CHAPTER XIX.--THE FATE OF TIME.

Inexorable and insatiate Time! Thou, too, shalt die, and dread annihilation meet! The soul shall happier be when thy ruin ’s complete. Listen, then, thou scourge! “And the angel which I saw Stand upon the sea, and upon the earth, lifted up his hand And sware by Him that liveth for ever and ever That time should be no longer.” Never, no, never, In the night of eternity shall thy face be seen; Thou shalt not break in to mar existence more serene. In the deeps of outer darkness shall be thy doom, In the desolate voids of black, eternal gloom.

Farewell, then, Time! By the ruin of the dead centuries, farewell! By the ensanguined fields of millions slain, farewell! By the countless tears of broken hearts, farewell! By the mother’s agonizing prayer, farewell! By the children’s want and orphan’s cry, farewell! By the repentant sinner’s groans and tears, farewell! By the sick and weary wanderers, farewell! By the tortured, dreary lives of slaves, farewell! By the Saviour’s persecuted life, farewell! By His agony and death thou sawest, farewell! Aye, thy cruel flight shall at last reach death’s shore, And the soul shall rejoice when thy stern reign is o’er.

LOST AND WON; OR, WINTER AND SUMMER.

O Summer! thy regal splendor Hath borne the spring-time away; Thy proud and passionate wooing Hath won thee a bride to-day. Her sweet smiles and tears and sunshine, Her glory of flowers and streams Are gone, and alone I ponder O’er vain, delusive dreams.

Her beautiful, tender presence Is lost in thy eager embrace; Thou kissest the dewy fragrance From her lovely, lovely face. And I, who was near unto her, Have lost my all to-day-- The chill of the grave is on me, My sky is cold and gray.

I stand without the cold portals, And through my frozen tears I mark the bliss that e’er crowns you. My own poor broken years Lie dark in a land that never Will bloom with fruit or flowers; Chill is the bleak wind that sweepeth My desolate, haunted bowers.

And thou, with thy priceless treasures, In the land of love and song, Amid full voluptuous pleasures, Thy years glide proudly on.

Alone, with my vast surroundings, Shunned is my weird abode; An outcast, with but the bitter; Forsaken by all--but God.

GRANDSIRE.

Old and feeble, bowed and weary, Trembling near the dreaded stream; Night approacheth, and the sunset Casts a last expiring beam On the silver-headed wanderer Waiting by the turbid tide, List’ning for the phantom boatman O’er the Lethean waters wide.

Yet, amid the gathering darkness, And the chill of coming night, He croons a song that reaches heaven, E’en in trusting and delight. And he seems to catch a murmur, Wafted from the other shore, Of sweet-voiced friends that are awaiting Where the night comes nevermore.

Poor old grandsire, patient ever, Thou hast known neglect and care, And hast felt the dreary heartache, Ingratitude and dark despair. But thou ’st ever been uplifted And sustained by One who knew All the sorrow man is heir to, And to man’s relief that flew.

Oh, ye careless and forgetful! For your own and father’s sake, Cheer his feeble, trembling footsteps; Do not let his old heart break. Take his withered hand and bless him, He hath given e’en life for you; He will soon glide o’er the river; God grant in peace his last adieu.

ADVERSITY.

Why should our tears fall down? And why should the heart sink low? And why should our courage fail When adversity’s chill winds blow? Bow not thy head, my brother, Though slander’s poisonous dart, Hurled by an assassin hand, Find lodgment in thy heart.

And though they strew thy pathway With thorns that wound thy feet, Press bravely on thy journey, Dare thy proud foes to meet. Why should we grieve so, and mourn, When old friends pass us by With cold and averted face, And we heave the weary sigh?

Still move on, though sore wounded; Fight thou sternly for the goal; Heed not thy vile traducers; Be firm, thou, and brave of soul. Aye, still move steadily on, Though all the world should forsake; Though you sink beneath your load, And the heart at last should break.

Heed not the stony glances, Nor the cold, sarcastic tone; Press on through storm and darkness, Though you stand on the hills alone. Still fight onward and upward, There are mountains still to climb, And heights to win, my brother, That in grandeur are sublime.

Should you fall by the wayside, And never reach the goal, ’Tis brave to die ’mid the struggle, Displaying a hero’s soul. And as you near the sunset Proud peace you may gain at last; When the skies are aflame with glory You may rest from the weary past.

FULLMER’S LANE.

After years of feverish wandering, Long years of loss and pain, It comes like the tenderest wooing, The memory of Fullmer’s Lane. There was a winding way through the forest That I lovingly recall again-- A wild wealth of nature’s loveliness Leading onward to Fullmer’s Lane.

And how often, O heart! how often In the bright years that have flown away, When all life was a sunny gladness, A full song of the summer day, We went with a light-bounding footstep, At morn or the calm afternoon, Along the way so sweet and so fair, Wreathed o’er by a billow of bloom.

There was a wealth of song from the glades, And by upland and shadowed hill; By lonely tarn and the winding stream, And the tiniest silver rill. The robin, bluebird, and bobolink, And the sweet redbird soft and low; The quail, with its festive shout “Bob White,” Broke in on the rhythmic flow.

And we burst from the shadowy wood Overlooking the meadowy plain, And gained the home by the pebbly stream Bordering on Fullmer’s Lane. Dear friends awaited our eager feet In that rural home so dear; Alight with love and the jewel content, And the essence of right good cheer.

And we quaffed from the delicious spring Bubbling up from the dark ravine; And played on the banks, sloping away, And bathed in the running stream. We chased the squirrel from tree to tree, And joined in the bobolink’s song That rose from the meadows joyously And gaily followed along.

We saw the sun in the west sink low, And the warm moon rise over the plain, And listened to the winds go by, And knew not a shadow of pain. But partings come, and the world rolls on, ’Tis ever, aye, ever the same; And relentless fate dissevered the ties That drew us to Fullmer’s Lane.

After the flight of pitiless years, With heart grown heavy with pain, I seek for the beautiful winding way That led us to Fullmer’s Lane. The stately forest is swept away-- Not a vestige of it can we trace As we look for the entrance to Fullmer’s Lane And the old familiar place.

The day is as lovely as ever June In its wealth of roses can be, But no friends are left by the pebbly stream To cheer or to welcome me. The tear will fall for the lovely past, And the fond heart will murmur its pain; Farewell! for strangers but mock us here; Farewell, then, to Fullmer’s Lane!

AUTUMN WINDS.

O winds! why sound so mournful? ’Tis the grand autumnal time; The world is dressed in splendor, And all things are sublime. There’s a fulness in the vales, Fraught with blessings rich and rare; Ripe fruits bedeck the uplands And hillsides everywhere.

O winds! why sigh so mournful Through the forest’s golden sheen? More touchingly beautiful Than all the summer’s green. ’Tis true the leaves are falling, The forest glades along; The birds are fleeing southward, I hear their farewell song.

O winds! I, too, am mournful O’er the things that cannot be, And thoughts that crowd my bosom Sob like waves along the sea. O voices, long, long silent! O faces, long hid away! Your presence breathes around me With the mournful winds to-day.

THE BATTLE OF BATOCHE.

We were waiting for the signal In our lines before Batoche; Ready, eager, and expectant For the grand and final rush. For three days we had been fighting-- On the rebels’ pits we’d rained A furious and pelting fire, And our advance maintained.

