Chapter 8

It may be pleasure's roseate dreams Possess thy wayward heart, Its gilded gauds for better things Leaving alas! no part; Ah! cast away the gems and flowers That bind thy thoughtless brow, Where will their gleam or brightness be In a few short years from now?

The good thou may'st on earth have done, Love to a brother shown-- Pardon to foe--alms unto need-- Kind word or gentle tone; The treasures thus laid up in Heav'n By the good on earth done now, These will alone remain to thee, In a few short years from now.

TO THE SOLDIERS OF PIUS NINTH.

Warriors true, 'tis no false glory For which now you peril life,-- For no worthless aim unholy, Do ye plunge into the strife; No unstable, fleeting vision Bright before your gaze hath shone, No day dream of wild ambition, Now your footsteps urges on:

But a cause both great and glorious, Worthy of a Christian's might, One which yet shall be victorious,-- 'Tis the cause of God and right: Men! by aim more pure and holy Say, could soldiers be enticed? Strike for truth and conscience solely, Strike for Pius and for Christ.

Even like the brave Crusaders-- Heroes true and tried of old, You would check the rash invaders Of all that we sacred hold. And though hosts your steps beleaguer, Full of might and martial pride; For the conflict be you eager-- God Himself will be your guide!

Soldiers of the Cross, remember In the cause you fight for now, 'Tis not earthly wreaths you gather To adorn the dauntless brow; But the laurels bright--unfading, Never from you to be riven-- Which will yet your brows be shading In the shining courts of Heaven.

COME, TELL ME SOME OLDEN STORY.

I.

Come tell me some olden story Of Knight or Paladin, Whose sword on the field of glory Bright laurel wreaths did win: Tell me of the heart of fire His courage rare did prove; Speak on--oh! I will not tire-- But never talk of love.

II.

Or, if thou wilt, I shall hearken Some magic legend rare-- How the Wizard's power did darken The sunny summer air: Thou'lt tell of Banshee's midnight wail, Or corpse-light's ghastly gleam-- It matters not how wild the tale So love be not thy theme.

III.

Or, perhaps thou may'st have travelled On distant, foreign strand, Strange secrets have unravelled In many a far-off land; Describe each castle hoary, Each fair or frowning shore-- But should love blend in thy story I'll list thy voice no more.

IV.

Thou askest with emotion, Why am I thus so cold, Urging all thy past devotion, Well known--well tried of old; Hush! bend a little nearer That sad, o'erclouded brow-- Could love vows make thee dearer To me than thou art now!

REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS.

DIED JANUARY 26th, 1864, THE HON. JAMES B. CLAY, OF ASHLANDS, KENTUCKY, ELDEST SON OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS HENRY CLAY.

Another pang for Southern hearts, That of late so oft have bled, Another name to add to the roll Of their mighty, patriot dead; A vacant place 'mid that phalanx proud. Of which each glorious name Is dear to a mighty nation's heart, And dear to undying fame.

The God-given gift of genius his, The patriot's holy fire, For he we mourn was a worthy son Of a great and glorious sire: Ah! whate'er the changes time may bring, Shall never pass away From the people's mind, in North or South, The deathless name of Clay.

Yet an exile in a foreign land, His spirit passed from earth, Far from the old dear scenes of home, The loved land of his birth,-- The land he had well and truly served, With heart, with sword, with pen, Since first he had joined the march of life, By the side of his fellow men.

No Southern breezes, soft and sweet, Played around his dying bed, No Southern flowers in glowing bloom, Rich fragrance round him shed; The wintry light of a Northern sky, Earth robed in snowy vest, Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze As he passed into his rest

But near him gathered devoted hearts, Wife, children, at his side, Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked, With fond, revering pride, On him who had ever been to them, Throughout his life's career, A model of all that honor high, Or virtue holds most dear.

And other mourners leaves he too, Who had learned to love him well. Though short the time since he had come, Within our midst to dwell: Friends who will keep his name fore'er 'Mid those they we set apart, To cherish deeply, and revere, Within their inmost heart.

Montreal, Jan. 27, 1864

WHEN WILL IT END?

Written during the Civil War in the United States.

