigh

Escapes from the dear operator;

But a smile of delight

Is now alwavs in sight,

Of happiness sweet indicator.

Beautiful Sewing Machine!

How thankful am I to the man

Through many years who has been

Thus carefully forming thy plan!

May smiles from the fair,

Rid of much toil and care--

Shine on him, in moments of anguish.

May their tender hands

To obey his commands

Be ready, should he in life languish.

TABBY AND TIBBY.

As Tabby and Tibby were playing one day,

I, watching their frolicksome mood,

Greatly wondered they never got tired of play,

But the secret I soon understood.

For, listening, I hear on the drum of the ear,

These thoughts in cat language conveyed--

The which I interpret lest it should appear

Of telling the truth I'm afraid.

Said Tabby to Tibby: "Our master's downcast;

Else why are his looks full of gloom?

There's something like spectres in future or past,

Which strangely before his mind loom.

"So, daughter, still further in frolic indulge,

And thus chase his sadness away;

Our motives we need not to mortals divulge;

Then at it in right earnest play."

This said, she gave Tibby a sly, knowing wink,

And straight on her haunches sat down,

While Tibby, who is of all kittens the pink,

Laid the counsel safe by in her crown.

And now, as if struck by electrical shock,

The young one swift bounded aside,

And then with an air which would true valor mock,

Some strange soldiers' antics she tried.

Advancing, retreating, with rig well upreared,

Her looks testify to her ire;

And every manoeuvre, it is to be feared,

Will bring some calamity dire.

But meantime, the mother in calmest content,

And careless as cat could well be,

Just waited till Tibby's flash-valor was spent,

Yet now and then winking at me.

I judged from this fact that a wrinkle had struck,

To the depths of her sage cat-like brain;

And I thought of my beautiful kitten's ill-luck

In entering on such a campaign.

The thought had scarce flashed through the chambers of mind,

When she pounced like a tiger on prey!

Oh, horror! but stop! with relief I now find

They both were engaged in mere play.

But whether in play or real earnest, it seems

Young Tibby's no match for her mother;

So thus I now end this my first of cat dreams,

Not caring to write such another.

LINES

COMPOSED AT MR. M'LARTY'S, WEST MISSOURI, AUGUST 3,

1873.

McLarty, I can't leave your house,

Your darling daughter, charming spouse,

Without at least a single rhyme

Commemorating that sweet time

When I, with my beloved wife,

Shared your dear home, with comforts rife.

And now I backward cast my eye

O'er eight-and-twenty years, gone by,

Since first to you the land I sold

Which now you prize far more than gold.

Ah, then with trees 'twas covered o'er

Thousands of which are now no more;

But in their stead rich, waving grain,

On hill and dale and pleasant plain

Abundant grows; and year by year

Adds comforts to your home so dear.

Fair trout creek still flows softly by,

Though not so pleasing to the eye,

As when at first its stream I saw,

So many, many years ago.

For then no logs unshapely, rude,

Did on that beauteous creek intrude;

But o'er its smooth and gravelly bed

It held its course, and murmur shed

Like sweetest music on my ear,

And made me long to live just here.

But urgent duty called me hence,

To scenes less pleasing to the sense

Of one who had a poet's eye

For Nature's works. I bade good bye

To what so quickly had become

To me almost as dear as home.

And now, kind friends, we must return

To that same home, while bosoms burn

With platitude for kindness shown

To those you had so little known.

We linger still: 'tis hard to part

From you, when fondly heart to heart

Beats now, as if for years we'd been

Fast bound in friendship's bands serene.

God bless you all! we fervent pray,

And make you happier every day!

Should we in future meet no more,

O, may we all reach Canaan's shore.

FAMILY PIECES

LINES TO MY MOTHER,

WHO DIED WHEN I WAS ABOUT TWO YEARS OLD.

I had a mother once, and her dear name

Has power even now to thrill my very frame,

And call forth feelings which can only rise

When Love doth view its object in the skies.

So would I view thee, Mother, and rejoice

That I have power to raise my feeble voice

And tell what thoughts arise within my breast,

As thus I view thee entered into rest.

O, say, my Mother, canst thou see thy son?

Dost thou behold the poor, erratic one

Who has been tossed on Life's tempestuous wave

Till he has fairly longed to find his grave?

I fain would know if, when I heave a sigh,

Tears e'er bedim thy sympathetic eye?

When I have drunk so deep of heartfelt woe,

And: roved the vanity of all below,

Oh, say, my Mother, hast thou felt a share

Know'st thou what 'tis to be weighed down with care?

