Chapter 3

Thus shall it live, thus shall it act, While ages shall their cycles roll; It leaves us when we reach the grave But oh? it rises with the soul.

And still it lives in that beyond, As here it lives in this our sphere, To light our road and cheer our path, Or torture us with nameless fear.

* * * * *

PURITY.

Keep pure the thoughts within thy mind, For they to actions turn, Which succor want, or pity woe, Or all but self they spurn.

Keep pure thy thoughts, for outward looks Will then in beauty shine; Although thy face be plain, 'twill be A human face divine.

Keep pure thy thoughts by trust in God, And, when in trouble's sea, Look thou for strength to brave the storm, Upon thy bended knee.

Then lift thy head with fearless front, For come whatever may, Thou'lt gather strength to brave it well, Thro' ev'ry passing day.

Keep pure thy heart, oh, keep it pure, And thou wilt bless the hour, When thou withstood temptation's siege, And bridl'd passion's pow'r.

* * * * *

FAREWELL.

Farewell! and know, where'er I roam, My heart still turns to thee, From spacious halls, or trackless woods, Or on the foaming sea.

Farewell, my friend! oh, could I say, My love, my own, to you, My outlook on this dreary world Would have a brighter hue.

But duty calls, and I must go, E'en now, with outstretch'd hand, I take a sad, sad leave of thee, To dwell in distant land.

For thy sweet sake I'll onward toil, In earnest, patient strife. Content, if thou shalt know I live An earnest, useful life.

And if, in future years thou'rt free, And none has gain'd thy heart, Oh, darling, wilt thou come to me, And we shall never part.

My shatter'd life will then be sweet, My spirit shall rejoice, And weariness forsake my frame, At thy dear, loving voice.

Farewell! farewell! and oh, the words Dwell on my falt'ring tongue; Oh, sad, despairing accents now, That from my lips are wrung.

O, God, look down in gracious love, And, for my pray'rs and tears, Oh! guide and bless that gentle maid, Through all the coming years.

And, if on earth we meet no more, Grant, in thy boundless love, That I till death may faithful be, And meet with her above.

* * * * *

IRELAND.

Thou green isle of sorrows, I think of thee daily, And sad are the thoughts that come into my brain, When here, to my home, o'er the wide, rolling ocean, Is wafted the news of thy trouble and pain.

Oh, Erin! I love thee in spite of thine errors, And now for thee, Erin, my heart is forlorn, Disturb'd as thou art by such various terrors, Thou beautiful isle, where my kindred were born.

E'en now, in my thoughts, I can climb thy steep mountains, Or roam through thy valleys, where green shamrocks grow, Or over thy meadows, where hedges of hawthorn Stand gracefully clipp'd, an impassable row.

And I see the thatch'd cottage, where often, the stranger, With kind word of welcome, is met at the door; The castle or tow'r, a shelter from danger, When foemen invaded thy sea-beaten shore.

Oh, Erin, I roam, in my thoughts, by thy rivers, I stand by thy lakes, in delight at the view, And ever I pray for the time, that delivers This nation from strife, and from misery, too. From Shannon's green banks unto Erne's limpid waters, I've travell'd in thought, while this was my pray'r: That sons of Fermanagh, and Limerick's daughters. Should join in a union of loyalty, there.

For what loyal maid, from the banks of the Shannon, Or what Irish lad, from the slopes of the Bann, Would not dread the day, when the boom of the cannon Should speak of destruction and death, from the van? And what loyal son of old Ireland's glory, From Cork's cove of beauty, to Foyle's distant shore, Would not mourn the day, when, cold, lifeless and gory, Brave forms downfallen, should rise never more?

And who would not hail, throughout Erin's dominion, The time when Religion's bright form should arise, And sail o'er the land; with her blest, healing pinion, And bring to all hearts the truth in one guise?

And then, in his home, afar o'er the ocean, Or by the turf fire, upon Erin's old sod, Each Irishman, kneeling in humble devotion, Would love all his brothers, while praying to God.

Oh Erin, mavourneen! Let Love's joyous fingers Strike out from your harps, one glad, resonant strain, And, if one discordant, harsh, jarring note lingers, Oh, strike for your country, together again! And then, when your hands and your hearts are united, When you kneel at one shrine, when you bow to one law. With a sea of glad brightness, your isle shall be lighted, While thunders the chorus, of Erin-go-bragh.

* * * * *

BY THE LAKE.

