Chapter 10

"Honor to Labor!"--the student cries, As he gazes around him with joyful eyes,-- "Honor to Labor!--the teeming press Pours forth its treasures the world to bless! From the pictured pages where childhood's eye Findeth a world of bright imagery, To the massive tome 'mid whose treasures vast, Lie the time-dimmed records of ages past, We may wander, and revel, yet ever find Supplies exhaustless for heart and mind We may turn to the Past--to the ages fled-- And converse hold with the gifted dead,-- Old climes of historic fame explore, And gather the gems of their buried lore,-- With Prophet-bards seek inspiring themes, Or muse alone by old fabled streams,-- With the Poet take our enraptured flight, And woo the Muse on Parnassus' height,-- Take fair Philosophy by the hand, And roam with her through her native land,-- May win from the God-inspired of Earth Heavenly treasures of priceless worth,-- Till the mental stores of all ages flown, And all gifted minds, we have made our own.".

Honor to Labor of body or mind, That hath for its object the good of mankind! The Farmer, who cheerily ploughs the soil, And gathers the fruit of his hopeful toil,-- The strong Mechanic, whose manly brow Weareth of labor the healthful glow,-- The bold Inventor, beneath whose hands The useful engine completed stands,-- The Artist, who, with unrivalled skill, Creations of loveliness forms at will,-- The Teacher, who sows in the minds of youth Seeds of precious undying truth,-- The pale-faced Student, who, worn with toil, Consumes o'er his studies the midnight oil,-- The man of Science, with earnest mind, Who toils to enlighten and bless mankind-- To themselves, their race, and their country true. Honor, all honor, to such is due!

THE MISER

The night was dark and dreary, And the autumn-wind went by With a sound like Sorrow's wailing In its sadly mournful cry;-- The yew trees, old and drooping, Shook in the angry blast, And the moon looked, pale and tearful, Through the clouds that hurried past.

In a dreary room and fireless, With mouldy walls and damp, A grey, old man was seated Beside a flickering lamp;-- An old man, worn and wasted, With bent and shivering form, And haggard looks, sat trembling At the moaning of the storm.

The casements, old and creaking, Shook in the angry blast; And the pale, thin face grew paler, As the shrieking winds went past; For hovering fiends seemed clutching His treasures from his grasp, And unseen fingers tight'ning On his throat their icy clasp.

Again the strong wind rattled The broken window-pane, And the dying taper wavered In the rude blast yet again-- For one brief instant wavered, Then paled its sickly light, And the shuddering wretch was shrouded In impenetrable night.

The dull, grey light of morning Illumed the mountain-height, And Earth lay, cold and shiv'ring, In the blanched, autumnal light, But a sunbeam struggled faintly Through the Miser's broken shed, And lit the pale, set features Of the still, unshrouded dead.

For there, alone, and trembling With the horrors of affright, He had met the king of terrors 'Mid the darkness of the night; And with gold enough to satiate A monarch's haughty pride, In fear, and rags, and misery Of _want_ the wretch had died!

BROKEN

I.

Broken! It's only a ring--a plain, old ring, Worn down to a thread almost-- Fling it away--the useless thing! What value now can it boast?-- Fling it away! Yet stay!--oh stay Ere you cast it away! There's a tale of the vanished years That ever will cling, To that broken ring, That hallows and endears-- Oh stay! In vain!--in vain!--What matters it now That tenderest memories cling To that thread of gold so wasted and old-- Who cares for a broken ring?-- Fling it away!

II.

Broken! It's only a vase--an old, stone vase-- Ancient and out of style-- That has stood for years in the chimney place, Provoking many a smile-- Throw it away! Yet stay!--that vase Held honored place In the sight of prince and peer And the flowers it held Were gathered of old By the lovely and the dear!-- Oh stay! In vain!--In vain!--What matters it now How honored was once its place! It is broken, and old, and the hearts are cold That cherished the old stone vase-- Throw it away!

III.

