"THE MAPLE LEAF."
It was in the year 1841, that the Rev. Dr. John McCaul entered upon his
duties as Vice-President of King's College, after having been Principal
of Upper Canada College since 1838. With this gentleman are closely
connected some of the most pleasurable memories of my own life. He was a
zealous promoter of public amusement, musical as well as literary. Some
of the best concerts ever witnessed in Toronto were those got up by him
in honour of the Convocation of the University of Toronto, October 23rd,
1845, and at the several public concerts of the Philharmonic Society, of
which he was president, in that and following years. As a member of the
managing committee, I had the honour of conducting one of the Society's
public concerts, which happened, being a mixed concert of sacred and
secular music, to be the most popular and profitable of the series,
greatly to my delight.
In 1846, 1847 and 1848, Dr. McCaul edited the _Maple Leaf, or Canadian
Annual_, a handsomely illustrated and bound quarto volume, which has not
since been surpassed, if equalled, in combined beauty and literary
merit, by any work that has issued from the Canadian press.
Each volume appeared about Christmas day, and was eagerly looked for.
The principal contributors were Dr. McCaul himself; the Hon. Chief
Justice Hagarty; the late Rev. R. J. McGeorge, then of Streetsville,
since of Scotland; the late Hon. Justice Wilson, of London; Miss Page,
of Cobourg; the Rev. Dr. Scadding; the late Rev. J. G. D. McKenzie; the
late Hon. J. Hillyard Cameron; the Rev. Alex. (now Archdeacon) Dixon, of
Guelph; the Rev. Walter Stennett, of Cobourg; C. W. Cooper, Esq., now of
Chicago; the late T. C. Breckenridge; the late Judge Cooper, of
Goderich; and myself; besides a few whose names are unknown to me.
My own connection, as a writer, with the "Maple Leaf" originated thus:
While printing the first volume, I had ventured to send to Dr. McCaul,
through the post-office, anonymously, a copy of my poem entitled
"Emmeline," as a contribution to the work. It did not appear, and I felt
much discouraged in consequence. Some months afterwards, I happened to
mention to him my unsuccessful effusion, when he at once said that he
had preserved it for the second volume. This was the first ray of
encouragement I had ever received as a poet, and it was very welcome to
me. He also handed me two or three of the plates intended for the second
volume, to try what I could make of them, and most kindly gave me
carte-blanche to take up any subject I pleased. The consequence of which
was, that I set to work with a new spirit, and supplied four pieces for
the second and five for the third volume. Two of my prose pieces--"A
Chapter on Chopping," and "A First Day in the Bush"--with two of the
poems, I have incorporated in these "Reminiscences:" my other accepted
poems, I give below. After this explanation, the reader will not be
surprised at the affection with which I regard the "Maple Leaf." I know
that the generous encouragement which Dr. McCaul invariably extended to
even the humblest rising talent, in his position as head of our Toronto
University, has been the means of encouraging many a youthful student to
exertions, which have ultimately placed him in the front rank among our
public men. Had I met with Dr. McCaul thirty years earlier, he would
certainly have made of me a poet by profession.
EMMELINE.
The faynt-rayed moone shynes dimme and hoar,
The nor-wynde moans with fittful roare,
The snow-drift hydes the cottage doore,
Emmeline,
I wander lonelie on the moore,
Emmeline.
Thou sittest in the castle halle
In festal tyre and silken palle,
'Mid smylinge friendes--all hartes thy thrall,
Emmeline,
My best-beloved--my lyfe--my all,
Emmeline.
I marke the brightness quit thy cheeke,
I knowe the thought thou dost not speake,
Some absent one thy glances seeke,
Emmeline,
I pace alone the mooreland bleake,
Emmeline.
Thy willfull brother--woe the daye!
Why did hee cross mee on my waye?
I slewe him that I would not slaye,
Emmeline,
I cannot washe his bloode awaye,
Emmeline.
Oh, why, when stricken from his hande,
Far flew his weapon o'er the strande--
Why did hee rush upon my brande?
Emmeline,
Colde lyes his corse upon the sande,
Emmeline.
Thou'rt too, too younge--too younge and fayre
To learne the wearie rede of care--
My bitter griefe thou must not share,
Emmeline,
I could not bidde thee wedde despaire,
Emmeline.
