CHAPTER VI.

Golden light of life’s glad morning, Oh, so long, so long ago, I am looking, looking backward From the hills all white with snow. And it is so bleak and dreary, Oh, this long and toilsome way! And my feet are worn and weary Marching onward day by day.

And the road is growing rougher, Desolate on every side, The mountains tower higher, higher, And the storm sweeps far and wide; And the skies are ever shrouded By the clouds, all stern and gray, And the light grows dim and dimmer As night-time closes down the day.

And I scarce can trace the pathway That I tread with pain and moan, And I have no place of refuge, And my rest is but a stone; But I’m marching, ever marching Toward the far-off sunset shore, And I sometimes catch the flashing Of its rays that glimmer o’er

The rugged, bleak, and lofty mountains That seem e’er to bar my way Toward the “city of the sunset” That I’m nearing day by day. Up and down the grim, dark mountains, Where the torrents leap and roar, I am struggling onward, onward, Oft with heart so faint and sore.

Through the vales of desolation Where no living thing is seen, Over crags and yawning chasms, Where dread dangers lurk between. But I press on through all perils, While the days pass one by one; Soon I’ll reach the “City Golden,” Beyond the setting of the sun.

The light that glows above the mountains, Grows brighter, nearer every hour; It sustains and cheers me onward, Renews my courage by its power. And I’m trusting for a meeting Where the lights immortal beam, With the friends that blest my childhood In the old cottage by the stream.

THE BATTLE OF ABRAHAM’S PLAINS.

Wolfe had gained the Plains of Abraham Ere the slumbering sun uprose, Formed his lines, and calmly waited The onslaught of England’s foes. The September sun all golden Rose upon the glorious scene, Lighting up the hills far distant, And the mighty murmuring stream;

Touching with peaceful, glowing fingers Wall and tower and citadel; Toying along the smoking cannon, And ramparts torn by shot and shell. It played along Wolfe’s Highland clans, Those kilted, plaided, fearless men From Scotland’s heathery hills afar, And Lowland vale, and loch, and glen.

It burst on England’s lines of scarlet-- Those living walls glowed like a flame-- And flashed along their bristling steel, Resistless all in war’s dread game. Oh, it was a sight most glorious, Those silent lines abiding there In the glad light of that fair morning, Terribly grand, and yet so fair.

Meanwhile, from Beauport and Point Lévis, Wolfe’s besieging batteries roared; Shaking the doomed and tottering town, As on the citadel they poured A storm of iron, like a torrent, Rending and smashing everywhere; Filling the heroic defenders With dread suffering and despair.

And their calamity but deepens-- A breathless messenger appears, And news of sudden, dreadful import Falls upon their startled ears, As they learn with dread amazement Wolfe has climbed to Abraham’s Plains, And has made his dispositions With lightning strategy and pains.

But Montcalm, the heroic Montcalm, Though o’erwhelmèd by surprise, Issues swift his ringing orders As from point to point he flies. And there was blaring then of trumpets, And the roar of trampling feet, And tumultuous preparations Their stern awaiting foes to meet.

Ha! they issue forth in swift, hot haste, And form upon the noble plain, A chivalry worthy any cause, Their country’s laurels to maintain. Now they advance in swift array, Seven thousand Frenchmen side by side; Rolling upon their intrepid foes, They come, they come in undaunted pride.

The issue is half a continent, But unmoved as if on parade, Wolfe’s valiant line awaiteth there, Invincible and undismayed. Aye, tumultuously the French come on To sweep the British from the plain, And all along their furious lines Burst sheets of blinding smoke and flame.

And as crash on crash of musketry Leaped in fierce incessant roar, The French continued to advance, And a murderous fire to pour On Wolfe’s intrepid, impassive lines, That stood there awaiting the word; And obeying, even unto death, Not a man there flinched or stirred.

What, still unmoved the British line? Though ghastly, gory gaps are torn Through those gallant ranks unmovable, And of many a hero shorn? Still, still unheeding, impassive still? And no answering, no reply? And Montcalm’s ceaseless volleying lines Are drawing very, very nigh.

All along those kilted, scarlet lines Wolfe had flown with swift, hot speed; “Fire not,” he said, “without the command. Stand firm, brave hearts, and never heed Montcalm’s clamorous, advancing lines. Abide like rocks and never fear; Listen for the word, and be prepared When the fierce foe draws very near.”