All along our lines ’twas whispered “We storm the pits to-morrow,” And a thrill of valor swept our ranks, Dispelling care and sorrow. We laid the smoking rifle by When the shades of night drew on, And grouped about the camp-fire’s light To await the morrow’s dawn.

And some sang songs of home and love, And some of martial glory; And merry laugh responsive came To pun, or stirring story. The sentries paced their lonely round; All silent was the scene Save for here and there a dropping shot From pit or dark ravine.

The soldier sank to peaceful rest, The earth his slumber-bed; The night winds crooned a lullaby, The stars beamed o’er his head. And all, perhaps, were thinking then Of loved ones far away-- Brave hearts, that ere the morrow’s eve Should perish in the fray.

From Nova Scotia far they came, Quebec, and Ontario; Manitoba’s fearless sons were there, Ready to face the foe. All there to stamp rebellion out And the grand “Old Flag” to save; “A united empire” for us all, And to traitor hordes a grave!

The thunder of the frowning gun Roused up that soft May dawn; The bugles blared the reveille Beside the Saskatchewan; And there was forming in “hot haste,” Beside the flowing stream. The sun shone on our gleaming steel All peaceful and serene.

And Williams, with the Midlanders, Formed on the left with cheers, And Grassett on their right deployed His Royal Grenadiers. The valiant Ninetieth in support To the right the line prolonged, And Boulton, with his mounted men, Near to their right wing thronged.

The Surveyors’ scouts moved to the right To prolong the line again, And Boulton’s mounted infantry Formed near the open plain; And French’s scouts held the extreme right, Poised like eagles for their prey; Montizambert with his guns moved up, For a moment held at bay.

Howard and Rivers their gatling Placed by the Ninetieth’s side, And prepared to sweep the plain With their missiles far and wide. And down the stream the _Northcote_ lay With the Infantry School corps, To upward move and draw the fire Of the foe from either shore.

And bravely Major Smith performed This trying duty that day, Though fiercely assailed he sternly held The wild western shore at bay. A gallant corps, deserving well Of our country and our Queen; History records your daring deeds On that far storied stream.

The infantry brigade was led By the gallant Straubenzie, Full of resource, with eagle eye Safe vantage ground to see. At the zareba Haughton stood, Cool, intrepid under fire; His men his spirit emulate In chivalric desire.

And thus formed up that fearless line, As steady as on parade; The light of battle on each face-- Of such are true heroes made. The signal at last is given, The bugles ring out “advance”; The general ’s in position; We’re under his flashing glance.

With a ringing cheer we greet him, That war-worn veteran gray, The hero of a hundred fights In strange lands far away. His hand directed wise and well; For him the heartfelt shout; His strategy and deep resource Put the rebel hordes to rout.

“Forward!” now along the line Rings our leader’s fearless tone; And with quick bursts of rousing cheers We enter the fire zone. And the Metis open upon us From pit and dark ravine; Pelting like fierce hail about us Comes a deadly leaden stream.

We pause, and return upon them Such a fire as shakes the hills; Montizambert’s guns tear through them, And our lines with confidence thrills. Jarvis’s battery joins the left, And thunders beside the stream; And Howard’s gatling is raging-- From its lips the missiles scream.

’Twas dreadful, the roar and tumult, But our men rise above fear; Ha! the Midlanders and Grens rush on, Winning the first line with a cheer. “Forward, now, with the bayonet!” Rings out along the whole line, And a cheerful, responsive cry Rose from a valor sublime.

Forward, now, dauntless Midlanders, And brave Royal Grenadiers! And, gallant Ninetieth, sweep the plain; Ring out, ring out defiant cheers! And, Boulton, with your mounted men, Rush on the doomed rebels, too: Ye ’re not the corps to pause nor shrink When there’s daring work to do!

Ho, scouts! to the front; forward, too, Rush like mad upon the foe; A French leads on, ye need not doubt; Strike with might a crushing blow! Montizambert, let your guns rage, And Howard’s gatling gun scream, And rend the rebel pits and lines, And shake the trembling stream!

The decisive moment had come-- Forward! forward! side by side; “Charge home!” the general ordered, With manly, confident pride. And the ring of our flashing steel Greeted his lionlike eye, And we swept like a besom on With a thrilling battle-cry.

Gallantly and swiftly onward With a mighty rush we go, And burst like a pent-up torrent On the desperate fighting foe. Like chaff by the wind we swept them From pit and from dark ravine; The bayonet was effectual, And withering as a flame.

Aye, we struck the pits and ravines In our fiery onward roll, But not for a single moment Was the charge beyond control. Hand to hand we taught them a lesson They ne’er will forget again, And broken and beaten they fled Over the wide death-strewn plain.

From line to line we pressed them, Turning their right on our way; Clearing their works with our lines of steel, And thus deciding the day. From every point we charged them, Till Batoche lay at our feet; The rebels were utterly ruined, And our victory complete.

And we pulled their bunting down, And hoisted the Old Flag again, And a storm of heartfelt greeting Rolled in thunder o’er the plain. And we cheered for Queen and country, And our chief we loved so well, And silently dropped a tear For those who in fighting fell.

Mournfully to the muffled drum, At the smile of another dawn, We put our gallant dead away By the dark Saskatchewan; And we wept as never before, And silently marched away, Leaving them there at peace and rest Till dawn of the judgment day.

My country, forget thou them not, Nor the close of that sad scene; They dared their all for the flag they loved, And died for country and Queen. Revere, then, that hallowed place; Their life was no idle dream; Honor the brave dead far away By the dark and storied stream.

FALLING LEAVES.

Poor falling leaves! I have watched you Fading slowly, with heavy heart, And as you patter around me, Vain tears to my tired eyes start. Drearily the rain is falling, And my soul is heavy with pain; O winds, thy desolate sobbing Hath wakened old dreams again!

Short-lived, but ah! how lovely Were the peaceful summer hours! Sweet golden days in the wildwood, Reposing ’mid fairest bowers. The skies were grand in their beauty, And the earth was never more fair; The hills and vales filled with rapture, Caressed by the perfumed air.

As a child of nature I revelled By hillside, cool streamlet, and sea; Tender and kind were the voices That whispered in love unto me Of a time that had no seeming, When life was all joyous and gay, And the years, with roses laden, Passed soon like a dream away.

I knew when the autumn shrouded The world in a strange, sad veil, And heard in the lonely woodland The hollow, mysterious wail Of the wind in sad meanderings By forsaken bower and stream, Searching out the dim recesses Where the summer had dwelt supreme.

Whence cometh these weird, sad longings? Ah! wherefore this dreary pain? I’m tired as a weary child, And would rest and forget again; But the drip of the weeping rain, And the moan of waves on the shore, And the pitiful falling leaves May cease in the heart nevermore.

THE SEA.

Ah! but thou’rt beautiful, sapphire sea, When the sun in splendor along thee smiles, And thy sparkling wavelets rise and fall In murmurs afar by a thousand isles, Where whispering winds speak soft and low-- O gentle isles, kissed by thy restless feet-- Where the spices and palm and olives grow, And odorous blossoms so fair and sweet.

