A tremor, a quiver,Through her ranAs over the riverThe dawn began.She drew her veilOver her eyes,And her face grew pale,As she watched the sun rise.She faded, turnedTo a ghost, was gone,As the morning burnedAnd the day came on.With veiled, sad eye,And face still wan,She waited nighWhen the dusk began.With her tears of blissThe earth was wet,And soothed with her kiss,When the sun had set.And with stately prideShe sat on the throneOf her empire wideWhen the day had gone;And her robes she spreadWith their sable hem,And crowned her headWith her diadem.And the mute earth sawThat a Queen was she,And gazed with aweOn her majesty.
Beauty, beloved of all gentle heartsAnd pure, and cherished of the gifted tribeWhose skill to canvas and even stone impartsSuch things as words are powerless to describe.And bards, who woo thee in the silent shadeAnd dote upon thee under moonlit skies,And lovers, who behold thee new-array'd,As our first parents did in Paradise!
These all have been thy priests. In times remote,In Athens and the cool Thessalian dells,They sung thy liturgy with dulcet note,And quaff'd thy chalice from the sacred wellsOf leafy Helicon. Beneath the browsOf fam'd Olympus and among the islesOf the Aegean sea they paid their vows,And read thy lore in Nature's frowns and smiles.
Nor strange to Zion's sanctuaried hillWast thou, embalmer of the holy page;Ambrosial odors from thy garments fillThe garden where the amorous royal sageWalk'd and discours'd with his beloved; thereAlluring in thy soft and sumptuous dress:And to his kinglier sire supremely fair,Companion sweet of meek-ey'd Holiness.
Thou hast no local temple, no set shrine;Thou art diffus'd o'er earth and sky and sea;In every land a thousand haunts are thine,Spirits of every race respond to thee.Here thy Olympus and thy Zion hill,Thy silvery Aegean, I survey;Thy majesty and loveliness at willI view, and own thy tranquilizing sway.
He bent above our darling's bedWhen her life was ebbing low,And in his serious look we readThe truth we feared to know.
We knew a slender thread was allThat held her now; we sawThe dark, portentous shadow fall,And near and nearer draw.
Our hopes were centred all in him;We stood with bated breathAs, pitiful and calm and grim,He fought and fought with Death.
We hung upon the desperate fight,And saw in him combinedThe tiger's stealth, the lion's might,The man's superior mind.
We saw the fearful hate he boreHis old, relentless foe,His beautiful compassion forThe one we cherished so.
No mortal ever waged aloneA conflict so severe;The high-souled, stainless championFinds heavenly succor near.
Legions of angels to his aidHis pure devotion brought;Celestial strength his spirit swayed;'Twas Life that in him fought.
The awful stillness of the night!The long and bitter hours!—It seemed that Time had stayed his flightTo watch the battling pow'rs.
And ere the ghastly night had fledHe conquered in the strife,And gently took the slender thread,And drew her back to life.
O Dorothy, sweet Dorothy,You make my heart rejoice;Your presence is like Arcady,There's music in your voice;Heaven's purity is on your brow,Its light is in your eyne;I love you, and I ask you nowTo be my Valentine.
Your face is like the lily inThe morning's ruddy light;Your dimpled cheeks and tiny chinAre blessings to my sight;Your lips are fairer than the roseAnd redder far than wine;Your teeth are whiter than the snows:You'll be my Valentine!
You are not quite so old as I,You've seen but summers three;And that's no doubt the reason whyYou are not coy with me.I'll come to you to-morrow,And on chocolates we'll dine;And you'll have no thought of sorrowWhen you are my Valentine.
"My never-failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day."—Southey.
Some to and fro for converse flitAnd on their friends intrude,Or shun society and sitIn cheerless solitude;But I can sit, when night descends,At home among a thousand friends.
The garish day is left behind,The scurry and the din;The hours of toil are out of mind,As if they had not been.No thought of morrow that impendsComes in between me and my friends.
We reck not of the flight of time,To them a subject strange;They pass their days in a sublimeIndifference to change:Theirs is the life that never ends;Immortal beings are my friends.
They toil not, neither do they spin;Yet none is meanly drest;And some are clad in costly skin,And some in silken vest;And everyone who sees commendsThe decent habits of my friends.
And some are short, and some are tall;Some portly, and some spare;Here is a group of pygmies small,A Tom Thumb family; thereA Brobdingnagian row extends,The best-informed among my friends.
