How softly yonder pale star beams above my head to-night! How beautiful it appears in the azure vault of heaven where twilight holds the connecting link between day and night. Oh, if my soul were freed from its clayey fetters how swiftly it would fly (if such a journey were possible) to the boundaries of that sweet star! Can that fair planet, seemingly so pure and spotless, be inhabited by beings as frail and erring as ourselves? Can there be any sad souls there to- night— any who are weeping over blighted hopes and blasted prospects? It may be so; and yet perchance such a thing as a pang of sorrow and a burning tear are unknown, for it may besinhas never entered there. Vain, useless conjectures! But will the veil which hides the scenes of other worlds from our eyes never be withdrawn? … Surely it is because God is merciful that I have been spared through another day. I cannot forbear wondering that I have been spared so long,—that I have not been cut down as a cumberer of the ground. O God, according to thy loving-kindness preserve me. Grant that I may yet be an humble instrument in thy hand of doing something for the good of thy cause. Forgive my numberless sins and at last receive me to glory.—July 20, 1852.
It is a lovely scene; the sun has set,But left his glory in the western skyWhere daylight lingers, half regretful yetThat sombre Night, her sister, draweth nigh,And one pale star just looketh from on high;'Tis neither day nor night, but both have lentTheir own peculiar charms to please the eye,—Declining day its sultry heat has spent,And calm, refreshing night its grateful coolness lent.
The lake is sleeping—on its quiet breastAre clouds of every tint the rainbows wear,Some are in crimson, some in gold are dressed.Oh, had I wings, like yonder birds of air,How I would love to dip my pinions there,Then mount exulting to the heavenly gate,—A song of love and gratitude to bearTo Him who gives the lowly and the great,In earth, and sea, and sky, so glorious an estate.
It is the time when angels are abroadUpon their work of love and peace to men,—Commissioned from the dazzling throne of God,They come to earth as joyfully as whenThe tidings ran o'er mountain and o'er glen,"A son is born, a Saviour and a King,"—For they have tidings glorious as then,Since tokens from our risen Lord they bring,That life has been secured, and death has lost its sting.
The twilight deepens; o'er the distant hillA veil is spread of soft and misty grey;And from the lake, so beautiful and still,The images of sunset fade away;The twinkling stars come forth in bright array,Which shunned the splendor of the noontide glare,—A holy calm succeeds the bustling day.And gentle voices stealing through the air,Proclaim to hearts subdued the hour of grateful prayer.
Hark! it is the robin crying,He has heard the voice of Spring;From the woods the crow is flying,And the jay is on the wing.
Slowly now the sun is rangingEach day nearer to the west;All things tell the year is changing,Nature wakens from her rest.
Lower sink the snow-drifts daily,Half the pasture lands are bare;And the little streams leap gaylyFrom their chains to breathe the air.
While the barren earth rejoices,Care-worn mortal, come away,—Listen to the pleasant voicesOf the resurrection day.
Dost thou understand the token?Nature should not teach in vainWhat its gracious Lord hath spoken—That the dead shall live again!
Two robins came in early Spring,—When Winter's reign was o'er;And every morn I heard them singJust by our cottage door.
They built their nest of moss and hayWithin a maple-tree,—And thither every pleasant day,I went to hear and see.
At first whene'er I came they flew,Or eyed me in alarm;But soon my step familiar grew,I never did them harm.
One day a louder song I heard,With eager cries for food;And then I helped the mother-birdTo still her hungry brood.
I always seemed a welcome guest;Both old and young I fed,Then settling down beneath the nest,Some pleasant book I read.
I watched them fondly day by day,Until their wings were grown;When suddenly they flew away,And left me all alone.
The bitter tears began to start,And full of sad regretI wondered in my simple heart,If birds could thus forget!
Ah! many summers have returned,And many changes wrought,Since I the mournful lesson learned,In early childhood taught.
And many hopes have taken wingsOn which my heart was set,—And I have found thatmany thingsAs well as birds forget!
Gather violets white and blue,Where the southern zephyrs play;Bring them sparkling with the dew,—With the blessed dew of May.
Let me fold them to my breast,Emblems sweet of earthly bliss;Ha! they love to be caressed,For they give me kiss for kiss.
How my weary heart doth yearn,Touched as by a hand Divine,While their soft blue eyes they turnFull of sympathy to mine!
Do they know how much I sighFor the meadows where they grew?For the forest and the sky,Where they caught their azure hue?
There is One who knows it all,—To his loving arms I flee:Oh, he hears my feeblest call,And I know he pities me.
He ere long will take my handSaying tenderly, "Arise!"He will lead me to the landWhere no blossom ever dies.
Blessings on thy sunny face,In my heart thou hast a place,Humble Dandelion!Forms more lovely are around thee,Purple violets surround thee,—But I know thy honest heartNever felt a moment's smartAt another's good or beauty,—Ever at thy post of duty,Smiling on the great and small,Rich and poor, and wishing allHealth, and happiness, and pleasure,Oh, thou art a golden treasure!
I remember years ago,How I longed to see thee blow,Humble Dandelion!Through the meadows I would wander,O'er the verdant pastures yonder,Filling hands and filling lap,Till the teacher's rap, rap, rap,Sounding on the window sashDreadful as a thunder crash,Galled me from my world idealTo a world how sad and real,—From a laughing sky and brookTo a dull old spelling-book;Then with treasures hid securely,To my seat I crept demurely.