But why dost thou moan so, O great, sad sea? Such a weary, pitiful, pleading moan, Like a soul all dead to the hope of heaven, Drifting out and lost in the vast unknown. And why dost thou sob through the moonless night? Such passionate sobs rend thy deep, dark caves, Throbbing up from thy bosom ne’er at rest, O sea, with thy million lone hidden graves!

Thy deep soul ever appealeth to me In the lonesome night on the wave-worn shore; But I cannot tell all it says to me Of voices and dreamings that are no more. Sometimes thou murmurest soft and low, When the summer glorifies earth and sea; Thy pathetic voice is borne on the wind, The sweet south wind toying kindly with thee.

And thou seemest to woo in tender tones, And would clasp and hold the warm, shining shore; But thou failest, O sea, and thy sad voice Is sobbing and sobbing forevermore. O wonderful, majestic, awesome sea! Surely the Creator speaketh in thee; And a sorrow so deep, so mysterious, Appealeth in sobs eternally.

When the wild typhoon sweeps thy heaving breast, And thy billows threaten the angry sky, Thy merciless fury knoweth no bounds As the doomed ships before thee madly fly. In vain the appealing flag of distress, In vain the minute guns peal o’er the sea, In vain are prayers and the pleading cry-- They sink! they sink to eternity!

But the storm rolls by, and the waves subside, And the sun in glory bursts forth again; But oh! there are many breaking hearts, Weary of waiting in hopeless pain. Aye, ye’re watching in vain through dimming eyes; Ye’ve waited so long by the storm-swept shore: The seasons will come and the years will go, But the loved will come no more, no more.

Art troubled, O sea, that ye rest not, nor sleep, Nor cease thy dirges by night or day? The loved and lost of the pale, dead past Strew thy drear chambers and desolate way. And they slumber in utter loneliness; No friend may kneel by their dismal tomb; They never know of the spring’s fair hours, Or the songs of birds. The summer’s bloom

Decks not their mystical, sea-fret graves, But they await the illumining ray Of light from heaven to pierce the cold gloom-- An everlasting celestial day. I love thee, O sea, in thy every mood-- In passion rent, or in gentle tone; Thy awesome voice is a mystery still, But never at rest is thy weary moan.

ONLY A FADED LEAF.

’Twas only a faded leaf That settled down on my hair, The last from a poor bare bough In the crisp October air. I gathered it tenderly in, And could not restrain the tears As I thought of summer hours And the silent faded years.

O beautiful fallen leaf! Russet and crimson and gold, With a tinge of emerald still, Smitten by the frost and cold. A souvenir of the past, Telling of spring’s fair hours, Of the bloom and sighing winds, And June’s ambrosial bowers.

But still this dear autumn time Is tender and subtly sweet, Though littered by fallen leaves Rustling sad at my feet. As lives that are good and true Fade out like an autumn day; More beautiful at the last, They serenely pass away.

So all the hills are enwrapped In the hazy, dreamy light Of the Indian summertime-- A season of calm delight. Ah! little pale fallen leaf, Type, thou, of man’s short hour-- To bud and bloom for a span, And fade as the leaf and flower.

ASTRAY.

I have not a cent in the world, And I’ve left my father’s home Out in the hard world to wander, Friendless, poor, and alone. I have sought in vain for a place To earn my daily bread, A shelter from the winter’s storm, And a place to lay my head.

But cold are the bosoms I meet, Aye, cold as the drifting snow; I’m turned away from their doors, And I know not where to go. All day I’ve struggled along Through the weary wastes of snow, And I’m tired almost to death, But who will care now, or know?

The night is closing around me, And fierce is the angry sky; I’m hungry and faint and helpless-- Must I sink by the way and die? ’Tis strange in this terrible hour That thoughts of my childhood’s days Should pass like a dream before me In all their innocent ways.

Ah! sunny home by the hillside, Song-birds of the long ago, I hear your glad, wild, sweet singing, And the murmuring brooklet’s flow. Ah! happy days in the wildwood, Revelling in nature’s bowers; Bluest skies, and soft wind sighing ’Mid the tall trees and flowers.

Ah! songs I sang with my mother At evening’s golden glow, Voices of father and brother, Why are ye haunting me so? Ah! years that came with temptation, And lured me away from right, Till hope was gone, and in frenzy I fled from its wiles in fright.

Weep, hearts, for there on the morrow, By the sun’s wan light ye may trace His weary way, and find there Frozen tears on his poor dead face. God in His infinite mercy Knew when all hope was slain, And closed his eyes, and in pity Relieved him from earthly pain.

A SPECTRE.

Away, gaunt fiend! Take thy tyrannous presence from my cottage door. Too long thou hast held me captive at thy will, And I cannot bear thy blighting touch so chill, For I am weary, and my heart is bruised and sore. Too long thou’st mocked me with thy hideous face; When all the world seemed dark and cold to me, Thou’st jeered and taunted in thy fiendish glee, That I was homeless and had scarce a resting place.

Vile spectre, avaunt! Take thy evil visage from my humble cottage door, And thy lacerating talons from my shrinking heart. O! I have prayed that thou would’st pity and depart, And leave me peace at last that I might want no more. Why hast thou all these weary and burdened years Shadowed every hope and left but toil and pain, Clutched at my very life, and made all vain The aspirations that died in sorrow and in tears?

Down, black phantom! Filled with blighted hopes, vain dreams, and dead men’s bones, Thou heedest not the pleadings of the souls that die, The widow’s want and prayer, the orphan’s cry For help, earth’s poor that struggle on ’mid sighs and moans. Thou hast still’d the voices that rang light and gay, And hushed the laughter that will gush no more, And brought the gloom of night along the shining shore Of souls once bright with bloom and sunny as the day.

Insatiate ghoul! I’d snatch thee from thy infamous pedestal, And hurl thee writhing down the glaring vaults of hell, That man might walk redeemed, with head erect, and dwell In plenteousness when capital’s divided well. But I’ll arise and smite thy grinning, dev’lish face; Aye, I’ll fight thee unto death’s grim, ghastly gate, And, though I perish by thy cruel fangs and fate, ’Twere best to fight a hero’s fight for liberty and place!

Malignant foe! Thou shalt at last be put to ignominious flight, For life is but a span, an echo on the shore, Where burdens are laid down and sorrow is no more. Thy doom shall be “cast out in endless, shoreless night.” Thank God, there is a sphere to which thou canst not rise, A radiant place of fadeless bloom divine: Man’s home supernal, far beyond the reach of time, Where weary ones may rest, O wondrous paradise!

A REVERIE.

The golden sun all mellow was falling Adown the far aisles of the flaming west, Bathing earth and sea in fading glory As it sank majestically to rest. Murmuringly the summer winds were breathing A song of love to the birds and flowers, Wooing low the streams and distant woodlands, And toying with gems in fairest bowers. Low were the tones, mysterious and soothing, That came from the depths of the throbbing sea, Whisp’ring the soul of the great Eternal, Far, far beyond, where bright spirits are free.

Gently the twilight came stealing around me, Mantling earth and sea in dreamy array; Palely the night orbs o’er me were twinkling, Silv’ring the waters away and away. Serenely the queen of night in her beauty Looked on the sea and the isles afar, Pointing her rays o’er the quivering foliage To the far gates of day just left ajar. Sweet were my dreamings alone in the gloaming On that summer’s eve of the long ago, Loving and trusting in meek adoration, Quaffing from nature’s mysterious flow.

