Chapter 2

The sunbeams' quivering glories softly touched that God-like head, The olives blooming round Him sweet shade and fragrance shed, While o'er His sacred features a tender sadness stole: "Rise, go thy way," He murmured, "thy faith hath made thee whole!"

THE BLIND MAN OF JERICHO.

He sat by the dusty way-side, With weary, hopeless mien, On his furrowed brow the traces Of care and want were seen; With outstretched hand and with bowed-down head He asked the passers-by for bread.

The palm-tree's feathery foliage Around him thickly grew, And the smiling sky above him Wore Syria's sun-bright hue; But dark alike to that helpless one Was murky midnight or noon-tide sun.

But voices breaking the silence Are heard, fast drawing nigh, And falls on his ear the clamor Of vast crowds moving by: "What is it?" he asks, with panting breath; They answer: "Jesus of Nazareth."

What a spell lay in that title, Linked with such mem'ries high Of miracles of mercy, Wrought 'neath Judaea's sky! Loud calls he, with pleading voice and brow, "Oh! Jesus, on me have mercy now!"

How often had he listened To wond'rous tales of love-- Of the Galilean's mercy, Of power from above, To none other given of mortal birth To heal the afflicted sons of earth.

With faith that never wavered Still louder rose his cry, Despite the stern rebuking Of many standing nigh, Who bade him stifle his grief or joy, Nor "the Master rudely thus annoy."

But, soon that voice imploring Struck on the Saviour's ear, He stopped, and to His followers He said "Go bring him here!" And, turning towards him that God like brow, He asked the suppliant, "What wouldest thou?"

Though with awe and hope all trembling, Yet courage gaineth he, And imploringly he murmurs: "Oh Lord! I fain would see!" The Saviour says in accents low: "Thy faith hath saved thee--be it so!"

Then on those darkened eye-balls A wondrous radiance beamed, And they drank in the glorious beauty That through all nature gleamed; But the fairest sight they rested on Was the Saviour, David's royal Son.

O rapture past all telling! The bliss that vision brought! Could a whole life's praises thank _Him_ For the wonder He had wrought? Yet is Jesus the same to-day as then, Bringing light and joy to the souls of men.

THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE.

The place is fair and tranquil, Judaea's cloudless sky Smiles down on distant mountain, on glade and valley nigh, And odorous winds bring fragrance from palm-tops darkly green, And olive trees whose branches wave softly o'er the scene.

Whence comes the awe-struck feeling that fills the gazer's breast, The breath, quick-drawn and panting, the awe, the solemn rest? What strange and holy magic seems earth and air to fill, That worldly thoughts and feelings are now all hushed and still?

Ah! here, one solemn evening, in ages long gone by, A mourner knelt and sorrowed beneath the starlit sky, And He whose drops of anguish bedewed the sacred sod Was Lord of earth and heaven, our Saviour and our God!

Hark to the mournful whispers from olive leaf and bough! They fanned His aching temples, His damp and grief-struck brow; Hark! how the soft winds murmur with low and grieving tone! They heard His words of anguish, they heard each sigh and moan.

Alone in deepest agony, while tired apostles slept; No one to share His vigil--weep with Him as He wept; Before Him, clearly rising, the Cross, the dying pain, And sins of hosts unnumbered whose souls He dies to gain.

O Garden of Gethsemane! the God-like lesson, then Left as a precious token to suff'ring, sorrowing men, Has breaking hearts oft strengthened, that else, so sharply tried, Had sunk beneath sin's burden and in despair had died.

O Garden of Gethsemane! "when pressed and sore afraid," May I in spirit enter beneath thine olive shade, And, great though be my anguish, still, like that God-like One, Submissive say: "Oh Father! Thy will, not mine, be done!"

MYSTICAL ROSE, PRAY FOR US!

O aptly named, Illustrious One! Thou art that flower fair That filled this vast and changeful world With mystic perfume rare-- Shedding on all the balmy breath Of countless virtues high, Rising like fragrant odours rich, To God's far, beauteous sky.

Mystical Rose! O aptly named! For, as 'mid brightest flowers The lovely Rose unquestioned reigns The Queen of Nature's bowers, So 'mid the daughters fair of Eve Art thou the peerless One! The chosen handmaid of the Lord! The Mother of His Son!