Childhood's careless days are o'er,Happy school days come no more,Humble Dandelion!Through a desert I am walking,Hope eluding, pleasure mocking,Every earthly fountain dry,Yet when thou didst meet mine eye,Something like a beam of gladnessDid illuminate my sadness,And I hail thee as a friendCome a holiday to spendBy the couch of pain and anguish.Where I suffer, moan and languish.
When at length I sink to rest,And the turf is on my breast,Humble Dandelion!Wilt thou when the morning breaketh,And the balmy spring awaketh,Bud and blossom at a breathFrom the icy arms of death,Wilt thou smile upon my tomb?Drawing beauty from the gloom,Making life less dark and weary,Making death itself less dreary,Whispering in a gentle toneTo the mourner sad and lone,Of a spring-time when the sleeperWill arise to bless the weeper?
My Father made this beautiful world and gave me a heart to love his works. Oh, may I love Him better than all created things!
The little plat of ground around our house is a great field of instruction and amusement to me. How little do I comprehend of all contained within it! I am glad I was not born in some great city— where Nature had not been so kind and dear a friend.
Robin Red-breast on the tree,Do you sing that song for me?
"You are listening it is true,But I do not sing for you.Higher yet on tiptoe rise,Don't you see a pair of eyesPeeping through the pleasant shadeWhich the summer leaves have made?There they watch me all day long,Brightening at my cheerful song,Turning wheresoe'er I goFor the evening meal below.Dearest mate that ever blestHappy lover—peaceful nest,—Guarding well our eggs of blue,All my songs I sing for you!"
When the howling winds are high,And the vivid lightnings flyThrough the air;—When the deafening thunders roll,Peace to thee, O troubled soul—God is there!
When the dreary storm is past,And the promised bow at last—Bright and fair—In the cloudy sky appears,Smiling still through Nature's tearsGod is there!
When the tender buds unfoldBright with purple and with goldIn the air,—Or, at twilight when they closeWrapped awhile in sweet reposeGod is there!
Where the robin chants her laySweetly at the dawn of day,Or with careBuilds her soft and downy nest,Lulls her little brood to rest,God is there!
When the countless stars appear,Ever to the listening earThey declare:He who sees the sparrows fallMade us and supports us all;God is there!
When the youthful knee is bent,And to heaven is humbly sentGrateful prayer,—Bending from his throne aboveFull of tenderness and loveGod is there!
Though his arm sustains the spheres'Tis the sweetest sound he hears—Child-like prayer;Seek then oft the peaceful shade:There our Blessed Saviour prayed—God is there!
How beautiful thou art, my native stream!Art thou not worthy of a poet's theme?The Po and Tiber live in ancient lays,And smaller streams have had their need of praise,Art thou less lovely? True, in classic loreThou art unknown, and on thy quiet shoreThere are no monuments of other times,No records of the past—its woes or crimes.The roar of cannon and the clang of armsHave never shook thy bosom with alarms,And never has thy calm and peaceful floodBeen stained to crimson with a brother's blood.The sportsman's rifle only hast thou heardScaring the rabbit and the timid bird;Or may be in the savage days of yoreThe wolf and bear have bled upon thy shore.But rural peace and beauty reign to-night;The harvest moon illumes with holy lightEach wave that ripples in its onward flowO'er rock concealed amid the depths below,And gives a strange, wild beauty to the sceneOn either shore, where trees of evergreen,Hemlocks and firs, their dusky shadows fling,Around whose trunks the heavy mosses cling,With maples clad in crimson, gold and brown,Bright like the west when first the sun goes down.
Here from this summit where I often roamI can behold my cot, my humble home;There I was born, and when this life is o'erI hope to sleep upon the river's shore.There is the orchard which I helped to rear,It well repays my labor year by year:One apple tree towers high above the restWhere every spring a blackbird has its nest.Sweet Lily used to stand beneath the boughAnd smiling listen—but she comes not now.A fairer bird ne'er charmed the rising dayThan she we loved thus early called away;But she is gone to sing her holy strainsIn lovelier gardens and on greener plains.
There are the fields that I myself have clearedOf trees and brush, and where a waste appearedThe corn just ready for the sickle stands,And golden pumpkins dot my fertile lands.There are the pastures where my cattle feed,My gentle kind supply the milk we need;Sweet cream and cheese are daily on our board,And clothing warm my snowy sheep afford.There are the flowers my Annie loves to tend,—How often do I see her smiling bendTo pluck the weeds, or teach the graceful vineAround the string or slender pole to twine.How often when the toils of day are done,And I return just at the set of sun,She comes to meet me down the verdant lane—Sweet partner of my pleasures and my pain—With snow-white buds amid her sunny hair,To win my favor all her joy and care.How often does she wander forth with meAnd share my seat beneath the maple tree,And smile and blush to hear my ardent laysRecount her virtues and pour forth her praise.
Hark! 'tis her voice, sweet as the wildbird's song;She comes to tell me I have tarried long:I hear her now an old love ditty hum,And now she calls—I come, dear love, I come.
Grateful to our sleepless eyes,Lo, the beams of morn arise,And the mountain-tops are grayWith the light of coming day,—And the birds are on the wing.With the happy birds we'll singBidding doubt and gloom be gone,Like the shadows at the dawn.
Yes, for eyes as bright as dayGlance adown the shady way;Gentle voices with delightWhisper, "They will come to-night";Hearts as fond and true as oursWait for us in lovely bowers:Nor shall wait for us in vain,Faithful ones, we come again.
Where the bending willows weep,And the mosses slowly creep,We our harps neglected hung.Soon again they will be strung,—Forest, dell, and mountain streamWill take up the blissful themeWhen no longer doomed to roamWe can chant the praise of home.