I paused by the murmuring sad voiced sea, Dreaming of love, with the world at my feet; So trusting is youth at the flush of its morn, Soaring high on the wings of hope complete. But darker and denser the shadows grew, Deepening to gloom as night grew apace; Ghostly clouds hid the stars, sky, earth, and sea, And the crescent moon hid her beautiful face; And the wandering night winds sighed and grieved, And the waves sobbed low along the dim shore, And a voice like a prayer, full of tears, Wailed pitifully, “Nevermore!”

And I softly wept, yet I scarce knew why; Vague doubts and fears touched my passionate soul, Like the approaching tempest heard afar When its muttering thunders onward roll. I wandered away o’er the pitiless world, Fighting life’s battle with might and with main, And amid toil and tears through long sad years, So weary of waiting, and all in vain. All scathed and worn by the battle’s fierce flame, With the day uncertain and incomplete; Bright hope, love, and fame, and friendship so dear, Lie a pitiful wreck at my tired feet.

I’ve come once again with the summer time, At the evetime’s mystical afterglow, To the lonely sea, ’neath a waning moon, Where the waves still restlessly ebb and flow. I look far out o’er the shadowed deep, Seeking its dreamland isles afar; But I scarce can see for the blinding tears The beautiful sunset gates ajar. But I seem to view up its golden aisles A fairer world ’neath immortal skies, All bright with bloom, and the friends I loved, On the fadeless hills of paradise!

IN MEMORIAM.

List! The year was slowly dying In the dark December days, And the winds moaned low and sadly O’er the lonely winter ways. And the hills and vales were lying As when life’s last flush hath fled, Folded in a snowy mantle, Silent, dreamless, cold and dread.

Whilst the winds without were grieving O’er the meads and frozen streams, Hearts within were filled with mourning, Near the firelight’s fitful gleams. On a couch of painful anguish, Meek and patient, pale and wan, Hand clasped hand in solemn parting-- Dying mother, stricken son.

“Dearest mother, are you trusting In the name of Jesus now, As you near the Stygian river With the death damps on your brow? Oh, so cold and dark the waters! Do you fear to enter in? Mother, I shall sadly miss you In this world of care and sin.”

“Yes, my boy, I’m fully trusting In the Saviour’s mighty love; And I know His hand will guide me Safely to His courts above. Ah! I hear such holy voices Chanting on the other shore, Filling all my soul with rapture As I’m swiftly sailing o’er.”

Thus she passed beyond the river, Far beyond the gleaming bars Of the sunset’s golden glory And the pathway of the stars. And they laid her last cold relics ’Neath the dreary drifting snow, Whilst the winds moaned saddest requiem, Prayerful, solemn, grieved, and low.

ONLY DREAMS.

Only dreams, aye, dreams forever Haunt my soul and fill my brain With the loved that I may never Meet in this great world again. Springtime seems but fraught with sadness, Though the birds sing just as gay; And there’s still as much of gladness In the blooming, balmy May;

And the soft winds play as lightly O’er the verdure and the flowers; And the sun beams just as brightly Over nature’s lovely bowers; And the streamlet and the river Murmur onward to the sea, Singing low with silver quiver Just the same, but not to me;

And the twilight dews of even Just as sweet a fragrance shed, And the pale night orbs of heaven Beam the same, though years have fled-- Years that brought so many changes, Years that stole my flowers away; Now in fancy only linger Dreams that once were bright as day.

Visions of the cot and wildwood Flit before me evermore, But the friends that blest my childhood Meet me at the stream no more. Thus it is that dreams will haunt us-- Forms and scenes we loved so well; Smiling faces, tones and voices, Time nor change can e’er dispel.

THE BATTLE OF CUT KNIFE HILL.

O’er the vast rolling prairie, And afar in the “Great Lone Land,” Otter’s column’s advancing Amid dangers on every hand. Yet forward, steadily forward, A day and a long night they go, And just at the morn’s pale dawning Sweep down on the savage foe.

And under the gallant Otter Swiftly they form up and well, Dash forward over the streamlet Into coulee, ravine and dell. Moving into the fighting line With a rush the fierce gatling goes; Forward, into the hot centre, Dealing death on the dusky foes.

And the intrepid Shortt moves up, Placing his guns on either side, To sweep coulee and dark ravine, And the Cut Knife Hill far and wide. With “B” Battery in support Of Rutherford’s raging guns, Shaking the dark, trembling stream That by the base of Cut Knife runs.

On either flank of the batteries The Mounted Police were placed, And steadily they extended, And proudly the dark foe faced. To the right and rear were the Guards, And the proud Infantry School corps, Cool and steady as on parade, Under Gray and the stern Wadmore.

To the left, on a ledge of the hill, Extending near unto the stream, Was the ever-gallant Queen’s Own With but an interval between The stealthy approach of the foe. Protecting the ford and right rear Was the good Battleford Rifles-- Brave men, deterred not by fear.

Opening along the whole line, The roaring guns shake the hill, And the infantry’s fire crashes, And all hearts heroically thrill. Thus cool, collected, and steady, Dealing out grim death on the foe, By coulee and hill and ravine, And the trembling stream below.

Here the foe rushed for our gatling, But were met by a scorching flame From the Police and artillery, And driven confused back again. Shortt gallantly led the brave onset, And the foe were punished sore, And the deafening guns raged madly, In one incessant roar.

The right rear was now menaced, But there came a defiant cheer From the ready Battleford corps As the savage foe drew near. And the gallant Nash with his corps Cleared the ground that was threatened so; The Queen’s Own and the Guards assisted, And delivered a telling blow.

The left rear, too, was threatened, But instantly now to the fore Went the fearless Queen’s Own Rifles And Nash with his gallant corps. Hot and furious was their fire, Holding there the red fiends at bay, And their coolness and their valor Added lustre to the day.

Meanwhile, Ross, the intrepid scout, With his resourceful, daring band, Stole around the dark foeman’s flank, Making untenable their stand. Thus at eleven o’clock of the day, After six hours of strife, Our flanks and our rear were clear of the foe, Though severe was the loss of life.

But the object of the reconnaissance Was admirably attained, And Canadian and British valor Was at Cut Knife Hill sustained. The wounded and dying were cared for, And the gallant dead borne away To the slow, sad tread of comrades, At the close of the dying day.

Honor Otter, Herchmer, and Shortt, Wattom and the gallant Pelletier, Nash and McKell, Sears and Mutton, And Rutherford hail with a cheer. They fought for this grand land of ours, For our union from sea to sea; Placing their lives in the balance, They won, and Canada is free.

And shall not a grateful country Honor the living and dead? We, so blest in our true freedom, Remember the blood that was shed. As long as the years roll by us May the Old Flag over us wave, And conspirators and traitors Find a ready dishonored grave.

THE SILENT VOICE.

O songless, lost, and silent voice, Steal back from pale oblivion’s shore, And breathe the songs so loved of old, That echo down the years no more. O voice, lost voice, that pined and died-- A solace with the changing years-- I miss thee so, my more than friend, That soothed to rest life’s cares and fears.

We were so gay, lost friend and I, When life was young and all a song; And tenderness steals o’er us now, As thoughts of old around us throng. We played at dawn by field and glade; The wild birds joined us with their song; And oh! the days were fair and sweet That to the dreamy past belong.

