Chapter 6

We sailed by sweet, odorous isles, Where the flowers and trees were one; Through lakes that vied with the golden smiles Of heaven's unclouded sun: Still speeds our merry bark, Threading life's peaceful realm, And 'tis ever morn with our marriage-lark, For the Pilot-Love of our safety-ark Stands, watchful, at the helm.

II.

A beautiful land is the Land of Dreams, Green hills and valleys, and deep lagoons, Swift-rushing torrents and gentle streams, Glassing a myriad silver moons; Mirror-like lakelets with lovely isles, And verdurous headlands looking down On the Neread shapes, whose smiles Were worth the price of a peaceful crown.

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We clutch at the silvery bars Flung from the motionless stars, And climb far into space, Defying the race Who ride in aërial cars.

We take up the harp of the mind, And finger its delicate strings; The notes, soft and light As a moonbeam's flight, Departing on viewless wings. Afar in some fanciful bower, Some region of exquisite calm, Where the starlight falls in a gleaming shower, We sink to repose On our couch of rose, Inhaling no mortal balm. The worlds are no longer unknown, We pass through the uttermost sky, Our eyelids are kissed By a gentle mist, And we feel the tone Of a calmer zone, As if heaven were wondrous nigh.

A fanciful land is the Land of Dreams, Where earth and heaven are clasping hands; No heaven--no earth, But one wide, new birth, Where Beauty and Goodness, and human worth, Make earth of heaven and heaven of earth; And angels are walking on golden strands.

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And the pearly gates of the universe Of mind and fancy, opening To the touch of the dainty finger-tips Of elegant Peris with rose-bud lips, Delicate, weird-like sounds are born From the amber depths of odorous morn, And spirits of beauty and light rehearse Such strains as the young immortals sing, When the souls of the blest Are borne to their rest, On luminous pinions of light serene To the fragrant bowers of evergreen; O'er the rosy plains, where the dying hours Are changed by a spell to celestial flowers, Where the skies have a hue no name can express, For the tone of their passionate loveliness Surpasseth all human imagining.

Such was their beautiful Dream of Life; Each stern reality softened down; Earth seemed to have ended her age of Strife, And Harmony reigned, her olive crown Besting on the Parian brow Of the fair victor, like the gleam Of the silvery moon on waves that flow Thoughtfully down the summer stream. Such was their earnest Dream of Life! Was it some angel, with jealous eye, Seeing such love beneath the sky As never yet in world or star, Or spheral height, that reached so far 'Twas never beheld by mortal sight,

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Or elsewhere, save in highest heaven, Was duly earned, or truly given, That leagued with the usurper, Death, To quench the light that shone so bright That in all the earth there was not a breath So foul as to change their day to night?

Alone! alone! Oh, word of fearful tone! Well might the moon withhold her light, The stars withdraw from human sight, When Love was overthrown. The Minstrel's heart how changed! Love's principalities, O'er which he reigned supreme, Usurped by earth's realities; The realm through which he ranged Become a vanished dream! And yet he sung, as sings The dying swan that droops its wings And drifts along the stream:

THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW PANE.

A joy from my soul's departed, A bliss from my heart is flown, As weary, weary-hearted, I wander alone--alone! The night wind sadly sigheth A withering, wild refrain, And my heart within me dieth For the light in the window pane.

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The stars overhead are shining, As brightly as e'er they shone, As heartless--sad--repining, I wander alone--alone! A sudden flash comes streaming, And flickers adown the lane, But no more for me is gleaming The light in the window pane.

The voices that pass are cheerful, Men laugh as the night winds moan; They cannot tell how fearful 'Tis to wander alone--alone! For them, with each night's returning, Life singeth its tenderest strain, Where the beacon of love is burning-- The light in the window pane.

Oh, sorrow beyond all sorrows To which human life is prone: Without thee, through all the morrows, To wander alone--alone! Oh, dark, deserted dwelling! Where Hope like a lamb was slain, No voice from thy lone walls welling, No light in thy window pane.