Lo, in yonder sky the sunHalf his daily task has done;We will rest beside the spring,While the bird with folded wingSits within his cool retreat,Shaded from the noontide heat,And the bees, with drowsy hum,Homeward, honey-laden come.
Homeward too our way we hold,Laden, not with paltry gold,But with treasures better farThan the richest jewels are:Simple, trusting hearts, contentWith the blessings Heaven has lent.Once within our love-lit cot,Rich and great we envy not.
Lo, the shadows lengthen fast;Now the well-known hills are past;Now the forest, dark and tall—Oh, how we remember all!Now the pastures strewn with rocks,Where we used to watch our flocks,—Farther down the winding road,See! it is our own abode.
Where the slanting sunbeams fallOn the lowly cottage wall,Fancy can already traceEach belov'd, familiar face:One by one each form appearsTill our eyes are dim with tears;If the foretaste be so sweetSoon our joy will be complete!
Here we are! But all is stillSave the ever-murmuring rill,—Save the hooting of the owl,And the village watch-dog's howl,Slowly swings the cottage door—Shall we cross the threshold o'er?Empty and deserted all—Echo answers to our call!
Where the bending willow treeOft has sheltered thee and me,Lo, the turf has been uptorn:We have come,—but come to mourn!Eyes are dim and lips are cold,And our arms we sadly foldOver hearts, till hushed and dead,Never to be comforted!
No; our hearts shall still be strong,For the journey is not long;In a holy, deathless landWe shall meet our household band:In the fairer bowers above,They await the friends they love,Oh, what joy with them to dwell,Never more to say farewell!
[Whoever has attended a "sugaring off" in the woods will enjoy the reading of this poem—the description is so life-like and exhilarating. It is a home scene.]
Come let us away to the old Sugar Camp;The sky is serene though the ground may be damp,—And the little bright streams, as they frolic and run,Turn a look full of thanks to the ice-melting sun;While the warm southern winds, wherever they go,Leave patches of brown 'mid the glittering snow.
The oxen are ready, and Carlo and TrayAre watching us, ready to be on the way,While a group of gay children, with platter and spoon,And faces as bright as the roses of June,O'er fences and ditches exultingly spring,Light-hearted and careless as birds on the wing.
Where's Edwin? Oh, here he comes, loading his gun;Look out for the partridges—hush! there is one!Poor victim! a bang, and a flutter—'tis o'er,—And those fair dappled wings shall expand nevermore;It was shot for our invalid sister at home,Yet we sigh as beneath the tall branches we roam.
Our cheeks all aglow with the long morning tramp,We soon come in sight of the old Sugar Camp;The syrup already is placed in the pan,And we gather around it as many as can,—We try it on snow; when we find it is doneWe fill up a mold for a dear absent one.
Oh, gayest and best of all parties are these,That meet in the Camp 'neath the old maple trees,Renewing the love and the friendship of years,—They are scenes to be thought of with smiles and with tearsWhen age shall have furrowed each beautiful cheek,And left in dark tresses a silvery streak.
Here brothers and sisters and lovers have met,And cousins and friends we can never forget;The prairie, the ocean, divide us from some,Yet oft as the seasons for sugaring come,The cup of bright syrup to friendship we'll drain,And gather them home to our bosom again.
Dear Maple, that yieldeth a nectar so rare,So useful in spring, and in summer so fair,—Of autumn acknowledged the glory and queen,Attendant on every Canadian scene,Enshrined in our homes it is meet thou shouldst beOf our country the emblem, O beautiful Tree!
Go to the green wood, goI oft shall sigh for thee,—And yet rejoice to know,That thou art sporting free.
Go to the meadows green,Where summer holds her reign;When winter spoils the sceneWilt thou return again?
A shelter thou wouldst findFrom every howling storm;The heart thou leav'st behindWould still be true and warm.
Why dost thou struggle thus?Does every balmy breezeThat softly fanneth us,Tell of the waving trees?
Do yonder happy birdsThat sing for thee and me,For chorus have the wordsSo precious—"I am free?"
Go then, as free as they,As light and happy roamWith thy companions gay,Safe in thy forest home.
There—thou art gone; farewell!My heart leaps up with thine;And I rejoice to tellThou art no longer mine.
I could not breathe the airWhere pining captives dwell;My freedom thou wilt share,With joy then, fare-thee-well.
The old man's cheek was wet with tears,And his wrinkled brow was pale,As after a lapse of many yearsHe stood in his native vale.
The warblers sang in the leafy bough,And the earth was robed in green;But the old man's heart beat sadly nowWhile he gazed on the lovely scene.
The stream ran clear to the distant sea,The same as he saw it last;And sitting beneath an old elm tree,He thought of days in the past.
He thought how he climbed the verdant hill,Or roved through the forest wild,Or traced to its source the rippling rill,A gay and careless child.
And as he thought of the happy throngThat around him used to crowdWith the ringing laugh and the joyous song,The old man wept aloud.
For well he knew they would meet no moreOn the dreary shores of time,—But he looked away to a brighter shore,He looked to a deathless clime.
That moment a young and merry groupCame bounding across the lea,With rosy cheek, with ball and with hoopThey came to the old elm tree.
They paused awhile in their noisy playTo gaze on the aged man,While he wiped his falling tears awayAnd in trembling tones began:
"I would not cloud for the world your joy,Or have you less happy for me—For I have been like yourselves a boyThough I'm now the wreck you see.
"But let the words of wisdom and truthIn your memories be enrolled,—And in the days of your sunny youthBe kind to the poor and old!"
The children wept as they heard him speak,And forgetful of their playThey wiped the tears from his furrowed cheek,And they smoothed his locks of gray.
