Chapter 2
'Tis morning, and the meadows yet, Are wet with gracious drops of dew. Each blade of grass, and flow'r, is set With sparkling gems of richest hue. The sun, with rising glory, sheds A radiance, that none divine, Save those, who early leave their beds, When glist'ning dew-drops briefly shine.
Just ere the rising sunbeams play, From glorious orb, of rosy red, There is no sound of life, no hum, And but, seemingly, all things are dead.
But when the blessed, welcome beams, Light up, and cheer, and warm the earth, All things awaken from their dreams, To celebrate Creation's birth.
The very fields are filled with life, With hum of bee, and insect throng; The woods are vocal, with the strife Of friendly rivalry, in song. But 'tis the Sabbath morn, and now Are heard no sounds of industry, Save milk-maid, calling to her cow, Or buzzing of the toilsome bee.
Or save, perhaps, the gentle neigh Of horses, answering the call, For mother, father, child to-day Must hear the holy words, that fall From lips, that pray with them, and preach To them, the old, old words of cheer. They must receive the sounds, that teach Those solemn truths, they love to hear.
But now, the sun's increasing heat Hath dried the dew, and warm'd the air; The feather'd songsters now retreat, Fann'd by the sun's relentless glare. The morning service now is o'er, The pastor, kindly greeted too, And, after greetings at the door, They all their homeward way pursue.
* * * * *
JOHN AND JANE.
Said Jane to John, "Come, let us wed, For know, dear John, I love you, And, by the bright stars overhead, There's none I place above you."
"I doubt it not," said John, "and I Reciprocate the feeling, And here, with one despairing cry, I kneel, and love you, kneeling."
"Then why, dear John, do you despair, If you do love so madly?" "Because," said John, "my pocket there Is slim, and furnish'd badly."
"Oh, that is naught," said Jane, with glee, "I'd marry you to-morrow, And live on bread, and water free, Without one grain of sorrow."
"All right," said John, "I'm with you there, Old Logan's charming daughter, You'll get the bread, the work to share, And I will get the water."
* * * * *
THINGS MYSTERIOUS.
This earth's a mystery profound, Its movements, make, and changes all-- A mystery which none can sound, Who dwell upon the whirling ball.
And deeper far than all the rest, Is man; a mystery unsolved Since the first heave of ocean's breast, Since the first course our earth revolv'd.
His thoughts, and e'en his actions too, Possess a subtle meaning, when That meaning others may construe, As plain and open to their ken.
There is a place in every heart, As secret as the silent tomb, Where others have no lot nor part, Where none may gaze, where none may room.
It seemeth strange, that flesh and blood Should hold such ghostly, hellish things, And also things supremely good, Which might not shame an angel's wings.
Yet so it is, for ev'ry throb That man's pulsating bosom gives, And ev'ry smile, and ev'ry sob Speaks of a mystery that lives.
There is a tale in ev'ry flow'r, Which none may whisper, none may tell, A secret thing in ev'ry bower, Which ev'ry tenant hideth well.
There is a tale of joy and woe, Round ev'ry hearth, in ev'ry land, Which ne'er may ever further go, Than round that humble, home-like band.
And shall we seek to draw the screen Which hides the good, and eke the ill? No, it is better far, I ween, To let them keep in hiding still.
For unknown good is virtue still, And virtue shows a richer bloom, As violet, or daffodil, When growing 'mid the grass or broom.
And he who hides within his heart A secret sin, all unconfess'd To God or man, no glossing art "Can quiet the distracting guest."
* * * * *
THE PINE TREE.
The wind last night was wild and strong, It shriek'd, it whistl'd and it roar'd, And went with whirl and swoop along, 'Mid falling trees and crashing board.
The timbers creak'd, the rafters sway'd, And e'en some roofs, upheav'd and torn, Came crashing to the earth, and laid Before the view, upon the morn.
The air seem'd like some monstrous thing, By its uncurbed passion held; Like dreadful dragon on the wing, So horribly it scream'd and yell'd.
Now venting a triumphant shout, And ever and anon a groan, Like fiend from prison lately out, Or like unhappy chain'd one's moan.
There was a lofty pine I knew; Each morn and eve I passed it by; To such a lofty height it grew, It caught at once each passing eye.
It stood alone, and proudly stood, With straight, and clean, and lofty stem; All other trees it seemed to view, As though it scorn'd to live with them.