We were so merry when the hills Were mantled o’er with emerald green, And summer winds blew soft and low, And bloomed the lilies by the stream. And how we sang by lane and mead, And wandered through the forest aisles, By brook and rill and lonely tarn, Where nature in profusion smiles.

And tasks were lightened by our lay, And dear to us was the old farm-- Our own dear home beside the stream, Where hearts were sunny, true and warm. The ev’ning heard us singing still-- A solace ’twas for every care-- Ah! feet will seldom go astray, If cheered by song and mother’s prayer.

We had a lay for every theme, And sang of home, of life, of heaven, Our country and our country’s cause, The sinner, and his sins forgiven. We sang of friendship and of love, Of plighted troth and true hearts slain, Of heroes and their noble war On many a hard-fought battle plain.

But time flows on, and bears away Our youthful dreams, and on the tide Of stormy seas we too are borne, Drifting and drifting far and wide. And still we sing, though oft through tears We scarce can trace the lonesome way, Or count our grievous loss or gains As closes down the dreary day.

And we have known adversity, Saw love and friendship take their flight; And very weary grew our feet; Alone we looked upon the night. And sad and sadder grew our lay, But still it soothed the heart to rest; Teaching us patience to abide The years in trust and tenderness.

But when our voice grew weary, too, Chilled by the winter’s sleet and rain, And stilled in death’s embrace it lay, Our head bowed low in dreary pain. We are forgot, our voice and I, That once could wake the smile or tear, And stir the heart to tenderness, And drive away its every fear.

And now our feet must go alone; Our day is passing, night is near; If we should sink beneath our load, Ah! who will drop a silent tear? A thought comes to us, and it cheers, It makes the lonely heart rejoice, That in a sphere above the stars Awaits a more melodious voice.

FORGOTTEN.

A little apart from the rest, Unnoticed and alone, No crypt or costly monument, Nor rich engraven stone. A little lonely weed-grown mound But marks the silent spot Of all that now is left of her, The fair, so soon forgot.

The summer hath kindly given A few wild fragrant flowers To deck her lonely, neglected grave In meekness from her bowers. And nature’s song is there trilling A soothing lullaby, And in the rustling foliage The wind breathes sigh for sigh

To the voice of wavelets murmuring In whispers deep and low, Of a maiden fair as summer That perished long ago. Meek and loving and gentle, Pure as the angels are Was her every thought and feeling, Her soul was bright as a star.

I’m filled with a deathless longing, Aleene, kneeling by thee; But the years are slowly waning Into eternity. And shall we be reunited, Where love and life ne’er dies, In a land of summers fadeless, In the vales of paradise?

INNER LIFE.

What is this that subtly stealeth Over my soul to-day, Just as the last sweet day of summer Fleeth swiftly away. Weird and strained is this tender silence That broodeth o’er the lea, Over the streams and lonely woodlands, And along the shrouded sea.

The fields are shorn of their golden yield, The harvest time is o’er, And the last sweet day of the summer Is gone for evermore. I hear only the crickets chanting A ceaseless, haunting strain, And the plaint of the wandering winds Filling my heart with pain.

Regret for the past that was so fair Steals back with phantom tread, With beautiful dreams and faces dear Hid with the silent dead. And I bow in tender reverence Beside their sacred tomb; My soul is full of a fond desire For rest, sweet rest, and home.

But still in these mystical dreamings Comfort and strength is given; These soulful, loving, and tender thoughts Bring us nearer heaven. And nature is full of subtle charms That speak to the soul alone; And they soothe and purify and bless, Nearing the setting sun.

SPRING-TIME.

A monotone of love and song, In cadence mild, serene As unseen harps borne on the wind, Breathes over all the scene. I love thee yet, beauteous time; Yet oh, so far away Adown the dim forsaken past Thou lead’st my thoughts to-day.

So grand, awak’ning from death’s sleep, So regally adorned Art thou, O nature’s queen; and I Thy absence long have mourned As for the dead who come no more. Across a wintry sea I look in vain; only in dreams Do they return to me.

The melody of other times, In many an olden song, Echoing down the vanished years In interminable throng, Steals o’er my soul, and I would wake The dear old strains again, Though fraught with many banished hopes, Delusive dreams, and vain.

WE HAVE MISSED THEE.

_A SONG._

When the low, sweet winds of summer Play among the wildwood trees, And the waves of ocean murmur, And the flow’rets ope their leaves; In the evening’s dewy hours, At the twilight’s dreamy ray, In the morning’s balmy bowers, All the long, fair summer’s day.

CHORUS.

Shall we never hear thy gentle voice at evening? We’ve been pining for thee, Allie, all the day; And our sad hearts o’er the lonely seas are gliding, Seeking vainly where our darling’s footsteps stray.

We have missed thee, ever missed thee, With thy sweet and tender smile, And thy bright and glowing beauty-- Nature’s pure and winning guile; And thy voice’s glorious music We, alas, do hear no more In the vale where Allie wandered In the dear old times of yore.

When the golden sun his splendor Pours along the summer sea, And the southern winds are dying, Allie dear, come back to me. We are weary and so lonely; Ah, this life seems but in vain Since our Allie hath departed-- Dearest one, return again.

THE RESCUE.

A THRILLING INCIDENT, AND A GALLANT RESCUE OFF LEAMINGTON, ONTARIO, IN THE WINTER OF 1895.

Bitterly all day the north-east gale Swept with a wild roaring moan, Hurling particles of glist’ning ice That cut to the very bone; And a leaden and lowering sky Threatened the frozen world; The storm king was sternly approaching With frosted banners unfurled.

Ever darker and denser it grew As the day wore on apace, And the swirl of the merciless winds Tore on in a fierce, wild race. It was a day to seek the shelter Of home by the warm fireside; God help the homeless at such a time That wander far and wide!

Suddenly in hushed tones through the town Ran the word from Pigeon Bay, That the harvesters of ice were drifting Helplessly out and away-- On an ice-floe helplessly drifting, Detached from the wind-rifted shore, Out over the bosom of Erie ’Mid the tempest’s ruthless roar.

“To the rescue! the rescue!” was shouted, And we paused with bated breath, Close beside the rage of the waters, Black and menacing with death. And many a stern face grew whiter As we saw thro’ the deadly gloom Our friends drifting out, swiftly drifting, Helplessly to their doom.

“Launch the ‘lighter’! quick, launch the ‘lighter’! And drift to the floe away, O’er the swirling, desolate waters, Out over wide Pigeon Bay.” Thus cried the dauntless Robinson, And instantly to his side Sprang Conover, Miller and Cullen, And Frank Ives in manly pride.

“Pay out the long shore-line now swiftly, We’ll save them at any cost; Pay out till we reach the ice-floe, They must not, shall not be lost.” And they drifted before the tempest, And gained the edge of the floe, But the very last inch of the shore-line Could let them no farther go.

And before the rescuers could reach them They drifted swiftly away, While the gallant crew of the “lighter” Were now helpless on the bay, With the black waves leaping over them, Icy, and cold as death, Stiffening their garments about them, And congealing the very breath.