He laid his hand with a tender airBy turns on each youthful head,Then lifting his faded eyes in prayer,"God bless you!" the old man said.
And the boyswere blest:—for the angels flungAround them their wings of gold;So ever they do when the gay and youngAre kind to the poor and old.
Once more the beautiful Spring has returned, and from my window I can behold the delightful places where I have so often roamed in childhood light-hearted and happy. But the lovely Spring brings no longer the same emotions as of yore. Oh no! for "a change has come over the spirit of my dream." Earth has lost its charms, and although I love the beauties of nature even better than before, still they cannot satisfy,—they are doomed to fade, and my soul yearns for those beautiful heavenly bowers which shall never wither; where God himself reigns in person and "chases night away." But, although I sigh for such things, am I prepared for them? Should I be ready at this moment to enter the paradise of God? Ah, my heart, why shouldest thou hesitate thus to return an answer? God is still able and willing to save, and though I have wandered so far from Him, if with an humble and penitent soul I confess my sins he is willing and able to forgive me.—June 4,1853.
I bedewed with tears those spring-time flowers,For they brought to my mind the happy hoursWhen I roamed through the forests' and meadows greenWith a heart all alive to each beautiful scene.
I loved the flowers when my step was light,And my cheek with the glow of health was bright,Through forest and meadows, o'er plain and o'er hillI may wander no more—but I love them still!
I love the flowers, and I love them bestWhen they first peep out from earth's snow-wreathed breast;For they tell, amid sorrow, and death, and gloom,Of a spring that shall visit the depths of the tomb!
And oh! could I roam through Fortune's bowers,I would twine a wreath of the sweetest flowers,Whose beauty and fragrance should ne'er depart—But brighten thy home and gladden thy heart!
But the flowers of earth are fragile and fair,—And the young brow must fade and be furrowed with care;But hast thou not heard of a wonderful climeThat ne'er has been marred by the footsteps of Time?
There in gardens of bliss the weary repose;There the pale, sickly cheek wears the hue of the rose;There death never comes,—Oh, amid its bright bowers,May we twine for each other a garland of flowers!
I heard the other night in dreamsThe early robin sing:The southern winds unlocked the streams,And warmed the heart of Spring.
The plum-trees wore their bridal dress,The willows donned their plumes,And to the zephyr's fond caressGave forth their rare perfumes.
Through months of wintry frost and storm—Yet never harmed by them—A million germs had nestled warm,Close to the parent stem.
The happy spring-time broke their rest,They drank the morning dew,They clasped the sunbeams to their breast,And clothed the trees anew.
The clouds distilled the fertile rainAnd sent it forth in showers;The sunlight danced along the plainAnd painted it with flowers.
The butterfly went forth to play,The useful honey beeKept up a hunt through all the day.Of cheerful industry.
The squirrel gamboled in the grove,The rabbit bounded by,The wary spider spun and wove,And trapped the careless fly.
From out the joyous, vocal woodThe song of warblers came:The cuckoo, in a merry mood,Told and re-told its name.
And when behind the purple hillThe sun went out of sight,The frogs began with hearty willTheir concert for the night.
Such scenes had made, in brighter years,My heart with transport leap,But now they touched the spring of tears,—I sobbed aloud in sleep.
And is there not some balm, I cried,'Mid nature's boundless wealth?"Behold"—a gentle voice replied—"Behold the Fount of health!"
Just then a torrent met my eye,Fresh from the rock it burst;I could have drained the fountain dry,So raging was my thirst.
Such deep emotions filled my soulI woke—the vision fled:The moonbeams through the curtain stole,Ah! 'twas a dream, I said.
But well I know there is a landWhere flows the living stream;And when upon its banks I stand,Oh, then 'twill be no dream.
"Earth is fair, oh so fair,"—Sang a little, happy bird;Though a prey to grief and care,With a smile I heard.Sing again that blithesome strain,Precious little bird, I said;For the heart that throbbed with painThou hast comforted!
"Earth is fair, oh so fair,"Louder sang the happy bird;"What have I to do with care,Or with hope deferred?"All the western sky was redWith the beams of setting sun,As the sportsman homeward spedWith the fatal gun.
"Earth is fair, oh so fair,And I love the green earth well,"—Death was in the balmy air,And the warbler fell!Earthisfair—but earth no moreWears its pleasant green for thee,—Cold and stiff and bathed in goreUnderneath the tree.
Earth is fair, but alas!It hath many scenes of woe;Happy they who through them pass,Sweetly singing as they go,—Comforting some lonely heart,Making some weak spirit strong;—So may I, and then depart,On my lips a song!
How still and calm! what fairer scene e'er metThe eye of mortal short of Paradise?The quiet lake is like a mirror setIn richest green where sunset loves to seeItself arrayed in crimson, pink and gold.And e'en the proud old mountain bows his headShaggy with hemlocks, and appears well pleasedTo view so grand a form reflected there.Hark! o'er the polished surface how the loonsCall to each other, waking echoes wildFrom crag and cliff, and waking in my heartSweet memories of other days and yearsWhen health was on my cheek, and hope and loveO'er all the future wove one iris bright.Ah, little prophets, do you then predictA rainy morrow? By yon crimson westI doubt your warnings; so in truth it seemsDoes yonder farmer who, with shouldered scytheFrom meadows fragrant with the new-mown hay,Goes whistling homeward, glad to seek reposeUntil another sun shall call him forth,To gather into barns the winter's storeOf food provided for the gentle kingThat faintly lowing from the pastures comeScented with herbage, giving promise fairOf pails o'erflowing with a sweeter drinkThan ever gleamed in the inebriate's bowl.
