Chapter 1

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CANADA AND OTHER POEMS.

BY

T. F. YOUNG.

PREFACE.

I introduce the following poetical attempts to the public, with great diffidence. I am not sure but a direct apology would be in better taste, but the strength derived from the purpose I had in view, in writing and publishing them, sustains me without saying anything further by way of excuse. Like Burns, I wished to do something for my country, and chose this method of doing it.

The literature of this country is in its infancy. It must not always remain so, or the expectations we have in regard to making it a great nation, will never be fulfilled. Literature gives life to a nation, or rather it is the reflection of a nation's life and thought, in a mirror, which cheers, strengthens and ennobles those who look into it, and study what is there displayed. Literature must grow with our nation, and, when growing, it will aid the latter's progress in no small degree.

Pedantic critics may find fault with my modest productions, and perhaps justly, in regard to grammatical construction, and mechanical arrangement, but I shall be satisfied, if the public discern a vein of true poetry glittering here and there through what I have just written. The public are the final judges of compositions of this sort, and not the writer himself, or his personal friends. It is they, therefore, who must decide whether these humble attempts of my 'prentice hand, shall be numbered with writings that have been forgotten, or whether their author shall be encouraged to strike his lyre in a higher key, to accompany his Muse, while she tries to sing in a loftier strain.

In passing an opinion on my literary venture, of course the youthful state of our country will be taken into consideration, for it is a state which necessarily tinges all of our productions, literary or otherwise, with a certain amount of crudity. Consequently, reasonable men will not expect that felicity of expression, and that ripeness and happiness of thought, which would be expected in the productions of an older country, although they may be aware that true poetry is not the result of education, or even the refinements of a nation long civilized.

With these words by way of introduction and explanation, I dedicate this little book of mine to the Canadian public, hoping that whatever they may think of me as a poet, they will not forget that I am a loyal Canadian, zealous in behalf of anything that may tend to refine, instruct and elevate my country, and anxious to see her take an honourable stand among the other nations of the earth.

THE AUTHOR.

PORT ALBERT, March, 1887.

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CONTENTS

Canada Youthful Fancies Sunrise Christmas New Year's Day Happiness Love Hate Display Thought Purity Is There Room for the Poet Ireland David's Lamentation over Saul and Jonathan A Virtuous Woman The Tempest Stilled Nature's Forces Ours Man Life Ode to Man The Reading Man Man and His Pleasures Lines in Memory of the Late Archdeacon Elwood, A.M. Thomas Moore Robert Burns Byron Goderich Kelvin Niagara Falls Autumn A Sunset Farewell By the Lake The Teacher Grace Darling The Indian Lines on the North-West Rebellion Louis Riel Ye Patriot Sons of Canada A Hero's Decision John and Jane The Truant Boy A Swain to his Sweetheart The Fisherman's Wife The Diamond and the Pebble Temptation Slander Woman Sympathy Love and Wine. How Nature's Beauties Should be Viewed To a Canary The School-Taught Youth A Dream A Snow Storm To Nova Scotia The Huntsman and His Hound The Maple Tree The Pine Tree A Sabbath Morning in the Country Catching Speckled Trout A Protestant Irishman to his Wife Memories of School Days Verses Written in Autograph Albums

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POEMS.

* * * * *

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

Hail! joyous morn. Hail! happy day, That ushers in another year, Fraught with what sorrow, none can say, Nor with what pain, to mortals here.

Another year has roll'd away, With all its sorrows, joys and fears, But still the light of hope's glad ray, Yet beams within our heart, and cheers.

One year, one span of time has pass'd, So swift to some, to others slow; But it has gone, and we should cast Along with it, remorse and woe.

Of things we've done, or only thought, 'Tis useless now the bitter tear, Of actions unavailing wrought, Let them repose upon their bier.

We should, indeed, e'en yet atone For what our reason says we can, But never let remorse's groan Degrade us from our state as man.

Let us discharge the debts we owe, But still some debts will be unpaid; But we, if we forgive, also, Should ne'er, despairing, feel afraid.

The future is before us still, And to that future we should gaze, With hope renew'd, with firmer will, To tread life's weary, tangl'd maze.

We ne'er should let the gloomy past, Bow down our heads in dark despair, But we should keep those lessons fast, Which e'en our follies taught us there.