At last Wolfe’s ringing voice cried, “Fire!” And thus the welcome order came; And instantly from that gallant line Leapt a withering sheet of flame. The roar resounded through the hills, And when the dense smoke rolled away, Revealed was the foe’s torn, bloody ranks, Where hundreds of their brave dead lay.

Another volley is instantly poured On Montcalm’s now shattered line; Then with a cheer that waked the hills, And a grand rush that was sublime, They fell upon their struggling foes With the bayonet’s deadly play, And swept the French from that gory field In ruined, disorderly array.

“They run! they run!” shouts an _aide-de-camp_. “Who run?” brave Wolfe quick cried. “The foe, sir,” and then Wolfe exclaimed: “God be praised,” and calmly died. For sorely hurt by the first French fire, Heroically leading the way, The beloved commander faltered not Until won was that great day.

And another of immortal fame Was on that great day laid low On the red field of Abraham’s Plains, By the great river’s ebb and flow. Montcalm, the e’er intrepid Montcalm, Beloved, revered, and honored so; A true patriot, with a great white soul, Gave his life there long years ago!

And ’tis fitting now in after years, That a united brotherhood Should bedew their mem’ry with our tears, Those two who on that great day stood Contending for their country’s cause. Time the barriers hath swept away, And a united people celebrate In true abiding peace to-day.

’Tis well that from that far-famed field A united monument should rise, Upbearing two illustrious names Toward the glory of the skies. There, towering o’er the famous scene, Keeping the watch of death evermore, Fierce storms of time shall not dissolve The tribute by the river’s shore.

MINNIE LEE.

I shall never see thee more, Minnie Lee, Minnie Lee with thy gold-brown hair, And thy violet eyes, so sweet and pure, And thy face so wondrous fair. I’ve loved thee long and well, Minnie Lee, But the dream was all, all in vain; And the busy years that drift slow away Have left but a ceaseless pain.

Do you remember a time, Minnie Lee, When we wandered hand in hand By a silv’ry stream in the warm sunlight, That wound through a fair summerland? The world was all glad and bright, Minnie Lee, Mantled in wondrous bloom Of beautiful foliage and flowers, And laden with rich perfume.

The emerald fields stretched far away In the mellow and rosy rays; And the crown of the distant hills was lost In a purple and golden haze. And the soft south wind toyed with your hair, And sighed among the flowers, And wandering o’er the billowy lea, Was lost in woodland bowers.

Sweetly and gladly the sweet songbirds sang, Aye, thrillingly glad, and so free; And gazing enrapt on thee, well I knew That time was a heaven to me. But the summer passed and changes came O’er the face of the world so wide; And an iron hand prest cold on my heart, And banished me from thy side.

I shall never see thee more, Minnie Lee, And I’m tired and sad to-day; I am longing for rest, but finding none, As the years drift slowly away. And I bow my head while the tears fall fast, And my soul is heavy with pain; I can only see the gathering gloom, My prayer was all, all in vain.

THE SOUL.

The soul is like unto a mighty ocean In unfathomable sublimity; In calm, or storm, or wild commotion, And is measured but by eternity.

The body, its fitting earthly receptacle, Must perish and dissolve beneath the sod; It hath but a span to bloom and to fade, But the soul is co-existent with God.

THE PRODIGAL SON.

The prodigal son had wandered Far away in a foreign land, And squandered the portion given him By a father’s bountiful hand. Alone, as the chill night was falling, And all through the black dreary day, The damp wind swept cold from the mountains, And the sky was sodden and gray.

Famishing, weary, and forsaken, Poor wanderer, thy ruin’s complete; Thou fain wouldst have appeased thy hunger With the mere husks the swine did eat. Where now are the friends that lured thee To scenes of mad folly and vice?-- False friends that thy wealth had purchased At such grievous sacrifice.

Heavily the chill rain was beating On his poor defenceless head; None but the Heavenly Father knew Of the repentant tears he shed. “How many servants of my father Have bread enough and to spare, And I perish here of fierce hunger?” His cry rang out on the air.

But list! he prays for deliv’rance In very throes of despair; His sobs pierce the night, and e’en heaven Is moved by that passionate prayer. And a holy voice whispered “Peace! Thy sins are forgiven thee; Henceforth let thy life be stainless; Rise up, go forth, and be free.”

Then the rain ceased its dreary beating, The wind sank to a gentle sigh; The moon looked forth in her beauty, Silvering earth and the vault on high. And blest was that son worn and weary As he sank to restful repose, And in dreams his spirit wandered To the land of the vine and rose.