Why write I thus? for souls in heavenly bliss

Feel not our woes--know not what sorrow is--

Unless their past experiences they feel,

To aid, by contrast, in producing weal.

For it is written, "God shall wipe away

Tears from all faces," in Eternal Day!

Then let me rest content, and strive to show

True patience, while I suffer here below,

And follow Christ wherever he may lead:

Thus proving faith sincere by every deed.

O, then, whenever he may call me hence,

I shall be willing to leave time and sense

And mount aloft to dwell with God forever,

To taste that bliss from which naught can me sever.

TO MY WIFE.

Ellen, dear, it is clear

I have not half thy merits told;

Sweet of life, lovely wife,

More precious thou hast been than gold.

Listen now; truth I trow

Will be my guide while I relate

What pure love, sweetest dove,

Thou still hast shown in marriage state.

When I'm ill thou dost fill

The office of a comforter;

Soothing sickness with such quickness

That disease seems banished far.

If low spirits we inherit,

Thou swiftly drivest them away

By sweet song all day long,

Until I feel quite young and gay.

Then our house, tidy spouse,

Is kept by thee so trim and neat,

That from home I'll not roam

To try and find a snug retreat.

Of girls and boys, and many joys,

We have, my dearest, quite our share;

How to use them, not abuse them,

Should always be our constant care.

But alas! how soon pass

All present good desires away.

Feel we weakness? then in meekness

Let us unto our Father pray.

He is strong, and has long

Upheld us by His mighty arm;

O how glorious! Faith victorious

Will us preserve always from harm.

Then let us pray, love, day by day,

That our dear children may be brought

Into His fold, ere they are old:

Even as God himself hath taught.

O, what pleasure in rich measure

We then should feel, my own true love!

For naught ever could us sever,

But all at last would dwell above--

By God's grace in that place

Inhabited by Spirits bright.

This secured, we allured,

Might view by Faith the glorious sight.

TO THE SAME,

WHEN AWAY FROM HOME

Oh, when will my beloved come

To her own home again?

Surely it will not be my doom

To miss her always in each room,

And of her loss complain.

Dear Chris and Jenny wish her home,

And ask why she's not here;

And I in quest of her would roam,

But fear to miss her much-loved form,

Which I would hope is near.

Yet I would not impatient be;

Thou art on Mother tending.

Thy love to her I like to see.

It will not lessen mine to thee,

Until my life is ending.

And should'st thou stay another week,

A month, or even a year--

Thy conduct past would loudly speak

Thy faithfulness, thy spirit meek,

And say I've naught to fear.

Then stay, my dear, till thou hast done

All that thy mother needed;

Yet just remember there is one

Who will be sadly woe-begone,

His loneliness unheeded.

For well I know that such a wife

Is better far than gold;

And all the joys of bachelor life,

However free from care and strife,

On my mind take no hold.

Just now her brother brings me word

That I must go and see her.

For all the joys this will afford

May I be thankful to the Lord,

And go from care to free her.

Within an hour I see her face

Bedecked with smiles to greet me,

But yet she seems in woeful case,

For marks of _toothache_ I can trace

As she comes forth to meet me.

We spend the night with th' dear old folk,

The moments quickly fly,

While we link-armed start on a walk,

But soon return to sing and talk--

The fire all sitting by.

Upon the morrow then return

To home, "sweet home," again.

Our hearts afresh with love do burn,

As we at hand our house discern,

And all it does contain.

TO MY DEAR LITTLE BOYS,

JAMES, CHRISTOPHER AND ALFRED.

Three lovely boys who bear my name,

Have all upon me equal claim,

And seem to ask a rhyme from me--

A humble poet as you see.

James, Christopher and Alfred, dear,

You often do my spirit cheer,

Each in his own most charming way,

From hour to hour, from day to day.

James by his often tuneful mood,

And other things best understood

By a fond parent, at the time,

To he as sweet as music's chime.

In him, though young, my eye can trace

A something in his pretty face

Which shows strong passion lurks within

That childish breast--the fruit of sin.

I also think I truly see

A trait somewhat too miserly.

I may be wrong--I hope I am,

For 'twould be sad in my sweet lamb.

Then Chris, what must I say of him,

Who shows us many a little whim?

But with it all displays affection

For one so young in much perfection,

And can forget his sorrows all,

Though his young heart he filled with gall.

If but his mother seem to cry

he upward turns his bright brown eye,

And asks so earnestly a kiss

That we're compelled to love our Chris.