But memory, sainted angel! Rolls back the sepulchral stone, And sings like a sweet evangel: "No--never, never alone!

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True grief has its royal palace, Each loss is a greater gain; And Sorrow ne'er filled a chalice That Joy did not wait to drain!

"Man must be perfected By suffering," he said; "And Death is but the stepping-stone, whereby We mount towards the gate Of heaven, soon or late. Death is the penalty of life; we die,

Because we live; and life Is but a constant strife With the immortal Impulse that within Our bodies seeks control-- The time-abiding Soul, That wrestles with us--yet we fain would win.

And what? the victory Would make us slaves; and we, Who in our blindness struggle for the prize Of this illusive state Called Life, do but frustrate The higher law--refusing to be wise."

Rightly he knew, indeed, Earth's brightest paths but lead To the true wisdom of that perfect state, Where Knowledge, heaven-born, And Love's eternal morn, Awaiteth those who would be truly great.

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With what abiding trust He rose from out the dust, As Death's swift chariot passed him by the way; No visionary dream Was his--no trifling theme-- The Soul's great Mystery before him lay:

THE SOUL.

All my mind has sat in state, Pond'ring on the deathless Soul: What must be the Perfect Whole, When the atom is so great!

God! I fall in spirit down, Low as Persian to the sun; All my senses, one by one, In the stream of Thought must drown.

On the tide of mystery, Like a waif, I'm seaward borne, Ever looking for the morn That will yet interpret Thee,

Opening my blinded eyes, That have strove to look within, 'Whelmed in clouds of doubt and sin, Sinking where I dared to rise:

Could I trace one Spirit's flight, Track it to its final goal, Know that 'Spirit' meant 'the Soul,' I must perish in the light.

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All in vain I search, and cry: "What, O Soul, and whence art thou?" Lower than the earth I bow, Stricken with the grave reply:

"Wouldst thou ope what God has sealed-- Sealed in mercy here below? What is best for man to know, Shall most surely be revealed!"

Deep on deep of mystery! Ask the sage, he knows no more Of the soul's unspoken lore Than the child upon his knee!

Cannot tell me whence the thought That is passing through my mind! Where the mystic soul is shrined, Wherewith all my life is fraught?

Knows not how the brain conceives Images almost divine; Cannot work my mental mine, Cannot bind my golden sheaves.

Is he wiser, then, than I, Seeing he can read the stars? I have rode in fancy's oars Leagues beyond his farthest sky!

Some old Rabbi, dreaming o'er The sweet legends of his race, Ask him for some certain trace Of the far, eternal shore.

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No. The Talmud page is dark, Though it burn with quenchless fire, And the insight must pierce higher, That would find the vital spark.

O, my Soul! be firm and wait, Hoping with the zealous few, Till the Shekinah of the True Lead thee through the Golden Gate.

SONNETS,

WRITTEN IN THE ORILLIA WOODS.

August, 1859.

DEDICATED

TO

My friends

AT

"ROCKRIDGE," ORILLIA, C. W.

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SONNETS.

PROEM.

Alice, I need not tell you that the Art That copies Nature, even at its best, Is but the echo of a splendid tone, Or like the answer of a little child To the deep question of some frosted sage. For Nature in her grand magnificence, Compared to Art, must ever raise her head Beyond the cognizance of human minds: This is the spirit merely; that, the soul. We watch her passing, like some gentle dream, And catch sweet glimpses of her perfect face; We see the flashing of her gorgeous robes, And, if her mantle ever falls at all, How few Elishas wear it sacredly, As if it were a valued gift from heaven. God has created; we but re-create, According to the temper of our minds; According to the grace He has bequeathed; According to the uses we have made Of His good-pleasure given unto us. And so I love my art; chiefly, because Through it I rev'rence Nature, and improve The tone and tenor of the mind He gave. God sends a Gift; we crown it with high Art,

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And make it worthy the bestower, when The talent is not hidden in the dust Of pampered negligence and venial sin, But put to studious use, that it may work The end and aim for which it was bestowed. All Good is God's; all Love and Truth are His; We are His workers; and we dare not plead But that He gave us largely of all these, Demanding a discreet return, that when The page of life is written to its close It may receive the seal and autograph Of His good pleasure--the right royal sign And signet of approval, to the end That we were worthy of the gift divine, And through it praised the Great Artificer.

