Chapter 3

The Red-Man's active life; His love, pride, passions, courage, and great deeds; His perfect freedom, and his thirst for strife; His swift revenge, at which the memory bleeds:

The sanguinary years, When sullen Terror, like a raging Fate, Swept down the stately tribes like slaughtered deers, And war and hatred joined to decimate

The remnants of the race, And spread decay through centuries of pain-- No more I mark their sure, avenging pace, And forests wave where war-whoops shook the plain.

{55}

Their deeds I envied not. The royal tyrant on his purple throne, I, in secluded grove or shady grot, Had purer joys than he had ever known,

God made the ancient hills, The valleys and the solemn wildernesses, The merry-hearted and melodious rills, And strung with diamond dews the pine-trees' tresses;

But man's hand built the palace, And he that reigns therein is simply man; Man turns God's gifts to poison in the chalice That brimmed with nectar in the primal plan.

Here I abide alone-- The wild Chaudière's eternal jubilee Has such sweet divination in its tone, And utters nature's truest prophecy

In thunderings of zeal! I've seen the Atheist in terror start, Awed to contrition by the strong appeal That waked conviction in his doubting heart:

'Teachers speak throughout all nature, From the womb of Silence born, Heed ye not their words, O Scoffer? Flinging back thy scorn with scorn! To the desert spring that leapeth, Pulsing, from the parched sod, Points the famished trav'ler, saying-- 'Brothers, here, indeed, is God!'

{56}

From the patriarchal fountains, Sending forth their tribes of rills, From the cedar-shadowed lakelets In the hearts of distant hills, Whispers softer than the moonbeams Wisdom's gentle heart have awed, Till its lips approved the cadence-- 'Surely here, indeed, is God!'

Lo! o'er all, the Torrent Prophet, An inspired Demosthenes, To the Doubter's soul appealing, Louder than the preacher-seas: Dreamer! wouldst have nature spurn thee For a dumb, insensate clod? Dare to doubt! and these shall teach thee Of a truth there lives a God!'

By day and night, for hours, I watch the cataract's impulsive leap, Refreshed and gladdened by the cheering showers Wrung from the passion of the seething deep.

Pleased when the buried waves Emerge again, like incorporeal hosts Rising, white-sheeted, from their gloomy graves, As if the depths had yielded up their ghosts.

And when the midnight storm Enfolds the welkin in its robe of clouds, Through the dim vapours of the cauldron swarm The sheeted spectres in their whitest shrouds,

{57}

By the lightning's flash betrayed. These gather from the insubstantial vapour The lunar rainbows, which by them are made-- Woven with moonbeams by some starry taper,

To decorate the halls Of my fair palace, whence I'm pained to see Thy human brethren watch the waterfalls-- Not with such rev'rence as I've found in thee:

Too many with an eye To speculation and the worldling's dreams; Others, who seek from nature no reply, Nor read the oral language of the streams.

But of the few who loved The beautiful with grateful heart and soul, Who looked on nature fondly, and were moved By one sweet glance, as by the mighty whole:

Of these, the thoughtful few, Thou wert the first to seek the inner temple, And stand before the Priestess. Thou wert true To nature and thyself. Be thy example

The harbinger of times When the Chaudière's imposing majesty Will awe the spirits of the heartless mimes To worship God in truth, with nature's constancy."

{58}

Still I heard the mellow sweetness of her voice at intervals, Mingling with the fall of waters, rising with the snowy spray, Ringing through the sportive current like the joy of waterfalls, Sending up their hearty vespers at the calmy close of day. Loath to leave the scene of beauty, lover-like I stayed, and stayed, Folding to my eager bosom memories beyond compare; Deeper, stronger, more enduring than my dreams of wood and glade, Were the eloquent appeals of the magnificent Chaudière.

E'en the solid bridge is trembling, whence I look my last farewell, Dizzy with the roar and trampling of the mighty herd of waves, Speeding past the rocky Island, steadfast as a sentinel, Towards the loveliest bay that ever mirrored the Algonquin Braves. Soul of Beauty! Genius! Spirit! Priestess of the lovely strife! In my heart thy words are shrined, as in a sanctuary fair; Echoes of thy voice of sweetness, rousing all my better life, Ever haunt my wildest visions of the jubilant Chaudière.