Full many a winter's snow had whirl'd About its base, and settl'd there, And many an autumn mist had curl'd About its head, so high in air.
Full many a blast had spent, in vain, Its force, for, ever like a rock, It stood each persevering strain, And long defied the tempest's shock.
But yesternight it crashing fell, And now, this morn, I see it lie. I knew the brave old tree so well, A tear almost bedims my eye.
But brave old trees, like brave old men, Must feel at last the fatal stroke, That dashest them to earth again, Tho' lofty pine, or mighty oak.
I'll miss, old tree, thy lofty stem Outlin'd against the distant sky, But 'tis no gain to fret for them-- For men, or trees, that fall and die.
* * * * *
AUTUMN.
The grass is wet with heavy dew, The leaves have changed their bright green hue, To brighter red, or golden; The morning sun shines with a glow, As bright and pure as long ago, In time ye left the olden.
One tree is cloth'd with scarlet dress, And one, with brown leaf'd loveliness, Delights the eye that gazes; While others varied tints display, But all, in beauteous array, Delight us, and amaze us.
We see the trees in beauty clad, But still that beauty makes us sad, E'en while we may admire, For death has caus'd that sudden bloom Stern death, the tenant of the tomb, Or funereal pyre.
The ruthless, bitter, biting air Hath dried the life which flourish'd there, Throughout the warmer seasons; The nourishment hath ceas'd to flow Through veins, where once it us'd to go-- Hath ceas'd for diff'rent reasons.
And soon the leaves will strew the ground, And whirl with rustling ardor round, Or lie in heaps together, Their hues of red, of brown, of gold, Will blacken, as they change to mould By action of the weather.
But leaves will grow where once they grew, Will bud, and bloom, and perish too, The same as all the others, As we through youth, and joy, and grief, Must find at last a sure relief, As did our many brothers.
Like in the leaf, no life-blood flows, When frosts of death the fountain close, From which it flow'd, to nourish. And like the leaf, another spring Around us shall her gladness fling; Another life shall flourish.
Our bodies turn to dust or mould. As lifeless as the rocks, and cold, But life's fair Tree is living. And fadeless green leaves we shall be, Because the Fountain of that Tree Eternal life is giving.
* * * * *
CHRISTMAS.
Old father Time, his cruel scythe Has swung full oft around, Since last the merry Christmas, bells Rang out their cheerful sound. With cruel vigor he has held His great, impartial sway, And many thousands mown to earth, Who saw last Christmas day.
For some have left this world for aye, Who dwelt with us last year; Glad voices heard amongst us then, We never more shall hear. But still we'll build our Christmas fires, And sing our Christmas songs, And for one day forget our griefs, Our failures and our wrongs.
Then ring, ye joyful bells, ring out; Ye crashing cymbals fall; And for old Christmas, hale and stout, Sound up, ye harps and all. Let music's loud and sweetest strain Beat from our hearts each ill; Let thoughts of those assuage our pain, Who are around us still.
Oh, winsome maid, oh, hearty youth, I urge you on to glee, For, in your innocence and truth, You all are dear to me. Nor youth, nor age should cherish gloom, And voices oft should sing, So give the gladsome voices room, And let the joy-bells ring.
* * * * *
CANADA.
Come now, my Muse, do thou inspire my pen, To sing, with worthy strain, my country's praise, But not to hide the faults within my ken, By tricks of art, or studied, verbal maze, To play on him who reads with careless gaze, To whom each thought upon a printed page. Is gospel truth, nor e'er with wile betrays; From this, oh, steer me clear, nor let the rage Of prejudic'd and narrow minds, my thoughts engage.
Oh, Canada! the land where first I saw The blue of heav'n, and bursting light of day, Where breezes warm and mild, and breezes raw, First o'er my boyhood's eager face did play, As o'er the hills I stepp'd my joyful way. Held by a loving hand, I went along Thro' shelter'd wood, or by some shaded bay, And ever, as I went, I sang a song, With sylvan joy, amid a sylvan throng.
For birds and bees, and e'en the flowers, did sing Their cheerful songs, with voices pure and sweet; Their notes were silent, yet those notes did bring A soothing balm, amid a calm retreat. Protected from the sun's relentless heat. Oh, wearied men, could ye but once divine The healing pow'r of some lone country seat, You would not strive to drown your care in wine, Or vainly seek relief, in any lustful line.