Through noisome fenne and tangled brake,
Where crawle the lizard and the snake,
My mournfull hopelesse way I take,
Emmeline,
To live a hermitt for thy sake,
Emmeline.
Thy buoyaunt spirit may forgett
The happie houre when last we mett--
My sunne of hope is darklie sett,
Emmeline,
I'll bee thy guardian-angell yett,
Emmeline.
CHANGES OF AN HOUR
ON LAKE ERIE.
Smiles the sunbeam on the waters--
On the waters glad and free;
Sparkling, flashing, laughing, dancing--
Emblem fair of childhood's glee.
Ruddy on the waves reflected,
Deeper glows the sinking ray;
Like the smile of young affection
Flushed by fancy's changeful play.
Mist-enwreathing, chill and gloomy,
Steals grey twilight o'er the lake--
Ah! to days of autumn sadness
Soon our dreaming souls awake.
Night has fallen, dark and silent,
Starry myriads gem the sky;
Thus, when earthly hopes have failed us,
Brighter visions beam on high.
A CANADIAN ECLOGUE.
An aged man sat lonesomely within a rustic porch,
His eyes in troubled thoughtfulness were bent upon the ground:
Why pondered he so mournfully, that venerable man?
He dreamt sad dreams of early days, the happy days of youth.
He dreamt fond dreams of early days, the lightsome days of youth;
He saw his distant island home--the cot his fathers built--
The bright green fields their hands had tilled--the once accustomed haunts;
And, dearer still, the old churchyard where now their ashes lie.
Long, weary years had slowly passed--long years of thrift and toil--
The hair, once glossy brown, was white, the hands were rough and hard;
Deep-delving care had plainly marked its furrows on the brow;
The form, once tall and lithe and strong, now bent and stiff and weak.
His many kind and duteous sons, his daughters, meek and good,
Like scattered leaves from autumn gales, were reft the parent tree;
Tho' lands, and flocks, and rustic wealth, an ample store he owned,
They seemed but transitory gains--a coil of earthly care.
Old neighbours, from that childhood's home, have paused before his door;
Oh, gladly hath he welcomed them, and warmly doth he greet;
They bring him--token of old love--a little cage of birds,
The songsters of his native vale, companions of his youth.
Those warbled notes, too well they tell of other, happier hours,
Of joyous, childish innocence, of boyhood's gleeful sports,
A mother's tender watchfulness, a father's gentle sway--
The silent tear rolls stealthily adown his furrowed cheek.
Sweet choristers of England's fields, how fondly are ye prized!
Your melody, like mystic strains upon the dying ear,
Awakes a chord that, all unheard, long slumbered in the breast,
That vibrates but to one loved sound--the sacred name of "Home."
ZAYDA.
"Come lay thy head upon my breast,
And I will kiss thee into rest."
_--Byron._
Wherefore art thou sad, my brother? why that shade upon thy brow,
Like yon clouds each other chasing o'er the summer landscape now?
What hath moved thy gentle spirit from its wonted calm the while?
Shall not Zayda share thy sorrow, as she loves to share thy smile?
Tell me, hath our cousin Hassan passed thee on a fleeter steed?
Hath thy practised arm betrayed thee when thou threwst the light jereed?
Hath some rival, too ungently, taunted thee with scoffing pride?
Tell me what hath grieved thee, Selim--ah, I will not be denied.
Some dark eye, I much mistrust me, hath too brightly answered thine;
Some sweet voice hath, all too sweetly, whispered in the Bezestein.
Nay, doth sadder, deeper feeling dim the gladness of thine eye?
Tell me, dearest, tell me truly, why thou breath'st that mournful sigh?
Oh, if thou upon poor Zayda cast one look of cold regard,
Whither shall she turn for comfort in a world unkind and hard?
Since our tender mother, dying, gave me trustfully to thee,
Selim, brother, thou hast always been far more than worlds to me.
Take this rose--upon my bosom I have worn it all the day;
Like thy sister's true affection, never can its scent decay:
As the pure wave, murm'ring fondly, lingers round some lonely isle,
Life-long shall my love enchain thee, Selim, asking but a smile.
THE TWO FOSCARI.[16]
Ho! gentlemen of Venice!
Ho! soldiers of St. Mark!
Pile high your blazing beacon-fire,
The night is wild and dark,
Behoves us all be wary,
Behoves us have a care
No traitor spy of Austria
Our watch is prowling near.