The waves are dashing on the shore, With wild, glad joy, I stand and view them; And, as they break with sullen roar, My heart responds with gladness, to them.

They've pow'r to thrill the human soul, As on the shore they break so madly, The spirit, bounding, hears their roll, And speaks responsive, wildly, gladly.

The heart, with proud, defiant beats, Re-echoes the triumphant roar, And, as each wave its course retreats, The pulse retires to beat once more.

The gull screams wildly o'er the waves, Defiant in its stormy glee; It screams, perchance, o'er wat'ry graves And recks not, heeds not, nor do we.

But comes a time, when waves and wind, In restful quietude remain, A change then comes upon the mind, And stormy passion's recent reign.

The gull sails softly thro' the air, For all is calm and still below; Peace, blessed peace is ev'rywhere, And all regret the recent throe.

The man, remorseful, thinks of how Defiant thoughts reign'd wild and high, The waves are mourning, sobbing now, In peace, but yet in agony.

* * * * *

LOUIS RIEL.

Misguided man, thy turbid life This day in shameful death shall close, And thou shalt ne'er behold the sun, That in thy sight, this morn, arose.

The moon, which yestere'en so clear, Shone thro' thy cell's small window pane-- No more shalt thou behold its light, Or see its chasten'd rays, again.

No more thy voice, 'mong savage hordes, Shall sound, with baneful, potent spell, To make them rise with savage force, And 'gainst their country's laws, rebel.

And thou art calm in trustful hope, And conscience gives thee little pain, 'Tis strange, but man's a myst'ry deep, Unsolv'd in finite thought's domain.

The scaffold's there, and thou art firm; Thou walkest forth upon it now; The thoughts within thy breast are hid, But calm and peaceful is thy brow.

The man of God, thy faithful friend Of brighter days, and happier years, Upon thy cheek, with holy lips, A kiss imprints, 'mid blinding tears.

The priest and thou art praying now, For thy poor soul, before 'tis gone, When suddenly, with crashing force, The door descends--the bolt is drawn.

And what can be the pray'r of those, Who learn'd with awe thy dreadful death? It is that thou God's mercy found, Before thou yielded up thy breath.

It is that thou that mercy found, Which thou to others never gave; That thy rebellious, restless soul, A pardon found, beyond the grave.

Man's justice had to take its course, And tie the fatal hempen knot, For vengeance cried from out the ground, Where lay the blood of murder'd Scott.

But who shall say e'en such a cry Did drown the voice of pard'ning love, Which comes to sins of deepest dye, From Him who died, but reigns above?

* * * * *

LINES ON THE NORTH-WEST REBELLION.

The war is o'er, and vict'ry crowns Our youthful soldiers brave, And back their homeward steps have turn'd, Save those who found their grave; Save those whom rebel bullets fell'd, Whose martial souls have gone, Whose bodies rest beneath the plains Of wide Saskatchewan.

Sleep on, brave hearts! Nor bugle sound, Nor beat of martial drum Shall make you spring to arms again, And to your comrades come. Sleep on, brave hearts! Nor western storm, Nor rebel balls you'll feel; You fought the last campaign of life, And fought it well, with Riel.

And others wounded in the strife, Their valor still will burn, And to the bloody field again, Their spirits brave return; Tho' maim'd, and bruis'd, and battle worn, Their names are honor'd here, Next to the names of those who fought, And found a bloody bier.

Oh, British troops are brave, To charge the foreign guns, And British spirit shows itself In our young country's sons. Long, long may truth and valor strong, Inspire Canadian hearts, To meet with steady bravery, All rebel balls and darts;

To meet all foreign foes, or quell The sinful rebel's pride, And teach that right must yet prevail, That justice must preside; That law must ne'er be set at naught, By selfish cliques or elans, That right must ne'er give way to might, That liberty is man's.

* * * * *

THE TEACHER.

Say, sadden'd mortal, thou who goest along With look so weary, and with step so slow, Why trillest thou no blithe and cheerful song, Why whistlest thou that tune, so sad and low?

What trouble weighs thee down, what sorrow sore Lies heavy on thy yet so youthful breast? Sure fortune yet holds wide for thee her door; Sure fame and joy yet wait thy earnest quest.

Why, know'st thou not the birds for thee do sing, The flow'rs for thee with perfum'd beauty grow, With melody for thee the wild birds sing, With rippling laugh, the cheerful streamlets flow?