And just as the sun lit the mountains, And in glory shone on the lea, He rose and returned to his father Far over the wide rolling sea. And oh, there were hearts filled with rapture When that wayward son was forgiven; Voices in prayer and thanksgiving Ascended like incense to heaven.

AUTUMN RAIN.

All day I’ve sat and listened and watched The drearily falling rain, Driven by wearily sounding winds Against my cold window pane. The clouds drift low in the valley, Obscured is the lonely sea; Yet mournful tones from her bosom Are borne on the winds to me.

All nature seems dead or dying, Enshrouded as by a pall; Mouldering leaves in eddies flying Patter dank against the wall. And all the day on my sensitive ear, ’Mid the sere grass and the flowers, Beats the dreary rain like mourners’ tears, Grieving sadly through the hours.

There are lonely graves on the hillside, And thoughts that are full of pain, And dreams and regrets that are wakened To-day by the autumn rain. I listen in vain for a footfall, And a voice that’s hushed and still, Whose gentle, flute-like tones so tender Could all my poor being thrill.

There is silence upon the uplands, Save the sob of the wind and rain; No dear note of the songbirds greet me From forest or vale or plain. They’re flown with the beautiful summer To a clime by the south wind fanned, With never a care nor a sorrow In that far-off southern land.

And I would go hence in the gloaming, Ere the light of the soul be dead; I would rest where no earthly turmoil Could disturb my lowly bed. Perhaps at the heavenly dawning, Far beyond the light of the spheres, I may hear that voice and light footfall Through eternity’s changeless years.

THE BATTLE OF THE CANARD RIVER.

FOUGHT JULY, 1812. AMERICAN FORCE UNDER GENERAL HULL, 2,500. BRITISH AND INDIANS UNDER COLONEL PROCTOR, ABOUT 400.

Hull crossed the strait at Sandwich With near three thousand of the foe, Occupied the site of Windsor, And prepared to strike a blow He believed would prove fatal To our southwestern borderland; Demanded instant full submission, And the support of his command.

Ah! he knew not how Canadians Loved the brave old Union Jack, But scouted at the dauntless souls That drove the foeman back. He, with o’er-confidence and pride, Formed his invading force once more, And marched away that summer day By the noble river’s shore;

Marched downward by the river With banners bedight and gay, To subjugate the British post That held him there at bay. Swiftly out from old Fort Malden Proctor led his valiant band, Formed beside the Canard River, Taking a bold, intrepid stand.

A handful of British heroes, With Indian allies fierce and brave, Cunningly taking position Our southwestern border to save, In silence grim awaited The clamorous march of the foe, And the wind sighed in the foliage, And the river made murmur low.

As the dead the British were silent Till the American line drew near, Then thundered on them a volley, And defied them with cheer on cheer. The advancing foe was staggered, And confused by the deadly rain That Proctor hurled from the Canard In volleys again and again.

And all in vain Hull struggled His wavering line to maintain; His men were falling around him, And the field he never could gain. Proctor swept them from left to right In confusion; Hull strove in vain,-- In sore defeat, and put to retreat, He fled by the river again.

THE TAKING OF DETROIT.

AUGUST 16TH, 1812. AMERICAN FORCE, 2,500. BRITISH AND CANADIANS, 700, AND 600 INDIANS. AMERICAN ARMY SURRENDERED TO GENERAL BROCK WITH DETROIT AND THE WHOLE STATE OF MICHIGAN.

’Twas summer, and over the lovely scene The golden sun shone mild and serene. Shimm’ring o’er the stream in murmuring flow, And the whispering winds blew soft and low. All nature at rest, peaceful, dreamful, bland, Claspt tenderly our dear Canadian land. But around o’er all is clamor and war; Passion, destruction, are near and afar. The murmuring stream, the foliage that stirred, Nature’s subtle pleading, never are heard.

Hull with his army had recrossed the stream. Baffled and beaten, his ambitious dream Of conquest had ended in sore defeat; From Proctor’s front he was forced to retreat. Brock placed his guns by the riverside-- A gallant soldier with a soldier’s pride-- Protected his front there sternly and well, Demanding the surrender of Fort Springwell.

Refused, Brock opened with thunder’s roar, Shaking the trembling river and shore. The _Queen Charlotte_ and _Hunter_ swept around, And rent and ruined trench, moat and mound. Covered by the guns, Brock crossed the stream, And forming his little columns between Flanks of Indians, moved forward once more To storm the fort by the great river’s shore.