We knew that their efforts were futile, And looked in each other’s face, And scanned the wild waste of waters, As the gloom of night grew apace. “Launch the sail-boat! launch the gallant _Davie_!” The hero Johnston cried, And Ives and Ralph and Herman Robson Instantly stood by his side.

And they hoisted their ice-cold canvas, Spread their wings and swept away, Full three miles through the wild tempest, Engulfed in a deadly spray. They reached and saved the perishing, Landed them safe on shore-- At the imminent risk of their own lives, Gave them to their friends once more.

And we hauled away on the shore line, Hauled the “lighter” back through the gloom Of the storm and approach of night-time, Saving all from a dreadful doom. Some cheered, and others were weeping, And through the old town there ran The news of the intrepid rescue-- Man’s venture for fellowman.

The Humane Society awarded A medal for each manly breast, And we pinned their badges of honor On proudly, for such a test Of stern endurance and heroism Is seldom, aye, seldom seen; And we cheered for them as ne’er before, For our country and our Queen.

A PRAYER.

Father, I’ve trespassed in Thy sight, But I’m weak and poor and sad; My days are long and dreary, And my soul is never glad. My nights are dark and lonely, And my dreams are full of pain; I’ve wandered, oh, so long, And toiled so long in vain.

I’d feel Thy forgiving hand Rest kind on my stricken head Ere the last sad sigh is breathed, And I sleep with the quiet dead In a dreamless, perfect rest; No bitter, cankering care To trouble my deep repose, Or fill me with dark despair.

Forgive, for my burden is heavy, And grievous, and hard to bear, And I have no home to-night; And around me everywhere The chill and blight are falling, And the way is rough and cold; The summer of life is faded, And I am growing old.

Forgive, for my tears are falling; I kneel at Thy sacred feet; Lead from “the deep, dark valley,” Where but ruin reigns complete. Forgive, for all around me Is the winter’s fret and moan, And I long for summers fairer, Near Thy great white throne.

THE FAREWELL.

I stood to look a last farewell Upon our dear Dominion shore, Ere I should turn afar to roam, Perhaps to view it nevermore.

I looked upon the waters bright; The scene recalled the times of yore, But who can tell how I have loved Thy waves and sands, oh, peaceful shore?

The crescent moon shone o’er the sea And lit the dark and vaulted sky, And touched the waves that rose and fell In gentle murmurs like a sigh.

Ah! days, sweet days, ye’ve flown away With Aleene by the shining sea; It was a time too fair to last-- Only a mem’ry now to me.

For time’s relentless years went by On voiceless, viewless, sable wing: Ah! lost Aleene! that drooped and died In the sweet fragrance of the spring.

She’s resting now, to wake no more When moon and sea are gleaming bright; She sleeps, and I am weary now, Away, these tears! I go; good night!

FAREWELL TO SUMMER.

Farewell, thou beautiful summer, Gliding swift from our land away; Thy viewless winds have a murmur And cadence of sadness to-day. Adieu to thy laughing sunlight, And thy skies so supremely blue; The sigh of the breeze at twilight, And peaceful glades starlit in dew.

Farewell, thy streams softly purling Like silver threads over the lea; Great rivers rolling onward, Right grandly toward the sea. Shadows steal out from the woodlands, Lengthening day by day; The sun sinks low in southern skies As the summer-time drifts away.

The fairest and tiniest flowers Have closed their delicate leaves, And the harvesters have garnered The last of their golden sheaves. Afar in the lonely wildwood, By hillside, bright bower and plain, The reddened brown leaves are sifting Fast earthward in red, red rain.

And burns the vast flaming sunset In crimson and tawny-barred gold; Athwart the advancing night-time The star-gemmed skies unfold. Sadly, aye, sad and regretful, I list to the wild, glad strain Of the song-birds flying southward, Filling my heart with pain.

And the winds are melancholy That tread o’er the withering lea; And mysterious tones in unison Come up from the restless sea; And my yearning thoughts are tender, And fair hopes that ended in pain Rise with the summer’s departure, Like pale ghosts, to haunt us again.

And I sigh for summers olden, For a time that cometh no more. The years of the past were golden: On memory’s dreamland shore I buried them in deep silence; And I shed there some burning tears, And ever the days creep slowly Into wearily fading years.

There’s a clime of fadeless sunshine Where the chill and blight ne’er come, And perpetual bloom of summer Is surrounding a great white throne. I wonder, approaching the sunset, When life and its cares are all done, If we, though sinful and outcast, May enter that beautiful home.

REMEMBRANCE.

I’m thinking of thee to-day, Jennie, While the spring is young and fair, And nature’s glad songs are ringing Along the perfumed air; And the winds are lightly playing O’er earth and the far blue sea, And floods of warm golden sunlight Crown forest, and vale, and lea.

My heart is young to-day, Jennie, Though years and years have flown, And delusive dreams have perished, And many dear friends are gone. Yet to-day I revel in fancy At memory’s fadeless shrine, And the thoughts that stir my bosom Are tender and half divine.

Over the hills to-day, Jennie, The blooming, sun-crowned hills, My footsteps lightly go, Jennie, Where the pure sparkling rills Merge in the stream’s soft murmur The wind in its voiceful glee Joins in the mystical music Of nature’s own harmony.

Oh, how I sang to-day, Jennie, The songs we loved so well; Songs of the olden time, Jennie, Ere we had said “farewell.” I’m looking beyond the years, Jennie, To a far-off golden shore, Where life, like the fairest spring-time, Will bloom on for evermore.

THE WORSHIPPERS.

I stood in a wide-arched portal That led to the house of God, And gazed on the assembling people As up the aisles they trod; And as with lofty bearing, In ranks of proud array, With garments all resplendent, The worshippers bowed to pray.

And the lights streamed out the windows, Streamed out like shining spears-- Sparkled gaily and scintillated From the gleaming chandeliers-- Out on the desolate tents of night, All tempest-tossed and wild; Out on the glistening frost and snow, Where drift on drift was piled.

Oh, proud worshippers there assembled, Sumptuously clad and warm, Do you think of the homeless wanderers Out in the pitiless storm? Do you extend them a helping hand? Have you sheltered, clothed and fed, And cheered by sympathy’s magic The soul that was almost dead?

Do you think of the hopeless poor? Their dwellings are chill and bare; They are comfortless and all forlorn, With little to eat or wear. Do you visit them in their sorrow? Do you help them from your store? For Providence has ever blest you With enough, to spare, and more.

Do you help the struggling widow In the fight for daily bread? Do you succour the orphan children, Scantily clothed and fed? Do you visit the sick and needy, And soothe their heartache and pain? For encouraging words and kindness May lift them up strong again.

The tall spire pointeth to heaven; The worshippers pass within, Heeding, perhaps, but slightly The want, the despair, and sin Of the great world’s unfortunate poor, Helpless and hopeless and worn; Tempted, fallen, and tired of life, Its bitter neglect and scorn.

I turned away from the portal Thinking what might have been Had you kept the example set you By the lowly Nazarene. The eyes of the world are upon you, And faith in your precepts is flown, And because of example and teaching Many have sceptical grown.

AT MIDNIGHT.

I stood tearless and lone at midnight Near a grave by destiny made; Deep in a vale by a lonely stream, Where the branches drooped and swayed In the soft night wind that breathed a sigh To the flowers in the sheen Of the pale moon, and the world at rest Seemed fair as an angel’s dream.