Then why, my friend, once more I ask of thee, Why shows thy face so much unrest and pain? What painful phase of life dost thou still see? What sad, sad woe, doth in thy heart remain?

Bright flash'd the teacher's languid eye, Flushed his pale cheek, with bright, tho' fleeting flame; Leap'd forth his voice with energetic cry, And thus, to me express'd, his thoughts they came.

"Inquirer, cease, thy words stir up the fire, That erst did fill my live and vig'rous brain; Thy words stir up the seeds of healthy ire, That still, with latent pow'r and force, remain.

"'Tis strange, thou think'st, that darkly on my brow The shadow of a careworn spirit stays; My youth, with springless step, doth make thee bow Thy head, in kindly wonder, and amaze.

"Thou would'st not look with such a puzzl'd air, Upon my weary pace, and heavy eye, If thou didst know the cause of my despair, The stern, substantial, solid reason why.

"Didst ever know, my friend, what I endure, In slavish, plodding work, from day to day, Which work should be in its own nature pure, And lifted high, from gross and heavy clay.

"Examinations, cram and pressure high, Are daily kept before my anxious mind; What tho' for higher aims I daily sigh, This is my work, and this my daily grind.

"I work, you say, on minds, and hearts, and souls, Alas, 'tis true, but what can e'er atone For dry, mechanic thought, and lifeless coals, Which light not up, but turn the intellect to stone?

"Work on! ye faithful, grinding and hair-splitting band, Work on, in slavish fear, and penitential pain, But daily pray, that thro' this young and prosp'rous land, A system, higher, purer, freer, yet shall reign.

"Yours shall not be the blame, the people must it bear, For, while they look for quick results, for hot-bed flow'rs, Amongst them, they the various ills must surely share, Of hasty fev'rish work, compell'd by outside pow'rs."

Thus spoke the man, and closed his lips became, The fire forsook his lately flashing eye, His nerves relax'd, and o'er his brow, the same Dark cloud of bitter woe, could I descry.

* * * * *

THE INDIAN.

When wooded hill, and grassy plain, With nature's beauties, gaily dress'd, Lay calm beneath the red man's reign, And smiling, in unconscious rest,

Then roam'd the forest's dusky son, In nature's wildness, proudly free, From where Missouri's waters run, Far north, to Hudson's icy sea.

From Labrador, bleak, lonely, wild, Where seal, 'mid icebergs, sportive play, Far westward wander'd nature's child, And wigwam built, near Georgia's Bay.

With bow of elm, or hick'ry strong, And arrow arm'd with flinty head, He drew with practis'd hand the thong, And quick and straight, the shaft it sped.

Full many a bounding deer or doe, Lay victims of his hand and eye, And many a shaggy buffalo, In lifeless bulk did lowly lie.

The forest did his wants supply, Content he was with nature's scheme; For, fail'd the woods to satisfy, There came response from lake or stream.

His simple shell of birchen rind, Propell'd by skilful hands, and strong, Down cataracts and rivers pass'd, And over lakes, it went along.

With spears, from stone or iv'ry, wrought, Or hooks, ingenious made of bone, He stores from out the waters brought, Nor look'd for forest gifts, alone.

Contentment dwelt within his heart, And, from his dark and piercing eye His freedom showed, unbred of art, His honor look'd unconsciously.

Untaught by books, untrain'd by men, Vers'd in the thoughts of bard or sage, He yet had read from nature's hand, A book unwrit, yet wise its page.

One would have thought a man so bless'd And richly, too, with manly pow'rs, Had surely some far higher quest, Than living thus, in nature's bow'rs.

One would have thought, that when he knew The laws of God, and cultur'd men, His mind would take a nobler view, And light pursue, with eager ken.

But such is not his happy state, Since light of knowledge round him shone; He still stands sadly at the gate, And few still go, where few have gone.

And whose the fault, and whose the blame, That thus his mind is still so dim, That wisdom's lamp, with shining flame. Still gives so pale a light, for him.

Oh, thinking white man, look around, And, when you have discern'd the cause, Express yourself with certain sound, Concerning this poor forest child, Who left his father's hunting ground.

* * * * *

TO NOVA SCOTIA.

OH brothers, friends, down by the sea, We can thy voices hear, And painful is their tone, and free, Upon each brother's ear.

We hear each voice, pitch'd strong and high, And, could we see you now, Our hearts would heave another sigh, At each beclouded brow.

We hear thy voice, from day to day, In one long, doleful strain, Oh tell us why, oh brethren say Why sounds that voice of pain.