Wot one among them all is low,A fellow to be spurned;And none is ever rude, althoughTheir backs are often turned.No observation that offendsIs dropped by any of my friends.
And some are steeped in classic lore;Some brim with wisdom sage;And some can trace a far-off shore,Or paint a former age;And each his talent freely lends,For talented are all my friends.
Some tell of deeds and lives sublimeAnd triumphs over foes;Some weave a spell of lofty rhyme,Some charm with stately prose;And here and there a mind unbendsFamiliarly among my friends.
In diction antiquated, quaint,Or with a modern sound,They speak their thoughts without restraint,Although they're mostly bound;And cease to speak when none attends,A valued feature of my friends.
Although they shun the thoughtless crowd,The frivolous disdain,Their titles have not made them proud,Nor all their pages vain;No common mortal less pretends,None can be opener than my friends.
They care not that they've all been cut,A number by myself,And often taken down, and putAs often on the shelf;My estimation makes amendsFor such ill-treatment of my friends.
An ever-fresh, unfailing sourceOf thought and sympathy,What hours of goodly intercourseThey have afforded me!I cannot doubt that heaven still sendsUs angels while I have my friends.
If he who sits at home in gloom,Or rushes here and there,Will put a bookshelf in his roomAnd furnish it with care,He'll bless the evenings that he spendsWith such companions as my friends.
It's the Emerald Isle is the beautiful land:There's nothing too good for the Irish.O'er the whole of it, Nature, at heaven's command,Has scattered her charms with a prodigal handFrom Skibbereen town to the Donegal strand;For there's nothing too good for the Irish.
And it's many a hero the Irish can claim:There's nothing too good for the Irish."Red Hugh" put his country's invaders to shame;Owen Roe was a fighter they never could tame;As a nation the Irish have glory and fame;For there's nothing too good for the Irish.
And the Irish are noted for piety, too:There's nothing too good for the Irish.In the far-away time before Brian Boru,The faith by Saint Patrick was planted and grew,And the "Island of Saints" has had saints not a few:For there's nothing too good for the Irish.
And the best of all orators Irishmen are:There's nothing too good for the Irish.The voice of Columba was heard from afar,Burke's eloquence rolled like a conquering car,And the name of O'Connell's a radiant star;For there's nothing too good for the Irish.
And the Irishman always is witty, of course;There's nothing too good for the Irish.And his wit is as genial and kind as its source;It never leaves anyone feeling the worse;He makes bulls, but a good Irish bull's a white horse;For there's nothing too good for the Irish.
You are thinking, no doubt, to the race I belong:There's nothing too good for the Irish.You think I am Irish, but that's where you're wrong;I am Scotch, but our love for the Irish is strong;We gave them a saint and we'll give them a song;For there's nothing too good for the Irish.
The English soil!—'tis hallowed ground:Its restless children roamThe world, but they have never foundSo dear a land as home;Their passion for its hills and downsNor space nor time can spoil;A golden mist of memory crownsThe good old English soil.
The English race!—its pluck and pith,Its power to stay and win,—Wise Alfred's, dauntless Harold's kith,And Coeur de Lion's kin!Sir Philip Sidney, Hampden, Noll,Who sat in kingly place!Wolfe, Nelson, Wellington and allThe good old English race!
The English speech!—the copious tongue,Terse, vivid, plastic, fit,Which Chaucer, Spenser loved and sung,Which gave us Holy Writ;Which Shakespeare, Milton used, to write,Which Taylor used, to preach,And Pitt, to speak, as we to-night—The good old English speech!
"St. George and Merrie England!"—stillThe stirring phrase impartsWarmth to the blood, and sends a thrillThrough more than English hearts.God save Old England by His grace!We all alike beseech,Who know the English soil or raceAnd speak the English speech.
That no Scotsman is perfect, we freely confess,Nor has been since the time of the fall;Yet we think, notwithstanding and nevertheless,He is "nae sheep-shank bane," after all."Sic excellent pairts" as he has will atoneFor the lack of a tittle or jot;And, although we don't boast, it is very well knownFor some things you must go to a Scot.
If you want a sweet song that comes straight from the heartOf a man who had few for his peers,An approved son of genius and master of art.And a lover, with laughter and tears;A song that gives honor to personal worth,And ennobles the lowliest lot,And makes brothers of all who inhabit the earth;You must go "for a' that" to a Scot.