Now o'er the landscape signs of twilight creep,And sounds that tell of night—sounds that I love:The hooting of the owl, the tree-frog's cryBy distance mellowed; and—more distant still—I hear the barking of the village dogs.The breath of evening whispering 'mid the pines,And deepening shadows, bid me homeward turn;And yet I linger—for I seem a partOf lake and mountain, meadow, tree and sky,—And realize how sweet a thing it isTo lay my heart so close to Nature's ownThat I can feel its throbbing, while each pulseResponsive beats, and o'er my being stealsA rapturous calm like that out parents feltWhen to the bowers of Eden they repaired,And praised their Maker seen in all his works.
Author of nature! Source of life and light!Almighty Father! let me praise thee too.This lovely world is thine; yon moon and starsThat now begin to usher in the nightAre but the outposts of unnumbered spheresThat march in order round thy dazzling throne,And chant thy praises in perpetual song.All these are thine, for thou hast made them all;And I am thine! I thank thee, Lord of lords,King of the Universe, Creator, God,That while in part I realize thypowerI know it has an equal in theloveWhich bowed the heavens and consecrated earthWhen the Messiah came to save mankind,And in its proper orbit reinstateA fallen world, which shall one day becomeThe fairest 'mid the sisterhood of orbs,The most renowned because the dearest bought,—The best beloved, because the ransom givenWas all that God omnipotent could pay!
The howling winds rage around my casement. The summer is past, and everything indicates that winter will soon be here. The seared leaves are falling from their homes in the waving forests; the earth has thrown aside her gay mantle of green, and one scene of desolation presents itself to the eye. The decay of nature brings with it sad and solemn reflections, how much more the decay of the human form—of which autumn seems so striking an emblem. The days of man are few. Like the flower of the field he perisheth, and yet how few seem to realize it! O God, teach me to apply my heart unto wisdom. Help me to love and serve thee, that when "the heavens shall be dissolved and the elements shall melt with fervent heat" I may not be among those who shall take up the sad lamentation: "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."—Oct., 1852.
[As Miss Johnson lived in the house with Dr. G. O. Somers, who would frequently in winter cross lake Memphremagog on the ice in visiting his patients, the following, written on a sick-bed, gives a graphic description of what her fears pictured might be a reality.]
Night comes, but he comes not! I fearThe treacherous ice; what do I hear?Bells? nay, I am deceived again,—'Tis but the ringing in my brain.Oh how the wind goes shrieking past!Was it a voice upon the blast?A cry for aid? My God protect!Preserve his life—his course direct!How suddenly it has grown dark—How very dark without—hush! hark!'Tis but the creaking of the door;It opens wide, and nothing more.Then wind and snow came in; I thoughtSome straggler food and shelter sought;But more I feared, for fear is weak,That some one came of him to speak:To tell how long he braved the storm,How long he kept his bosom warmWith thoughts of home, how long he cheeredHis weary horse that plunged, and reared,And wallowed through the drifted snowTill daylight faded, and the glowOf hope went out; how almost blind,He peered around, below, behind,—No road, no track, the very shoreAll blotted out,—one struggle more,It is thy last, perchance, brave heart!O God! a reef! the masses partOf snow and ice, and dark and deepThe waters lie in death-like sleep;He sees too late the chasm yawn;Sleigh, horse and driver, all are gone!Father in heaven! It may be thus,But thou art gracious,—pity us,Save him, and me in mercy spareWhat 'twould be worse than death to bear.Hark! hark! am I deceived again?Nay, 'tis no ringing in my brain;My pulses leap—my bosom swells—Thank God! it is,it is his bells!
[Quebec is the oldest city in Canada, having been founded by Champlain, in 1608, near the site of an Indian village. It was taken from the French, by the English, under General Wolfe, in 1759, after a heroic defence by Montcalm. Both generals fell on the battle-field, mortally wounded. In 1853 the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec offered a prize medal for the best poem relating to the history of Canada. Miss Johnson (then in her eighteenth year) wrote the following, which took the prize.]
The orb of day upon his pathway pressed,Beaming with splendor, toward the shining west,Cast one long, lingering glance upon the scene,Lit up the river and the forest green,Left his last rays upon the lordly dome,And deigned to smile upon the peasant's home;Then 'neath the western hills he sought repose,And sank to rest as calmly as he rose:Bright at the dawn of day, but brighter now,When day had almost passed, and round her browHung the expiring beams of dazzling light,The certain presage of approaching night.Slowly his gorgeous train, like him, withdrew,Changing as they advanced in form and hue,Until one lovely tint of fairest dyeStole softly o'er the calm and cloudless sky;Day, gently smiling, left her gleaming throne,And evening fair came forth, and reigned alone.The twinkling stars the azure vault adorned;Like glistening gems, a glorious crown they formed,And proudly sat in splendor pure and brightUpon the pale and pensive brow of night;While in the midst of all, with tranquil mien,Mild Cynthia lent enchantment to the scene.
Beneath lay spreading pastures green and fair,And lofty hills and waving forests, whereThe human voice had never yet been heard,Or other sound, save when the depths were stirredBy the loud screams of some lone midnight bird.But high o'er all the lofty city rose,Firm in its strength, sublime in its repose;On every hand by nature fortified,And strongly built; with air of conscious prideGazed from its heights upon the scene below,And bade defiance to each lurking foe;Confiding in its bulwarks firm and sure,It calmly slept and deemed itself secure!