Once, dear child, O strange to tell,

From brother Willie's knee he fell

And sadly burned his little arm,

Which greatly filled us with alarm.

He cried, as might have been expected,

And quick relief was not neglected.

But while his heart was fit to burst,

He spied a wound on Mamma's hand,

And though his own w as far the worst,

The sight of Hers he could not stand.

He ceased his crying, gave a sigh,

"Poor Mamma's sore," [Footnote: A literal fact] became his cry.

My darling child, this act of thine

Makes me right glad to call thee mine.

But I must hasten; one remains

Who well deserves my ablest strains.

This is my Alfred--lovely babe

A smiling cherub sure art thou,

How can I best describe thy charms?

How can I write about thee now?

Nearly four months have passed away

Since thou first saw the light of day;

And in that time we've hardly had

One tedious night with thee, my lad.

By day thy chirruping and smiles

Thy own dear mother's heart beguiles,

And makes me run a dreadful risk

Of falling to idolatry!

But let me tell thee, little _Frisk_,

This will not do for thee or me!

'Tis time to quit; I cease to write,

And bid my precious babes good night!

TO ALFRED,

JUST LEARNING TO WALK

1854

O, Alfred dear, thou wilt, I fear,

Get burned before 'tis long;

Thy little tricks with fiery sticks

Have called forth this my song.

That roguish eye seems to defy

All I can say or do.

Thy chubby face does not disgrace

The food thou art used to.

Come now, my boy, thy skill employ

In walking to Papa;

Well, now, my child, I own I smiled

To see thee choose thy _Ma_.

But still I will that thou fulfill

My just commands to thee;

Sometime I shall soon make thee squall

For disobeying me!

And now a walk or else some talk

I do insist upon;

But mind that chair or thou wilt fare

Not cry well, my son!

Thy limbs are strong, so don't be long,

Nor mind that little mountain;

Ah, down he goes! and out there flows

Big tear-drops from their fountain.

Fear not, my son, thou hast well done;

I'll wipe thy tears away,

And lie in hopes on Life's rough slopes

Thou wilt not go astray.

Now come again, I can't refrain

From tuning one more trial;

Don't stagger on so woe-begone,

But use some self-denial.

Thou wilt have need if thou succeed

In life, to use it often,

And I have found in moving round

It does life's trials soften.

Mind thou the stove! nor further rove,

For fear thou get a burning

Let not thine eyes in such surprise

Upon thy Pa be turning.

See, there at last thou hast got past

The dangers which beset thee,

So in my arms, proud of thy charms,

I'll hug thee if thou let me.

I fain would hope that thou wilt cope

With ills besetting mortals,

Depending on God's Arm alone,

And so reach Heaven's portals.

TO AMELIA

MY LAST INFANT DAUGHTER

1854

On the fifth of chill November

Came my Amie unto me,

Adding one more lovely member

To my numerous family.

Daughter, thou art welcome truly

To the care we can bestow;

May we do our duty duly

While we stay with thee below.

Think not, daughter, we will slight thee,

Since so many claim our love;

Gladly--wish we to delight thee,

As we look for help Above.

Thou art to us, little charmer,

Dear as any child we own;

And our love to each grows warmer

For the sorrows we have known.

Take then, daughter, take our blessing,

It comes forth from loving hearts;

Though we shrink hot from confessing

Oft we fail to act our parts.

TO FREDRIC

Fred, thou art six months old

This very day!

And I no more withold

From thee a lay.

That rosy, smiling face--

Thou need not fear--

Has weeks since claimed a place

'Midst "rhyming gear."

Thy winning, childish pranks

Make further claim

To set thee in the ranks

Of infant fame.

But when I think what troubles

Thou hast passed through,

The obligation doubles

What I've to do--

In rhyming for thee, Fred,

My dark-eyed boy;

And I have left my bed

To sing the joy.

I feel from day to day

In seeing thee

So full of lively play--

Most sweet to see.

By such most lovely smiles,

Such crowing, too,

Ah, Fred, thy many wiles

Have charmed me through!

'Tis true _Ma_ lost much rest,

By day and night,

Through thee when so distressed.

Which scarce seemed right.

But doubtless 'twill be seen

To be for good,

Since God our Friend has been,

And by us stood.

Then, with this full in view

I 'll close my rhyme,

And hope that it may do

Thee good some time.

TO MY DAUGHTER IDA,

WHEN THREE MONTHS OLD.

1859.

Ida, it is a burning shame

That thy short, sweet poetic name

Has not a single lay called forth

From my _cranium_ since thy birth!