If you want a good story, entrancingly told,By a genuine king of the pen,A right royal dispenser of things new and old,And a faithful portrayer of men;A tale that will brighten your work and your play,And will do what some others do not,—Give you knowledge and wisdom and heart for the fray;You will go to Sir Walter, the Scot.
If you want the high spirit that scorns to make truceWith a foeman on suppliant knee,The untameable will of a Wallace or Bruce,Or the dash of a Bonnie Dundee;Fierce courage that nothing on earth can subdue,Sense of honor that shrinks from a blot,Inexhaustible loyalty, loving and true,You will find them to-day in a Scot.
If you want an intense love of country and kin,An attachment as tender as strong,That can gar the blood leap when the pipers begin,And the tear start at sound of a song;A grand patriotic devotion and pride,That makes sanctified ground of the spotWhere a Scotsman for freedom has suffered and died;You will find what you want in a Scot.
If you want a hale-bodied and clear-headed chiel,Independent and honest and good,With a hand that can do and a heart that can feel,And tenacious of purpose—and shrewd;Whose thrift makes the face of prosperity smile,Who's contented with what he has got,But is ready and careful to add to his pile;You may find what you want in a Scot.
Gin ye wush a douce body, auldfarrant and gash,Unco' waukrife and couthie and braw,Ower eydent wi' daft clishmaclavers to fash,Or to thole whigmaleeries ava;Mak's nae collieshangie wad fley a bit flee,But is siccer and dour as a stot;Tak's the scone and the kebbuck and carries the gree;Ye'll be spierin', gude faith! for a Scot.
GLOSSARY.—"Nae sheep-shank bane" (Burns), no unimportant person; "gars," makes; "chiel," fellow; "gin," if; "wush," wish; "douce," sober; "auldfarrant," wise; "gash," sagacious; "unco," uncommonly; "waukrife," wideawake; "couthie," kindly; "braw," handsome; "ower," over; "eydent," busy; "daft," foolish; "clishmaclavers," idle talk; "fash," trouble; "thole," bear; "whigmaleeries," crotchets; "ava," at all; "collieshangie," commotion; "fley," disturb; "siccer," steady; "dour," stubborn; "stot," ox; "scone," a cake; "kebbuck," a cheese; "carries the gree" (Burns), has the pre-eminence; "spierin'," inquiring.
The roarin' game, the roarin' game,From Scotland's bonnie land it came,The land of loch and firth and ben,And comely dames and stalwart men;It crossed the broad Atlantic tideWith Scots who came to dwell this side,And bring our country wealth and fame,The roarin' game, the roarin' game.
The roarin' game, the roarin' gameMakes every land to Scotsmen "hame";Where'er the winter's breath congealsThe water, see the sturdy "chiels"With "stane" and besom play and sweep,Intently gaze, and shout and leap,With genial fervor all aflame:—The roarin' game, the roarin' game.
The roarin' game, the roarin' game,Though stupid folk may think it tame,Affect the smile that wisdom castsOn rattle-brained enthusiasts,And jest in condescending tonesOf boys and marbles, men and stones;'Tis fine enjoyment just the same,The roarin' game, the roarin' game.
The roarin' game, the roarin' gameIts meed of praise may justly claim:As firm as ice upon the pondIt is of hearts a brother bond;It trains us to be wise and trueIn all we undertake to do,And fits for every higher aim,The roarin' game, the roarin' game,
The roarin' game, the roarin' gameWill never give us cause for shame,No shattered nerves and aching heads,Bad consciences and nameless dreads,But health and strength and minds sereneAnd kindly hearts and friendly mien:No honest tongue will e'er defameThe roarin' game, the roarin' game.
A man he was of Scottish race,And ancient Scottish name;Of common mould, but lofty mien,That dignified his frame.And he lived a humble, quiet life,Obscure, unknown to fame;God's glory and the good of manHis constant, only aim:Like a fine old Scottish minister,All of the olden time.
He dearly loved his gentle wife,As everyone could tell;And watched his children as they grew,Lest any ill befell;And as he looked upon his boysHis bosom oft would swell;For he reared them in the fear of God,And ruled his household well:Like a true old Scottish minister,All of the olden time.
A father, too, he was to allHis congregation there:To all he felt a father's love,And showed a father's care:He wisely counselled them with speech,And pled for them in prayer;And ever for the needy onesHe something had to spare:Like a kind old Scottish minister,All of the olden time.