{59}

A ROYAL WELCOME.

By England's side we stand, We grasp her royal hand, And pay her rightful homage through her Son; Thank God for England's care! Thank God for Britain's heir! Our hearts go forth to meet him--we are one.

A loyal Province pours Her thousands to her shores, From iron-girt Superior to the sea; We feel our youthful blood Surge through us like a flood, There's not a slave amongst us--we are free.

For none but Freemen know The truly loyal throe That gives heroic impulse to the Man-- The passion and the fire, The chivalrous desire: Our Fathers all were heroes--in the van.

And we, their ardent sons, Through whom, triumphant, runs The old intrepid attribute serene, Would leave our chosen land, Our homes, our forests grand, To strike for England's honour and her Queen.

{60}

No soulless welcome we Dare give to such as thee: Be thou a bright example to the world; Great in thy well-earned fame, Beloved in heart and name, Wherever Britain's banner is unfurled.

Through all our leafy glades, Through all our green arcades, The living torrents, sweeping in, evince That from their manly hearts The Yeoman chorus starts: 'Honour to England's Heir!--long live the Prince!'

Oh, England! in this hour We own thy sov'reign pow'r; To thee and thine our best affections cling, And when thy crown is laid On Royal Albert's head, With heart and soul we'll shout--GOD SAVE THE KING!

{61}

MALCOLM.

Boy! this world has ever been A bright, glad world to me; Through each dark and checkered scene God's sun shone lovingly. But Content I've never known; Hoping, trusting that the years, With their April smiles and tears, Would yet bring me one like thee That I could call my own.

With thy soft and heavenly eyes In deep and pensive calm, I seem looking at the skies, And wonder where I am! Something more than princely blood Courses in thy tranquil face: When she lent thee such a grace, Nature lit life's earnest flame In her most queenly mood.

Such a sweet intelligence Is stamped on every line, Banqueting our craving sense With minist'rings divine. If thy Boyhood be so great, What will be the coming Man, Could we overleap the span? Are there treasures in the mine, To pay us, if we wait?

{62}

Doth the voice of Music live In that majestic brain, Waiting for the Hand to give Expression to the strain? Are there wells of Truth--pure, deep, Where the patient diver, Thought, Finds the pearl that has been sought Many a weary age in vain, Entrusted to thy keep.

Doth the fire of Genius burn Within that ample brow? Or some patient spirit yearn For things that are not now? Hidden in the over-soul Of the Future, to be born When the world has ceased its scorn, When the sceptic's heart will bow To the divine control.

Patiently we'll watch and hope, And wait, alternately; Trusting that, when time shall ope The casket's mystery, We will be made rich indeed With the wonders it contains; Rich beyond all previous gains; Richer for thy thought and thee, Beyond our greatest meed.

{63}

THE COMET--OCTOBER, 1858.

Erratic Soul of some great Purpose, doomed To track the wild illimitable space, Till sure propitiation has been made For the divine commission unperformed! What was thy crime? Ahasuerus' curse Were not more stern on earth than thine in Heaven!

Art thou the Spirit of some Angel World, For grave rebellion banished from thy peers, Compelled to watch the calm, immortal stars, Circling in rapture the celestial void, While the avenger follows in thy train To spur thee on to wretchedness eterne?

Or one of nature's wildest fantasies, From which she flies in terror so profound, And with such whirl of torment in her breast, That mighty earthquakes yearn where'er she treads; While War makes red its terrible right hand, And Famine stalks abroad all lean and wan?

To us thou art as exquisitely fair As the ideal visions of the seer, Or gentlest fancy that e'er floated down Imagination's bright, unruffled stream, Wedding the thought that was too deep for words To the low breathings of inspirèd song.

{64}

When the stars sang together o'er the birth Of the poor Babe at Bethlehem, that lay In the coarse manger at the crowded Inn, Didst thou, perhaps a bright exalted star, Refuse to swell the grand, harmonious lay, Jealous as Herod of the birth divine?

