The youthful joys of vanish'd years,The joys e'en now we share,Have something of a sacred bliss,Which time can not impair.
For when the years of youth have gone,Its joys and hopes have flown,The mem'ry clings with fond embrace—Those joys are still our own.
Then, as I write these words for you,—This earnest wish I pen:That you may think but pleasant thoughts—When life's liv'd o'er again.
May nought of sorrow, or of woe,Invade to wound or pain,And may the joys that we have shar'dBe bright in mem'ry's train.
In tracing here these lines, my friend,Which spring from friendly heart,I here record an earnest wish,For thee, before we part:
May health and happiness serene,Long, long with thee abide,May youthful joys no sorrow bring,Nor future woes betide.
And when thy youthful beauty leaves,And youthful thoughts thy breast,May thou in calm old age still live,In happiness and rest.
Go, little girl, your course pursue,On life's rough ocean safely glide,May want nor woe e'er visit you,Nor any other ills betide.
Improve the shining hours of youth,For soon, alas, they will be gone,Strive hard for learning, zeal and truth,For ev'ry soul must fight alone.
Within this little book of thine,Are thoughts of many a friendly mind,Express'd in words, on which you'll gazeIn after years, with feelings kind.
And while you're scanning o'er each page,These lines I write, perchance you'll see,And tho' they're penn'd by careless hand,You'll know that they are penn'd by me.
Perhaps you'll think of school-days then,Of happy school-days, long since past,When you and I, in careless youth,Thought that those days would always last.
G o on your way, my youthful friend,E arth's joys and woes to feel,O 'er rough and smooth, your course will tend,R ight on, thro' woe and weal,G ird up yourself then, for the fight,E ach foe to meet without affright.
T hink not too much of joy or woe,W hich one and all must meet,I n duty's path still onward go,D ark days and bright to greet,D etermin'd still to do your best,Y our work, be sure, will then be blest.
The fairest flowers often fade,And die, alas! too soon,Ere half their life is sped, they droop,And wither in their bloom.
But may thy life thro' future years,In healthful beauty shine,And when you think of other days,Think of this wish of mine.
Memories of happy school-days,In which we view the years gone by,Long they last, and long they cheer us—Live well the moments as they fly,Your youth is passing swiftly by.
See, then, Milly, that your school-daysCan no mem'ries sad retain.Onward! upward! be your motto,Try and try, and try again,The future will reward the pain.
The land of poetry and mirth,Of orators and statesmen, too,To one more genial, ne'er gave birth,Than when, gay Moore, it brought forth you.
The land of Goldsmith, Wolfe and Burke,May well, with gladness, sound thy name,And honor thee, whose life and workProduc'd a bright and joyous flame.
Thy lively genius, sparkling, free,Emitted rays, which sparkle yet,And gladden hearts across the sea,When tears of pain their eyelids wet.
Mild Goldsmith sang with taste, and well,And so did Wolfe, his plaintive ode,But thou, alone, possess'd the spell,That served to ease thy country's load.
O'Connell work'd with wondrous skill,With silv'ry tongue, and prudent head,With patriotic heart and will,To ease Oppression's crushing tread.
He did remove th' oppressor's weight,Or made it rest more lightly there,But still there crowded in the gateThe ills of life we all must share.
Great Burke, with comprehensive mind,Pour'd forth his thoughts, too lofty far,To glad his humble, simple kind,Who could not reach the lowest bar.
But thou brought forth thy tuneful lyre,And swept it with a skilful hand,And hearts, with joy and hope afire,Arose to bless thee, thro' the land.
Thy songs of love, religion, fame,Resounded from each hill and dale,And fann'd the patriotic flame,In beautiful Avoca's vale.
They reach'd us here, we have them now,And treasure them, both rich and poor;And here's a green wreath for thy brow,Of Irish shamrocks, Thomas Moore.
In fadeless verdure may it stay,And long thy gifted head entwine,For time will mark full many a day,Till head and heart shall live, like thine.