In my long rambles through Orillian woods; Out on the ever-changing Couchiching; By the rough margin of the Lake St. John; Down the steep Severn, where the artist sun, In dainty dalliance with the blushing stream, Transcribes each tree, branch, leaf, and rock and flower, Perfect in shape and colour, clear, distinct, With all the panoramic change of sky-- Even as Youth's bright river, toying with The fairy craft where Inexperience dreams, And subtle Fancy builds its airy halls, In blest imagination pictures most Of bright or lovely that adorn life's banks, With the blue vault of heaven over all; On that serene and wizard afternoon, As hunters chase the wild and timid deer

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We chased the quiet of Medonte's shades Through the green windings of the forest road, Past Nature's venerable rank and file Of primal woods--her Old Guard, sylvan-plumed-- The far-off Huron, like a silver thread, The clue to some enchanted labyrinth, Dimly perceived beyond the stretch of woods, Th' approaches tinted by a purple haze, And softened into beauty like the dream Of some rapt seer's Apocalyptic mood; And when at Rockridge we sat looking out Upon the softened shadows of the night, And the wild glory of the throbbing stars; Where'er we bent our Eden-tinted way: My brain was a weird wilderness of Thought: My heart, love's sea of passion tossed and torn, Calmed by the presence of the loving souls By whom I was surrounded. All the while They deemed me passing tame, and wondered when My dreamy castle would come toppling down. I was but driving back the aching past, And mirroring the future. And these leaves Of meditation are but perfumes from The censer of my feelings; honied drops Wrung from the busy hives of heart and brain; Mere etchings of the artist; grains of sand From the calm shores of that unsounded deep Of speculation, where all thought is lost Amid the realms of Nature and of God.

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I.

My soul goes out to meet her, and my heart Flings wide the portals of its love, and yearns To have her enter its serene retreat. A poor stray lamb, not wand'ring from the fold, But all unstudied in the worldling's art, Turning life's mintage into seeming gold, Wherewith to purchase love and love's returns; Unknowing that love's waters, though so sweet, Lead to some bitter Marah. So my soul Goes out to meet her, and it clasps her home, And seeks to bear her upward to the goal At which the righteous enter. From the dome Of starriest Night two blest Immortals come, To bear us spheral-ward to God's own mercy-seat.

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II.

'Tis summer still, yet now and then a leaf Falls from some stately tree. True type of life! How emblamatic of the pangs that grief Wrings from our blighted hopes, that one by one Drop from us in our wrestle with the strife And natural passions of our stately youth. And thus we fall beneath life's summer sun. Each step conducts us through an opening door Into new halls of being, hand in hand With grave Experience, until we command The open, wide-spread autumn fields, and store The full ripe grain of Wisdom and of Truth. As on life's tott'ring precipice we stand, Our sins like withered leaves are blown about the land.

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III.

Oh, holy sabbath morn! thrice blessed day Of solemn rest, true peace, and earnest prayer. How many hearts that never knelt to pray Are glad to breathe thy soul-sustaining air. I sit within the quiet woods, and hear The village church-bell's soft inviting sound, And to the confines of the loftiest sphere Imagination wings its airy round; A myriad spirits have assembled there, Whose prayers on earth a sweet acceptance found. I go to worship in Thy House, O God! With her, thy young creation bright and fair; Help us to do Thy will, and not despair, Though both our hearts should bend beneath Thy chastening rod.