But this is not a moralizing lay, Of Canada I sing, and her alone, Her varied progress, every passing day, Her faults, for which, in time, she must atone, By nature's law, in every clime and zone, Then what are the peculiar, common claims, Our country has with nations larger grown, And the superior things she classes as her own.
First let us take her climate; who will not Say she is favour'd there o'er other lands? The winter's cold, indeed, and summer's hot, But in a robust health the native stands, So keen to work with brain, or use his hands. Where, let me ask, between the distant poles Is there a clime so mod'rate in demands, Where men are not compell'd to live like moles, Nor drop with heat on burning, barren, sandy knolls.
A hardy, energetic, toilsome race, Is raised within this favourable clime, In physical and mental power apace With those of any land, and any time, Save in the golden age, that age of thought sublime; But, what I mean is this: that her own men Do act their parts, they reason or they rhyme Within their bounds, with keen, far-reaching ken, For those who late have left the axe to wield the pen.
Yes, left the axe, whose skilful, cleaving stroke Hew'd out a home from 'mid the forest wild, Where grew the maple and the lofty oak, Where liv'd the dusky colour'd forest child, So sternly fierce in war, in peace so mild; Yes, here the settler met with Nature's force; Quite unsubdued, she look'd around and smil'd, And seem'd to view with scorn the white man's course Of labour slow, but yet of wealth the only source.
But still the patient white man plodded on, He swung his axe, and drove his horned team; At times he felt despair, but soon 'twas gone, And gladsome rays of hope would brightly gleam To cheer his path, like light on darken'd stream. Some saw their hopes fulfill'd, some sank to rest Amid their toil, but, sinking, saw the beam Of brighter days, to make their children blest. And give a rich reward to ev'ry earnest guest.
These latter gaz'd on fertile fields, and saw, The waving grain, where stood the forest tree, Where prowl'd the bear; or wolf, with hungry maw, Howl'd in the settlers' ears so dismally, That children crouch'd near to their mother's knee. They saw, instead of plain, bark-roof'd abode, A mansion wide, the scene of youthful glee, And happy Age, now resting on his road, To pay the debt, his sinning kind so long hath ow'd.
The organ or piano sounds its tone, Where late in darkness cried the whip-poor-will, Or gloomy owl's to whoo! to whoo! alone, Came from the glen, or darkly wooded hill,-- These sounds, untaught, and unimprov'd in skill. All round, where'er they look, they see a change, By rolling lake, by river, mount or rill; Wherever feet may walk, or eyes may range, There is a transformation pleasing, new and strange.
Schools, churches, built in costly, solid style, Proclaim the fact that here a higher life Is liv'd than that of seeking all the while For wealth, and pow'r, amid ignoble strife, Degrading unto husband, son or wife. The scholar's light, and blest religion's smile Ennobles, soothes and lends a joy to life-- A pow'r, which counteracts the trickster's wile And blunts the edge of slander undeserv'd and vile.
From where the fierce Atlantic waters rage, Unto the mild Pacific's fertile shore, Small villages to cities rise and wage A steady war; but not a war of gore-- A friendly rivalry exists, no more, Save in the far North-West, where savage clan Ungrateful rise, and make a serious sore, Whose pains increas'd, as eastward far it ran, And plac'd the British race beneath the Frenchman's ban.
But quickly, let us hope, the time may come, When peacefully the British flag shall wave, And when the rebels' terrorizing drum Shall be as still as Riel's rebel grave, O'er the wide land, whose sides two oceans lave; When demagogues of party shall retire, Or curb their selfish zeal, their land to save From factious feuds and savage rebel fire. And all that tends to raise the patriot's scorn and ire.
From ocean unto ocean runs a band, A double band of hard and gleaming steel; It binds in one this fertile, mighty land, In bonds which all should recognize and feel, If anxious to promote their country's weal. A bond which Nature's sympathetic law Should fasten on our hearts with solid seal, Which factious feuds should ne'er asunder draw, Nor wily traitors cut, by selfish treason's saw.
The strange, stupendous, magic power of steam, In works, is great as fam'd Aladdin's ring, It carries men o'er miles of land and stream, And maketh loom and forge, with labour sing, And o'er the land, a busy air doth fling. That fluid, too, that none can well define, In active life hath wrought a wondrous thing. It speeds our words with lightning flash or sign, And maketh glorious light from midnight's darkness shine.