Experience, so dearly bought, By folly, or by ignorance, Should, in our inmost system wrought, Our daily life improve, advance.

Then let us press towards the goal, The common goal of all mankind, Go on, while seasons onward roll, Nor cast one fainting look behind.

And, as we journey through this year, Let us in watchfulness beware Of all that brings remorseful tear, Or future terror and despair.

Let us with thoughtful vision scan Each step we take, each act we do, That we may meet our brother man, With no unrighteous thing to rue.

A happy, happy, bright New Year, I wish to all the sons of men, With happy hearts, and merry cheer, Till it has roll'd its round again.

* * * * *

TO A CANARY.

Imprison'd songster, thou for me Hath warbl'd many a cheerful lay, Thy songs, so sweetly glad and free, Revive my heart, from day to day.

The frost is keen, the wind is cold, No wild-bird twitters from the spray, But, still resounding as of old, Thy voice thrills forth, and seems to say:

"Wake up! O sadden'd mortal, wake! Shake off that anxious, careworn frown, Thy hopes renew, fresh courage take, Nor let your troubles weigh you down.

"See, I am happy all alone, And, kept behind the prison bars, I sing, and shouldst thou ever moan? --A mortal free, beneath the stars.

"I fly around my narrow cage, I sing the song that gladdens you, But carking care thy thoughts engage, While walking free, 'neath heaven's blue.

"My heart might faint, my spirit die, Far from my kind, and from my home, But cheerfully I sing and fly, Beneath my narrow prison's dome.

"Oh, list, sad mortal to my song, And, while thou hearest, mark it well, And go thy cheerful way along, Nor pray to know, what none can tell.

"I'll sing my song each day for thee, And live the moments as they fly, With gladden'd heart, with sounding glee, And thou shouldst do the same as I."

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AUTOGRAPHS.

TO A LITTLE GIRL.

E ach wish, my fairest child, I pen, F or thee I write with earnest heart; F or who shall say, that ere, again, I shall behold thee; when we part E 'en now the time is near, I start.

H ere are my wishes, then, sweet child, A long life's pathway may thou go, R ob'd white, as now, in virtue mild, R etaining pure, thy virtue's snow. I wish thee this, and wish thee more,-- S o long as thou on earth hath life, O h! may thy heart be never sore, N or vex'd with anxious care or strife!

TO A YOUNG LADY.

Short is the time, my friend, since I First heard thy voice, first saw thy face, And yet, the days in gliding by, Have left within my mind a trace-- A friendly trace of thee and thine, Which I am sure will long remain Within my heart, to cheer and shine With other joys, to lessen pain. It is my hope, also, that thou May, in thy heart, and on thy tongue, Have thoughts and words for him, who now Is yours so friendly, T. F. Young.

KELVIN.

While poets sing in lofty strain, And ask where Rome and Carthage are, This humble village on the plain, To many hearts is dearer far.

Then to these hearts I'll sing my lay, With humble Kelvin for my theme; My song shall be of life to-day, And not a retrospective dream.

Of "Kelvin's Grove," some love-lorn swain Sang sweetly, many years ago, And I shall sound the name again, Although I may not sound it so.

Of Kelvin's bonnie lasses, I Can sing, tho' not so well as he, And Kelvin's groves, in passing by, I can repeat, have charms for me.

And Kelvin's stream, where fishes glide, And timid fowl their plumage lave, Where drooping willows by its side, Their graceful branches gently wave.

Here happiness and plenty reign, And e'en refinement, too, is seen. For music sends its cheering strain, Where flowers grow within the green.

Here virtuous dames with busy hand, Untiring do what should be done, And sons and fathers till the land, And to each manly duty run.

The winsome maids with willing hearts, In youthful beauty all aglow, Right cheerfully perform their parts Where duty's voice may bid them go.

Oh, may their graceful figures long Their youthful energy retain, And may they meet no heartless wrong, To fill their gentle souls with pain.

As yet there is no village bell, Save that which rings the call to school, Where festive youth drink at the well Which flows from knowledge' sparkling pool.

And yet, whene'er the Sabbath comes, Or week night held for praise and prayer, No need for signal bells and drums, Each knows the time, and he is there.

There is the daughter, there the son, To kneel in humble prayer to God, And those whose race is well-nigh run, Who humbly kiss the chast'ning rod.

Oh, blest content, and lowly life That blunts Ambition's biting sting Unknown to thee the bitter strife, Which proud refinements often bring.