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IV.

The birds are singing merrily, and here A squirrel claims the lordship of the woods, And scolds me for intruding. At my feet The tireless ants all silently proclaim The dignity of labour. In my ear The bee hums drowsily; from sweet to sweet Careering, like a lover weak in aim. I hear faint music in the solitudes; A dreamlike melody that whispers peace Imbues the calmy forest, and sweet rills Of pensive feeling murmur through my brain, Like ripplings of pure water down the hills That slumber in the moonlight. Cease, oh, cease! Some day my weary heart will coin these into pain.

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V.

Blest Spirit of Calm that dwellest in these woods! Thou art a part of that serene repose That ofttimes lingers in the solitudes Of my lone heart, when the tumultuous throes Of some vast Grief have borne me to the earth. For I have fought with Sorrow face to face; Have tasted of the cup that brings to some A frantic madness and delirious mirth, But prayed and trusted for the light to come, To break the gloom and darkness of the place. Through the dim aisles the sunlight penetrates, And nature's self rejoices; heaven's light Comes down into my heart, and in its might My soul stands up and knocks at God's own temple-gates.

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VI.

Through every sense a sweet balm permeates, As music strikes new tones from every nerve. The soul of Feeling enters at the gates Of Intellect, and Fancy comes to serve With fitting homage the propitious guest. Nature, erewhile so lonely and oppressed, Stands like a stately Presence, and looks down As from a throne of power. I have grown Full twenty summers backwards, and my youth Is surging in upon me till my hopes Are as fresh-tinted as the checkered leaves That the sun shines through. All the future opes Its endless corridors, where time unweaves The threads of Error from the golden warp of Truth.

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VIII.

Our life is like a forest, where the sun Glints down upon us through the throbbing leaves; The full light rarely finds us. One by one, Deep rooted in our souls, there springeth up Dark groves of human passion, rich in gloom, At first no bigger than an acorn-cup. Hope threads the tangled labyrinth, but grieves Till all our sins have rotted in their tomb, And made the rich loam of each yearning heart To bring forth fruits and flowers to new life. We feel the dew from heaven, and there start From some deep fountain little rills whose strife Is drowned in music. Thus in light and shade We live, and move, and die, through all this earthly glade.

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VIII.

Above where I am sitting, o'er these stones, The ocean waves once heaved their mighty forms; And vengeful tempests and appalling storms Wrung from the stricken sea portentous moans, That rent stupendous icebergs, whose huge heights Crashed down in fragments through the startled nights. Change, change, eternal change in all but God! Mysterious nature! thrice mysterious state Of body, soul, and spirit! Man is awed, But triumphs in his littleness. A mote, He specks the eye of the age and turns to dust, And is the sport of centuries. We note More surely nature's ever-changing fate; Her fossil records tell how she performs her trust.

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IX.

Another day of rest, and I sit here Among the trees, green mounds, and leaves as sere As my own blasted hopes. There was a time When Love and perfect Happiness did chime Like two sweet sounds upon this blessed day; But one has flown forever, far away From this poor Earth's unsatisfied desires To love eternal, and the sacred fires With which the other lighted up my mind Have faded out and left no trace behind, But dust and bitter ashes. Like a bark Becalmed, I anchor through the midnight dark, Still hoping for another dawn of Love. Bring back my olive branch of Happiness, O dove!

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X.

Poor snail, that toilest at my weary feet, Thou, too, must have thy burden! Life is sweet If we would make it so. How vast a load To carry all its days along the road Of its serene existence! Christian-like, It toils with patience, seeking sweet repose Within itself when wearied with the throes Of its life-struggle. The low sounds that strike Upon the ear in wafts of melody, Are cruel mockeries, O snail, of thee. The cricket's chirp, the grasshopper's shrill tone, The locust's jarring cry, all mock thy lone And dumb-like presence. May this heart of mine, When tried, put on a resignation such as thine.

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XI.