Hull’s courage failed, and his flag he hauled down, Surrendering the State, fort, and the town; And his beaten forces, guns, stores and all Were included in that momentous fall. All Canada rang with Brock’s deathless fame, And every heart was all grandly aflame. They raised the Old Flag o’er the conquered foe, Where the stream goes by in murmuring flow.

THE DANDELION.

I was weary of toil and heartache, And the ways of selfish men, And wandered away through the woodlands, By streamlet and lonely glen. And soothing and sweet was the greeting The grand old woods gave to me; A whisper of angel voices, And a glimpse of eternity.

And out where the green hills were smiling In the sunlight’s mellow beams, I wandered all enraptured By subtly happy dreams. The glad morning never was fairer, A gracious and perfect day, And the wondrous bloom of springtime Had crowned the loveliest May.

And a thousand songsters warbled In melody sweet and clear; From nook and glade and wildwood bower It ravished the list’ning ear. And the soft skies never were bluer, The breezes never more bland, And a restful calm and peacefulness Brooded sweetly o’er the land.

I turned my eyes from the fair blue skies To the turf beneath my feet; And it mantled the rolling landscape In emerald waves complete. I paused with a thrill of pure delight-- A gleam as of sunset bars Shone from innumerable dandelions, That twinkled like golden stars

By stream and mead and sun-crowned hills As far as the eye could trace; And the little busy honey bees Sipped the dew from each golden face. Ah, little life of a few sweet days, Born when the world is in bloom, Thou never wilt know the blight and chill Of the winter’s dreary gloom.

Aye, a few sweet days to bloom and fade, And gently to pass away; Caressed by the sun and murmuring winds, And the songbirds’ wild sweet lay. Ah, spring and summer, ye fade too soon With all your beautiful days; Ye leave us in loneliness and tears, Along life’s cold wintry ways.

THE DEATH OF SUMMER.

Where are now the gladsome summer, Singing birds whose wild songs thrill, Dark green foliaged waving wildwood, Fragrant glade and rippling rill? And the voice, as soft as angel’s, Of the low caressing wind, As it kisses earth’s warm beauties, Wooing gently and so kind?

Where the whisper and the murmur Of the sunlit, dancing sea? The mysterious deep-toned music Of the waves so grand and free? Looking where the isles seem sleeping, Gemmèd on the slumbering flood; On and on through sunlit vistas Fancy free our souls have trod.

And the hazy cloudlets floating All the laughing sunlight through, Mirrored on the glorious splendor Of the sky’s infinite blue? Leading up the vaulted highway Of the planets’ centring spheres, Till our souls are lost in wonder ’Mid ecstatic thoughts and fears.

Where the dreams we wooed at twilight? Fairest time of all to me; When the silver moon beams softly, And the stars gem earth and sea. Oh, the whispering, murmuring music! Oh, the songs of summer night! Unseen harps in tones of rapture, Thrilling me with strange delight.

Ah, to die at close of even, With the heart so strangely glad-- Blissful as a dream of heaven-- Death could not be drear or sad. Fairest joys the soonest vanish; Summer died but yesterday; Chill and blight of autumn banished All her loveliness away.

“BIG MIKE FOX.”

A NOTED CHARACTER AND PIONEER IN THE EASTERN PART OF ESSEX COUNTY, ONTARIO.

Big Mike was a giant Canadian Who never was known to do A mean or unmanly action; His great heart was kind and true. He loved with a steadfast devotion The friends of his early youth; And he fearlessly did his duty, And as fearlessly spoke the truth.

He was a terror to evil-doers, But a friend to the poor and old: Big Mike had a home of plenty, And a heart as good as gold. He was one of nature’s noblemen, One of Canada’s pioneers; A specimen grand of true manhood, Honored by fulness of years.

He hewed him a home from the forest-- Who has heard not of Big Mike’s fame As an axeman and famous hunter Of the red deer and savage game? Yet his was a kindly nature, Tender and void of guile; His friends and neighbors all loved him, And sought his approving smile.

He loved “this Canada of ours,” And the grand old “Union Jack;” And traitors did well to keep shady When Big Mike located their track. With an ever unswerving purpose, He never was known to fail; In pursuit of a worthy object He never relinquished the trail.

When rebellion was in our borders, Prepared for the coming fray, He shouldered his trusty rifle, And to the frontier marched away. And bravely he did his duty With his manly breast to the foe; He was every inch a soldier In those days that tried men so.

Big Mike heard voices in nature That appealed to his thoughtful soul-- The sounds of the winds in the night-time, And the thunder’s mighty roll; The drip of the rain, and the sunshine, And the shadows that fall between The golden sunset and twilight hours, And the beauty of night serene.