But sorrow enwrapt me at midnight Beside my beautiful dead, And I buried it deep for evermore, And hope with its white wings fled. And I wept alone at the midnight A passion of burning tears-- I knew, the way would be rough and long Through all the untried years.

I stole away from that sacred place, Where never a form was laid, But the fairest dream my soul e’er knew Rests in that sylvan shade. In many lands and o’er distant seas My restless feet have strayed; I’ve faced the storm and battle’s rage With courage undismayed.

In every clime and on every sea I vainly sought to forget, But memory still remained the same-- A changeless, fadeless regret. I have come again at the midnight, After changeful, weary years, And the scenes of the dear long ago Fill my eyes with tender tears.

And I steal sometimes at the midnight To that quiet, sacred place, When the wind’s breath kindly caresses, And the moon unveils her face. I dream of the future at midnight, A fadeless, celestial shore, Where the lost shall be reunited, And weariness come no more.

CHANGE.

Sunny were the days of childhood, And the old home was aglow With love of the happy faces-- A dear dream of long ago. And the household then was perfect, With no vacant, appealing chair, Like a long sweet day of summer, Breathing joyance everywhere.

Like songs of birds in the spring-time, Or the fragrant flowers of May, Or the blooming of the summer, Or the seasons that glide away; Like dreams our life is, and fleeting, Aye, a dreaming, and nothing more; True life is beyond the gloaming, Full and free on God’s fadeless shore.

THOUGHTS.

Ah! why is it ever thus? These mystical thoughts and tears Are ever present with me As a dream for years and years. Is’t the voice of weary winds In plaint o’er the blighted lea, Rustling the autumn leaves Adown from each faded tree?

Or the flight of little birds, As they pass from us away, With their sweet notes of gladness, That we miss from day to day? The crickets’ ceaseless chanting In the serried grass and flowers, Wakening olden memories Of the long, long silent hours?

The sombre hues that gather O’er purpling hill and dell, The flowing stream and fountain Seem e’er haunted like a spell. And many hearts are haunted, Saddened and thoughtful grown; Dead leaves are around them lying, And the warmth of life is flown.

Is it the moaning billows That surge o’er the lonely sea Whose mournful tones are ever Pleading sobbingly to me Of a brother that I loved? Lost where the wild tempest sweeps, Unfathomable and lone Is the bier where he now sleeps.

And when we walk at even Along the dim-lit shore, We hear weird voices whisper, “Nevermore! no, nevermore!” There in the holy silence, Bowed to a tender power, Passionate dreams enfold us In that pale, mystical hour.

We gaze far out and upward Toward God’s great vaulted dome, Where stars in their bright splendor Are gleaming one by one. They seem so pure and holy In their calm, silvery light; We feel subdued and lowly ’Neath their pathless flight.

I think it is thus with us: The great Creator’s power Is ever present with us In leaf, and tree, and flower. The sighing of the lone winds, And the moaning of the sea, All join in one grand anthem Of the great eternity.

SPRING.

The spring has come! Once more I hear The song-birds carol free, The gentle winds play o’er my brow In whisp’ring melody. A glad refrain from hill and dell, From mountain, stream, and sea, Pours joyously o’er all the land, From winter’s shackles free.

Alternate suns and April rains, Distilling dews at even, Will deck in verdure all the land; And just as fair as Eden Will bud and bloom the forest glades. Vales and leafless bowers Will spring into new life again, Enwreathed with fairest flowers.

Sing on, sing on, glad voice of Spring! Wake, wake, the song again! A jubilee of joy shout forth From mountain, stream, and plain. O human hearts, by care oppressed, Rise up! rise up! and o’er This joyous time, so pure and young, Renew thy strength once more.

REGRET.

A tender, delicate kiss given me long ago, A wistful look from the deep blue eyes, That set my sensitive yearning heart aglow With dreams of an earthly paradise. But we drifted far apart, my love and I, For the world is cold and hearts must break; And in vain were tears and the weary sigh-- They said it was best for her dear sake.

IN MEMORIAM.

One more tender, fragile flower Faded from our sight to-day, Just as spring-time’s buds and blossoms Ushered in the bloom of May. She had lingered, fading slowly, Till the op’ning of the day; ’Mid its radiant, dewy fragrance, Her sweet spirit soared away.

We’ve sung her last sad requiem, Closed the eyes that lost their sight-- Eyes that beamed with love and beauty, Eyes that shone with holy light. Ah, how many hearts will miss thee, Miss thy smile and gentle tone; Life’s but emptiness and shadow When the loved and lost are gone.

In the graveyard on the upland That o’erlooks an inland sea, Where the flowers bloom in beauty, Where the birds sing wild and free: In the grave we sadly laid her At the quiet eventide, And the thoughts that filled our bosoms Breathed of prayer and faith sublime.

She’s not dead, she only sleepeth From the cares of earthly strife; She’ll arise more fair and perfect To a grander, nobler life. If we follow in her footsteps, We, too, may the goal attain: Just beyond the Stygian river Blooms a life that’s not in vain.

THE PARTING.

I never deemed we thus should sever, Two hearts that vowed to love forever; I never thought in this proud, selfish world, That love so soon her soft white wings furled. Our parting I remember yet too well: The budding spring was decking earth once more, The birds were singing in the quiet dell, The south winds sighed along the rippling shore.

We stood where fragrant violets grew Beside thy cottage door; The early dawn soft glances threw The lovely landscape o’er. I took thy hand, it quivered not; Thy face was calm and cold; You knew not then the storm of grief That o’er my spirit rolled.

One impassioned kiss I pressed Upon thy lovely brow, But thou turn’st coldly from my side-- How strangely changed wert thou! We parted, and we ne’er have met Since then, long years ago; But still I dream, and dream of thee-- Sad thoughts will backward flow.

Since then I’ve wandered far and wide O’er earth and stormy sea, And mingled in the world’s deep strife, But still I think of thee. The human heart I trust no more; Sweet smile or voice’s tone Are but an echo on the shore Of dreams that long have flown.

Thus it is with many a one In the world’s hurry and strife: Deserted and ever alone, They end a weary life. Hoping not and trusting never, Waifs on the sea of time; Longing, aye, longing forever For something more divine.

TO THE WANDERER.

It is years since we met, my brother, Years of more loss than gain; I wonder as I sit by the fire If we e’er shall meet again. I’m tired of time’s ceaseless changes, And longing as ne’er before For the faces I knew in childhood, And smiles that greet me no more.

And I sigh for a time long vanished, And weep o’er my life’s lost cause. Ah! the battle was long and doubtful, With never a lull nor pause In the long strife fierce and vengeful; And swept from the fateful field Was my torn and toil-stained banner When at last I was forced to yield.

I am thinking to-night, my brother, We two may clasp hands once more, And sing the songs of the olden time, And wander there as of yore Over the hills long, long forsaken, And by paths that are o’ergrown; By many a nook and quiet vale Bordering our dear old home.

We may seek the stream in the meadow, And wander on through the glade, And revel again in joyousness In the woodland’s grateful shade; And hear in fancy our father’s voice, And our mother’s cheerful call To the noon-tide rest and welcome cheer Lovingly prepared for all.