Yes, He endowed thee with all gifts Which could thy beauty grace; And ne'er did sin, e'en for one hour, Thy spotless soul deface, For from the first thou had'st the power God's fav'ring love to win; It was His will that thou should'st be Conceived devoid of sin.

Oh, Mother dear, obtain for us That we from evil flee; Throughout this, fleeting life's career Mayst thou our model be! Seek we to imitate the gifts That thy pure soul adorn-- Sweet flower of beauty and of grace! Fair Rose without a thorn!

MATER CHRISTIANORUM, ORA PRO NOBIS!

In the hour of grief and sorrow, When my heart is full of care, Seeking sadly hope to borrow From heaven's promises and prayer; When around me roll the waters Of affliction's stormy sea, Mary, gentle Queen of Mercy, In that hour, oh! pray for me!

When life's pulses high are bounding With the tide of earthly joy, And when in mine ears are sounding Strains of mirth without alloy; When the whirl of giddy pleasure Leaves no thought or feeling free, And I slight my heavenly treasure, Watchful Mother, pray for me!

When the soft voice of Temptation Lures my listening soul to sin, And, with baleful fascination, Strives my vain, weak heart to win; With the combat faint and weary, If I call not then on thee-- In that time of peril dreary, Tender Mother, pray for me!

If, in some unguarded hour Of dark passion or of pride, Evil thoughts, with serpent power To my inmost bosom glide-- Ah! while I from bonds unholy, Vainly seek myself to free-- Mary, pure and meek and lowly, Pray, oh! Mary, pray for me!

When with Heaven high communing In the solemn hour of prayer-- To its strains my soul attuning, I forget all worldly care; When earth's voices for a season My vex'd spirit have left free-- Still, dear Mother, near me hover! Still, sweet Mary, pray for me!

And in that supremest hour, When life's end is drawing nigh-- When earth's scenes and pomps and power Fade before my tear-dimmed eye-- When I on the shore am lying Of eternity's wide sea-- Then, O Refuge of the dying, Tender Mother, pray for me!

THE MAGDALEN AT THE MADONNA'S SHRINE.

O Madonna, pure and holy, From sin's dark stain ever free, Refuge of the sinner lowly, I come--I come to thee! Now with wreaths of sinful pleasure Yet my tresses twined among; From the dance's giddy measure, From the idle jest and song.

See! I tear away the flowers From my perfumed golden hair, Closely tended in past hours With such jealous, sinful care; Never more for me they blossom, Not for me those jewels vain: On my arms or brow or bosom, They shall never shine again.

Dost thou wonder at my daring Thus to seek thy sacred shrine, When the sinner's lot despairing, Wretched--hopeless--should be mine? To the instincts high of woman Most unfaithful and untrue; Yet Madonna, hope inspires me, For thou wast a woman too.

Evil promptings, dark-despairing, Whisper: "Leave this sacred spot; Back to sinful joys, repairing, In them live and struggle not!" But a bright hope tells that heaven May by me e'en yet be won, That I yet may be forgiven, Mary, by thy spotless Son!

Yes! I look on thy mild features, Full of dove-like, tender love-- Once the humblest of God's creatures, Now with Him enthroned above! Every trait angelic breathing Sweetest promises of peace; And the smile thy soft lips wreathing Tell me that my griefs shall cease.

Soft the evening shadows gather But no longer shall I wait, I will rise and seek the Father, For it is not yet too late; And when earthly cares oppress me, When life's paths my bruised feet pain; Hither shall I come to rest me, And new strength and courage gain!

THE VESPER HOUR.

Soft and holy Vesper Hour-- Precursor of the night-- How I love thy soothing power, The hush, the fading light; Raising those vain thoughts of ours To higher, holier things-- Mingling gleams from Eden's bowers With earth's imaginings!

How thrilling in some grand old fane To hear the Vesper prayer Rise, with the organ's solemn strain, On incense-laden air; While the last dying smiles of day Athwart the stained glass pour-- Flooding with red and golden ray The shrine and chancel floor.