Thy pale-face, brown-eyed style of beauty

Every day points out my duty.

Conscience, too, whispers 'tis not right

That I this task should longer slight.

So now I take thee on my knee

And woo the Muse right eagerly,

In earnest hope she'll lend her aid

Until this tribute be well paid.

Ida, thou art of babes the best;

This much at least must be confessed,

Unless thy mother's words are wrong--

Words shadowing forth Affection strong.

Thou art indeed, sweet tempered pet,

As good a child as I have met.

And oh, my heart for thee' has bled,

When thou wert forced to be spoon-fed,

Because of Mamma's trying weakness.

Yet this thou didst still bear with meekness,

And ever from the first thy cries

Had for companions tearful eyes,

And such a mournful, piteous mien

As is not in bad temper seen.

When I saw this thou may'st be sure,

I felt quite ready to endure

Thy tediousness by night or day,

While mother on a sick-bed lay.

Now, as reward for all my toil,

Thou cheerest me by many a smile.

And while I gaze on thy sweet face

Bedecked with every infant grace,

My soul's best feelings are called Forth--

I see in thee increasing worth.

Say, sweetly smiling, pretty creature,

So perfect in each limb and feature,

What means that dreamy sort of look

Thou wear'st at times? Art thou then struck

With wonder at our household ways?

At brother's, sister's childish plays?

I would give something just to know

How thoughts within the mind can grow.

I fancy sometimes thou art thinking

On what's around thee or else drinking

Thou fill of heavenly visions sweet,

Such as would prove to me a treat:

Art silent still? Ah, then, young Miss,

Thou must eve'n give a parting kiss!

Farewell, my dear, my lovely child,

Fair Ida, with the look so mild!

TO MY WIFE,

ON THE THIRTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING DAY

SEPT. 26, 1860.

A thousand joys, my darling wife,

Be thine on this our marriage day!

And now I'll sing; for such a life

As we have led deserves a lay

Fresh-gushing from a heart like mine--

By thee well known to be sincere.

O, where are charms compared with thine?

Which, after years of toil appear

More fresh and fair,

Though much of care

Has fallen daily to thy share.

On me old Time has marked his flight--

My outward frame doth tell me this;

But still, sweet dove, my heart's as light

As when at first I found the bliss

Of Ellen's love in silken bands.

And what the future has in store

I know not, but my soul expands

Assured thou lov'st me more and more.

This rapturous thought

With blessings fraught

By gold could never have been bought.

But love--such love as we now feel

Ten thousand ills can face and foil,

And passing years afresh reveal--

We better are for cure and toil!

I would not then my lot exchange

For one where pampered luxury

The hearts of man and wife estrange,

And all is insincerity.

A lot like this,

Devoid of bliss,

Dear wife, may we forever miss!

What though when let but forty-three

I sober _Grandpa_ have become?

With thee, my Ellen, yes, with thee

I can enjoy our humble home;

And the dear children to us given,

With those left by my first loved spouse,

Can by God's blessing make a heaven

For me in yet a poorer house!

The world dreams not

That in our cot

We pure, substantial joys have got.

As thus I sing in gladsome strain

Of my unmatched felicity,

There comes an almost endless train

From the deep founts of Memory,

Of pleasing pictures which retain

Poetic colors lich and rare.

Yet fearing they might make me vain,

I breathe to God this fervent prayer:

Lord, shield me well,

From potent spell

Of syren Pleasures, and Pride quell!

Oh, let us humbly now renew

Our vows to God, my sweetest love!

He then will shed His grace like dew

Upon us all, and bid the Dove

Of steadfast Peace assure our souls.

Thus may we battle on in life,

And as each season forward rolls

Feel stronger for the daily strife

Until at last

Our lot is cast

With those who into heaven have passed.

TO THE SAME,

ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR MARRIAGE.

SEPTEMBER 26, 1872.

Dear Bride of five-and-twenty years,

I gladly give to thee this song.

That thou wilt spurn it I've no fears,

For love still reigns within thee strong,

And will reign long as life shall last;

For it has stood the fiery test

Of anguished moments in the past--

When out of pain came peaceful rest,

Until our life

Of toil and strife

Is joyful still, my darling wife.

When last I penned a lay to thee

I little dreamt that youthful charms

Would cling to thee at forty-three;

But now the thought my spirit warms

_That I can see thee lovelier grown_!

While fond affection constant beams

Within thy lovely eyes, light brown,

Thus realizing my young dreams.

For then I thought

The wife I sought

Should bring to me what thou hast brought.