Or when the crown of thorns on Calvary Pierced the Redeemer's brow, didst thou disdain To weep, when all the planetary worlds Were blinded by the fulness of their tears? E'en to the flaming sun, that hid his face At the loud cry, "Lama Sabachthani!"

No rest! No rest! the very damned have that In the dark councils of remotest Hell, Where the dread scheme was perfected that sealed Thy disobedience and accruing doom. Like Adam's sons, hast thou, too, forfeited The blest repose that never pillowed Sin?

No! none can tell thy fate, thou wandering Sphinx! Pale Science, searching by the midnight lamp Through the vexed mazes of the human brain, Still fails to read the secret of its soul As the superb enigma flashes by, A loosed Prometheus burning with disdain.

{65}

AUTUMN.

If seasons, like the human race, had souls, Then two artistic spirits live within The Chameleon mind of Autumn--these, The Poet's mentor and the Painter's guide. The myriad-thoughted phases of the mind Are truly represented by the hues That thrill the forests with prophetic fire. And what could painter's skill compared to these? What palette ever held the flaming tints That on these leafy hieroglyphs foretell How set the ebbing currents of the year? What poet's page was ever like to this, Or told the lesson of life's waning days More forcibly, with more of natural truth, Than yon red maples, or these poplars, white As the pale shroud that wraps some human corse? And then, again, the spirit of a King, Clothed with that majesty most monarchs lack, Might fit old Autumn for his royal rule: For here is kingly ermine, cloth of gold, And purple robes well worthy to be worn By the best monarch that e'er donned a crown.

Proclaim him Royal Autumn! Poet King! The Laureate of the Seasons, whose rare songs Are such as lyrist never hoped to fling On the fine ear of an admiring world. Autumn, the Poet, Painter, and true King! His gorgeous Ideality speaks forth

{66}

From the rare colors of the changing leaves; And the ripe blood that swells his purple veins Is as the glowing of a sacred fire. He walks with Shelley's spirit on the cliffs Of the Ethereal Caucasus, and o'er The summits of the Euganean hills; And meets the soul of Wordsworth, in profound And philosophic meditation, rapt In some great dream of love towards The human race. The cheery Spring may come, And touch the dreaming flowers into life, Summer expand her leafy sea of green, And wake the joyful wilderness to song, As a fair hand strikes music from a lyre: But Autumn, from its daybreak to its close, Setting in florid beauty, like the sun, Robed with rare brightness and ethereal flame, Holds all the year's ripe fruitage in its hands, And dies with songs of praise upon its lips.

And then, the Indian Summer, bland as June: Some Tuscarora King, Algonquin Seer, Or Huron Chief, returned to smoke the Pipe Of Peace upon the ancient hunting grounds; The mighty shade in spirit walking forth To feel the beauty of his native woods, Flashing in Autumn vestures, or to mark The scanty remnants of the scattered tribes Wending towards their graves. Few Braves are left; Few mighty Hunters; fewer stately Chiefs, Like great Tecumseth fit to take the field, And lead the tribes to certain victory,

{67}

Choosing annihilation to defeat: But having run thy gauntlet of their days, This Autumn remnant of some unknown race, Nearing the Winter of their sad decay, Fall like dry leaves into the lap of Time; Their old trunks sapless, their tough branches bare, And Fate's shrill war-whoop thund'ring at their heels.

{68}

COLIN.

Who'll dive for the dead men now, Since Colin is gone? Who'll feel for the anguished brow, Since Colin is gone? True Feeling is not confined To the learned or lordly mind; Nor can it be bought and sold In exchange for an Alp of gold; For Nature, that never lies, Flings back with indignant scorn The counterfeit deed, still-born, In the face of the seeming wise, In the Janus face of the huckster race Who barter her truths for lies.

Who'll wrestle with dangers dire, Since Colin is gone? Who'll fearlessly brave the maniac wave, Thoughtless of self, human life to save, Unmoved by the storm-fiend's ire? Who, Shadrach-like, will walk through fire, Since Colin is gone? Or hang his life on so frail a breath That there's but a step 'twixt life and death? For Courage is not the heritage Of the nobly born; and many a sage Has climbed to the temple of fame, And written his deathless name In letters of golden flame, Who, on glancing down

{69}

From his high renown, Saw his unlettered sire Still by the old log fire, Saw the unpolished dame-- And the dunghill from which he came.

