Chapter 2

For up the starry void Bright-flashing asteroid, Pale moon and starry choir, Aided by Fancy's fire, Rung from the glittering lyre Changes of song and hymn, Worthy of Seraphim. Night's shepherdess sat, queenlike, on her throne, Watching her starry flocks from zone to zone, While we, like mortals turned to breathing stone, Intently pondered on the Known Unknown.

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CROWNED.

Her thoughts are sweet glimpses of heaven, Her life is that heaven brought down; Oh, never to mortal was given So rare and bejewelled a crown! I'll wear it as saints wear the glory That radiantly clasps them above-- Oh, dower most fair! Oh, diadem rare! Bright crown of her maidenly love.

My heart is a fane of devotion, My feelings are converts at prayer, And every thrill of emotion Makes dearer the crown I would wear. My soul in its fulness of rapture Begins its millennial reign, Life glows like a sun, Love's zenith is won, And Joy is sole monarch again.

My noonday of life is as morning, God's light streams approvingly down; Uncovered, I wait her adorning, She comes with the beautiful crown! I'll wear it as saints wear the glory That radiantly clasps them above-- Oh, dower most fair! Oh, diadem rare! Bright crown of her maidenly love.

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MARILINE.

At the wheel plied Mariline, Beauteous and self-serene, Never dreaming of that mien Fit for lady or for queen.

Never sang she, but her words, Music-laden, swept the chords

Of the heart, that eagerly Stored the subtle melody, Like the honey in the bee; Never spake, but showed that she

Held the golden master-key That unlocked all sympathy

Pent in souls where Feeling glows, Like the perfume in the rose, Like her own innate repose, Like the whiteness in the snows.

Richly thoughted Mariline! Nature's heiress!--nature's queen!

II.

By her side, with liberal look, Paused a student o'er a book, Wielder of a shepherd's crook, Reveller by grove and brook:

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Hunter-up of musty tomes, Worshipper of deathless poems:

Lover of the true and good, Hater of sin's evil brood, Votary of solitude, Man, of mind-like amplitude.

With exalted eye serene Gazed he on fair Mariline.

Swifter whirled the busy wheel, Piled the thread upon the reel-- Saw she not his spirit kneel, Praying for her after-weal?

Like the wife of Collatine, Busily spun Mariline.

III.

Hour by hour, and day by day, Sang the maid her roundelay; Hour by hour, and day by day, Spun her threads of white and gray.

While the shepherd-student held Commune with the great of eld:

Pondered on their wondrous words, While he watched his scattered herds, While he stemmed the surging fords. And he knew the lore of birds,

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Learned the secrets of the rills, Conversed with the answering hills.

Like her threads of white and gray, Passed their mingled Eves away, One unceasing roundelay-- Winter came, it still was May!

IV.

When the spring smiled, opening up Pink-lipped flower and acorn cup;

When the summer waked the rose In the scented briar boughs; When the earth, with painless throes, Bore her golden autumn rows--

Field on field of grain, that pressed, Childlike, to her fruitful breast--

When hale winter wrapped his form In the mantle of the storm, Tamed the bird, and chilled the worm, Stopped the pulse that thrilled the germ;

As the seasons went and came, One in heart, and hope, and aim,

Cheered they each the other on, Where was labor to be done, At day-break or set of sun, Like two thoughts that merge in one.

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Dignified, and soul-serene, Busily spun Mariline.

V.

Brightly broke the summer morn, Like a lark from out the corn,-- Broke like joy just newly born From the depths of woe forlorn,--

Broke with grateful songs of birds, Lowings of well-pastured herds;

Hailed by childhood's happy looks, Cheered by anthems of the brooks-- Chants beyond the lore of books-- Cawing crows, instead of rooks.

Glowed the heavens--rose the sun, Mariline was up, for one.

VI.

Like a chatterer tongue-tied, Lo, the wheel is placed aside!-- Not from indolence or pride-- Mariline must be a Bride!

Fairest maid of maids terrene! Bride of Brides, dear Mariline!

VII.

Up the meditative air Passed the smoke-wreaths, white and fair, Like the spirit of the prayer Mariline now offered there:

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Passed behind the cottage eaves, Curling through the maple leaves:

Through the pines and old elm trees, Belies of past centuries, Hardy oaks, that never breeze Humbled to their gnarly knees:

Forest lords, beneath whose sheen Flowers bloomed for Mariline.