* * * * *

IS THERE ROOM FOR THE POET?

Is there room for the poet, fair Canada's sons. To live his strange life, and to warble his songs, To follow each current of thought as it runs, And to sing of your victories, glories and wrongs?

Is there room for the poet, ye senators grave? Ye orators, statesmen and law-makers, say; May he of the calling so gentle e'er crave Your patronage, and of your kindness a ray?

Ye toilers in cities, ye workers in fields, Who handle the hammer, the pen or the plow, Can the poet implicitly trust, as he yields His heart, and his hopes, and his name to you now?

Wilt thou pardon his follies, forgive him his faults In manners, in habits, in distance and time? For when on his charger, Pegasus, he vaults, He rises o'er reason's safe, temperate clime.

He will sing of his country, his people and thine, Exalt, if you aid him, your honor and fame. Your sympathy, acting like purest of wine, Will urge him to joyously sing of your name.

His case is peculiar, stern fate has been hard, His body unfitted for labours of men, His mind, with the sensitive make of the bard, Unfitted for aught, but the work of the pen.

He singeth, but yet he must live, as he sings; He hath wants of the earth, that must be supplied; And tho' 'tis an off'ring most humble he brings, He hopes that your favors will not be denied.

Our country is young, let us early instil Deep into the minds of the youthful and fair, The greatness of virtue, uprightness and will, And the poet will help you to 'stablish them there.

Be it his to proclaim, e'en tho' rudely, in measure, The rights of his country, her honour, renown; To sing of whatever his people may treasure, In court or in camp, in the country or town.

* * * * *

MAN AND HIS PLEASURES.

'Tis not with glad fruition crown'd, We always feel our greatest joy; For pleasure often dwells around The heart that hopes, and knows no cloy.

We wait, we watch, we think, we plan To catch the pleasure ere it flies, But when 'tis caught, for which we ran, It often droops, perchance, it dies.

In truth the non-possession oft' Creates the chief, the only charm, Of that, which, once obtain'd, is scoff'd, And oft' receiv'd with vex'd alarm.

The mind of man is strange and deep, Deceiving others and himself; Its wiles would make an angel weep, In strife for praise, for power and pelf.

Strange mixture of the good and ill, He strives continually to bend Those qualities, with wondrous skill, To meet in one, which never blend.

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DAVID'S LAMENTATION OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN.

The beauty of Israel is slain on thy mountains, The mighty are low, and how great is their fall, But tell not our grief in Gath, by the fountains, And publish it not within Askelon's wall, Lest the Philistines' daughters shall mock at our sorrow, And triumph in gladness o'er us in our pain, And sound all their timbrels and harps on the morrow, While here we are sore, in lamenting our slain.

Oh! Gilboa's mountains, from now and forever, Let moisture, which falleth as rain, or as dew, Come down on thy parch'd, burning summits, oh, never, For the shield of the mighty is cast upon you. From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the highest, The bow of fair Jonathan never did quail, And the sword of his father, in danger the highest, Went forth to brave deeds, like the sweep of the gale.

O Saul thou anointed! and Jonathan, brother! In life ye were pleasant and lovely to see; And still in your death ye are lovely together, Tho' great is my grief, and my sorrow, for thee. Ye were swifter than eagles, ye heaven anointed, And stronger than lions, thou glorious pair, Bur sad was the day, that Jehovah appointed, To humble your strength, and your bravery, there.

Oh, weep o'er the fallen, fair Israel's daughters! He cloth'd you in scarlet, and deck'd you with gold, Then shed ye your tears, until their sad waters Shall moisten the tomb, where now he is cold; I'm sad for thee, Jonathan, more than my brother, So kindly and gentle, so faithful and free, I lov'd thee, as never I shall love another, And thou hadst a wonderful love unto me.

The mighty have fallen, their weapons have perish'd! And, slain in high places, so low lies the brave; No more I shall gaze on the face that I cherish'd.

* * * * *

THE DIAMOND AND THE PEBBLE.

Why value ye the diamond, and The pearl from Ceylon's balmy shore, When stones unnumber'd strew the land, And in the sea are millions more? Why treasure ye each silver bar, And watch, with Argus eye, your gold, When lead and iron, near and far, Are strewn beneath the rocks and mould.