Ah, ye who judge the dead By the outward lives they led, And not by the hidden worth Which none but God can see; Ye who would spurn the earth That covers such as he; Would ye but bare your hearts, Cease to play borrowed parts, And come down from your self-built throne: How few from their house of glass, As the gibbering secrets pass, Would dare to fling, whether serf or king, The first accusing stone!

Peace, peace to his harmless dust! Since Colin is gone; We can but hope and trust; Man judgeth, but God is just; Poor Colin is gone! Had he faults? His heart was true, And warm as the summer's sun. Had he failings? Ay, but few; 'Twas an honest race he run. Let him rest in the poor man's grave, Ye who grant him no higher goal; There may be a curse on the hands that gave, But not on his simple soul!

{70}

MARGERY.

"Truth lights our minds as sunrise lights the world. The heart that shuts out truth, excludes the light That wakes the love of beauty in the soul; And being foe to these, despises God, The sole Dispenser of the gracious bliss That brings us nearer the celestial gate. They who might feed on rose-leaves of the True, And grow in loveliness of heart and soul, Catch at Deception's airy gossamers, As children clutch at stars. To some, the world Is a bleak desert, parched with blinding sand, With here and there a mirage, fair to view, But insubstantial as the visions born Of Folly and Despair. Could we but know How nigh we are to the true light of heaven; In what a world of love we live and breathe; On what a tide of truth our souls are borne! Yet we're but bubbles in the whirl of life, Mere flecks upon its ever-restless sea, Meteors in its ever-changing sky. Eternity alone is worth the thought That we expend upon the passing hour, Chasing the gaudy butterflies that lure Our footsteps from the path that leads us home. We will not see the beacon on the rock; The prompter is unheeded; and the spark Of the true spirit quenched in utter night, As we rush headlong, wrecked on Error's shoals. Some hearts will never open; all their wards

{71}

Have grown so rusty, that the golden key Of Love Divine must fail to move the bolt That Self has drawn to keep God's angels out."

So spake the merry Margery, the while Her fingers lengthened out a filigree, That seemed to me so many golden threads Of thought between her fingers and her brain, Bestrung with priceless pearls; her lightsome mood, Worn as occasion might necessitate, Replaced to-night by sober-sided Sense, That made her beauty like an eve in June, Just as the moon is risen. I, to mark My approbation of her present mood, Rehearsed a rambling lyric of my own, That seemed prophetic of her thoughts to-night:

Within my mind there ever lives A yearning for the True, The Beautiful and Good. God gives These, as He gives the dew

That falls upon the flowers at night, The grass, the thirsty trees, Because 'tis needful; and the light That suns my mind from these--

Truth--Beauty--Goodness, doth but fill A void within my soul; And I fall prone before the Will Of Him who gave the whole--

{72}

The wondrous life--the power to think, And love, and act, and speak. Standing, half-poised, upon the brink Of being--strong, yet weak--

Strong in vast hopes, but weak in deeds, I lift my heart and pray, That where the tangled skein of creeds Excludes the light of day

From human minds, God's purposes May be made plain, that all May walk in truth's and wisdom's ways, And lay aside the thrall

Of enmity, whose clouds have kept Their souls as dark as night; That they whose love and hope have slept, May come into the light,

And live as men, with minds to grasp Within the sphere of thought The boundless universe, and clasp The good the wise have sought,

As if it were a long-lost dove, Or a stray soul returned To worship in the fane of love, That it so long had spurned.