Broken! It's only a promise--as light as air-- Though earnestly, solemnly given, Made to be broken--yet who should care?-- Do you think it was heard in Heaven?-- Break it to day! Yet stay!--that breath Is a blast of death To an innocent human heart! Unsay the word, For God has heard! And He taketh the wronged one's part--- Break it _not_ to-day! In vain!--in vain!--What matters it now? It was only a breath--no more! A faithless promise--a traitor's vow-- Such things have happened before-- It's broken to-day!

IV.

Broken! It's only a heart--a human heart-- That has throbbed for years and years, With the burning pain and the cruel smart Whose agony knows no tears-- Cast it away' Yet stay!--oh stay! A father, grey And sorrowful, prayed for her long And a mother's love Bore to God above The tale of her poor childs wrong!-- Cast it _not_ away! In vain!--'Tis a story old and worn-- This story of falsehood's art-- Of the harsh world's withering blight and scorn,-- Who cares for the broken heart That's been cast away?

"TO OUR PARENTS"

WRITTEN BY REQUEST, FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING

Full fifty years together-- Father and mother dear-- Through pleasant summer weather, Or wintry tempests drear,-- Thro' sunshine and thro' shadow, Oft travel sore and tried, Yet strong to aid each other, You've journeyed side by side

A few brief years of climbing,-- One glad, exultant glance At the sun bright world around you, At the smiling heaven's expanse,-- And then, the slow descending Into the vale below, Where the light with shade is blending, And the deamy waters flow

Full fifty years of travel-- Then, on your worn staves rest, And welcome home your children, And many an honored guest,-- We come to give you greeting,-- We come to bring you cheer,-- To hail with glad rejoicing This fiftieth wedded year!

We know your hearts are asking For _one_ who is not here-- Whose voice was sweetest music, Whose smile was very dear, But the blessed Heaven that holds him Is very near to you, And the warm love that enfolds him, Enfolds his parents too.

Then let the tears we're shedding Have naught of grief's alloy;-- And let this GOLDEN WEDDING Be one of tranquil joy. God bless our honored father God bless our mother dear! And a thousand, thousand welcomes To this fiftieth wedded year.

UNDER THE ROD

"Be Still, and know that I am God!"

Be silent, Soul!--though dark thy path and dreary, And wild with storm, yet what is that to thee? Though thou art faint, and desolate, and weary, Thy God hath willed thus,--so let it be! Murmurs the mountain oak when storms assail it, And warring tempests wildly shake its form? Firmer within the earth its root it striketh, And gathers strength and vigor from the storm.

Be silent, Soul!--the hand of God is on thee! And, as a skillful gard'ner, from the vine Doth lop away each worthless branch and barren, So He would lop each fruitless bough of thine. Ah! thou art earth-bound, prone, and lowly creeping, clinging to things too frail to be thy stay; Jesus, with watchful care His vineyard keeping, Would lift thee up to sunshine and the day.

Be silent, Soul!--thou'rt not thy own;--the Saviour With blood and anguish bought thee on the tree! Why murmur, then, that He should seek to make thee Holy, and pure, and fit with Him to be? This world is not thy home!--cease thy weak clinging To its frail reeds, O thou whose mansion blest Is where Life's river flows with ceaseless singing Through the fair Paradise where angels rest.

Be silent, Soul--in the great heavenly Temple, The Master-Builder hath a niche for thee; And thou must pass beneath His forming chisel, If thou a goodly, polished stone wouldst be. Bless God for every stroke that severs from thee The gross and earthy, bringing to the light The intrinsic worth His Spirit hath wrought in thee,-- The gem His hand would polish and make bright

Be silent, Soul!--thy God is ever near thee, Whether thy path 'mid storm or sunshine lie,-- Whether the morning's tender radiance cheer thee, Or rayless darkness veil the midnight sky! What matter though thy pathway lone and dreary Should _all_ with weary, trembling feet be trod? Enough for thee to know, thy Lord is near thee, And the rough road leads up to Heaven and God!

THE WHITE STONE CANOE

AN INDIAN TRADITION; VERSIFIED FROM SCHOOLCRAFT

It was a day of festive-mirth, And bright the Indian wigwams shone, For 'twas a chieftain's bridal-day, And gladness dwelt in every tone; But ere the glow of sunset hours Upon the western hills was shed, Deep sadness rested on those bowers-- The bride was numbered with the dead.