O when will it end, this appalling strife, With its reckless waste of human life, Its riving of highest, holiest ties, Its tears of anguish and harrowing sighs, Its ruined homes from which hope has fled, Its broken hearts and its countless dead?

In fair Virginia the new-made graves Lie crowded thick as old ocean's caves; Whether sword or sickness dealt the blow, What matters it?--They lie cold and low; And Maryland's heights are crimsoned o'er, And its green vales stained, with human gore.

The stalwart man in the prime of life, Sole stay of frail children and helpless wife; The bright-eyed, ardent, and beardless boy, Of some mother's fond breast the pride and joy, And the soldier-love, the idol rare Of maiden and matron, gentle and fair.

The men of the North so dauntless and free, The flower of the Southland chivalry, The best and the bravest on either side, Their citizen soldier, the nation's pride, Carelessly cast in each narrow, dank bed, And fruitlessly numbered among the dead.

Are you nearer the end than when Sumter's gun Answered the summons of Charleston, And the nation plunged in this deadly strife, That has wrecked its happiness, wealth and life,-- Say what is your answer to foe or friend? "'Tis a strife of which none can guess the end."

Oh! keep your young strength for some stranger foe, Let not brother's rash hand lay brother low; Remember one soil your childhood nursed, In the past together your bonds you burst; Together for freedom you learned to strike, And brave Washington honored you both alike.

You have proved to the nations your mutual might; You have proved you can suffer, struggle and fight; By hundreds and thousands lie heaped your slain, Your life-blood crimsons hill, stream and plain; Prove of nobler struggle you are able yet, And your mutual wrongs forgive and forget.

Oh, Father of mercies! stay now each hand, Put back in its sheath the blood stained brand, Whisper sage counsel to rulers proud, Calm the wrath of the people, fierce and loud, So that their hates and their strife may cease, And their land know once more the boon of peace.

MOONLIGHT REVERIES.

The moon from solemn azure sky Looked down on earth below, And coldly her wan light fell alike On scenes of joy and woe: A stately palace reared its dome, Within reigned warmth and light And festive mirth--the moon's faint rays Soft kissed its marble white.

A little farther was the home Of toil, alas! and want, That spectre grim that countless hearths Seems ceaselessly to haunt; And yet, as if in mocking mirth, She smiled on that drear spot, Silvering brightly the ruined eaves And roof of that poor cot.

And then, with curious gaze, she looked Within a curtained loom, Where sat a girl of gentle mien In young life's early bloom; Her glitt'ring light made still more bright The veil and bridal flower, Which were to wreathe the girl's fair brow In the morrow's solemn hour.

With changeless smile she gleamed within A casement, gloomy, lone, Where lay a cold and rigid form, A death bed stretched upon. The fixed gaze of the half closed eyes, The forehead chill and white, The shroud and pall, more ghastly looked, Wrapped thus in still, silv'ry light.

Long, sadly, gazed I, then a thought, Sharp, bitter, filled my heart 'Gainst that cold orb, which in our joys And sorrows took no part; Which shone as bright o'er couch of death, In prison's darkened gloom, As o'er the festal scenes of earth, Or stately palace room.

An inward voice reproved the thought, And whispered, soft and low, "Unto that glorious orb 'twas given Its Maker's power to show. Throughout long ages has it shone With pure, undying flame, His will obeying Dreamer, go, And do thou, too, the same!"

THE CLOUDS THAT PROMISE A GLORIOUS MORROW.

The clouds that promise a glorious morrow Are fading slowly, one by one; The earth no more bright rays may borrow From her loved Lord, the golden sun; Gray evening shadows are softly creeping, With noiseless steps, o'er vale and hill; The birds and flowers are calmly sleeping; And all around is fair and still.

Once loved I dearly, at this sweet hour, With loitering steps to careless stray, To idly gather an opening flower, And often pause upon my way,-- Gazing around me with joyous feeling, From sunny earth to azure sky, Or bending over the streamlet, stealing 'Mid banks of flowers and verdure by.