Then to our country's future we may gaze With gladden'd eyes, and hearts with hope aglow, That our young country still its head will raise, And stand 'mid nations, in the foremost row, High honour'd there, and honour'd not for show-- For solid worth, and lasting pow'r and fame Will be her portion, if her footsteps go In duty's path, and if the ruddy flame Of honor shines within, and keeps away all shame.
* * * * *
YOUTHFUL FANCIES.
The morning of a gladsome day in spring Had scarce its freshness brought to weary men, When, o'er the meadows wet, a boy did sing, And whistled o'er a tune, and carroll'd-it, again, In youthful happiness unconscious then Of aught which time might bring, of pain or woe, But careless, pitching stones in bog or fen, It seem'd as if he buried there, also, All worldly cares, so blithely did he onward go.
And yet he was no careless, heedless boy, Who thought but of the present time alone. Of future years he thought, but with such joy, His thoughts but pleasure gave, nor caused a groan From out the breast that claim'd them as its own; His thoughts were of the future, fair and bright, And fresh from his unburden'd heart, alone, Untarnish'd by the hard and glaring light, By which he yet might see with such a diff'rent sight.
A picture of the blissful future, he Had gaily painted in his youthful mind, And thought no color there too bright to be An image of his share from fortune kind, Which she, in future years, would give so free, To him, the lucky sailor on life's sea. He thought of honor, happiness and fame, As he went gaily o'er the dewy lea, And to his mind no thought of failure came, To win a prize of worth, in life's tremendous game.
He heard his parents, brothers, sisters, all, With pride and fondness, speak his honor'd name, And listen'd, while a nation's mighty call Invited him to honor and to fame, And crowds his praises shout, with loud acclaim; He saw in wealthy town his mansion wide, And in the country view'd his fields, the same, Until, in rapture, he had almost cried, "In happiness and wealth all others are outvied."
He saw a lovely maiden by his side, Who soon with him his favor'd lot would share, He saw her upward glance of joy and pride, As to his eyes she rais'd her face so fair, So proudly glad that he, her lord, was there. And all unconscious of her own sweet grace, But, confident in his protecting care, She gave him first within her mind the place, And raised him high above all others of his race.
And now, how joyful rings the marriage bell, Upon the brightest morn in his career. He proudly hears the mighty organ swell, While orange buds, and bridal robes, appear, And people stop, the merry notes to hear. And now the organ peals its parting strain, And, issuing forth, they hear a stirring cheer, While, crowds surround the stately marriage train, To cheer him and his bride, and cheer them once again.
These are the thoughts that fill his boyish mind, And agitate and fire his youthful breast, Oh, why should fortune oft' be so unkind, And real life appear in sombre colors drest, And dash to earth bright hopes, and give so much unrest? Oh, why should boyish hopes, and maiden's dreams Fail, sadly fail, to stand the crucial test? Say, why should all the brightness of man's schemes Full often fade away, like earth's forgotten themes?
Why do you ask, O sad inquirer? How Can things like that be known to mortal ken? Suffice it, that it suits the mortal Now, And leads our thoughts to the eternal Then, When darkness shall be light, to ransom'd men, When dreams of bliss, with glad fruition crown'd, And happiness, untold by prophet's pen, Shall fill the hearts of those who sought and found That peace, which lighted up, and cheer'd life's weary round.
* * * * *
HAPPINESS.
Fair Happiness, I've courted thee, And used each cunning art and wile, Which lovers use with maidens coy, To win one tender glance or smile. Thou hast been coy as any maid, So lofty, distant, stern and cold, And guarded from a touch of mine, As miser guards his precious gold.
To win a smile from thee, did seem A painful, fruitless thing to try, Thy scornful, thin and cruel lips, No pity gave thy steely eye.
Thy countenance, so sternly set, Did seem to say how vain to knock At thy heart's door, for all within Was hard, as adamantine rock.
Thus unto me thy visage seem'd, But faces do not always tell The feelings of the heart within, Or thoughts that underneath them dwell.
For e'en at times, I saw thy face Relax, and look with pity down, On struggling, weary mortals here, Without one scornful glance or frown.
At times I've seen thy steely eye, Sheath'd with a look of tender love, As if thou saw our mortal woes, And fain would help, but dare not move.
As if some higher power than thine, Directed all things here below, And for some wise and happy end, Let struggling mortals suffer woe.