Oh, that I were the spirit of these wilds! I'd make the zephyrs dance for my delight, And lead a life as happy as a child's. Echo should tremble with unfeigned affright, And mock its own weird answers. I would kiss Eliza's cheek, and touch her lips with dew Stol'n from the scented rose. And Carrie's laugh Should be a portion of the silver rills' Sweet music, breathed mellifluously through The hearts of generations. She should quaff The nectar of inspired song, and thrills Of sweet remembrances of her should strew The woodland air, as sand-grains strew the shore; And these two hearts should be my joy for evermore.

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XII.

The moon shone down on fair Eliza's face, And made it beautiful. No fitter place Could she have chosen for her gracious smile; For as she sat there in the languid light, Methought I'd found a soul as free from guile As ever came from God. Oh, favored Night! Oh, mild, impassioned moon and starry spheres! To gaze upon her through the silent years Without rebuke. But I have looked within, And found the truest beauty; have laid bare A spiritual excellence as rare As ever mortal being hoped to win. Heart, mind, and soul, I analysed them all, And saw where heaven kept divinest carnival.

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XIII.

I've almost grown a portion of this place, I seem familiar with each mossy stone; Even the nimble chipmunk passes on, And looks, but never scolds me. Birds have flown And almost touched my hand; and I can trace The wild bees to their hives. I've never known So sweet a pause from labour. But the tone Of a past sorrow, like a mournful rill Threading the heart of some melodious hill, Or the complainings of the whippoorwill, Passes through every thought, and hope, and aim. It has its uses; for it cools the flame Of ardent love that burns my being up-- Love, life's celestial pearl, diffused through all its cup.

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XIV.

There is no sadness here. Oh, that my heart Were calm and peaceful as these dreamy groves! That all my hopes and passions, and deep loves, Could sit in such an atmosphere of peace, Where no unholy impulses would start Responsive to the throes that never cease To keep my spirit in such wild unrest. 'Tis only in the struggling human breast That the true sorrow lives. Our fruitful joys Have stony kernels hidden in their core. Life in a myriad phases passeth here, And death as various--an equal poise; Yet all is but a solemn change--no more; And not a sound save joy pervades the atmosphere.

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XV.

Last night I heard the plaintive whippoorwill, And straightway Sorrow shot his swiftest dart. I know not why, but it has chilled my heart Like some dread thing of evil. All night long My nerves were shaken, and my pulse stood still, And waited for a terror yet to come To strike harsh discords through my life's sweet song. Sleep came--an incubus that filled the sum Of wretchedness with dreams so wild and chill The sweat oozed from me like great drops of gall; An evil spirit kept my mind in thrall, And rolled my body up like a poor scroll On which is written curses that the soul Shrinks back from when it sees some hellish carnival.

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XVI.

My footsteps press where, centuries ago, The Red Men fought and conquered; lost and won. Whole tribes and races, gone like last year's snow, Have found the Eternal Hunting-Grounds, and run The fiery gauntlet of their active days, Till few are left to tell the mournful tale: And these inspire us with such wild amaze They seem like spectres passing down a vale Steeped in uncertain moonlight, on their way Towards some bourn where darkness blinds the day, And night is wrapped in mystery profound. We cannot lift the mantle of the past: We seem to wander over hallowed ground: We scan the trail of Thought, but all is overcast.

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XVII.

THERE WAS A TIME--and that is all we know! No record lives of their ensanguined deeds: The past seems palsied with some giant blow, And grows the more obscure on what it feeds. A rotted fragment of a human leaf; A few stray skulls; a heap of human bones! These are the records--the traditions brief-- 'Twere easier far to read the speechless stones. The fierce Ojibwas, with tornado force, Striking white terror to the hearts of braves! The mighty Hurons, rolling on their course, Compact and steady as the ocean waves! The stately Chippewas, a warrior host! Who were they?--Whence?--And why? no human tongue can boast!

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XVIII.