Who, at such moment, has not felt Those yearnings, vague, yet sweet, For Heaven's joys at last to melt, Into fruition meet; And wished, as with rapt soul he viewed That glorious Home above, That earth's vain thoughts would ne'er intrude On visions of God's love?

To this calm hour belongs a sway The bright day cannot wield-- Sweet as the evening star's first ray, Transforming wood and field; Soft'ing gay flowers else too bright And silvering hill and dell; And clothing earth in that mild light The sad heart loves so well.

THE PARTING SOUL AND HER GUARDIAN ANGEL.

(_Written during sickness_).

_Soul_-- Oh! say must I leave this world of light With its sparkling streams and sunshine bright, Its budding flowers, its glorious sky? Vain 'tis to ask me--I cannot die!

_Angel_-- But, sister, list! in the realms above, That happy home of eternal love, Are flowers more fair, and skies more clear Than those thou dost cling to so fondly here.

_Soul_-- Ah! yes, but to reach that home of light I must pass through the fearful vale of night; And my soul with alarm doth shuddering cry-- O angel, I tell thee, I dare not die!

_Angel_-- Ah! mortal beloved, in that path untried Will I be, as ever, still at thy side, Through gloom to guide till, death's shadows passed, Thou nearest, unharmed, God's throne at last.

_Soul_-- Alas! too many close ties of love Around my wavering heart are wove! Fond, tender voices, press me to stay-- Think'st thou from them I would pass away? Daily my mother, with anguish wild, Bends o'er the couch of her dying child, And one, nearer still, with silent tears, Betrays his anguish, his gloomy fears-- Yes, even now, while to thee I speak, Are hot drops falling upon my cheek; Think you I'd break from so close a tie? No, my guardian angel, I cannot die!

_Angel_-- Poor child of earth! how closely clings Thy heart to earth and to earthly things! Wilt thou still revolt if I whisper low That thy Father in Heaven wills it so-- Wills that with Him thou should'st henceforth dwell, To pray for those whom thou lovest so well, Till a time shall come when you'll meet again, To forget for ever life's grief and pain?

_Soul_-- Spirit, thy words have a potent power O'er my sinking heart in this awful hour, And thy soft-breathed hopes, with magic might. Have chased from my soul the shades of night. Console the dear ones I part from now, Who hang o'er my couch with pallid brow, Tell them we'll meet in yon shining sky-- And, Saviour tender, now let me die!

ASH-WEDNESDAY.

Glitt'ring balls and thoughtless revels Fill up now each misspent night-- 'Tis the reign of pride and folly, The Carnival is at its height. Every thought for siren pleasure, And its sinful, feverish mirth; Who can find one moment's leisure For aught else save things of earth?

But, see, sudden stillness falling O'er those revels, late so loud, And a hush comes quickly over All the maddened giddy crowd, For a voice from out our churches Has proclaimed in words that burn: "Only dust art thou, proud mortal, And to dust shall thou return!"

And, behold, Religion scatters Dust and ashes on each brow; Thus replacing gem and flower With that lowly symbol now: On the forehead fair of beauty, And on manhood's front of pride, Rich and poor and spirit weary-- All receive it, side by side.

And the hearts that throbbed so wildly For vain pleasure's dreams alone, For its gilded gauds and follies, Now at length have calmer grown. Oh! that voice with heavenly power Through each restless breast hath thrilled, And our churches, late so lonely, Now with contrite hearts are filled.

Fair and lovely are our altars With their starry tapers bright, With dim clouds of fragrant incense, Fair young choristers in white, And the dying gleam of day-light, With its blushing crimson glow, Streaming through the lofty casement On the kneeling crowd below.

Tis an hour of golden promise For the hearts that secret burn With contrite and anxious wishes To the Father to return; For a Saviour, full of mercy, On His altar-throne is there, Waiting but that they should ask Him, For response to whispered prayer.

THE WHITE CANOE.

A LEGEND OF NIAGARA FALLS.