You wond'ring ask me why sit I lonely Within my quiet, curtain'd room, So idly seeking and clinging only Unto its chastened, thoughtful gloom. You tell me that never fragrance rarer Did breathe from clustering leaf and bough; That never the bright spring was fairer Or more enchanting than she is now.

Ah, useless chiding! The loved ones tender, Who shared my rambles long ago, Whose cherished accents could only render Words of affection soft and low, Are parted from me, perchance for ever, By miles of distance, of land or main,-- Death some has taken, and them, oh never Upon this earth shall I meet again.

'Tis thus this hour of gentle even Brings back in thought the friends long gone,-- Loved ones with whom this earth was Heaven But who have vanished, one by one.-- 'Tis thus I cherish with wilful sadness The quiet of my lonely room,-- Careless, unmindful of all earth's gladness, Or of her lovely evening bloom.

EARTH'S MOMENTS OF GLOOM.

"The heart knoweth its own bitterness"

The heart hath its moments of hopeless gloom, As rayless as is the dark night of the tomb; When the past has no spell, the future no ray, To chase the sad cloud from the spirit away; When earth, though in all her rich beauty arrayed, Hath a gloom o'er her flowers--o'er her skies a dark shade, And we turn from all pleasure with loathing away, Too downcast, too spirit sick, even to pray!

Oh! where may the heart seek, in moments like this, A whisper of hope, or a faint gleam of bliss? When friendship seems naught but a cold, cheerless flame, And love a still falser and emptier name; When honors and wealth are a wearisome chain, Each link interwoven with grief and with pain, And each solace or joy that the spirit might crave Is barren of comfort and dark as the grave.

Lift--lift up thy sinking heart, pilgrim of life! A sure spell there is for thy spirit's sad strife; 'Tis not to be found in the well-springs of earth,-- Oh! no, 'tis of higher and holier birth.

AUTUMN WINDS.

"Oh! Autumn winds, what means this plaintive wailing Around the quiet homestead where we dwell? Whence come ye, say, and what the story mournful That your weird voices ever seek to tell-- Whispering or clamoring, beneath the casements, Rising in shriek or dying off in moan, But ever breathing, menace, fear, or anguish In every thrilling and unearthly tone?"

"We come from far off and from storm-tossed oceans, Where vessels bravely battle with fierce gale,-- Mere playthings of our stormy, restless power, We rend them quickly, shuddering mast and sail; And with their, stalwart, gallant crews we hurl them Amid the hungry waves that for them wait, Nor leave one floating spar nor fragile taffrail To tell unto the world their dreary fate."

"But He who holds you, wrathful winds of Autumn, Within the hollow of His mighty hand, Can stay your onward course of reckless fury, Your demon wrath, or eerie sport command, Changing your rudest blast to zephyr gentle As rocks the rose in summer evenings still, Calming the ocean and yourselves enchaining By simple fiat of Almighty Will."

"We've been, too in the close and crowded city Where want is often forced to herd with sin; And our cold breath has pierced through without pity, Bare, ruined hovel and worn garments thin; Through narrow chink and broken window pouring Draughts rife with fever and with deadly chill, Choosing our victims 'mid old age and childhood, Or tender, fragile infancy at will."

"Oh, Autumn blasts, He, whose kind care doth temper The searching wind unto the small shorn lamb, To those poor shiv'ring victims, too, can render Thy keenest, sharpest blasts, both mild and calm Rave on--rave on, around our happy homestead Upon this dark and wild November night, Ye do but work out your God-given mission, Mere humble creatures of our Father's might."

"But, listen, we come, too, from graveyards lonely, From mocking revels held 'mid tombstones tall, Tearing the withered leaves from off the branches, The clinging ivy from the time-stained wall,-- Uprooting, blighting every tiny leaflet That hid the grave's bleak nakedness from sight, Driving the leaves in hideous, death like dances, Around the lowly mounds, the grave-stones white."

"And, what of that, ye cruel winds of Autumn? Spring will return again with hope and mirth, Clothing with tender green the budding branches, Decking with snowdrops, violets, the earth; And, oh! sweet hope, sublime and most consoling, The sacred dust within those graves shall rise In God's good time, to reign on thrones of glory With Him, beyond the cloudless, golden skies."