Ah! to-night in this dreary northland, How the wild wind sweeps and moans Through the lone forest bare and ghostly, That awesomely rocks and groans! Madly it leaps o’er the white, dead hills, Sweeping fiercely the plain afar; And there is no light of pale, cold moon, Nor yet of wandering star.

Far away in the sunny southland, Where the breeze steals o’er the sea, Toying with foliage and flowers, And where wild birds carol free, There, brother, thy feet are wandering; And over my stricken head Old memories are fondly crowding Of the living and the dead.

LULA BY THE SEA.

_A SONG._

In the loveliest springtime, ’Neath a willow tree, There we laid poor Lula Near the sighing sea, That the birds might warble Sweetly o’er her tomb; That the flowers in beauty There might ever bloom.

CHORUS.

Yes, by the sobbing sea we’ve laid her, Near its waters flow, Where the sad waves are ever breathing Music deep and low.

When the shadowy twilight Gathered o’er the lea, And the stars of heaven Were beaming on the sea, Then with gentle Lula Oft we silent strayed By the murmuring waters Where the moonlight played.

Now no more with Lula On the ocean’s shore; When the breeze is dying Lula comes no more. Gone to rest forever In her beauty’s bloom, ’Neath a dark green willow, In the silent tomb.

I am growing weary Watching here alone, For my darling Lula Nevermore will come. Yet a voice is ever Whisp’ring unto me That there are no partings Beyond life’s mystic sea.

TIRED.

Tired of the past and present, For the slowly fading years Have brought so little of joyance, So many sorrows and tears. Tired of fighting life’s battle Between evil and the good; Tired, so tired of living And being misunderstood.

The path of life to the present Has been hard and rough all the way; My feet are worn and bleeding, And burdened from day to day With a load that never grows lighter; And hope dying with the years Of toil and disappointment, Life’s bitterness, pains, and tears.

Tired of the cold surroundings Of folly, ambition, and pride; The glint, the glitter, and falseness Alluring on every side. Tired of my own sad longings For blessings I never knew: A love that is deep and changeless, A friend that is ever true.

Tired of the stony glances Of eyes cold as pale death, Where charity never lingers, And with their icicle breath They blight and wither the blooms Enshrined in the human heart; The bright hopes and aspirations Of our life a very part.

Life’s like the sea, ever restless, Limitless, deep, and wide, Where many gallant ships go down Battling ’gainst storm and tide; Whilst others sail gaily afar ’Mid beautiful isles of song, O’er blue and sunny wreathed seas, Where pleasures innumerable throng.

Tired of watching and waiting The dawn of a happier day; Will the night with gloom and sadness Nevermore pass away? If there’s aught in the mystic future Of reward for the dreary past, Will the wayworn, weary wanderer Find rest and peace at last?

THE LOST FLOWER.

Why do I ever dream of thee? In vain are thy dreamings, O memory; Why sit in sorrow--others are gay-- Restless and grieving, as day follows day?

Bright as the morn sparkling in dew, Blooming with roses’ beauteous hue; Pure as an angel, artless and true, Smiling in gladness, loving me too.

When o’er the lea with silent wing Summer was stealing flowers of spring, In a sweet valley, where willows wave O’er faded blossom, made we her grave.

I’m only waiting for that blest hour When I shall rest with my lost flower, Waking at last where the perfect day In loveliness shall fade not away.

DRIFTING.

The day has gone and the night is come, Dreary, dreary, dreary; And hope is dying within my breast, Weary, weary, weary.

The pitiless winds sweep the earth in wrath, Drifting, drifting, drifting The fierce white snow, with a wail of woe, Over the wild, dark reaches sifting.

I sit by the dim, forsaken hearth, Thinking, thinking, thinking Of a love that ne’er can come to me; Shrinking, shrinking, shrinking From the cold clasp of a fateful hand That shadowed all the years.

Dreary without, and dreary within, Dying, dying, dying Is the last hope of a broken life That can love and trust no more.

LONGING.

I have grown weary of voices, And I long for silence and rest, And the peacefulness of night-time, When no care doth my soul infest.

And I’ve grown weary of faces That have never a thought for me; Of eyes all cold and repellent I would be forever made free.

And I’ve grown weary of thinking The thoughts that my being possess; The finite and the infinite Forever my bosom oppress.

I’m very weary of hoping, And e’er waiting from day to day A happy and bright consummation, An illusion still far away.

I’m weary of vacant places: The dear hands that clasp mine no more Have drifted o’er the dark river, And gained the eternal shore.

Ah! how I miss the dear faces Of old friends long years since made free; But only their vacant places Forever are calling to me.

And so I’m saddened and lonely, And trying to trust and to wait, Dreaming and longing for rest time-- ’Tis the passion and burden of fate.

THE LAST SONG.

I have sung my last song, and am ready To go at the dying of day; Ere the gloom of night comes to sadden, My feet shall have passed away. No more when you meet at the twilight Shall I mingle my voice with the strains That tell of home, of love, and heaven, And the past with its pleasures and pains.

And when again you are carolling The old songs I love so well, Will you steal a thought for the absent, For the one who is saying farewell? Or must I then, too, be forgotten When my voice shall be nevermore heard? Will regret ne’er trouble thy bosom, Nor memory ever be stirred?

Sing on, happy hearts, in the gloaming; Sing of home, and of heaven, and love; Heed not the feet that have wandered Far away, like the voice of a dove. An echo I hear sweetly tender, That seems ever to whisper to me Of a meeting of friends long severed, In a life made all perfect and free.

THE FIRST SNOW.

I’m walking to-day with mem’ry Through the woodlands weird and still, With ghostly shadows around me, Haunting, and strange, and chill. Ominous clouds are gathering O’er a ghastly, threatening sky; The voice of the wind is grieving In the treetops bare and high.

And the streams are stilled and sleeping, And under my onward tread The fallen leaves are rustling; And from the pale, silent dead Come stealing back phantom footsteps By many a ruined bower; And tender, mystical murmurings, From many a pale dead flower;

And a subtle song of summer, Of beautiful seasons fled, Of faces, voices, and ruined hopes, Sweet dreams, and the tears we shed; And sweet as the angels’ singing, Or the summer’s soft twilight, Or love asleep in fragrant bloom, Or the peaceful, dreamland night;

And a love that waked to never die, A radiant and fadeless bloom That waning years cannot efface, An endless and golden noon. I revel at will with mem’ry By streams and rippling rills; My heart is wrapt in ecstasy, As I climb its shining hills.

But list to the dirge of the wind Through the ever deep’ning gloom; See! ’tis falling, the death-white snow, Awak’ning my soul too soon. It whitens the lonely moorlands, And the forest glade and glen, The dreamy hills and silent vales Where the summer late hath been.

And see how it swirls and eddies, Searching fiercely everywhere; It clasps in an icy embrace, Flurrying fast through the air. ’Tis so desolate and dreary, And thought grows heavy with pain, For it may be that never for me Will the summer come again.

PEACE.

At last, when the sun is setting, And the beautiful golden bars Reach upward through purple splendor, And mingle their light with the stars; The winds are hushed to a whisper, Caressing the leaves and flowers; And song of birds are rippling Sweetly in twilight bowers; I ponder o’er past and present, And rest from the care and strife-- At peace with all, and storing strength For the daily battle of life.

ARMAGEDDON.