In days long gone by it was the custom of the Indian warriors of the forest to assemble at the Great Cataract and offer a human sacrifice to the Spirit of the Falls. The offering consisted of a white canoe, full of ripe fruits and blooming flowers, which was paddled over the terrible cliff by the fairest girl of the tribe. It was counted an honor not only by the tribe to whose lot it fell to make the costly sacrifice, but even by the doomed maiden herself. The only daughter of a widowed Chief of the Seneca Indians was chosen as a sacrificial offering to the Spirit of Niagara. Tolonga, the Great Elk, was bravest among the warriors, and devotedly attached to his child, but, when the lot fell on her, he crushed down in the pride of Indian endurance the feelings of grief that filled his bosom. The eventful night arrived. The moon arose and shone brightly down oh the turmoil of Niagara, when the White Canoe and its precious freight glided from the bank and swept out into the dread rapid. The young girl calmly steered towards the centre of the stream, when suddenly another canoe shot forth upon the water and, under the strong impulse of the Seneca Chief, flew like an arrow to destruction. It overtook the first; the eyes of father and child met in a parting gaze of love, and then they plunged together over the Cataract into Eternity.

THE WHITE CANOE.

_A Legend of Niagara Falls_

A CANTATA.

MINAHITA, Indian Maiden. OREIKA, Her Friend. TOLONGA, Minahita's Father. DOLBREKA, Indian Chief.

I.

_Chorus._

In summer's rare beauty the earth is arrayed, Gay flowers are blooming on hill-side and glade, Embalming the air with sweet subtle perfume, Enriching the earth with their beautiful bloom; The moss, like green velvet, yields soft 'neath the tread, The forest trees wave in luxuriance o'er head, Whilst fresh dawning beauties of sky, wood and plain, Proclaim that fair summer is with us again. Let the choice, then, be made of the thrice-favored one Whom Niagara's Spirit will soon call his own! At morn, when the sun wakes refulgent on high In billows of gold, hooding earth, sea and sky, How glorious the music that welcomes his rays, One loud choral song of rejoicing and praise: The clear notes of birds and the soft rustling breeze The murmur of waters, the sighing of trees, And the thousand sweet voices, so tender and gay, That haunt our old woods through the bright summer day. Let the choice, then, be made of the thrice-favored one Whom Niagara's Spirit will soon call his own!

DOLBREKA.

Ah! yes, the time and hour have come To choose a fitting bride For that Spirit who from his wat'ry home, Speaks forth in might and pride; Whilst the zephyrs toy with his sapphire waves, He would bear her down to his crystal caves.

Seek the woods for buds to deck her brow; And offerings must she bring, Ripe blooming fruits and fragrant bough, As gifts for the River King-- Gifts of earth's loveliest things, while she, 'Mid our maidens fair, must the fairest be!

II.

OREIKA.

The Sachems all have spoken, and the lot has fallen on one As fair as any wild rose that blossoms 'neath the sun, Her eyes, like starlit waters, are liquid, soft and clear; Her voice like sweetest song-bird's in the springtime of the year; No merry fawn that lightly springs from forest tree to tree Hath form so light and graceful, or footstep half as free;

Like plumage of the raven is her heavy silken hair, Which she binds with scarlet blossoms--with strings of wampum rare; And the crimson hue that flushes her soft though dusky cheek Is like the sunbeam's parting blush upon the mountain peak. O, never since Niagara first thundered down in pride Had the Spirit of its waters so beautiful a bride!

_Chorus of Indian Women._

Ah, Minahita! sister fair, What lot with thine can now compare? 'Mid all the daughters of our race Peerless in beauty and in grace. More blest than if in wifehood's pride Thou stood'st at some young warrior's side, Or with fair children round thy knee Didst crown thy young maternity!

III.

MINAHITA.

My heart is throbbing with solemn joy, May no earthly thoughts that bliss alloy, By Sachems chosen and tribesmen all-- I gladly lead, and obey the call!

TOLONGA.

Ah, spoken well, my daughter, and worthy of thy sires, Who've ever held an honored place around our council fires! My foot treads earth more proudly, my heart beats quick and high, To know that, like a Sachem's child, my daughter goes to die! Though Mamtou denied me a son to glad mine age, To follow in the warpath when our foes fierce combat wage. I offer him, with grateful heart, thanksgiving deep and warm That he has placed a warrior's heart within thy fragile form.

_Aria._

Just sixteen spring-tides hast thou seen Beneath the forest shade, And ever sweet and mild of mien, Like sunbeam hast thou played Around my widowed home and heart-- Yet thou and I must quickly part.