Are we not one, in race and creed, Rul'd by one gracious queen? And we have all receiv'd our meed Of praise and pelf, I ween.

Why vex her now, who's rul'd so long Upon her virtuous throne? Why sing her such a doleful song, And send her such a groan?

And why annoy that whiten'd head, Our land's adopted son, Who wisely drew love's slender thread, And wedded us in one.

And firmer yet he wish'd to bind Us to our country's weal, And see, plann'd by his master mind, One band of glitt'ring steel,

One shining track, which stretches far, From wild Columbia's shore, To where those doleful voices are, And the Atlantic's roar.

Oh brethren, friends down by the sea, With us your voices raise, Instead of groans, oh, shout with glee, With us, one shout of praise.

And trust him, brethren, trust us, too, Seek not from us to go; Our country's good is weal for you, And common, all our woe.

* * * * *

A SNOW STORM.

I hear the wintry wind again, I see the blinding snow, Pil'd high, by eddying winds, in heaps, No matter where I go.

The storm is raging hard, without; But let us not complain, For fiercely tho' it rages now, A calm will come again.

And, though the wildly raging storm Makes all things bleak and bare, Beside the fire we brave it well, And closer draw our chair.

In social fellowship, our hearts With kindly thoughts grow warm; Then is there not a pleasant side, E'en to a raging storm?

And when the angry storm has calm'd, As ev'ry storm must do, Then, sure, the tempest's handiwork, Has pleasant features, too.

An artist's eye would look around, Upon these calmer days, And view the pure white heaps of snow, With pleas'd and puzzl'd gaze.

Like purest marble, deftly carv'd, They stretch o'er vale and hill, Fair monuments, not made by man, But rear'd by nature's skill.

The sweeping curve, the graceful arch, The line so firm and free; A skilful sculptor well might say: "Can this teach aught to me?"

The trees are rob'd in purest white, And gleaming atoms shine From out the snow, beneath the sun, Like stones from Ophir's mine.

The merry shouts of busy men Sound, as they dig the snow; And, when the way is clear, the bells With joyful jingle, go.

Then who shall say the tempest's work Brings more of pain than joy; Or that the evil things, to us Are pain, without alloy?

* * * * *

CATCHING SPECKLED TROUT.

In early days, when streams ran pure, Untainted from their spring, Unchok'd by sawmill dust, or logs, Or any other thing,

Each river, creek and rill ran on, So pure, and free, and bright, That through the gloomy shades, they shed A cheerful, happy light.

The finny tribes, of varied kinds, Ran swiftly to and fro, And with most swift and graceful dart, The speckl'd trout did go.

So swift to dash, and quick to see, He caught the fatal fly, Before less active fishes had E'en turn'd to it their eye;

For, ever active and alert, At once, or not at all, He caught the tempting bait he saw Upon the waters fall.

These were the days to angler dear, When, with his hook and line, He brought his treasures from the brook, So splendid and so fine.

Each angler had his fav'rite spot, Wherein he held his breath, To watch the fishes rush and plunge, So sure to bring its death.

But now the angler rarely throws With great delight, his line, Or listens to the rippling brook, Beside the wild grape vine.

The finny treasures now are scarce, In river, creek or rill, For poison'd are they by the dust, That comes from lumber mill.

The picturesque and shady grove, Which streamlets hurried by, Are now uncover'd by the sun; Full many a stream is dry.

The poet's land is going fast; Wild beauty must give place To useful and substantial things, Which benefit our race.

But who shall e'er forget the joys, When, from some shady nook He flung his fly, with practic'd hand, Far out upon the brook?

* * * * *

THE HUNTSMAN AND HIS HOUND.

When hill and dale, long years ago, Lay clad in nature's dress, And flourish'd the primeval pomp Of nature's wilderness,

A huntsman and his hound would roam, Where fed the timid deer, And where the partridge's drum, or whirr, Brought music to his ear.

In sooth, he heard all forest sounds With real sportsman's joy; And here he always pleasure found, With little of alloy.

The pigeon's coo, the squirrel's chirp, The wild-bird's thrilling lay, Brought freshen'd pleasure to his heart, At ev'ry op'ning day.

But music sweeter far than aught In wood or vale around, Was the loud crackling of the deer, Or baying of his hound.

Full many a deer his steady aim, With faithful rifle slew, But, faithful as his rifle was, His hound was faithful, too.