A face lit up with genial smiles,

A heart to love through trials great,

With winning ways, with pleasant wiles,

To cheer me in life's troublous state.

I pictured her both fair and neat,

With voice so soft, with wifely skill,

To make my home a snug retreat

From many kinds of mortal ill.

_Such hast thou been_,

My own heart's queen,

As good a wife as e'er was seen.

What though we've not attained to wealth?

Have still to toil for daily bread?

So long as God gives precious health,

We have no worldly needs to dread,

For, day by day our table's filled,

Our dearest children constant fed;

With many comforts life to gild,

Our years enjoyably have sped.

Then we'll not care

For larger share

Of riches, which oft prove a snare.

Then, darling, let us battle on,

The future may ev'n brighter prove;

But if it does not we have won

A glorious boon in such true love

As well might smooth a harder life.

And few, I trow, have lived so long

wedded state with joys so rife.

Then fear not, let our hearts be strong

In Christ our Lord,

And let His Word

Yield us the comfort therein stored.

Now, as the ears flow swiftly by,

With crosses manifold to hear,

We still will look to Him on high,

Who has permitted us to share

So much of matrimonial bliss,

And in that bond has kept us true.

Let's deem it best His rod to kiss,

And keep His promises in view.

So, side by side

Our lives may glide

Till death bring us o'er Jordan's tide!

TO THE SAME,

ON THE THIRTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR MARRIAGE.

SEPTEMBER 26, 1877.

Full thirty years of wedded bliss,

My darling wife, we have enjoyed;

And still I can with rapture kiss

Thy sweet, chaste lips--for I am void

Of every fear that thou wilt fail

To love me till our race is run.

Our mutual love is still as hale

As though we had but just begun

To link our fate

In marriage state,

Where joys for sorrows compensate.

So, filled with sense of God's rich love,

Let us those decades three review;

For though we have with trials strove

To keep our happiness still new,

We've had Religion's holy aid

Still shedding sunshine on our way,

As we pursued our humble trade

And struggled on from day to day.

Our hearts imbued

With gratitude

Call loud for vows to God renewed.

Now looking back through all these years,

'Midst chequered scenes of daily life,

A family of eight appears

For thee to love and serve, my wife!

Thou wert indeed a youthful bride,

But weak in body--not in heart--

As thou my cherished hearth beside

Sat down, content to do thy part.

And well I know

No lot below

Was e'er more free from earthly woe.

In this review I can't forget

How oft in sickness, grief and pain,

Thy loving heart our needs has met,

While solace rich came in thy train.

Nor when thyself on sick bed lay,

Racked with _Neuralgia's_ maddening pangs.

How Patience kept the wolf at bay,

And made him soon withdraw his fangs.

My darling sweet,

'Tis surely meet

I thee with song like this should greet!

Nor yet when by that dreadful fall

Thy limbs were bruised, thy system shook,

How easily I can recall

Each winning smile, each tender look,

As I attempted to alleve

Thy sufferings great for many days.

And while I could not help but grieve,

I saw thy meekness with amaze;

For no dread pain

Could triumph gain

O'er thee, nor did'st thou once complain.

Then, O my darling, join with me

To celebrate our Father's praise!

For he has kept us lovingly

From hankering after worldly ways.

Raise then our Ebenezer high!

Join, children, in my joyful song!

Lay ever disagreement by,

That you in, union may be strong.

Thus let us wait

At Wisdom's gate,

Till Christ in turn shall each translate.

FAREWELL TO MY HARP

Farewell my rude Harp and my still ruder Lyre!

For season your tones may not fall on my ear;

At the _bench_ will hard labor repress rhyming fire,

And Fact over Fancy triumphant appear.

Yet I will remember the exquisite pleasure

For full thirty years freely rendered by you;

How oft in that time you have proved a rich treasure--

Still constant abiding and evermore true.

Again and again bring afresh to my mind.

How in youth your wild minstrelsy ravished my soul

Till I became daily to musings inclined,

And strong, gushing impulse that scarce brooked control.

I oft will recall how you chased away sadness,

As sore family tumbles my heart did affright

When a fond, faithful partner, whose presence was gladness

Was reft from my side--turning day into night!

Nor forget soon the dirges you poured o'er the tomb

Enclosing both her and our infant so dear;

Whose soul-stirring notes dissipated my gloom,

And since have refreshed me through many a year.

Ah, no! those sweet _memories_, fresh in me springing,

Shall nerve to new efforts in God's holy cause;

And hearing within me your melodies ringing,

I'll steadfastly aim at observing His Laws.

THE END.