Round the cottage, fresh and green, Climbed the vine, the scarlet bean, Morning-glories peeped between, Looking out for Mariline.

Odours never felt before Tranced the locust at the door,

Vieing with the mignonette Bound the garden parapet, Whose rare fragrances were met By rich perfumes, rarer yet,

Stealing from the garden walks, Sentineled with hollyhocks.

VIII.

What a heaven the cottage seemed! Love's own temple, where Faith dreamed Of the coming years that beamed On them, as pale stars have gleamed

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Through unnavigated seas, To which the prophetic breeze

Whispered of a future day, When swift fleets would urge their way, Through the waters cold and gray, Like the dolphins at their play.

There the future Bride, and he, Prince of love's knight-errantry,

Whose good shepherd arms must hold This pet yeanling of the fold, Gift of God so long foretold, Gift beyond the price of gold.

There the parents, aged and hale, Passing down life's autumn vale,

With a joy as rare and true As their daughter's eye of blue, With such hopes as reach up to Heaven's gate, when, passing through,

Peris, bound for higher skies, Win the Celestial Paradise.

IX.

Thoughtfully stood Mariline, Whitely veiled, and soul-serene; Love's fair world for her demesne, Never looked she more a queen--

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With her maidens by her side, Smiling on the coming bride.

Her pet lamb, with comic mirth, Licked her hand and scampered forth; The fine sheep-dog, on the hearth, Kindly eyed her for her worth.

X.

Up the air, across the moor, As they left the cottage door,

Chimed the merry village-hells, Music-wrapt the neighbouring fells, Stirred the heart's awakened cells, Like fine strains from fairy dells.

Past the orchard, down the lane, By fresh wavy fields of grain,

By the brook, that told its love To the pasture, glen, and grove-- Sacred haunts, that well could prove Vows enregistered above.

By the restless mill, where stood, Bowing in his amplest mood,

The old miller, hat in hand, Rich in goodness, rich in land, On whose features, grave and bland, Glowed a blessing for the band.

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Through the village, where, behind Many a half-uplifted blind,

Eyes, that might have lit the skies Of Mahomet's Paradise, Flashed behind the curtains' dyes, With a cheerful, half-surprise.

Through the village, underneath, Many a blooming flower-wreath,

Garlanding the arches green Beared in honour of the queen Of this day of days serene, Day of days to Mariline.

To the church, whose cheering bells Told the tale in music-swells--

Told it to the country wide, With an earnest kind of pride-- Something not to be denied-- "Mariline must be a Bride!"

XI.

Up the aisle with solemn pace, Meeting God there, face to face.

Never Bride more chaste or fair Stood before His altar there, Her ripe heart aflame with prayer, Blessing Him for all His care:

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Every earthly promise given, Registered with joy in heaven.

From the galleries looked down, Village belle and country clown, Men with honest labour brown, Far removed from mart or town:

Smiling with a zealous pride On the shepherd and his bride--

Playmates of their early days; For their walks in wisdom's ways, Ever crowned with honoured bays Of esteem and ardent praise.

XII.

Well done, servant of the Lord! Grave expounder of His Word,

Who in distant Galilee Graced the marriage feast, that He, With all due solemnity, Might commission such as thee

To do likewise, and unite Souls like these in marriage plight.

With what manly, gentle pride, The glad Shepherd clasps his Bride! Love like theirs, so true and tried, Ever true love must abide!

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XIII.

Ye whose souls are strong and firm, In whom love's electric germ

Has been fanned into a flame At the mention of a name; Ye whose souls are still the same As when first the Victor came,

Stinging every nerve to life, In the beatific strife,

Till the man's divinest part Ruled triumphant in the heart, And, with shrinking, sudden start, The bleak old world stood apart,

Periling the wild Ideal By the presence of the Real:

Ye, and ye alone, can know How these twain souls burn and glow, Can interpret every throe Of the full heart's overflow,

That imparts that light serene To the brow of Mariline.

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THE HAPPY HARVESTERS.

A CANTATA.

I.