Days passed; and still beside her tomb The stricken lover bowed his head; And-nightly, through the forest's gloom The stars beheld him with his dead. In vain did grey-haired chieftains urge The youthful hunter to the chase;-- He heard, yet heeded not their words, For grief had chained him to the place.

They laid his war-club by his side, His bow and arrows, too, they brought, And sang of glorious deeds of might That stately chiefs of yore had wrought; But listlessly he heard their songs, Flung back his bow with sullen pride, And by the silent grave sat down Where they had laid his youthful bride.

But pleasant memories came at length Of what he learned in boyhood's day, Of a bright path that led from earth O'er the blue mountains far away To the best land where spirits dwell, The home of GHEEZHA MONEDO, [1] Where parted loved ones meet again Beyond the reach of pain and woe.

Then from the ground the warrior rose, And bade the sleeping dust adieu, And started for the spirit-shore With the bright southern skies in view;-- Forests, and hills, and vales, and streams, In his quick flight he left behind;-- Earth's stores of rare and lovely things Had nought to charm the wand'rer's mind.

The snow, that lay upon the earth When he forsook his native hills, Had slowly melted from his path, And sought the bed of crystal rills; The woods assumed a gayer hue, The flowers put on the bloom of spring, The clear sky shone with brighter blue, And birds sped by on joyous wing.

By these blest signs the warrior knew That he was travelling aright; For old Tradition taught him so, And on he pressed with fresh delight. At length the shining path he spied Winding amid a beauteous grove, Up to the summit of a hill That rose the verdant plain above.

High on the summit stood a lodge To which this mystic pathway led;-- Thither, with undeclining zeal And ardent hopes, the warrior sped. An old man met him at the door, With piercing eyes and long, white hair, Who took the wand'rer by the hand, And kindly bade him welcome there.

"I know thy quest!" the old man said, "Leave here thy arrows and thy bow; Thy body, too, thou must forsake-- Thither thy soul alone can go. Thou seest yon gulf, and far away Beyond, a region bright and fair, Whose blue hills in the distance rise, Warrior, the land of souls is there'

"My lodge the gate of entrance is,-- I'll guard whatever thou leav'st behind, And thou may'st hasten on thy way, A joyous spirit unconfined." Thus saying, the aged man withdrew; And the freed traveller sped away-- As though his feet were changed to wings-- Upon his fair, but shadowy way.

Shadowy indeed, for all he passed-- Trees, plants, and flowers no substance wore, And birds and beasts were but the souls Of those that dwelt on earth before;-- Yet birds swept by on joyous wing, And, pausing, gazed the timid deer With fearless look, as if to say, "We have no strife or bloodshed here!"

Onward he went, till, just before, A beauteous lake appeared in view; And at the water's edge he spied A snow-white, shining, stone canoe. Lightly the warrior sprang within, And grasped the paddle by his side; When turning, lo, beside him sat The spirit of his beauteous bride

She sat within a light canoe, And sweetly beckoned him away To a green isle that, like a gem, Amidst the sparkling waters lay; High leaped the waves, yet on they pressed, Wreath after wreath of foam they passed,-- Thus gliding o'er the water's breast They reached the wished-for shore at last.

Together o'er those verdant plains, 'Mid fadeless flowers the lovers walked; And of their native hills and streams, And forest-homes, they freely talked. There were no storms, no chilling winds, No frost, no blight, to dim the flowers, But never-fading summer reigned Amid those calm and peaceful bowers.

None hungered there--no death, no pain, No blighted hope, no sleepless fear; No mourner sorrowed o'er the dead, And no bereaved one dropped a tear; Serenest skies were spread above, Bright flowers were blooming all around And every eye was filled with love, And music dwelt in every sound.

"Here let me stay!" the warrior cried, "On this secluded, happy shore; Here, with my loved and beauteous bride, Where bitter partings are no more!" Thus spake the youth, but, ere the words Had died away upon the breeze, There came a low, sweet spirit-voice Murm'ring among the sheltering trees.

"Warrior!"--thus spake the breezy voice-- "Return unto thy native shore; Resume again thy mortal frame, And mingle with thy tribe once more. Listen to him who keeps the gate, And he will tell thee what to do; Obey his voice, return to earth, And virtue's pleasant paths pursue.