The river swept along; with surging roarIts waves dashed wildly on the rocky shore;While on its broad, expansive bosom layThe twinkling orbs in beautiful array;And every pearly drop shone clear and bright,Bathed in a flood of soft and silvery light.Scarcely a ripple stirred its quiet breast;For every sighing breeze was lulled to rest,And every sound was hushed on earth, in air,And silence held supreme dominion there.
Sleep sent his angels forth; with silent tread,From house to house, they on their mission sped;Watched by the couch of suffering and pain.Soothed the pale brow and calmed the throbbing brain,Eased the sad heart and closed the weeping eye,Bade care and grief with their attendants fly,Entered the chamber of the rich and great,Nor scorned to visit those of mean estate,But blessed alike the lofty and the low,Alike bade each forget their weight of woe.The proud and wealthy drew around their breast"The curtains of repose," and sank to rest;The pallid sons of want and hunger slept,And sorrow's sons forgot that they had wept.
The night wore slowly on; the dismal towerHad long since tolled the lonely midnight hourWhen a proud band, by daring impulse led,Approached the river with a cautious tread,With kindling eye and with an eager air,Unmoored the boats that waited for them there;In silence left the calm and peaceful shore,In sullen silence plied the hasty oar,In silence passed adown the quiet stream,While ever and anon a pale moonbeam,Sad and reproachful, cast a hasty glanceOn polished dagger and on gleaming lance.
The scene was mournful, and with magic artIt acted strangely on each manly heart;No speedy action now, no rude alarm,Called forth their powers, or nerved the stalwart arm;No present danger used its strong control,To rouse the passions of the warrior's soul;But all conspired to place Thought on her throne,And yield the reins of power to her alone.
The past came slowly forth with all its trainOf blissful scenes that ne'er might be again,Of mournful partings and convulsive sighs,Of pallid faces and of tearful eyes,Of aching hearts that heaved with sorrow's swell,And broken tones that sadly breathed, "Farewell!"And in the silence of that lonely hour,Which bade the sternest own its wondrous power,A small, still voice whispered in every soul,Although each sought to burst from its control:"To-morrow night the moon, as fair as now,May shed her beams upon your death-sealed brow!To-morrow night the stars may gild the waveWhile you, perchance, may fill a soldier's grave!To-morrow night your spirit may exploreThe boundless regions of an unknown shore!To-morrow night may find you with the slain,And weeping love watch your return in vain!"
And yet not long such gloomy thoughts might restWithin the soldier's brave and gallant breast;Not long the warrior, panting for the fieldAnd for the battle's horrid din, might yieldHis fearless spirit unto sorrow's sway,Or dread the issue of the coming day.The momentary sadness now was o'er,As with new hopes they neared the frowning shore,Landed in silence, and in stern arrayPressed firmly forward on their dangerous way,Mounted the rugged rocks with footsteps slow,And left the murmuring river far below.
From cliff to cliff the gallant army spring,Nor envy now the eagle's soaring wing;They view their labors o'er, their object gain,And proudly stand upon the lovely plain;Gaze down upon the awful scenes they've passed,Rejoicing that they've reached the heights at last.Hope lights each eye and fills each manly breast,Where wild desires and aspirations rest;It bids each doubt and every shadow flee,And points them on to certain victory!
The morning dawned; the orient beams of lightFell on a strange and a romantic sight,—On glistening helmet and on nodding crest,On waving banner and on steel-clad breast.The city woke,—but woke to hear the cry,"To arms! to arms! the foe—the foe is nigh!"She woke to hear the trumpet's wild alarms—She woke to hear the sound of clashing arms—She woke to view her confidence removed—She woke to view her trusted safety proved;Her mighty bulwarks, long her pride and boast,All safely mounted by a British host—She woke to view her lofty ramparts yield,Her plains converted to a battle-field,Her gallant troops in wild disorder fly,The British banner floating to the sky,And proudly waving o'er the bloody plain,O'er heaps of dying and o'er heaps of slain.
Roused from their hasty dreams, with brows aghast,On every hand the soldiers gather fast,Bind on their armor, seize the glittering sword,Form in a line, and at a simple word,With hurried steps advance toward the shore,With hasty gestures grasp the trembling oar,Across the river's bosom swiftly glideAnd safely land upon the other side.Drawn up in battle order now they stand,Waiting in silence for their chief's command;Then onward move, with firm and stately tread,With waving plumes and ensigns proudly spread,With gleaming sword and with uplifted lance,Where brightly now the glistening sunbeams dance;But long before those sunbeams shall declineStreams of dark blood shall tarnish all their shine;Those beams shall strive to gild the steel in vain,For human gore the polished steel shall stain.
The sun rose clear that morn; with ardent glowHe shed his beams alike o'er friend and foe.His golden hues the spreading fields adorn,Waving in beauty with the ripening corn;Give richer colors to the lofty trees,That gently rustle in the morning breeze;They gild the river's surface, calm and blue,And shine reflected in the sparkling dew.
Oh, ye, who stand prepared for deadly strife,Thirsting for blood and for a brother's life,Behold the glories that around you lie,The harmony pervading earth and sky!Behold the wondrous skill and power displayedIn every leaf and every lowly blade;On every hand behold the wondrous loveOf Him who reigns in majesty above,—Who bids for man all nature sweetly smile,And sends his rain upon the just and vile;His attribute is love; and shall ye dareTo take the life mercy and love would spare?Shall ye destroy what he has formed to live,And take away what ye can never give?Shall puny mortal claim the right his ownBelonging to Omnipotence alone?Rash man, forbear! and stay the ready dartThat seeks to lodge within thy brother's heart.But, no; for mercy's voice, now hushed and still,No longer may the steel-clad bosom thrill;And hearts that melted once at other's woe—That kindled once with friendship's fervent glow—That once had felt and owned the soothing powerOf tender love—are callous in the hourWhen savage War makes bare his awful armAnd peals in thunder tones his dread alarm.
