Chapter 9

Yes, there oft fell her fairy feet, there shone the glances bright, That won for her the glorious name of harem's queen and light; There, as she wandered 'mid its bowers, her royal love beside, She taught him to forget all else save her, his beauteous, bride.

Cashmere! what would this heart not give to see thy favored earth, So rich in nature's peerless gifts, in beauty's dazzling worth, Rich in a name that in mine ear from childhood's hour hath rung, The land of which impassioned Moore with such sweet power hath sung.

Yet, were I there, oh! well I know the time would surely come When my yearning heart would turn again to my far Canadian home, Longing to look once more upon its wintry wastes of snow, And the friends whose hearts throb like mine own, with friendship's changeless glow.

[* The heroine of Moore's beautiful poem The Light of the Harem.]

HARVESTS.

Other harvests there are than those that lie Glowing and ripe 'neath an autumn sky, Awaiting the sickle keen, Harvests more precious than golden grain, Waving o'er hillside, valley or plain, Than fruits 'mid their leafy screen.

Not alone for the preacher, man of God, Do those harvests vast enrich the sod, For all may the sickle wield; The first in proud ambition's race, The last in talent, power or place, Will all find work in that field.

Man toiling, lab'ring with fevered strain, High office or golden prize to gain, Rest both weary heart and head, And think, when thou'lt shudder in death's cold clasp, How earthly things will elude thy grasp, At that harvest work instead!

Lady, with queenly form and brow, Gems decking thy neck and arms of snow, Who need only smile to win; 'Mid thy guests, perchance the gay, the grave, Is one whom a warning word might save From folly, sorrow or sin.

Let that word be said, thine eyes so bright Will glow with holier, softer light For the good that thou hast done; And a time will come when thou wilt reap From that simple act more pleasure deep Than from flatt'ring conquests won.

Young girl in thy bright youth's blushing dawn, Graceful and joyous as sportive fawn, There is work for thee to do, And higher aims than to flirt and smile, And practise each gay, coquettish wile, Admiring glances to woo.

Ah! the world is full of grief and care, Sad, breaking hearts are every where, And thou can'st give relief; Alms to the needy--soft word of hope That a brighter view may chance to ope To mourners bowed by grief.

That gauzy tissue yon bud or flower That tempt thee at the present hour, To be worn, then cast aside, Bethink thee, their price might comfort bring, Fuel or food to the famishing And help to the sorely tried.

Such harvest fruits are most precious and rare, Worthy all toil and patient care, Think of the promised reward! Not earthly gains that will pass away Like morning mist or bright sunset ray, But Christ Himself, our Lord!

A WORLDLY DEATH-BED.

Hush! speak in accents soft and low, And treat with careful stealth Thro' that rich curtained room which tells Of luxury and wealth; Men of high science and of skill Stand there with saddened brow, Exchanging some low whispered words-- What can their art do now?

Follow their gaze to yonder couch Where moans in fitful pain The mistress of this splendid home, With aching heart and brain. The fever burning in her veins Tinges with carmine bright That sunken cheek--alas! she needs No borrowed bloom to-night.

The masses of her raven hair Fall down on either side In tangled richness--it has been Through life her care and pride; And those small perfect hands on which Her gaze complacent fell, Now, clenched within her pillow's lace, Of anguish only tell.

Sad was her restless, fev'rish sleep, More sad her waking still, As with wild start she looks around Her chamber darkened--still; Its silence and the mournful looks Of those who stand apart, Some awful fear seem to suggest To that poor worldly heart.

"Doctor, I'm better, am I not?" She gasps with failing breath-- Alas! the answer sternly tells That she is "ill to death." "What! dying!" and her eyes gleam forth A flashing, fearful ray, "I, young, rich, lovely, from this earth To pass so soon away?

"No, no, it must not, cannot be, Surely your skill can save-- Can stand between me and the gloom, The horrors, of the grave!" Breathless she listens, but no word Breaks that dull pause of grief,-- Her pitying listeners turn away, They cannot give relief

Tossing aloft, in fierce despair, Her arms, with frenzied cry, She gasps forth, "Save me--help, O help! I must not, will not die." But One can grant that wild appeal, Can stay her failing breath-- Of Him she never thought in life Nor thinks she now in death.