"Thy time to die has not arrived; But let each gloomy thought be still, Thy maiden waits thee on this shore, Subject no more to pain or ill! In never-fading youth arrayed. Here shall ye dwell in peace at last, When thou hast done thy work on earth, And life's brief wanderings are past.

"Return!--thou yet must lead thy tribe Through many a wild, adventurous scene; But when a good old age is reached, And thou their leader long hast been, Then will I call thee to thy rest In this bright island of the skies, Where thou mayst mingle with the blest, While long, succeeding ages rise!"

The chieftain woke--'twas fancy all, The bright revealings of a dream;-- Around him still the forest stood Beneath the cold moon's placid beam. Up from the ground he proudly rose, Took up his war-club and his bow, Quelled in his soul the bitter floods Of disappointment and of woe,--

And, turning from the grave of her Who erst was all the world to him, He wiped away the gathering tears That made his eagle-glances dim; And with a proud, majestic step He slowly from the grave withdrew, Resolved to hope and labor on, With better prospects in his view

[Footnote 1: Merciful Spirit.]

GONE BEFORE

(IN MEMORY OF A PUPIL)

Thou art but gone before-- Gone to that unknown shore Toward which _my_ feet are journeying swiftly on Thou hast but laid thy head _First_ with the dreamless dead, I, too, shall come, and share thy rest anon.

Methinks 'twas sweet to die, Ere childhood's purity Had been polluted by sin's withering breath; Ere Care's pale, haggard mien Thy laughing eye had seen, Or thou hadst wept beside the bed of death!

We weep--yet thou art blest! We mourn--but thou'rt at rest! Well may we weep, yet, lost one, not for thee! Not that thy race is run, Thy brief life-journey done, And thou departed with thy Lord to be.

O no!--yet we may weep, That sin, so strong, so deep A root within our tempted souls should have; That we, with mortal fear, Still trembling, doubting here, Should cling to Earth in terror of the grave!

To Earth, whose very bloom Speaks of the dust, the tomb,-- Whose fairest blossoms round our footsteps die,-- Whose hopes are fraught with fears,-- Whose smiles are washed with tears,-- Whose sweetest songs are burdened with a sigh!

Sleep on, thou early blest! No cares can mar thy rest, No years of grief and trial are for thee; No blighted hopes, no fears, No wasted, sin-cursed years-- Joy for thee, little one, thou'rt free-aye, free!

Now with the peaceful dead Lay we thy beauteous head, No mourner's dirge for thee shall chanted be! So may we rest at last, When all our toils are past, And rise to tune an angel's harp with thee!

JOHANNA

(HIAWATHA MEASURE.)

'Twas a balmy day in Autumn, In the drowsy, dreamy Autumn, When from out the quiet woodland Sounds of rustling leaves came only-- Leaves that floated softly earthward-- And the streamlets had a murmur Such as wanders through our visions In the hushed and starry midnight-- Low, soft murmur, full of music.

With the small hand of her darling Clasped in her's, there came a mother To an Artist--fondly asking For the picture of her pet-lamb-- Winsome pet-lamb full of child-life, Full of merry, ringing laughter-- Laughter that went up unceasing Like the happy chime of streamlets Singing thro' some mountain valley,-- Like the bird-song in the forest In the time of early roses,-- Like the tinkle of sweet waters Dripping o'er a marble fountain.

And the child's glad eyes grew brighter As she saw her own sweet image From its little case look smiling Back upon her radiant features-- Saw the clustering curls fall softly Round the peach-blow neck and bosom,-- Saw the lips, two tiny rose-buds, And the scarce-shown pearls that edged them,-- And the quivering, laughing lashes Of the eager eyes were lifted In glad wonder, as she murmured "Oh, it's pretty!--ain't it, ma ma?"

Came another day in Autumn-- Gloomy, sad, tempestuous Autumn-- And from out the moaning forest Came the sound of rushing tempests As they dashed the sere leaves downward From the darkly tossing branches,-- And the turbid streams were chafing With the rush of swollen waters That, in tones all hoarse and angry, To the rude winds made replying.