FLOWERS AND STARS.

"Beloved! thou'rt gazing with thoughtful look On those flowers of brilliant hue, Blushing in spring tide freshness and bloom, Glittering with diamond dew: What dost thou read in each chalice fair, And what does each blossom say? Do they not tell thee, my peerless one, Thou'rt lovelier far than they?"

"Not so--not so, but they whisper low That quickly will fade their bloom; Soon will they withered lie on the sod, Ravished of all perfume; They tell that youth and beauty below Are doomed, alas! to decay, And I, like them, in life's flower and prime May pass from this earth away."

"Too sad thy thoughts! Look up at yon stars, That gleam in the sapphire skies; Not clearer their radiance, best beloved, Than the light of thine own dark eyes! With no thoughts of death or sad decay, Can they thy young spirit fill; Through ages they've shone with changeless light, And yet they are shining still!"

"Ah! they bring before my spirit's gaze Dreams of that home so blessed, Where those who have served the Master well At length from their labors rest; And do not chide if, despite all ties, Of close-clinging earthly love, There are times when I turn a wistful glance To that distant home above."

THE SUNSET THOUGHTS OF A DYING GIRL.

Friends! do you see in yon sunset sky, That cloud of crimson bright? Soon will its gorgeous colors die In coming dim twilight; E'en now it fadeth ray by ray-- Like it I too shall pass away!

Look on yon fragile summer flower Yielding its sweet perfume; Soon shall it have lived out its hour, Its beauty and its bloom: Trampled, 'twill perish in the shade-- Alas! as quickly shall I fade.

Mark you yon planet gleaming clear With steadfast, gentle light, See, heavy dark clouds hovering near, Have veiled its radiance bright-- As you vainly search that gloomy spot, You'll look for me and find me not!

Turn now to yonder sparkling stream, Where silver ripples play; Dancing within the moon's pale beam-- Ah! short will be their stay, They break and die upon the shore-- Like them I soon shall be no more!

Yes! emblems meet of my career, Are ripple, cloud, and flower; Fated like me to linger here, But for a brief, bright hour-- And then, alas! to yield my place; And leave, perchance, on earth no trace!

No trace, my friends, save in your hearts, That pure and sacred shrine-- Where, 'spite life's thousand cares and arts, A place shall yet be mine; And love as deep as that of yore-- Though on this earth we meet no more!

ALAIN'S CHOICE.

By the side of a silvery streamlet, That flowed through meadows green, Lay a youth on the verge of manhood And a boy of fair sixteen; And the elder spake of the future, That bright before them lay, With its hopes full of golden promise For some sure, distant day.

And he vowed, as his dark eye kindled, He would climb the heights of fame, And conquer with mind or weapon A proud, undying name. On the darling theme long dwelling Bright fabrics did he build, Which the hope in his ardent bosom With splendor helped to gild.

At length he paused, then questioned: "Brother, thou dost not speak; In the vague bright page of the future To read dost thou never seek?" Then the other smiled and answered, "Of that am I thinking now, And the crown which I too am striving To win my ambitious brow."

"What!--a crown? Thou hast spirit, brother; Say, of laurels will it be? Thy choice, the life of a soldier, Undaunted--joyous--free. Though by wind and sun undarkened Is thy blooming, boyish face, To thy choice thou'lt do all honor, For 'tis worthy of thy race!

"Am I wrong? Well, 'tis more likely, With thy love of ancient lore, Thou would'st choose the scholar's garland, Not laurels wet with gore; I'll not chide--'tis surely noble, By mere simple might of pen, To rule with master power The minds of thy fellow-men."

But still shook his head the younger: "What! unguessed thy secret yet? Ha! I know now what thou seekest To deck thy curls of jet: Bright buds!" and he, laughing, scattered Blossoms on brow and cheek, "Pleasure's wreath of smiting flowers Is the crown that thou dost seek."

"Not so--of all, that were vainest! 'Tis a crown immortal--rare-- Here on earth I must strive to win it, But, brother, I'll wear it _there!_" And he raised to the blue sky o'er him Eyes filled with tender thought,-- Who shall doubt that to him was given The glorious crown he sought?