Without one prayer, one contrite tear, For past faults to atone-- For wasted talents, misspent life, She's gone before God's throne! Prying that wilful, wayward heart That leaned on gods of clay, For calmer, holier death than hers With solemn heart we pray.

THE CHOICE OF SWEET SHY CLARE.

Fair as a wreath of fresh spring flowers, a band of maidens lay On the velvet sward--enjoying the golden summer day; And many a ringing silv'ry laugh on the calm air clearly fell, With fancies sweet, which their rosy lips, half unwilling, seemed to tell.

They spoke, as maidens often speak, of that ideal one By whom the wealth of their warm young hearts will at length be wooed and won-- Fond girlish dreams! and half in jest and half in serious strain, Each told of the gifts that could alone the prize of her love obtain.

The first who spoke was a bright-eyed girl, with a form of airy grace, Mirth beaming in every dimple sweet of her joyous smiling face: "I ask not much in the favor'd one who this dainty hand would gain;-- No ordeal long would I ask of him--no hours of mental pain.

"Let him but come in the pomp of rank, endowed with wealth and pride, To woo to a lofty palace home his youthful, worshipped bride, Heaping my path with presents rare, with radiant jewels and gold,-- Love's flame 'neath poverty's breath, 'tis said, soon waxes faint and cold."

Outspoke another, with proud dark eye, and a stately, regal mien: "Thou saidst thou wast easily pleased, May, and so thou art, I ween, Thou askest paltry rank and wealth--aim higher would be mine! Rare mental gold--the priceless fire of genius divine."

"And I," said a third, with soft sweet voice, "would exact still less than ye, No need for glitter of lofty state, no gold or jewels for me; Nor ask I that genius' lofty power in his ardent soul should dwell, Enough, if he love but me alone, and love me only well!"

Another said that her choice would fall on manly beauty and grace, That he she would love must matchless stand, the noblest of his race, Excelling in sports of flood and field, and as lion brave in war, Yet, with hand and voice, in lady's bower, attuned to light guitar.

And now, with one accord, they turned to a dove-like maiden mild, With a seraph's purity of look, and soft graces of a child; "Speak out, speak out now, sweet shy Clare, we anxious wait for thee, Coy, gentle one! fear not to say what thy heart's young choice will be."

A moment paused she, and then a flush, like sunset, dyed her brow, And softly she murmured "Sisters, dear, I have made my choice ere now, And the rarest gifts that you could name, be they earthly or divine. In strange perfection--God like grace--will be found all, all in mine."

She ceased, and a thoughtful silence stole o'er those youthful brows of mirth, They knew she spoke of the Bridegroom King--the Lord of Heaven and earth; And e'er fleet time of another year had sounded the passing knell, The maiden Clare and her Bridegroom fair were wedded in convent cell.

TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. SISTER THE NATIVITY, FOUNDRESS OF THE CONVENT OF VILLA MARIA (MONKLANDS.)

Oh, Villa Maria, thrice favored spot, Unclouded sunshine is still thy lot Since first, 'neath thy mortal old, The spouses of Christ--working out God's will, Meekly entered, their mission high to fill 'Mid the "little ones" of His fold.

But grief's dark hour, that to all must come, At length is on thee, and as a tomb, Hushed, joyless, art thou to-day, For the lofty mind that thy councils led, To womanly sweetness so closely wed, Has been called by death away.

"One 'mid a thousand!" no words could tell The peerless worth that, like holy spell, Won all souls to saintly love; And that knowledge rare of the human heart That, with heavenly patience and gentle art, The coldest breast could move.

Oh! girlish natures, good blended with ill, That she trained with such watchful, wondrous skill To be noble women and true-- The bliss of those households whose hope you are, Where your worth shines steady as vesper star, Unto her is surely due.