As firmly as the towering oak, Deep rooted in the earth, Can brave the storm and thunder stroke, So, even from thy birth, Deep love for thee hath held my heart, And yet, ungrieving, must we part.

And closely as the ivy clings Around some forest tree, Till from its glossy em'rald rings, No bough or limb is free, So art thou twined around my heart, And yet, rejoicing, must we part!

IV.

OREIKA.

Alas, my sister, do not chide That thoughts of grief, instead of pride, Within my heart lie deep; Fain would I speak with mien elate Of thy predestined glorious fate, And yet I can but weep.

When come the short'ning Autumn days, While gathering in the golden maize, I'll miss thy tender voice, And when our merry maidens say: "Oreika, join us in our play," How can I then rejoice?

And, oh! I will not grieve alone, For when another moon has flown, And Osseo will return, Hopeful, to seek thee for his bride, How deeply will his heart be tried When he thy fate shall learn!

MINAHITA.

Enough, my sister, wouldst make me sad, When my smile should be bright and my heart be glad? You know 'tis an honor to sire and race, And to shrink from my lot would bring dire disgrace. For no earthly love must I weakly pine, I yield to a suitor of rank divine. To my girlhood's love must I say farewell-- To the dreams that were sweeter than words can tell! The chill embrace of the waters cold, Clasping my form in their viewless hold, Laving my brow in their terrible play, Tangling my locks with their glittering spray, Freezing my warm blood, stifling my breath, With awful kisses that bring but death,-- To such endearments I now must go Where my Spirit bridegroom dwells below.

OREIKA.

'Tis fearful, alas! and must it be?

MINAHITA.

What would'st thou?

OREIKA.

Flee, oh quickly flee! Through secret paths seek Osseo's side, Who will gladly welcome and shield his bride; To far-off lands thou with him canst fly, In mutual love to live and die!

MINAHITA.

Thou forgettest, my sister! An Indian maid Not of death, but dishonor, should be afraid. Thou did'st couple love with dear Osseo's name, But love would be short-lived if joined with shame! My father bowed 'neath dark disgrace, My name a bye-word to all my race, I would find no joy in my rescued life, Dogged by remorse and inward strife, Till, hiding myself from all friendly ken, I should die, despised by both Gods and men. No, sister, better an early grave In yon lone dell where the pine-trees wave; Better a fiery death at the stake, While foes fierce sport of the captive make, With cruelest tortures that man can frame,-- Thrice better, than life with dishonored name!

V.

TOLONGA, MINAHITA, DOLBREKA.

TOLONGA.

Daughter of a dauntless race, Now draws nigh the solemn hour, Which, O maid of childlike grace, Well might make the bravest cower! Thundering down the awful steep, Hear Niagara's waters leap, Tossing, surging, flecked with foam, Child, my child, they call thee home!

MINAHITA.

I am ready! See, I wear Wampum belt and garments gay; Mark my smoothly braided hair, Decked with shells and wild flower spray, My wrists their silver circlets bear, Polished with maiden's patient care; Unshrinking from the stormy foam, I'm ready for my wild, chill home!

DOLBREKA.

Girl, thou art a worthy bride For Niagara's fierce King! Men will think of thee with pride, Maidens will thy courage sing, Sachems tell of thee with praise, Warriors on thee proudly gaze, While pure and fair as ocean foam, Thou passest to the Spirit's home.

_Chorus of Indian Braves._

We have launched the light canoe Upon Niagara's waters blue, 'Tis white and bright as an ocean shell, Swifter than the sea gull's wing, Worthy the hand that will guide it well, Amid the foam wreaths the wild waves fling.

_Chorus of Indian Women._

And it is freighted with fragrant flowers, The brightest culled 'mid our forest bowers, Fruits ripened beneath the sun's warm rays-- And silky tassels of golden maize, And with them the maid who is doomed to bring These gifts to the pitiless Cataract King.

_Chorus of Male and Female Voices._

Fair are the flowers, but she's fairer far, Lovelier she than the Evening Star, Pure as the moonbeams that tremulous shine, Flooding the earth with their sheen divine.

VI.

TOLONGA.