Ye prize those shining gems, because Their sparkling beauty cheers the eye, And, by the force of nature's laws, They never in profusion lie. Could we, Aladdin like, descend Into a place where diamonds grow, Our minds would then most surely tend To value diamonds very low.

The emerald's or diamond's shine, Is valued not for that alone, But for its absence in the mine, Where thousands lie, of common stone. And thus, within the world of thought, The pebble and the lead abound, But real pearls are seldom brought, And gold or silver rarely found.

We all have thoughts, we speak them, too, The world is fill'd with words of men, But still is priz'd the precious hue, Of golden thoughts from tongue or pen; And he who digs and brings to light A lovely thought, a pearly gem, 'Twill surely shine with lustre bright, For men, to cheer and better them.

* * * * *

TEMPTATION.

The greatest glory consists, not in never falling, but in getting up every time you fall.--CONFUCIUS.

The raging force of passion's storm, Say who can check at will. Or cope with sin, in ev'ry form, With ever conquering skill?

How oft we've tried, and hop'd and pray'd To conquer in the right; But still, how oft our hearts, dismay'd, Have fail'd amid the fight.

But still we fought the wrong we loath'd, And though we fought in vain, Our wills in fleshly weakness cloth'd, Would try the fight again.

And He, I apprehend, who sees, And knows our struggles here. Will lead us onward, by degrees, To triumph, though we fear.

And even tho' we're never quit Of these sharp earthly thorns, In black despair we'll never sit, Till danger's signal warns. We'll gird ourselves anew, to fight Our fell, determin'd foe, And with experience's light, Each time more skilful grow.

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SLANDER.

Of all the poison plants that grow, And flourish in the human breast, No other plant, perhaps, hath so Deep clench'd a root, or peaceful rest.

No other plant has such a fruit, At once so sweet, and deadly too, As that which loads each branch and shoot, And falls for me to eat, and you.

Fell jealousy, the monster wild, Whose green eyes roll in frenzy round, His ravages are small, and mild, To thine, and narrow'r far his ground.

His pow'r is felt around his home, But who can gauge the sway of thine, Which reaches high to heaven's dome, And acts within the darksome mine?

Thy poison drops distil each hour, To blight, to ruin and destroy, And find with dark, insidious pow'r, The heart of woman, man and boy.

What antidote can neutralize Thy baneful force, thy potent spell? For deepest danger ever lies Within this poison draught of hell. And men will drink with eager lip, The cup thou holdest forth to them, Not knowing that the draught they sip May their, and other souls, condemn.

* * * * *

WOMAN.

I've had my share of bright employ, My share of pain and blame, But thro' it all, I've thought, with joy, Of tender woman's name.

Her healing tones have often brought New gladness to my soul; Her breath hath rent the darken'd clouds, That often o'er it roll.

Her voice hath often cheer'd my heart, In sickness and in pain, And help'd me bear the surgeon's knife, Or fever's fervid reign.

But, oh, that voice can change its tone, That tender feeling die, Those gentle, loving tones become A terrorizing cry.

In kindly sound, a woman's voice Is happiness alone; And may it ever be my lot To hear its tender tone.

But let me never know the thoughts Of vengeful woman's heart, Or hear the voice that breathes them forth, With cold and cruel dart.

O woman, thou hast mighty pow'r Among the sons of men, For thou canst make deep, rankling wounds, And heal them up again.

Oh, let thy angel nature shine, And may we all refrain To wake the tiger in thy breast, Bound by a slender chain.

* * * * *

SYMPATHY.

'Mid forces all, that work unseen, And cheer or warm the human breast, Thou, Sympathy, hath ever been, In active power, amid the rest: When raging hate, or heedless love, Aspir'd to rule and reign alone, Thou still did keep thy place above, And rul'd serenely, from thy throne.

Thou ever dost assert thy right, And walkest on thy gentle way, To rule with mild, persuasive might, But with a strong, unconscious sway, What pow'r thou hast o'er human hearts We daily feel, we daily see; For men and women act their parts, Encourag'd and upheld by thee.

For, in an unseen current runs, From heart to heart, from soul to soul, Thy force, like heat from genial suns, To permeate and warm the whole.

Not always, tho', to warm and cheer. At times thy influence is chill, And checks the noble rage of thought, As ice can check a flowing rill.