And those chosen souls, called to holier state, That on the Heavenly Bridegroom wait, Their cell an Eden below, Whom she guided safely through wile and snare, Making virtue appear so divinely fair, How much unto her they owe!

And many now sleeping 'neath churchyard sod, But whose souls are reigning on high with God Through her teachings true and blessed-- With what strains of rapture, ravishing, sweet, Their teacher and guide did they once more meet, As she entered on her rest.

When to Villa Maria will come again Spring, with opening buds and gentle rain, Though her place be vacant there, The spirit of her teachings will ever dwell In the earthly home she loved so well, Treasured with sacred care.

The winds of winter, with sob and sigh, And dirge-like voices go wailing by, Waking echoes in every breast. As they sweep o'er the snow-clad reaches wide, And the cold pale shroud where, on every side, The eyes are forced to rest.

And the stars shed their radiance pure, yet faint, Like aureole round the brow of a saint, As on earth they calm look down; And raising our tearful and heavy gaze On high, to their solemn, silvery rays, We whisper--"Thus shines her crown."

Mother beloved, O sainted nun, Disciple true of the Crucified One, Thy teachings we keep for aye, Till, our life's brief course wrought out, we meet At our Father's glorious judgment-seat, In realms of cloudless day!

December 23rd, 1875.

SEA-SHORE MUSINGS.

How oft I've longed to gaze on thee, Thou proud and mighty deep! Thy vast horizon, boundless, free, Thy coast so rude and steep; And now entranced I breathless stand, Where earth and ocean meet, Whilst billows wash the golden sand, And break around my feet.

Lovely thou art when dawn's red light Sheds o'er thee its soft hue, Showing fair ships, a gallant sight, Upon thy waters blue; And when the moonbeams softly pour Their light on wave or glen, And diamond spray leaps on the shore, How lovely art thou then!

Still, as I look, faint shadows steal O'er thy calm heaving breast, And there are times, I sadly feel, Thou art not thus at rest; And I bethink me of past tales, Of ships that left the shore, And meeting with thy fearful gales, Have ne'er been heard of more.

They say thy depths hold treasures rare, Groves coral--sands of gold-- Pearls fitted for a monarch's wear And gems of worth untold; But these could not to life restore The idol of one home, Nor make brave hearts beat high once more That sleep beneath thy foam.

But I must chase such thoughts away, They mar this happy hour, Remembering thou dost but obey Thy Great Creator's, power; And in my own fair inland home, Mysterious, moaning main, In dreams I'll see thy snow-white foam And frowning rocks again.

THE WHISPERS OF TIME.

What does time whisper, youth gay and light, While thinning thy locks, silken and bright, While paling thy soft cheek's roseate dye, Dimming the light of thy flashing eye, Stealing thy bloom and freshness away-- Is he not hinting at death--decay?

Man, in the wane of thy stately prime, Hear'st thou the silent warnings of Time? Look at thy brow ploughed by anxious care, The silver hue of thy once dark hair;-- What boot thine honors, thy treasures bright, When Time tells of coming gloom and night?

Sad age, dost thou note thy strength nigh, spent, How slow thy footstep--thy form how bent? Yet on looking back how short doth seem The checkered coarse of thy life's brief dream. Time, daily weakening each link and tie, Doth whisper how soon thou art to die.

O! what a weary world were ours With that thought to cloud our brightest hours, Did we not know that beyond the skies A land of beauty and promise ties, Where peaceful and blessed we will love--adore-- When Time itself shall be no more!

THE DEATH OF THE PAUPER CHILD.

Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale! No sobs--no grieving now: No burning tears must thou let fall Upon that cold still brow; No look of anguish cast above, Nor smite thine aching breast, But clasp thy hands and thank thy God-- Thy darling is at rest.

Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lids Over the violet eyes, Whose liquid light was once as clear As that of summer skies. Is it not bliss to know what e'er Thy future griefs and fears, They will be never dimmed like thine By sorrow's scalding tears?

Enfold the tiny fingers fair, From which life's warmth has fled, For ever freed from wearing toil-- The toil for daily bread: Compose the softly moulded limbs, The little waxen feet, Spared wayside journeys long and rough, Spared many a weary beat.