With the hot hand of her darling Clasped in hers, that same fond mother O'er a little couch was bending, Where her little lamb lay moaning In unquiet fevered slumbers. Oft the blue-veined lids would tremble O'er the half-veiled eyes, and sadly-- Painfully the lips would quiver, As the sobbing breath came slowly From the scarcely heaving bosom

Ah! that little lamb was treading 'Mid the shadows of the valley!-- And her spirit-ear, affrighted, Just had caught the nearer murmur Of the death-stream cold and sullen Haply, wond'ring at the darkness That was slowly settling round her.

But it passed, and o'er those features Slowly broke a smile, so holy That we deemed the angels gathered Round her in the gloomy valley. Then the life-light gently faded From those eyes, as fades the sunset From the peaceful summer heavens,-- Stiller grew the little bosom,-- And the sobbing breath grew fainter,-- And the fading smile more sweetly Played around those lips, till slumber-- Strange, deep slumber slowly settled In its marble stillness o'er her.

Ah!--that little tear-stained image Now, is all that's left thee, mother, Of thy little, dark-eyed daughter! Ever, as it smiles upon thee From its tiny case, how keenly Will thy heart-strings thrill with anguish. As that voice again comes to thee, And again those sweet lips murmur-- "Oh it's pretty!--ain't it, ma-ma?"

SANZAS

"Whom have I in heaven but thee?"

'Twere nought to me, yon glorious arch of night, Decked with the gorgeous blazonry of heaven, If, to my faith, amid its splendors bright, No vision of the Eternal One were given; I could but view a dreary, soulless waste-- A vast expanse of solitude unknown;-- More cheerless for the splendors o'er it cast, For all its grandeur more intensely lone.

'Twere nought to me, this ever-changing scene Of earthly beauty, sunshine, and delight-- The wood's deep shadows and the valley's green, Morn's tender glow, and sunset's splendors bright-- Nought, if my Father smiled not from the sky, The cloud, the flower, the landscape, and the leaf; My soul would pine 'mid Earth's vain pageantry, And droop in hopeless orphanage and grief.

'Twere nought to me, the Ocean's far expanse, If His perfections were not mirrored there, Hopeless across the unmeasured waste I'd glance, And clasp my hands in anguish, not in prayer, Nought, Nature's anthem, ever swelling up From Nature's myriad voices, for the hymn Would breathe nor love, nor gratitude, nor hope, Robbed of the tones that speak to me of Him.

This wondrous universe, how less than nought Without my God--how desolate and drear! A mockery Earth with her vain splendors fraught-- A gilded pageant every rolling sphere; The noonday sun with all his glories crowned, A sickly flame, would glimmer faint and pale; And all Earth's melodies, their sweetness drowned, Be but the utt'rance of a funeral wail!

CANADA

Fair land of peace!--to Britain's rule and throne Adherent still, yet happier than alone, And free as happy, and as brave as free, Proud are thy children--justly proud, of thee!

Thou hast no streams renowned in classic lore, No vales where fabled heroes moved of yore, No hills where Poesy enraptured stood, No mythic fountains, no enchanted wood; But unadorned, rough, cold, and often stern, The careless eye to other lands might turn, And seek, where Nature's bloom is more intense, Softer delights to charm the eye of sense.

But we who know thee, proudly point the hand Where thy broad rivers roll serenely grand-- Where, in still beauty 'neath our northern sky, Thy lordly lakes in solemn grandeur lie,-- Where old Niagara's awful voice has given The flood's deep anthem to the ear of heaven Through the long ages of the vanished past, Through Summer's bloom, and Winter's angry blast-- Nature's proud utterance of unwearied song, Now, as at first, majestic, solemn, strong, And ne'er to fail, till the archangel's cry Shall still the million tones of earth and sky, And send the shout to ocean's farthest shore-- "Be hushed ye voices--time shall be no more!"

Few are the years that have sufficed to change This whole broad land by transformation strange; Once, far and wide, the unbroken forests spread Their lonely wastes, mysterious and dread-- Forests, whose echoes never had been stirred By the sweet music of an English word,-- Where only rang the red-browed hunter's yell, And the wolfs howl thro' the dark, sunless dell.