Time was, would princely Venice
No foreign tyrant brook;
Time was, before her stately wrath
The proudest Kaiser shook;
When o'er the Adriatic
The Winged Lion hurled
Destruction on his enemies--
Defiance to the world.
'Twas when the Turkish crescent
Contended with the cross,
And many a Christian kingdom rued
Discomfiture and loss;
We taught the turban'd Paynim--
We taught his boastful fleet,
Venetian freemen scorned alike
Submission or retreat.
Alas, for fair Venezia,
When wealth and pomp and pride
--The pride of her patrician lords--
Her freedom thrust aside:
When o'er the trembling commons
The haughty nobles rode,
And red with patriotic blood
The Adrian waters flowed.
'Twas in the year of mercy
Just fourteen fifty two
--When Francis Foscari was Doge,
A valiant prince and true--
He won for the Republic
Ravenna--Brescia bright--
And Crema--aye, and Bergamo
Submitted to his might:
Young Giacopo, his darling,
--His last and fairest child--
A gallant soldier in the wars,
In peace serene and mild--
Woo'd gentle Mariana,
Old Contarini's pride,
And glad was Venice on that day
He claimed her for his bride.
The Bucentaur showed bravely
In silks and cloth of gold,
And thousands of swift gondolas
Were gay with young and old;
Where spann'd the Canalazo
A boat-bridge wide and strong,
Amid three hundred cavaliers
The bridegroom rode along.
Three days were joust and tourney,
Three days the Plaza bore
Such gallant shock of knight and steed
Was never dealt before,
And thrice ten thousand voices
With warm and honest zeal,
Loud shouted for the Foscari
Who loved the Commonweal.
For this the Secret Council--
The dark and subtle Ten--
Pray God and good San Marco
None like may rule again!
Because the people honoured
Pursued with bitter hate,
And foully charged young Giacopo
With treason to the state.
The good old prince, his father--
Was ever grief like his!--
They forced, as judge, to gaze upon
His own child's agonies!
No outward mark of sorrow
Disturb'd his awful mien--
No bursting sigh escaped to tell
The anguish'd heart within.
Twice tortured and twice banish'd,
The hapless victim sighed
To see his old ancestral home,
His children and his bride:
Life seem'd a weary burthen
Too heavy to be borne,
From all might cheer his waning hours
A hopeless exile torn.
In vain--no fond entreaty
Could pierce the ear of hate--
He knew the Senate pitiless,
Yet rashly sought his fate;
A letter to the Sforza
Invoking Milan's aid,
He wrote, and placed where spies might see--
'Twas seen, and was betrayed.
Again the rack--the torture--
Oh! cruelty accurst!--
The wretched victim meekly bore--
They could but wreak their worst;
So he but lay in Venice,
Contented, if they gave
What little space his bones might fill--
The measure of a grave.
The white-haired sire, heart-broken,
Survived his happier son,
To learn a Senate's gratitude
For faithful service done;
What never Doge of Venice
Before had lived to tell,
He heard for a successor peal
San Marco's solemn bell.
When, years before, his honours
Twice would he fain lay down,
They bound him by his princely oath
To wear for life the crown;
But now, his brow o'ershadow'd
By fourscore winters' snows,
Their eager malice would not wait
A spent life's mournful close.
He doff'd his ducal ensigns
In proud obedient haste,
And through the sculptured corridors
With staff-propt footsteps paced;
Till on the giant's staircase,
Which first in princely pride
He mounted as Venezia's Doge,
The old man paused--and died.
Thus govern'd the Patricians
When Venice owned their sway,
And thus Venetian liberties
Became a helpless prey:
They sold us to the Teuton,
They sold us to the Gaul--
Thank God and good San Marco,
We've triumph'd over all!
Ho! gentlemen of Venice!
Ho! soldiers of St. Mark!
You've driven from your palaces
The Austrian, cold and dark!
But better for Venezia
The stranger ruled again,
Than the old patrician tyranny,
The Senate and the Ten!
[Footnote 16: This and the preceding poem were written as illustrations
of two beautiful plates which appeared in the Maple Leaf. One, Zayda
presenting a rose to her supposed brother, Selim; the other, the Doge
Foscari passing sentence of exile upon his son. The incidents in the
Venetian story are all historical facts.]