One hundred years have come and gone,Since thy brave spirit came to earth,Since Scotland saw thy genius dawn,And had the joy to give thee birth.
There was no proud and brilliant throng,To celebrate thine advent here,And but the humble heard the song,Which first proclaim'd a poet near.
But genius will assert its rightTo speak a word, or chant a lay,And thou, with independent might,Asserted it from day to day.
No fawning, sycophantic whine,Marr'd the clear note thy spirit blew,Thy stirring words, thy gift divine,Were to thyself and country true.
Tho' heir to naught of wealth, or land,Thy soaring mind, with fancy fir'd,Saw, in Creation's lavish hand,The gifts display'd, thy soul desir'd.
The field, the forest and the hillSupplied thee with exhaustless wealth,The singing birds, and flowing rill,Unto thy soul gave food and health.
An honest man thou lov'd, and thouWert honest to thy bosom's core,As harden'd hand, and sweated brow,A true, tho' silent witness bore.
No empty theorizer, thou,Thy words said what thyself would do,Thou ne'er would make thy spirit bow,That worldly honors might accrue.
Torn by temptations, strange and wild—Hard-hearted critics laugh to scornThe fate of the "poetic child,"In rugged, bonnie Scotland born.
But let them laugh, they laugh in vain.For they, or we, who know in part,Can never gauge the mighty strain,That burst the genial poet's heart.
It is enough for us to knowThe songs he sang for Scotland's sake,Which winds of time can never blowInto oblivion's silent lake.
O Burns! thy life was sad, we know,Thy sensitive and fertile mindHad to withstand full many a blow,Dealt by the ignorant and blind.
But let us do thee justice here,Tho' distant from thy native shore,For all thy faults repress the sneer,And thy great qualities explore.
In Canada, where all are free,And none can e'er be call'd a slave,Let Scotia's sons remember thee,And weave a garland for thy grave.
In fancy, let them grace thy browsWith wreathes of fadeless asphodel,And let them yearly plight their vowsUnto the bard they love so well.
While genius endows the sons of menWith eloquence, or with poetic pen,It leaves them still the frailties of our frame,It does not curb, but fans th' unrighteous flame.It gives a wider, nobler range of thought,But such advantage, oft, is dearly bought.Man's lower nature troubles scarce the low,But, like a fiend, at natures high doth go.Of such a nature, now, these lines shall tell,Who wrote full many a line, and wrote them well.Byron, the noble, sensitive and high,Whose bosom hath not heav'd for thee a sigh?Whose breast hath not full often given roomTo mournful thoughts, for thy untimely doom?Thy genius soar'd to regions bright and fair,And thou, such times, were with thy genius there.And then thy lofty mind, 'neath passion's sway,Left its high throne, and wander'd far astray.'Twas strange and sad, that one so richly bless'd,Should find within the world, so much unrest;But we can in thy life and nature seeThe means, to some extent, that fell'd the tree.Thy shining youth, men much too freely prais'd,And then the cry of blame, too loudly rais'd.The fickle crowd, thy person loudly curs'd,And then thou fled, and dar'd them do their worst.Unfortunate in love, thy youthful heartWas pain'd, and likewise with the burning smartThy vanity receiv'd from critic's pen,Which often makes sarcastic, stronger men.Let us be fair with thee, thy fate deplore,And grieve thy youthful death, if nothing more.Let us in mercy judge, for thus we can,E'en with thy faults, thou wert a noble man.
There are mem'ries glad of the old school-house,Which throng around me still;And voices spoke in my youthful days,My ears with music fill.
Those youthful voices I seem to hear,With their gladsome, joyous tone,And joy and hope they bring to me,When I am all alone.
I think of the joys of that time long past,Of its boyish hopes and fears,And 'tis partly joy, and partly pain,That wets my eyes with tears.
For 'tis joy I feel, when I seem to stand,Where I stood long years ago,And when I think that cannot be,My heart is fill'd with woe.
My old school mates are scatter'd far,And some are with the dead,And my old class mates have wander'd, too,To seek for fame, or bread.