THE FINAL RECKONING.

'Twas a wild and stormy sunset, changing tints of lurid red Flooded mountain top and valley and the low clouds overhead; And the rays streamed through the windows of a building stately, high, Whose wealthy, high-born master had lain him down to die.

Many friends were thronging round him, breathing aching, heavy sighs-- Men with pale and awe-struck faces, women, too, with weeping eyes, Watching breathless, silent, grieving him whose sands were nearly run, When, with sudden start, he muttered: "God! how much I've left undone!"

Then out spoke an aged listener, with broad brow and locks of snow, "Patriot, faithful to thy country and her welfare, say not so, For the long years thou hast served her thou hast only honor won." But, from side to side still tossing, still he muttered: "Much undone!"

Then the wife, with moan of anguish, like complaint of stricken dove, Murmured: "Husband, truer, fonder, never blessed a woman's love, And a just and tender father both to daughter and to son"-- But more feebly moaned he ever: "Oh! there's much, there's much undone!"

Quickly, then, a proud, stern soldier questioned: "Say, will not thy name Long descend in future story, linked with honor and with fame, For thine arm was prompt in battle and thy laurels nobly won; Patriot, citizen and soldier, what, then, is there left undone?"

Then the dying man upraised him; at his accents loud and clear Into silence men lapsed quickly--women checked each sob and tear; And he said: "To fame, home, country, all my heart, my thoughts I've given, But, Oh dreamers, can you tell me what I've done for God--for Heaven?

"It was not for Him I battled with the sword or with the pen, Not for His praise that I thirsted, but that of my fellow-men; And amid the light now flooding this my life's last setting sun, I can see, misguided worldling! that there's much I've left undone."

Thicker, darker, fell the shadows, fainter grew his flutt'ring breath Then a strange and solemn stillness, 'twas the awful hush of death: Hope we that a tender Saviour, unto gentle pity won, Judged that dying man with mercy, whatsoe'er he left undone!

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE G. C. OF MONTREAL.

The earth was flooded in the amber haze That renders so lovely our autumn days, The dying leaves softly fluttered down, Bright crimson and orange and golden brown, And the hush of autumn, solemn and still, Brooded o'er valley, plain and hill.

Yet still from that scene with rare beauty rife And the touching sweetness of fading life, From glowing foliage and sun bright ray, My gaze soon mournfully turned away To rest, instead, on a new made grave, Enshrouding a heart true, loyal and brave.

At rest for aye! Cold and pulseless now That high throbbing breast and calm, earnest brow; Laid down forever the quick, gifted pen That toiled but for God and his fellow men; Silent that voice, free from hatred or ruth, Yet e'er boldly raised in the cause of truth.

For the prize of _our faith_ grateful he proved, Breaking from ties and from scenes once loved, From rank and fortune, and the lures of pride, That tempt the gifted on every side, To devote his genius--his pen of fire-- To aims more holy and themes far higher.

He was true to the land he had made his home, And true to the grand old faith of Rome, At whose feet he laid powers rarer than gold, As knights laid their lances and shields of old,-- That Church on whose loving maternal breast He peacefully sank to eternal rest.

Oh! no tears for him who passed away Ere frame or spirit knew touch of decay, Ere time had deadened one feeling warm, Or his genius robbed of one single charm. As he was when death struck, his image shall dwell In the countless hearts that loved him so well.

ON SOME ROSE LEAVES BROUGHT FROM THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

Faded and pale their beauty, vanished their early bloom, Their folded leaves emit alone a sweet though faint perfume, But, oh! than brightest bud or flower to me are they more dear, They come from that rose-haunted land, the bright Vale of Cashmere.

Cashmere! a spell is in that name! what dreams its sound awakes Of roses sweet as Eden's flowers, of minarets and lakes, Of scenes as vaguely, strangely bright as those of fairy land, Springing to life and loveliness 'neath some enchanter's wand!

Cashmere! poetic in its name, its clear and brilliant skies That seem to clothe earth, flower and wave in their own lovely dyes; Poetic in its legend lore, and spell more dear than all, Enshrined in poet's inmost heart, the home of "Nourmahal."*