The songs of birds, the humming of bees, The flowers that bloom by the way, And the awesome tones of the forest, Through the distance dim and gray. The rill, the streamlet, and river, That murmuringly onward flow; The hills, and the towering mountains, Cloud-capped in eternal snow.

The splendor of the starry ways, And the awful solitude, The frightful voids and the spaces vast, The mystery of infinitude! And all things that God hath created, From the sea to the tiniest flower, Were a source of proof and assurance Of divine and mighty power.

Being wedded to one he loved dearly, Time’s changes could never destroy Their mutual love for each other; And ’twas ever a source of joy. But the years that are swiftly going Bear man’s joys and sorrows away, And his youth and his manhood’s vigor, Remorselessly to decay.

The summer to autumn was merging When the wife took ill and died; As by a tempest he was shaken, Uncontrollably the strong man cried. Somehow Big Mike was never the same From that irreparable day; And he strangely weary and silent grew, And his look was far away.

Over the fields, by the nooks and ways That had blest his early life so, As in a dream with her so loved, He silently went to and fro. Sometimes with his trusty rifle He sought for the lurking game; But, lost forever the incentive, The hunting was never the same.

And all aimlessly he wandered Through the forest gray and dim, Through the stately and awesome forest, That was ever so dear to him. The old friends, concerned for his welfare, Said, “Why don’t you get wedded again?” But Big Mike raised his stately head, And a look as of nameless pain

Spread over his grand and honest face, As he said (with voice full of tears), “I loved my wife when she was but a child-- I have loved her all these years-- Aye, and I love her supremely still-- And far more precious to me Is the grass that grows on her quiet grave Than another can ever be.

“My heart is laid in her lonesome tomb, And there will be no change in me; Faithful in life and faithful in death, And through all eternity.” And there came a day when Big Mike sat By the shore of the soundless sea; There calmly waiting to launch away Into endless eternity.

Then they laid him by his dear one’s side, Where above them the grass doth grow; And the sighing winds, and the sobbing rain, And the seasons that come and go Are all unheeded by Big Mike now. Ah! ’tis seldom his like is seen; Put a fadeless wreath on his silent brow, Keep his mem’ry ever green.

WINTER TIME.

I’m tired to-night of the winter time, Its dreariness, moan, and woe, The lonesome wind, the sleet and snow, That continually come and go. And the chill white robe that enfoldeth The earth in a cold embrace-- Just as we shrouded the form we loved, And covered the pale dead face.

The blast rolls down from an icy zone, Where the lonely Arctic sea Hath stormed and raged through infinite years In terrible, desolate glee. The trees are rocked and the hills are swept, And the vales are pent with snow, By the furious sweep of the icy winds, That ceaselessly come and go.

The trees are bare and the hills are dead, And the vales are shorn of their bloom; Where all was joy ere the summer died Is now but a mocking tomb. The stream is hushed, and the river stilled, And the sky is dark as doom, And the merciless swirl of the driving snow Makes deeper the dismal gloom.

Relentless winter! thy iron clasp And withering icy breath Earth’s fragrant loveliness have slain-- Thou art but a type of death. And phantom hands seem beckoning me, And voices as from the dead-- Dear spirit voices of long ago-- As I bow my stricken head.

My heart is full and the tears will fall, And my thoughts are heavy with pain; I’m weary of loss and loneliness, And this wild, dark winter plain. I long, so long, for the summer time, With its birds and fairest flowers, The sun-crowned hills, the song of the sea, The meads and the greenwood bowers.

The murmuring rills and soft twilight, The sigh of the wandering breeze, Caressing the sea, and dying away To a whisper among the trees. But as I dream and the snow falls fast, Comes this thought with glad surprise: There’ll be no grievous loss nor death, No winter in paradise.

I SAW HER FACE TO-DAY.

I saw her fair face to-day, After the flight of years; I saw, and my eyes grew dim With a mist of weary tears. Lost, when the summer faded Into sad autumn time, And the winds grew melancholy-- A tender and sad repine.

Sad and silent we lingered As the twilight crept away, And the shadows nearer drew Through the stillness soft and gray. We’d loved with a love as holy As mortal heart e’er knew, But we severed the tie and parted, Into lonesome night withdrew.

Wandering, and never at rest, After the long flight of years, To look on her face again Through a mist of weary tears. The sun of life is falling Low down the pale, wan west; The twilight draweth nearer, The time for peace and rest.

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.