The servant of the Lord he was,In hovel and in hall,—The high ambassador of heavenWhom earth could not enthrall;Like Christ among the wedding guests,Or by the funeral pall;And he made his daily life sublime,A pattern unto all:Like a grand old Scottish minister,All of the olden time.
For truth and righteousness and loveHis voice was ever heard;And minds were kindled into thought,And consciences were stirred,And weary, heavy-laden heartsTo faith and hope were spurred,As from the pulpit he proclaimedThe everlasting Word:Like a faithful Scottish minister,All of the olden time.
And when, amid his elders grave,Extended in a lineBeside the table of the Lord,He kept the rite divine,His face with a rapt, unearthly lookWas seen to strangely shine,As he broke the white, symbolic bread,And passed the sacred wine:Like a saintly Scottish minister,All of the olden time.
His lot was hard, his task severe;He found the burden light:When darkly o'er his pathway hungThe shadows of the night,His heart was steadfast, for he walkedBy faith, and not by sight;And ran triumphantly his course,And fought a goodly fight:Like a brave old Scottish minister,All of the olden time.
And when upon a summer's dayHe laid him down to die,He called his household to his sideWithout a moan or sigh,And blessed his children each in turn,And said a fond good-bye,And then consigned his soul to God,And went to live on high:Like a good old Scottish minister,All of the olden time.
There's a race, or a part of a race, if you will,Of renown prehistoric, and vigorous still,Who back from their fastnesses scornfully hurl'dThe redoubtable legions that trampled the world;They repelled, and they only, the Roman attacks,The stalwart, courageous, impetuous Macs.
When the red-bearded pirates, the Saxons and DanesAnd Angles, came swarming across the sea plains,And the old British stock to exterminate tried,Caledonia and Erin their efforts defied;And the conquering Normans were glad to make tracksFrom the Macs and the Mics (who are properly Macs).
Their proud patronymics, they rightfully hold,Proclaim them descended from heroes of old.—Illustrious titles that throw in the shadeThe dukedoms and earldoms but yesterday made;And even the King with his royalty lacksA lineage as ancient as that of the Macs.
They are old and yet young, with a spirit possestBy the dream of the East and the hope of the West;The earth is their country, the race is their kin;In populous cities their guerdon they win,And in gold miners' cabins and lumbermen's shacksYou will find the ubiquitous, venturesome Macs.
Distinguished they've been with the sword and the pen;In pulpit and parliament, leaders of men;Prime ministers, presidents, merchants, viziers,They have manag'd the business of both hemispheres;And the Dago day-laborers laying the tracksAre boss'd by the Macs or the Mics (who are Macs).
'Twas thought by the ancients that Atlas upboreThe sphere on his shoulders—'tis thought so no more;Prometheus and Atlas and all of their kith,The Titans, are now but a fable, a myth.The men who are bearing the world on their backsAre the Macs and the Mics (who are mixed with the Macs).
It's very disagreeable to sit here in the cold,And a sinful waste of time—ah, well, it's too late now to scold;I'll think about my sermon and my prayers for Sunday next,And the young folks may be happy—let me see—what was my text?But what a throng of people—an immortal soul in each:With such an audience this would be a splendid place to preach.I'd have the pulpit half-way down—what ice! without a smirch!Here are the men—I wonder if they ever go to church."The teams?" Ah, yes, "the forwards, point, and cover-point and goal";Thank you, my dear, I understand—is that a lump of coal?"Rubber?" Ah, yes, "The puck?" just so! One's holding it, I see—That fellow with his clothes all on—ah, that's the referee.What was he whistling for—his dog? Why, they've begun to play;Well, well, that's rough; I really think we're doing wrong to stay.It's sickening, deafening; dear! I wish this uproar could be stilled.I do sincerely trust there'll not be anybody killed.
It's a wondrous exhibition of alertness, speed, and strength.I suppose there's not much danger—there's a fellow at full length.He's up again; that's plucky. Well, the little lad has pluck—And now he's master of the ice, possessor of the puck.He dodges two opponents, but collides with one at last,A Philistine Goliath—David baffles him and fastDarts onward o'er the whitening sheet, while from each crowded rowThe crazed spectators cheer him on—Look!—has he lost it? No!He's clear again. Played, played, my boy. I'd like to see him score:—(I'll have no voice for Sunday if I shout like this much more)—But there his ruthless enemies o'erwhelm him in a shoal—Well played, you hero, safely passed. Now for a shot on goal.Shoot, shoot, you duffer; shoot, you goose, you ass, you great galoot,You addle-pated idiot, you nincompoop, you—shoot!You've lost it! Never mind—well tried—that other dash was grand.Why do they stop? "Off side," you say? I don't quite understand.That's puzzling. I suppose it's right. I wish they'd not delay.This is a most provoking interruption to the play.