Except at times, when from thy face, A cheerful light is shed on men, And when, withdrawn within thyself, We, hopeful, watch for it again.
Such is the happiness of earth,-- A sudden light, a glancing beam, Which cheers us in our lonely bark, Upon times dark, relentless stream.
The stormy waves roll darkling on, And with the current we must go, Perchance to meet some cheerful beams Of happiness, amid our woe.
But, if we guide our bark aright, And guard the precious tenant there, We soon shall reach a sea of light, From this dark, troubl'd stream of care.
Then, may we never let the shade Of bitter trouble and despair, Hide from our eyes the happy gleams, Which even we, at times, may share.
* * * * *
LOVE.
Thou source of bliss, thou cause of woe, Disturber of the mind of man, Wilt thou still calmly onward go, A sightless leader of the van?
In court and camp wilt thou still rule, And nation's destinies still sway; Make wise men act as doth the fool, And blindly follow thee, away?
Thou siren nymph, ethereal sprite, Thou skilful charmer of mankind, Oh, when wilt thou lead man aright, And when will they thy cords unbind?
Thy potent spells have still their force, And reason's dictates still are scorn'd, And reason runs a shackl'd course, While life, with love, is still adorn'd.
Thou fond inmate of maiden's breast, Thou lighter up of manly heart; Thou surely hast some high behest, And we shall surely never part.
We'll never part, but oh, thou friend And cheerer of life's dreary way. May reason guide us to the end, And may she ever with thee stay.
* * * * *
HATE.
While love inspires, and friendship warms All hearts, in ev'ry state, High over thee, grim hatred storms, As pitiless as fate.
Remorseless, unrelenting, hard, It holds its stubborn way, Which duty's claim cannot retard, Nor righteous thoughts delay.
With steady look, it keeps its eye Fixed firmly on its foe; With panting zeal it hurries by, To make its deadly throw.
In bosoms white it sits in state, And often, faces fair Conceal the rankling fire of hate, Which looks may not declare.
It is not strange to church or state, For oft beneath the gown Of prelate grave, and judge sedate, It sits with hideous frown.
Disturbing truth and righteous law, It scorns the bitter tear, And laughs at all we hold in awe, And all that causes fear.
O God of love, and not of hate, Look down where'er we be, And snatch us, ere 'tis yet too late, From hate's black, raging sea.
From rolling tides of vengeful thought, Oh, lift us far above, And may we thank Thee as we ought, From pleasant seas of love.
* * * * *
DISPLAY.
Deep planted in the heart of man, Wherever you may go, Display hath fertile seeds, which sprout, And daily larger grow.
As oftentimes, in happy soil, A lofty tree may rise, And 'neath its gloomy, blighting shade, A sprout, fair, tender, dies.
One lovely sprout, yes, more than one Droops, dies beneath the shade, And, where might be a garden plot, A tangl'd waste is made.
Ill favor'd weeds, and poison'd fruit, In rank luxuriance reign, And virtuous plants may strive to grow, But strive to grow in vain.
Oh, man, why in thy foolish heart Should one seed grow so well, That naught but chaos there should reign, 'Mid poison plants of hell.
Oh, man, immortal in thy soul, Thou dost possess a will, Then why not prune these noxious sprouts, With firm and steady skill.
If thou would'st make thy heart a plot, Trimm'd, bright, and pure, and clean, Oh, let no tree o'erpow'r the rest, Or rank o'ergrowth be seen.
* * * * *
THOUGHT.
The blight of life, the demon, Thought--BYRON.
With demon's shriek or angel's voice, 'Mid hellish gloom, or heav'nly light, Thought haunts our path o'er land and sea, And dwells with us, by day and night.
In roomy hall, or narrow hut, It withers, blasts and kills with gloom, Or gently onward smooths the path Of him, who gives the tyrant room.
With siren voice it soothes our woe; It dwells with us in blissful dreams; But when we wake, it tells us then, That it is far from what it seems.
Rebellious o'er its prostrate slave, Its iron chain of bondage swings, Or, govern'd by a master hand, In numbers loud and strong, it sings.
And, with its keys of rarest mould, Its stores of hoarded wealth unlocks, It dives for man beneath the sea, And cleaves for him the hardest rocks.
Forever thus it lives and acts, With angel host, or demon throng,-- To sing with voice of heav'nly love, Or shout, with dismal, hellish song.