One cutting word of ours can wilt, Or blast the young heart's fairest flow'r, And tumble down air castles built, By this unseen affection's pow'r. That man is brave, who acts his part, 'Mid comrades faithful, known and brave, But braver far is he, whose heart Upholds itself upon the wave.

For men have shrunk with coward fright, At terrors which they ne'er might feel, Had Sympathy's strange, magic might Inspir'd their hearts to face the steel.

* * * * *

LOVE AND WINE.

'Tis wine that cheers the soul of man, With subtle and seductive flow; It warms the heart, as naught else can, And banishes regret, and woe.

It keeps alive the flick'ring flame, Which strives to burn with feeble force Within the heart, so dull and tame, But still of life, the present source.

It warms up this fount of life, And sends life's fluid here and there; And nerves and brain, in gladsome strife, Forget their dull and dark despair.

And what is love, if 'tis not wine, Refin'd, distill'd from grossness, tho', More potent than the juice of vine, And bringing greater joy, and woe?

Does it not, too, refresh, revive, And oft intoxicate the brain, And make the being all alive With keenest joy, or keenest pain?

And does it not when much indulg'd, Or held by slack and yielding hand, Lead on to woes oft undivulg'd, To crimes unknown, throughout the land?

Oh! blessed woman, fruitful vine, Inspiring and enchanting twain, I pray that neither love nor wine, May o'er my will, resistless reign.

They tell us, that the safest way To 'scape from wine or woman's thrall, Is to go on from day to day, And never drink, or love, at all.

I could give up the cheering wine, And never taste the siren cup, But oh, thou woman, nymph divine, I can not, will not give thee up.

* * * * *

HOW NATURE'S BEAUTIES SHOULD BE VIEWED.

Should man, with microscopic eye, View the details of Nature's plan, Into each nook and corner pry, And needlessly the hidden scan?

Should he inspect each bud and flow'r, With close, unmeant, uncall'd-for look, And, by his analytic pow'r, Dissolve each charm of vale or brook?

Should he resolve the rainbow's hues, Into their prime and simple forms, And thus the charm dispel, unloose, Which gladdens us, amid the storms?

Should he, with keen, inquiring look, Insist on knowing, seeing all, Which nature made a sealed book On this, our strange, terrestrial ball,

'Tis hard to draw the line, indeed, When we should pry, and when refrain, But science surely has its need Of knowledge gain'd, and also pain.

The blooming flow'r, the flutt'ring leaf, Have surely charms we all can tell, And analysing brings to grief, The charms we felt, and knew so well.

Th' untutor'd savage, roaming wild, Could view the rainbow in the sky, And, tho' in science but a child, He saw with gladden'd heart, and eye.

And so, I apprehend, that we Should oft restrain our thoughts and sight, Nor delve too far, nor try to see, With deeper, but more painful light.

* * * * *

NIAGARA FALLS.

Niagara, thou mighty flood. I've seen thee fall, I've heard thee roar, And on the frightful verges stood, That overhang thy rocky shore.

I've sailed o'er surging waves below, And view'd the rainbow's colour'd light, And felt the spray, thy waters throw, When leaping, with resistless might.

I've seen the rapids in their course, Like madden'd, living things rush on, With wild, unhesitating force, To where thy mighty chasms yawn.

And there to take the awful leap, And fall, with hoarse and sullen roar, Into th' unfathomable deep, Which rolleth on, from shore to shore.

Niagara, thou'rt mighty, grand, Thou fill'st human souls with awe, For thee, and for that mighty Hand, Which maketh thee, by nature's law.

Thou'rt great, thou mighty, foaming mass Of water, plunging, roaring down, But so are we, yea, we surpass Thee, and we wear a nobler crown.

Thy mighty head is crowned with foam, And rainbows wreathe thy robes of blue; Our earthly forms--our present home-- Are insignificant to you.

But look, thou mighty thund'rer, thou, Tho' puny be our forms to thine, These forms possess, yea, even now, A spark, a ray of life divine.

Rush on, O waters! proudly hurl Thyself to roaring depths below, And let the mists of ages curl, And generations come and go.

But know, stupendous wonder, know, Thy rocks would crumble, at the nod Of Him, who lets thy waters flow; Thy Maker, but our Friend and God.

Thy rocks _shall_ crumble, fall they must; Thy waters, then, shall plunge no more, But we shall rise, e'en from the dust, To live upon another shore.

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A SABBATH MORNING IN THE COUNTRY.