Draw close around the lifeless form The shreds of raiment torn, Her only birthright--just such rags As thou for years hast worn; Her earthly dower the bitter crust She might from pity crave, Moistened by tears--then, final gift, A pauper's lowly grave.

Now, raise thy spirit's gaze above! See'st thou yon angel fair, With flowing robes and starry crown Gemming her golden hair? Changed, glorified in every trait, Still with that beauty mild; Oh! mourning mother, thou dost know Thine own, thy late-lost child.

An heir to heaven's entrancing bliss, Veiled in its golden glow, Still thinks she of the lonely heart Left on this earth below. Courage!--not long thy weary steps O'er barren wastes shall roam, Thy daring prays the Father now To quickly call thee home!

VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ.

THE BRIDE OF A YEAR.

She stands in front of her mirror With bright and joyous air, Smoothes out with a skilful hand Her waves of golden hair; But the tell tale roses on her cheek, So changing yet so bright, And downcast, earnest eye betray New thoughts are hers to-night.

Then say what is the fairy spell, Around her beauty thrown, Lending a new and softer charm To every look and tone? It is the hidden consciousness-- The blissful, joyous thought That she, at length hath wholly won The heart she long had sought.

To-morrow is her bridal day, That day of hopes and fears, Of partings from beloved friends, Of sunshine and of tears: To-morrow will she says the words, Those words whose import deep Will fix her future lot in life-- Well might she pause and weep!

Yet, only once, a passing cloud Rests on her girlish brow, Her dark eye gleameth restlessly-- She's thinking of her vow. But quick as light and fleecy clouds Flit o'er a summer sky, The shadow passeth from her brow, The trouble from her eye.

In silvery tones she murmurs forth "My heart is light and glad, Youth, beauty, hope, are all mine own, Then, why should I be sad? To graver hearts leave graver thoughts And all foreboding fears, For me, life's sunshine and its flowers,-- I am too young for tears!"

AFTER THE BALL.

Silence now reigns in the corridors wide, The stately rooms of that mansion of pride; The music is hushed, the revellers gone, The glitt'ring ball-room deserted and lone,-- Silence and gloom, like a clinging pall, O'ershadow the house--'tis after the ball.

Yet a light still gleams in a distant room, Where sits a girl in her "first season's bloom;" Look at her closely, is she not fair, With exquisite features, rich silken hair And the beautiful, child-like, trusting eyes Of one in the world's ways still unwise.

The wreath late carefully placed on her brow She has flung on a distant foot-stool now; The flowers, exhaling their fragrance sweet, Lie crushed and withering at her feet; Gloves and tablets she has suffered to fall-- She seems so weary after the ball!

Ah, more than weary! How still and white, With rose-tipped fingers entwined so tight: A grieved, pained look on that forehead fair, One which it never before did wear, And soft eyes gleam through a mist of tears, Telling of secret misgivings and fears.

Say, what is it all? Why, some April care, Or some childish trifle, baseless as air; For the griefs that call forth girlhood's tears Would but win a smile in maturer years, When the heart has learned, 'mid pain and strife, Far sterner lessons from the book of life.

Ah! far better for thee, poor child, I ween, Had thy night been spent in some calmer scene, Communing with volume or friend at will, Or in innocent slumber, calm and still; Thou would'st not feel so heart-weary of all As thou to night thou feelest, "after the ball!"

THE YOUNG NOVICE.

The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung around, But the rites were o'er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound; Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer, Is a girl, as seraph meek and pure--as seraph heav'nly fair.

The blue eyes, veiled by the lashes long that rest on that bright cheek Are humbly bent, while the snow-white hands are clasped in fervor meek, While in the classic lip and brow, each feature of that face, And graceful high-bred air, is seen she comes of noble race.

But, say, what means that dusky robe, that dark and flowing veil, The silver cross--oh! need we ask? they tell at once their tale: They say that, following in the path that fair as she have trod, She hath renounced a fleeting world, to give herself to God.