Autumn, like an old poet in a haze Of golden visions, dreams away his days, So Hafiz-like that one may almost hear The singer's thoughts imbue the atmosphere; Sweet as the dreamings of the nightingales Ere yet their songs have waked the eastern vales, Or stirred the airy echoes of the wood That haunt the forest's social solitude. His thoughts are pastorals; his days are rife With the calm wisdom of that inner life That makes the poet heir to worlds unknown, All space his empire, and the sun his throne. As the bee stores the sweetness of the flowers, So into autumn's variegated hours Is hived the Hybla richness of the year; Choice souls imbibing the ambrosial cheer, As autumn, seated on the highest hills, Gleans honied secrets from the passing rills; While from below, the harvest canzonas Link vale to mountain with a chain of praise. Foremost among the honoured sons of toil Are they who overcome the stubborn soil; Brave Cincinnatus in his country home Was even greater than when lord of Rome. Down sinks the sun behind the lofty pines That skirt the mountain, like the straggling lines

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Of Ceres' army looking from the height On the dim lowlands deepening into night; Soft-featured twilight, peering through the maze, Sees the first starbeam pierce the purple haze; Through all the vales the vespers of the birds Cheer the young shepherds homeward with their herds; And the stout axles of the heavy wain Creak 'neath the fulness of the ripened grain, As the swarth builders of the precious load, Returning homewards, sing their Autumn Ode.

AUTUMN ODE.

God of the Harvest! Thou, whose sun Has ripened all the golden grain, We bless Thee for Thy bounteous store, The cup of Plenty running o'er, The sunshine and the rain.

The year laughs out for very joy, Its silver treble echoing Like a sweet anthem through the woods, Till mellowed by the solitudes It folds its glossy wing.

But our united voices blend From day to day unweariedly; Sure as the sun rolls up the morn, Or twilight from the eve is born, Our song ascends to Thee.

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Where'er the various-tinted woods, In all their autumn splendour dressed, Impart their gold and purple dyes To distant hills and farthest skies Along the crimson west:

Across the smooth, extended plain, By rushing stream and broad lagoon, On shady height and sunny dale, Wherever scuds the balmy gale, Or gleams the autumn moon:

From inland seas of yellow grain, Where cheerful Labour, heaven-blest, With willing hands and keen-edged scythe, And accents musically blythe, Reveals its lordly crest:

From clover-fields and meadows wide, Where moves the richly-laden wain To barns well-stored with new-made hay, Or where the flail at early day Rolls out the ripened grain:

From meads and pastures on the hills, And in the mountain valleys deep, Alive with beeves and sweet-breathed kine Of famous Ayr or Devon's line, And shepherd-guarded sheep:

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The spirits of the golden year, From crystal caves and grottoes dim, From forest depths and mossy sward, Myriad-tongued, with one accord Peal forth their harvest hymn.

II.

Their daily labour in the happy fields A two-fold crop of grain and pleasure yields, While round their hearths, before their evening fires, Whore comfort reigns, whence weariness retires, The level tracts, denuded of their grain, In calm dispute are bravely shorn again, Till some rough reaper, on a tide of song, Like a bold pirate, captivates the throng:

A SONG FOR THE FLAIL.

A song, a song for the good old Flail, And the brawny arms that wield it, Hearty and hale, in our yeoman mail, Like intrepid knights we'll shield it. We are old nature's peers, Right royal cavaliers! Knights of the Plough! for no Golden Fleece we sail, We're Princes in our own right--our sceptre is the Flail.

A song, a song for the golden grain, As it wooes the flail's embraces, In wavy sheaves like a golden main, With its bright spray in our faces.

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Mirth hastens at our call, Jovial hearts have we all! Knights of the Plough! for no Golden Fleece we sail, We're Princes in our own right--our sceptre is the Flail.

A song, a song for the good old Flail, That our fathers used before us; A song for the Flail, and the faces hale Of the queenly dames that bore us! We are old nature's peers, Right royal cavaliers! Knights of the Plough! for no Golden Fleece we sail, We're Princes in our own right--our sceptre is the Flail.

III.

Fair was the maid, and lovely as the morn From starry Night and rosy Twilight born, Within whose mind a rivulet of song Rehearsed the strains that from her lips ere long Welled free and sparkling, as the vocal woods Repeat the day-spring's sweetest interludes. Her gentle eyes' serenest depths of blue Shrined love and truth, and all their retinue; The health and beauty of her youthful face Made it the Harem of each maiden grace; And such perfection blended with her air, She seemed some stately Goddess moving there: Beholding her, you thought she might have been The long-lost, flower-loving Proserpine:

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AN AUTUMN CHANGE.