But there weresomein those devoted bandsO'er whom the blissful scenes of other landsCame rushing wildly; and with piercing gazeThey looked an instant on their boyhood's days;Remembered well the hours that flew too fast,Rememberedsomewith whom those hours were past;And, 'mid the group of dear companions gay,Remembered well some whom they saw that day;But sprang not forward with familiar graspAnd friendly air, the proffered hand to clasp;But looked away, and with a pang of painRegretted that they e'er had met again!For now they met, not as they met before—Not as they used to meet in days of yoreNot arm in arm, like brothers fondly tried,Whom they could trust and in whose love confide;Met not as once with high and mutual aim,In classic halls to seek for future fame:But met as bitter foes, in deadly strife,Each wildly panting for the other's life;With armies proud and swelling, like the flood,To wreath their laurels in each other's blood!
They once were friends; but France and England roseIn sounding arms and they are hostile foes!They once were friends; but friendship may not shieldThe warrior's breast upon the battle-field!They once were friends; but, hark! the cannon's roarLoudly proclaims that they are friends no more!From rank to rank the stunning volley flies,From rank to rank the groans of anguish rise;Rank after rank is numbered with the slain;Rank follows rank, and bleeds upon the plain.
Bravely they fought; with unabated zealIn human gore they dipped the shining steel;Pressed o'er the heaps of dying and of dead,Where warriors groaned, and gallant heroes bled;While from their lips, in quick and stifled breathArose the cry of "Victory, or death."
Louder and louder still the awful roarPealed from the heights, and shook the frightened shore.Thick clouds of smoke enveloped friend and foe;The volleyed thunder shook the depths below;Mountain and echoing forest joined the cry,And distant hills gave back the same reply.With animating voice and waving handThe British leader cheered his gallant band,Pressed firmly forward where one endless tideOf woe and carnage reigned on every side,—Where streams of blood in crimson torrents rolled,—Where death smote down alike the young and old;And where the thickest poured the deadly shot,The gallant WOLFE with daring valor fought.
The dead and dying in his pathway lie,Before him ranks divide and squadrons fly;With stalwart arm, and with unerring aim,He adds new glories to his former fame,Reaps the reward of all his toil: for nowFresh laurels twine around his youthful brow.But what avail they? for the fatal dartOf death has lodged within that hoping heart!The lofty head that wore the waving crest,Now sadly droops upon the bleeding breast;That mighty arm, upraised in power and pride,Falls feebly down, and casts its sword aside;The laurel wreath entwines that brow in vain,For, lo! the hero lies among the slain!
The French fought long with courage and with skill;With iron arms and with an iron willRushed bravely forward 'mid the battle's din,Resolved to die, or else the victory win;Like soldiers true, fought firmly and fought well,And at their post like faithful soldiers fell.
Deeper and deeper now the conflict grows;Despair nerves these, and victory flushes those.'Tis the last struggle; hark! "They fly! they fly!"Pierces the depths, and rends the vaulted sky.'Tis the last struggle, for the beating drumProclaims the conflict o'er, the victory won.The French in wild dismay and horror yield,And leave the British masters of the field.
Far in the rear a dying warrior lay,While from his breast the life-blood ebbed away;Attendants bent around to staunch the tideThat flowed in torrents from his wounded side;With wild convulsions came each panting-breath,And those proud features wore the hue of death.His lips were sealed, his beaming eyes were dim,And strangely quivered every outstretched limb;Unconscious now he seemed of love or hate,Unconscious now his spirit seemed to waitThe awful summons that should bid it flyTo worlds unknown, unseen by human eye.He seemed like one already with the dead;When, lo! he started—raised his drooping head;With dying hand he grasped his trusty blade,With kindling eye the battle-field surveyed,Heard the triumphant shout, "They run! they run!"Knew that the field was gained, the victory won."Who run?" he cried, with wildly throbbing heart,With gushing breast, and livid lips apart."The French! the French!"—no more that warrior heard;It was enough for him, that single word;"I die contented!" and his youthful headFell feebly back; the noble soul had fled.
Oh, gallant Wolfe! from o'er the dark blue seaThere comes a wail—a bitter wail for thee;Thy country mourns her warrior, true and brave,And yearning love weeps o'er thy lowly grave,But nothing now may break thy tranquil rest,Nothing disturb thy calm and quiet breast;Nor clashing arms, nor cannon's deafening roar,Nor sorrow's wail, may ever rouse thee more.But, when a voice, far louder than them all,Shall bid thee rise, thou must obey the call,And stand, bereft of earthly pride and power,Before thy Judge. God shield thee in that hour!
Remoter from the scene, with drooping headAnd nerveless arm, another warrior bled!Death's seal upon that pallid brow was pressed;His icy hand lay on that heaving breast;But thoughts of victory lent no soothing balmTo cheer the spirit of the proud Montcalm!He lived to see his bravest followers die;He lived to see his troops disbanded fly;Nor longer cared to live, but welcomed death,And with a smile resigned his fleeting breath;Stretched his proud limbs, without a sigh or groan,And death had claimed the hero for his own.
The strife was o'er, the dreadful combat past;The echoing hills had found repose at last;Carnage had done its work on every side,And even greedy death was satisfied!The sun went down; how changed from yester night!How changed his aspect, and how changed the sightOn which he gazed! Then his last golden beamFell on a landscape fair—a quiet scene—Where now destruction reared its standard dreadO'er shattered bodies and o'er severed head.