Her sinless heart to no gay son of this earth hath she given, Her's is a higher, holier lot, to be the Bride of Heaven; And the calm peace of the cloister's walls, abode of humble worth, Is the fit home for that spotless dove, too fair, too pure for earth.

THE TRANSPLANTED ROSE TREE.

Amid the flowers of a garden glade A lovely rose tree smiled, And the sunbeams shone, the zephyrs played, 'Round the gardens favorite child; And the diamond dew-drops glistening fell On each rose's silken vest, Whilst light winged bee and butterfly gay On the soft leaves loved to rest.

But one morn while a sunbeam bright Lit up its delicate bloom, And a zephyr lightly hovered 'round, On wings of sweet perfume, A strong hand came, and ruthlessly Tore up the parent tree, And bore it off, with each fair young rose, From butterfly, zephyr and bee.

What mattered it that an antique vase Of _Sèvres_ costly and old, Was destined, henceforth, in royal State, Its fair young form to hold? What mattered it that the richest silks Of the far famed Indian loom, With priceless marbles paintings rare, Adorned its prison room?

It even pined for the garden free, For its pleasant friends of yore, And brooded over the bitter thought, It would never see them more: And its young head daily lowlier drooped Upon its sorrowing breast, While it chafed against the kindly hand That tended and caressed.

But Autumn came with angry storms, With clouded and wintry skies-- Rudely it touched the lovely flowers, And withered their brilliant dyes; The sunbeam false hid its glowing glance, Or with chilling coldness shone; The zephyr fled to Southern climes, And the flowers died alone

Then the rose tree looked on the gloomy earth, On each withered tree and flower, And it warmly blessed the loving care Of its new, protecting power:-- No more it mourned past Summer joys, But brightly blossomed on, With beauty brighter than when once, The garden's queen, it shone.

FLIRTATION.

Yes, leave my side to flirt with Maude, To gaze into her eyes, To whisper in her ear sweet words, And low impassioned sighs; And though she give you glance for glance, And smile and scheme and plot, You cannot raise a jealous thought, I know you love her not.

Now turn to laughing Lulu, That Witty, gay coquette, With her teeth of shining pearl, Her eyes and hair of jet: With a mirthful smile imprison Her hand within your own, And softly press it--what care I? You love but me alone.

To Ida's chair you wander, You're bending o'er her now, Until your own dark curls have brushed Against her queenly brow; In vain she strives to bind you With fascinating spell; For if sharply now I suffer, You suffer too as well.

This fit of gay coquetry Is meant, ah! well I know To avenge my quiet flirting At our ball a night ago, With that winning, handsome stranger,-- Remember, Harry dear, 'Twas yourself who introduced him, Yourself who brought him here.

Let us cease this cruel warfare, Come back to me again! Ah, what do we reap from flirting But heartaches, mutual pain? You'll forgive my past shortcomings-- Be tender as of yore And we both will make a promise To henceforth flirt no more.

HARRY (ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED) TO CHARLEY (WHO IS NOT).

To all my fond rhapsodies, Charley, You have wearily listened, I fear; As yet not an answer you've given Save a shrug, or an ill-concealed sneer; Pray, why, when I talk of my marriage, Do you watch me with sorrowing eye? 'Tis you, hapless bachelor, Charley, That are to be pitied--_not I!_

You mockingly ask me to tell you, Since to bondage I soon must be sold, Have I wisely chosen my fetters, Which, at least, should be forged of pure gold. Hem! the sole wealth my love possesses Are her tresses of bright golden hair, Pearly teeth, lips of rosiest coral, Eyes I know not with what to compare.

Don't talk about all I surrender-- My club, champagne dinners, cigars, My hand at _écarté_, my harmless Flirtations with Opera "stars." Think of the pleasant home, Charley-- Home! I utter the word with just pride-- Its music, soft lights, countless comforts, Over which she will smiling preside.

And picture in fancy the welcome That will greet my arrival each night! How she'll help me to take off my wrappings With her dear little fingers so white; The sweet silvery voice that will utter The airiest nothings with grace, The smiles that will dimple all over That loving and lovely young face.