"Oh, dreamy autumn days! I seek your faded ways, As one who calmly strays Through visions of the past; I walk the golden hours, And where I gathered flowers The stricken leaves in showers Are hurled upon the blast."

Thus mused the lonely maid, As through the autumn glade, With pensive heart, she strayed, Regretting Love's delay; In vain the traitor flies! To pleading lips and eyes, Sweet looks, and tender sighs, He falls an easy prey.

"Oh, dreamy autumn days! I tread your bridal ways, As one who homeward strays, Through realms divinely fair; I walk Love's radiant hours, Fragrant with passion flowers, And blessings fall like dowers Down the elysian air."

Thus mused the maiden now, With sunny heart and brow, For Love had turned his prow

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Towards the Golden Isles, Where from Pierean springs The soul of Music sings Its sweet imaginings, Through all the Land of Smiles.

IV.

Up the wide chimney rolls the social fire, Warming the hearts of matron, youth, and sire; Painting such grotesque shadows on the wall, The stripling looms a giant stout and tall, While they whose statures reach the common height Seem spectres mocking the hilarious night. From hand to hand the ripened fruit went round, And rural sports a pleased acceptance found; The youthful fiddler on his three-legged stool, Fancied himself at least an Ole Bull; Some easy bumpkin, seated on the floor, Hunted the slipper till his ribs were sore; Some chose the graceful waltz or lively reel, While deeper heads the chess battalions wheel Till some old veteran, compelled to yield, More brave than skilful, vanquished, quits the field. As a flushed harper, when the doubtful fight Favors the prowess of some stately knight, In stirring numbers of triumphal song Upholds the spirits of the victor throng, A sturdy ploughboy, wedded to the soil, Thus sung the praises of the partner of his toil:

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THE SOLDIERS OF THE PLOUGH.

No maiden dream, nor fancy theme, Brown Labour's muse would sing; Her stately mien and russet sheen Demand a stronger wing, Long ages since, the sage, the prince, The man of lordly brow, All honour gave that army brave, The Soldiers of the Plough. Kind heaven speed the Plough! And bless the hands that guide it; God gives the seed-- The bread we need, Man's labour must provide it.

In every land, the toiling hand Is blest as it deserves; Not so the race who, in disgrace, From honest labour swerves. From fairest bowers bring rarest flowers, To deck the swarthy brow Of those whose toil improves the soil, The Soldiers of the Plough. Kind heaven speed the Plough! And bless the hands that guide it; God gives the seed-- The bread we need, Man's labour must provide it.

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Blest is his lot, in hall or cot, Who lives as nature wills, Who pours his corn from Ceres' horn, And quaffs his native rills! No breeze that sweeps trade's stormy deeps, Can touch his golden prow; Their foes are few, their lives are true, The Soldiers of the Plough. Kind heaven speed the Plough! And bless the hands that guide it; God gives the seed-- The bread we need, Man's labour must provide it.

V.

Fast sped the rushing chariot of the Hours. Without, the Harvest Moon, through fleecy bowers Of hazy cloudlets, swept her graceful way, Proud as an empress on her marriage-day; The admiring planets lit her stately march With smiles that gleamed along the silent arch, And all the starry midnight blazed with light, As if 'twere earth and heaven's nuptial-night; The cock crowed, certain that the day had broke, The aged house-dog suddenly awoke, And bayed so loud a challenge to the moon, From the old orchard fled the thievish 'coon; Within, the lightest hearts that ever beat Still found their harmless pleasures pure and sweet; The fire still burned on the capacious hearth, In sympathy with the redundant mirth;

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Old graybeards felt the glow of youth revive, Old matrons smiled upon the human hive, Where life's rare nectar, fit for gods to sip, In forfeit kisses passed from lip to lip. Be hushed rude Mirth! as merry as the May Is she who comes to sing her roundelay:

CLAIRE.

Whither now, blushing Claire? Maid of the sylph-like air, Blooming and debonair, Whither so early? Chasing the merry morn, Down through the golden corn? List'ning the hunter's horn Ring through the barley?