And those who still are near my home,And whom I often see,Have come to manhood's grave estate;They're boys no more to me.
And tho' we meet in converse yet,And each one's thoughts enjoy,Our thoughts and words are not so free,As when, each was a boy.
For the spring of life is gone for us,With all its bursting bloom,And manhood's thoughts, and joys, and cares,Are now within its room.
But the mem'ry of our bright school days,Will last through ev'ry strain,And time will brighten ev'ry joy,And darken ev'ry pain.
The rippling of our childhood's laugh,Will roll adown the years,And time will blunt, each day we live,The mem'ry of our tears.
Our boyhood's hopes, and boyhood's dreams,And aspirations high,Will doubtless never be fulfill'd,Until the day we die.
But still we'll cherish in our hearts,And live those days again,When awkardly we read our books,Or trembling held the pen.
* * * * *
How few there are who know the pure delight,The chaste influence, and the solace sweet,Of walking forth to see the glorious sight,When nature rises, with respect, to greetThe lord of day on his majestic seat,Like some great personage of high degree,Who cometh forth his subjects all to meet,Like him, but yet more glorious far than he,He comes with splendor bright, to shed o'er land andsea.
With stately, slow and solemn march he comes,And gradually pours forth his brilliant rays,Unheralded by sounding brass or drums,His blazing glory on our planet plays,And sendeth healing light thro' darken'd ways.His undimm'd splendor maketh mortals quail,And e'en, at times, it fiercely strikes and slays;But then it brighteneth the cheek so pale,Revives the plant, and loosens every nailThat fastens sorrow to the heart, within this vale.
But 'tis the morning glory of the sun,I would request you now to view with me,'Twill cheer that smitten heart, thou grieved one,And lighter make your load of misery,When you can hear and see all nature's glee.Come friend arise, determin'd, drowse no more,But stroll away to yonder hill with me;And all the landscape round we shall explore,All nature slumbers now; its sleep will soon be o'er.
The stillness now is strange, oppressive, grand,The hush of death is now o'er all the earth,As if it slept by power of genius's hand,But soon the spell shall break, and songs and mirth,And light, shall all proclaim the morning's birth.E'en now behold the sun's advancing gleams,The heralds of his coming, but the dearthOf words forbid my telling how the streams,And dewy grass are glinting, sparkling in the beams.
Or of the change, so steady and so sure,That creeps upon creation all around,Unwaken'd yet from slumbers bright and pure,By atmospheric change, or earthly sound,Such as at times awakes with sudden bound.
There comes a change o'er earth, and trees, and sky,And all creation's work wherever found,Save man, for he, with unawaken'd eye,In dozing, slothful ease, will yet for hours lie.
The grandest artificial sights will pallUpon the taste, and oft repeated, tire,But each succeeding morn, the monarch SolBedecks the world with fresh and vig'rous fire,That cheers the fainting heart and sootheth ire.Each morn, the gazer seeth something new,And even what he saw will never tire,For in an aspect clear and fresh, the viewWill gladden still your eyes, tho' oft it's gladden'dyou.
By slow degrees the heralds make their way,Until, at last, old Sol himself appears,To reign supreme thro' all the blessed day,As he hath reign'd for many thousand yearsO'er joy and woe, bright smiles and bitter tears.The very air is now astir with life,And all around, unto our eyes and earsCome evidences of a kindly strife,For fields, and air, and trees with bustling now arerife.
All animated nature seems to vieEach with the other, in their energyOf preparation for the day's supplyOf work or play, or whate'er else may bePrompted for them to do instinctively.The grass is fill'd with buzzing insect throngs,There's music in the air, and every treeIs vocal with the wild-bird's gladsome songs,Songs unrestrain'd by care or memory of wrongs.
A million tiny drops of crystal dew,In shining splendor make the meadows fair;The leaves upon the trees are greener, too,As, swaying in the gentle morning air,They are again prepar'd to stand the glareOf Sol's meridian heat, and give their shadeTo myriads of feather'd songsters there.Our trip to see the sun arise is made,Let us retrace our steps, and bravely shareOur portion of life's grief, anxiety and care.