Where'er I gaze, my eyes behold Nought but the beautiful. The world is grand as it is old; The only fitting school

{73}

For man, where he may learn to live, And live to learn that what He needs heaven will in mercy give. Whatever be his lot,

He shapes it for himself; his mind Is his own heaven or hell: Just as he peoples it, he'll find Himself compelled to dwell

With good or evil. Good abounds In this delightful sphere; But man will walk his daily rounds, And evermore give ear

To the false promptings that waylay His steps at every turn; Flinging the true and good away For joys that he should spurn,

As being all unworthy of His greatness as a man. Why, man!--why tremble at the scoff Of fools and bigots? Scan

The mental firmament, and see How men in every age, Who strove for immortality-- Whose errand was to wage

Not War, but Peace--men of pure minds, Who sought and found the truth, And treasured it, as one who finds The secret of lost Youth

{74}

Restored and made immortal--see How they were scorned, because Their Sphinx-lives spake of mystery To those to whom the laws

Of nature are as claspèd books!-- Poets, who ruled the world Of Thought; in whose prophetic looks And minds there lay impearled,

But hidden from the vulgar sight, Such universal truths, That many, blinded by the light-- Gray-haired, green-gosling youths,

With whips of satire, looks of scorn, And finger of disdain, Have crushed these harbingers of morn, But could not kill the strain

That was a part of nature's mind, And therefore can not die. That which men spurned, angels have shrined Among God's truths on high.

And so 't will ever be, till man Knows more of Goodness, Truth, And Beauty--more of nature's plan, And Love that brings back youth

To hearts that have grown frail and old By groping in the dark With blinded eyes; their idol, Gold, And Gain, their Pleasure-bark!

{75}

"'Tis well that nature hath her ministers," She said, her voice and looks so passing sweet; "Great-hearts that let in love, and keep it there, Like the true flame within the diamond's heart, Informing, blessing, chastening their lives. Man has but one great love--his love for God; All other loves are lesser and more less As they recede from Him, as are the streams The farthest from the fountain. God is Love. Who loves God most, loves most his fellow-men; Sees the Creator in the creature's form Where others see but man--and he, so frail The very devils are akin to him! There is no light that is not born of love; No truth where love is not its guiding star; Faith without love is noonday without sun, For love begetteth works both good and true, And these give faith its immortality."

We parted at the outer door. The stars Seemed never half so bright or numberless As they appeared to-night. Margery's laugh Tripped after me in merry cadences, Like the quick steps of fairies in the air United to the chorus of their hearts Breathed into silvery music. Happy soul! Nature's epitome in all her moods.

{76}

EVA.

"God bless the darling Eva!" was my prayer. A pure, unconscious depth of earnestness Was in her eyes, so indescribable You might as well the color of the air Seek to daguerreotype, or to impress A stain upon the river, whose first swell Would swirl it to the deep. A calm, sweet soul, Where Love's celestial saints and ministers Did hold the earthly under such control Virtue sprung up like daisies from the sod. Oh, for one hour's sweet excellence like hers! One hour of sinlessness, that never more Can visit me this side the Silent Shore, To stand, like her, serene, unblushing before God!

{77}

THE POET'S RECOMPENSE.

His heart's a burning censer, filled with spice From fairer vales than those of Araby, Breathing such prayers to heaven, that the nice Discriminating ear of Deity Can cull sweet praises from the rare perfume. Man cannot know what starry lights illume The soaring spirit of his brother man! He judges harshly with his mind's eyes closed; His loftiest understanding cannot scan The heights where Poet-souls have oft reposed; He cannot feel the chastened influence Divine, that lights the Ideal atmosphere, And never to his uninspirèd sense Rolls the majestic hymn that inspirates the Seer.

{78}

THE WINE OF SONG.

Within Fancy's Halls I sit, and quaff Rich draughts of the Wine of Song, And I drink, and drink, To the very brink Of delirium wild and strong, Till I lose all sense of the outer world, And see not the human throng.

The lyral chords of each rising thought Are swept by a hand unseen; And I glide, and glide, With my music bride, Where few spiritless souls have been; And I soar afar on wings of sound, With my fair AEolian Queen.

Deep, deeper still, from the springs of Thought I quaff, till the fount is dry; And I climb, and climb, To a height sublime, Up the stars of some lyric sky, Where I seem to rise upon airs that melt Into song as they pass by.

Millennial rounds of bliss I live, Withdrawn from my cumbrous clay, As I sweep, and sweep, Through infinite deep On deep of that starry spray; Myself a sound on its world-wide round, A tone on its spheral way.

{79}