"Flowerets fresh and fair," Answered the blushing Claire, "Fit for my bridal hair, Bloom 'mongst the barley; Hark! 'tis the hunter's horn, Waking the sylvan morn, And through the yellow corn Comes my brave Charlie."

Through the dew-dripping grain Pressed the heart-stricken swain, Crushed with a weight of pain,

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Drooped like the barley; Ah! timid shepherd boy! Man's love should ne'er be coy, Sweet is Claire's maiden joy, Kissing her Charlie!

VI.

A pleasant soul as ever trilled a song Was hers who warbled "Claire." All the day long Her voice was ringing like a bridal bell; Gladness and joy leaped up at every swell; And love was deeper, warmer, for the tone That clasped the heart like an enchanted zone. A youth was there more comely than the rest, One who could turn a furrow with the best, Compete for manly strength and portly air, Or wield a scythe with any reaper there. The spirit of her voice had moved above The waters of his soul, and waked his song to Love:

BALLAD.

"Come tell me, merry Brooklet, of a gentle Maid I seek, Thou'lt know her by the freshness of the rose upon her cheek; Her eyes are chaste and tender, and so serenely bright, You can read her heart's pure secrets by their warm religious light."

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"The Maid has not come hither," said the Brooklet in reply; "I've listened for her footfall ere the stars were in the sky; The Fountain has been singing of a Maid, with eyes so bright You may read the cherished secrets of her bosom by their light."

"Pray tell me, merry Brooklet, what saith her thoughts of one Who wronged her loving nature ere the setting of the sun? What say they of yon autumn moon that smiles so mournfully On the slowly-dying season, and the blasted moorland tree?"

"She sitteth by the Fountain," the Brook replied again, "Her heart as pure as heaven, and her thoughts without a stain; 'Oh, fickle moon, and changeful man!' she saith, 'a year ago All the paths were true-love-lighted where I'm groping now in woe.'

"She sitteth by the Fountain, the gentle mists arise, And kiss away the tear-pearls that tremble in her eyes, The Fountain singeth to me that the Maiden in her dream Shrinks as the vapours claim her as the Oread of the stream."

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Off sped the merry Streamlet adown the sloping vale; The Shepherd seeks the Fountain, where sits the Maiden pale; And to the wandering Brooklet, through many a lonely wild, The burden of the Fountain was, that Love was reconciled.

VII.

But soon the Morn, on many a distant height, Fingers the raven locks of lingering Night; The last dark shadows that precede the day Have stripped the splendour from the Milky Way; And Nature seems disturbed by fitful dreams, As one who shudders when the owlet screams; The painful burden of the Whippoorwill, Like a vague Sorrow, floats from hill to hill; Along the vales the doleful accents run, Where the white vapours dread the burning sun; While human voices stir the haunted air, One sings "the Plough," another warbles "Claire:" The Happy Harvesters, a lightsome throng, Dispersing homewards, prove the excellence of Song.

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THE FALLS OF THE CHAUDIÈRE, OTTAWA.

I have laid my cheek to Nature's, placed my puny hand in hers, Felt a kindred spirit warming all the life-blood of my face, Moved amid the very foremost of her truest worshippers, Studying each curve of beauty, marking every minute grace; Loved not less the mountain cedar than the flowers at its feet, Looking skyward from the valley, open-lipped as if in prayer, Felt a pleasure in the brooklet singing of its wild retreat, But I knelt before the splendour of the thunderous Chaudière.

All my manhood waked within me, every nerve had tenfold force, And my soul stood up rejoicing, looking on with cheerful eyes, Watching the resistless waters speeding on their downward course, Titan strength and queenly beauty diademed with rainbow dyes. Eye and ear, with spirit quickened, mingled with the lovely strife, Saw the living Genius shrined within her sanctuary fair,

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Heard her voice of sweetness singing, peered into her hidden life, And discerned the tuneful secret of the jubilant Chaudière:

"Within my pearl-roofed shell, Whose floor is woven with the iris bright, Genius and Queen of the Chaudière I dwell, As in a world of immaterial light.

My throne, an ancient rock, Marked by the foot of ages long-departed, My joy, the cataract's stupendous shock, Whose roll is music to the grateful-hearted.

I've seen the eras glide With muffled tread to their eternal dreams, While I have lived in vale and mountain side, With leaping torrents and sweet purling streams.