* * * * *
When men of gentle lives depart,They leave behind no brilliant storyOf fam'd exploits, to make men startIn wonder at their dazzling glory.
The scholar's light, religion's beams,Tho' fill'd with great, commanding pow'r,In modest greatness throw their gleams,In quiet rays, from hour to hour.
The greatest battles oft are fought,Unseen by any earthly eye;The victors all alone have wrought,And, unapplauded, live or die.
'Twas thus with thee, thou rev'rend man;In peaceful, holy work thy lifeWas spent, until th' allotted spanWas cut by Time's relentless knife.
Far from the keen and heartless train,Who daily feel Ambition's sting,Thy life, remov'd, felt not the pain,Which goads each one beneath her wing.
What pains thou felt, what joys thou knew,Who shall presume to think or tell?But this we know: there daily grewWithin thy heart, a living well.
That well of love increas'd each day,The milk of human kindness flow'd,And cheer'd the faint ones on their way,Along a hard and toilsome road.
Thy voice rang out for years and years,In fancy, yet, we hear its roll,And see thy face, thro' blinding tears,Fill'd with a love for ev'ry soul.
Thy words we shall not soon forget,Thy deeds shall be remember'd, too,And now, while ev'ry eye is wet,Let us accord thee honor due.
Thou battl'd not 'gainst hosts of hell,With words alone, convincing, warm;Thy deeds were like the fatal shell,That bursts amid the battle's storm.
The temple now, which stately standsA lasting monument, shall tellOf lib'ral hearts, and willing hands,Urg'd on by thee to labor well.
O father, friend, well see no more!Thy fight is done, and it was long;But thou hast reach'd another shore,And singeth now a blessed song.
The snows shall come upon the hills,The valleys, too, with white be spread,The birds shall whistle by the rills,The flowers shall their fragrance shed.
The spring shall come to deck the earth,In garb of vernal loveliness;And sorrow shall abound, and mirthBetimes shall cheer our deep distress.
The seasons shall perform their rounds,And vegetation bloom and fade,But thou wilt heed nor sights nor sounds,For thou to rest for aye art laid.
* * * * *
The chilly days of March are here,The raw, cold winds are blowing;All nature now, is bleak and drear,But piercing winds and frosts are going.
But frosts nor snows, nor biting blast,Can chill the warmth within each heart,When comes around the day at last,To sainted mem'ry set apart.
For many centuries thy name,St. Patrick, has been warmly bless'd,And many more thy righteous fameShall animate each Christian breast.
Each Christian, and each patriot, too,Shall celebrate for years, the day,And show the world that they are trueTo virtuous worth, long pass'd away.
Oh, Ireland! for many yearsUnhappy thou hast been, and sore,But long, we're thankful thro' our tears,Sweet songs have sounded from thy shore.
While other lands in bitter strifeFought wildly for kingship or gold,The words of peace, the way of life,Within fair Ireland were told.
The Druid priests their rites forbore,And listen'd to the words that fellFrom Patrick's pious lips, as o'erThe land he told his story well.
His lips told of the way of life;His self-denying actions, too,Enforc'd the truth, where all was rifeWith wrongful rites of darken'd hue.
The people listen'd to his voice,And learn'd to love the faith he taught;When fruits arose in after years,They bless'd the name of him who wrought.
Who wrought successfully to placeReligion's fight within the land—A benefit to all his race,At home, or on a foreign strand.
Religion's flight shone clear and bright,And then the lesser lights appear'd;Learning arose with quiet might,And simple minds it rais'd and cheer'd.
Old Tara's heathen temple rungWith sounds, whose waves are rolling yet,From which unmeasur'd good has sprung,Which grateful hearts will not forget.
The triple leaf—St. Patrick's flow'r—Long may it grow, long may it bearThose symbols of the mighty Pow'r,That rules the sea, the earth, the air.
The Shamrock! may our hearts entwine,And meet in one, as it, tho' three;And may your patron Saint, and mine,Our patron saint forever be.