With loud, sonorous bay, he ran Through swamp, or darken'd brake, Till, from the bush the deer would bound Far out into the lake.

And then, with ready boat at hand, The hunter got his game; For to its struggling, frightened mark, The well-aim'd bullet came.

And thus they liv'd from day to day, This hunter and his hound; With nature's simple joys content, He felt not life's dull round.

A hunter's life he dearly lov'd, And still, from day to day, No other sound he lov'd to hear, Like his own deer-hound's bay.

But soon that voice must sound no more; The faithful dog must die; The man must hunt the deer, without That well-known, guiding cry.

The hound had chas'd a noble buck Right down into the lake, But roll'd the waves so high and strong, The noble beast did quake

With fear, for now he saw 'twas death, To leave the solid shore-- A lesser danger there he saw, So back he came once more.

He came with fierce, determin'd bounds, Impell'd by wild despair, With lower'd head he reach'd the dog, Who bravely met him there.

But short the fight, the antlers gor'd, The dog's brave heart, so true To him who stood upon the shore, As spell-bound by the view.

The dog's death yell rang o'er the lake, For him, and for his foe, As whizzing came the well-aim'd ball, That laid the slayer low.

The bullet came, but yet too late To save the gallant hound; And long the hunter mourn'd his loss, And miss'd his voice's sound.

* * * * *

GRACE DARLING.

The steamer Forfarshire, one morn Right gaily put to sea, From Hull, in merry England, To a Scottish town, Dundee.

The winds were fair, the waters calm, And all on board were gay, For sped the vessel quickly on, Unharrass'd in her way.

All trim and neat the vessel look'd, And strong, while, from on high Her flag stream'd gaily, over those Who deem'd no danger nigh.

So strong she look'd from stem to stern, That all maintained that she Would weather e'en the fiercest storm, From Hull unto Dundee.

But bitterly deceiv'd were they, When off North England's shore, The vessel in a nor'-west gale, Did labor more and more.

Her timbers creak'd, her engines mov'd With weak, convulsive shocks, And soon the ship, beyond control, Rush'd madly on the rocks,

And then a lighthouse keeper saw Her struggle with the waves, And knew that soon, if came no help, They'd find them wat'ry graves.

"What boat," he said, "could pass to them O'er such a raging sea, And e'en if I should venture out, Oh! who would go with me"?

"Oh father, I will go with you, Out o'er the raging sea; To rescue them, come life, come death, I'll work an oar with thee."

She went, and battling with the sea, They reach'd the vessel's side, And sav'd nine precious lives, From sinking in the tide.

For those, who on the wreck remain'd, Afraid to trust the waves, In such a frail and loaded boat, Soon found uncoffin'd graves.

All noble acts, unconsciously Are done, with pure intent; And thus, upon her errand bold, This noble maiden went.

And when, from many mouths, she heard Her praises told aloud, 'Twas but for simple duty done, This modest maid felt proud.

And when, into her lone abode Fam'd artists quickly came, No swelling and self-conscious pride Did animate her frame.

They knew rewards would scarcely do, To tell what should be told, And yet, they gave this modest girl Five hundred pounds in gold.

But gold her peerless bravery Could neither buy nor pay, And yet, content, her lonely life She liv'd from day to day.

* * * * *

A DREAM.

One night, while peaceful in my bed I lay, unwitting what befell, By Morpheus' arms clasped close, In blissful rest, I slumber'd well.

When suddenly, unto my ears There came a dreadful, piercing sound, So strange unto my startl'd mind, I left my bed with single bound.

And then, transfix'd unto the floor, I stood, in terror pinion'd there, With drops of sweat upon my brow, And eyes with fix'd and rigid stare.

I listen'd for the dreadful sound, Which brought such terror to my brain; And then, with wildly beating heart, I heard the fearful noise again.

Affrighted yet, I heard the noise, Which, tho' 'twas modified in tone, It terror brought unto my heart, And from my lips it drew a groan.

For horror yet was in the sound, That froze my blood, and fix'd my eye; It seem'd to me a demon's shriek, Or wailing banshee's boding cry.

But soon my eyes unfix'd their stare, My senses clearer now became, And borne unto my sharpen'd ear, I heard a sound, but not the same.

Within the plaster'd wall, near by, I heard a grinding, ringing tone-- A mouse was gnawing at a board; That was the sound, and that alone.

I waited then, and listen'd long; But naught there came unto my ear, Save this, and lying down again, I wonder'd what had caus'd my fear.