"Cold?" Nothing of the sort. I was—I'm heated with the game.I'm really enjoying it; indeed, I'm glad I came.I'd like to see both ends at once; I can't from where we sit.They've scored one yonder—What's the row? A player has been hit?Such things are bound to happen in a rapid game like this;They'll soon resume the play, my dear; there's nothing much amiss,—Some trifling accident received in a rough body check,A shoulder dislocated or a fracture of the neck.Oh, no, it's nothing serious—the game begins again.They're here, a writhing, struggling mass of half a dozen menBattling and groaning with the strife, and breathing hard and fast,Swayed back and forth and stooping low like elms before the blast,Changing their places like a fleet of vessels tempest-drivenThat blindly meet within the waves and part with timbers riven,Waving their sticks with frantic zeal—But isn't this a sight?My goodness! I could sit and watch a game like this all night.There, dirty trousers, there's your chance. Muffed it! Why weren'tyou quick?This is a sight to make the sad rejoice, to heal the sick,To rouse the drones and give them life to last them half a year—Hit him again!—I wish I had my congregation here.
My stars! and this is hockey. Hockey's the king of sports.This is the thing to come to when you're feeling out of sorts.This is the greatest holiday I've had for many weeks.This helps one to appreciate the feeling of the Greeks.I understand my Homer now—O Hercules, beholdYon Trojan giant, he that's cast in an Olympian mould,Ye gods, he more than doubled up that other stalwart cove—Here comes swift-footed Mercury, the messenger of Jove.Adown the blue, outstripping all, he speeds. Oh, what a spurt!His shoulders have no wings, but see, he has them on his shirt.He's broken through the forward line, baffled the cover-point,Thrown down the other man and knocked their game all out of joint.And now he rushes on the goal—this makes the senses reel—Goal! goal! hurrah! hurrah! well done, men of the winged wheel!
At last—how soon!—the game is done; I've scarcely drawn a breath.This getting out is difficult; I'm almost crushed to death.The cars are packed; how we'll get home I'm sure I do not know.Here's room for you; get up, my dears; I'll walk; away you go.
My sermon's gone, but as I walk I cannot help but thinkThat, after all, perhaps I've found a sermon in the rink.
This world is an arena with a slippery sheet of ice,And all have skates and hockey sticks and enter without price.And seats are round for those who rest—the idle and the old;But those who are not in the game are apt to find it cold.Some play defence, some forward, with terrific speed and stress.The puck keeps flying 'twixt the goals of failure and success,Now up, now down, across and back, here, there, and everywhere.
The grit of skates, the crack of sticks, the shouting, fill the air.Some slip and fall a thousand times and spring up in a trice;Some go to pieces on their feet and have to leave the ice;Some play offside, kick, tackle, trip, try every kind of foul;Some players are forever cheered, some only get a howl.We seldom hear the whistle of the watchful Referee,Who mostly lets the game go on as if He didn't see.No gong rings out half-time to let the players get their breath—To most full time comes only with the solemn stroke of death.The winners are not always those who make the biggest score:The vanquished oft are victors when the stubborn game is o'er;For many things are added to make up the grand amount,And everything is taken at the last into account—The sort of sticks we played with, and the way our feet were shod,For the trophy is Salvation and the Referee is God.
God prosper our Canadian sports and keep them clean and pure,Whole-hearted, manly, generous, and let them long endure!Long live each honest winter sport, each good Canadian game,To train the youth in lusty health and iron strength of frame,To make them noble, vigorous, straightforward, ardent, bold,Nearer a perfect standard than the grandest knights of old.
Keep in the path of rectitude the young throughout the land,And guide them ever on their way by thine unerring hand,Along the slippery path of life in safety toward the goal,And keep their bodies holy as the temples of the soul:For the river of the future from the present's fountain runs,And a nation's hope is founded on the virtue of her sons.
The glory of a man is strength, Thy wisdom hath declared:Let strength increase, and strength of frame with strength of willbe paired,And let these twain go hand in hand with strength of heart and mind,And strength of character present all forms of strength combined.Oh, make out strength the strength of men to perfect stature grown,And use it for thine ends and turn man's glory to thine own.