Heap upon heap the pallid victims lay,Of racking pain and scorching thirst the prey;In anguish rolled upon the bloody ground,And wider still they tore each gaping wound;In concert joined their agonizing cries,Gnashed with their teeth and rolled their blood-shot eyes;With feeble groans they drew each painful breath,And racked with torments called aloud for death!Far o'er the field in wild confusion rosePiles of the ghastly dead—of friends and foes—In death stretched side by side, mangled and coldWhile over all the sulphurous war-clouds rolled,In dark, dense columns mounted up on high,Tainting the air, polluting all the sky.
Quebec was won; and o'er each lofty towerThe British banner streamed in pride and power;Where the French eagle once her wings had spreadThe British lion reared his haughty head,And shook the conquered country with his roar;The eagle flew in terror from the shore.With drooping plumage skimmed the western main,And, trembling, sought her native France again;While England, proud and potent, took the swayAnd waved her sceptre over Canada.
[The marriage in 1858 of Prince Frederick William of Prussia to Victoria Adelaide Mary, eldest daughter of the Queen of England; and the visit of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, to Canada, in 1860, were events of sufficient magnitude to arouse the patriotism of our Canadian poetess, and we find reference made to them in this and the two following pieces.]
I am but a rustic maidenDwelling by the river side,But I'm happy as the PrincessWho today becomes a bride.
I am but a peasant's daughter,All his life in toil is spent,But he loves me as Prince AlbertLoves his child, and I'm content.
Though the Queen of many nations,Centre of each Royal scene,Better than I love my mother,Does the Princess love the Queen?
Are Prince Leopold and Arthur,Though within a palace bred,Dearer than my little brothersPlaying 'neath the cottage shed?
There's a group of Royal sistersClustering round the English throne,But I know they are not truer,Better sisters than mine own.
Hark! it is the trumpet sounding;At the Prince of Prussia's sideStandeth now her Royal Highness;Oh, I would not be the bride!
For a manly voice hath whispered,"Dearer than my life thou art!"What care I who rules a kingdomIf I rule in Jamie's heart?
I am but a peasant's daughter,And the wealthy pass me by,—But there's not in merry EnglandA happier maid than I.
God hear our fervent prayer,God bless the royal pair,God save the Queen!Guide them in all their ways,And may their wedded daysBe ordered to thy praise;God save the Queen!
The waves will soon divideThee and thy home, young bride;God save the Queen!But over land and seaWarm hearts will follow thee,First rose of England's tree;God save the Queen.
A nation's hearty welcome take,Heir to a mighty throne;Thrice welcome! for old England's sake,Thy mother's, and thine own.
From crowded street, from hillside green,From fair Canadian vales,The prayer goes up—God bless the Queen!God bless the Prince of Wales!
The rich and poor, the great and smallTheir voices join as one;Victoria's name is dear to all,So is Victoria's Son.
Their tribute other queens have laidUpon the land and sea;But never earthly monarch swayedSo many hearts as she.
And for her young and gallant heirA kindred love prevails;God hear a nation's fervent prayer!God bless the Prince of Wales!
[This was probably written in the early part of the year 1861, before Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation had given deliverance to the captives, and when "the north star" was an object dear to many a slave who longed to breathe the free air of Canada. The Rev. E. H. Dewart says of it: "This spirited lyric is alike creditable to the talents, patriotism, and independence of its author. Its loyalty is an intelligent attainment, free from blind prejudice and crouching adulation."]
What land more beautiful than ours?What other land more blest?The South with all its wealth of flowers?The prairies of the West?
Oh no! there's not a fairer landBeneath yon azure dome—Where Peace holds Plenty by the hand,And Freedom finds a home.
The slave who but her name hath heard,Repeats it day and night,And envies every little birdThat takes its northward flight.
As to the Polar star they turnWho brave a pathless sea:So the oppressed in secret yearn,Dear native land, for thee!
How many loving memories throngRound Britain's stormy coast!Renowned in story and in song,Her glory is our boast.
With loyal hearts we still abideBeneath her sheltering wing,—While with true patriot love and pride,To Canada we cling.
We wear no haughty tyrant's chain,—We bend no servile knee,When to the Mistress of the mainWe pledge our fealty.
She binds us with the cords of love,—All others we disown;The rights we owe to God above,We yield to him alone.
May He our future course directBy his unerring hand;Our laws and liberties protect,And bless our native land.
[It will be remembered that 1861 closed with an alarming prospect of war between England and the United States, growing partly out of the arrest of Mason and Slidell on board the British steamship Trent. Of course had war been declared Canada would have been involved. On Christmas of that year therefore Miss JOHNSON wrote this appeal, which was published in a Canadian paper.]
To prayer! to prayer! O ye who loveYour country's peace, your country's weal,To Him who rules supreme above,In this dark hour of peril kneel.To prayer! to prayer! before the cry"To arms!" shall make your spirit quake,—And ere ye dream of danger nighThe dark portentous war-cloud break.
So long hath Peace o'er hill and valeWaved her white banner to the breeze,We thought her smiles would never fail,And only heard from o'er the seasThe murmur of an angry host,The clang of arms, the cannon's roar,—How false our hope! how vain our boast!War threatens our beloved shore.
Great God! to whom the nations seemLike dust that gathers on the scales,A drop within a mighty stream,A breath amid the northern gales,We pray, the hearts of men disposeSo that the sounds of war may cease,And nations who should ne'er be foesEmbrace, and pledge themselves to Peace.