What solemn thoughts crowd o'er my mindAs this eventful day moves on.I feel most forcibly inclinedTo strive some proper words to find,In praise of God for what he's done.
And why? For seven and thirty years:He who at first my being gaveHas still upheld me, calmed my fears,While passing through this Vale of Tears,And on my journey to the grave.
'Tis then but right that I should takeA retrospect of my past days.This done in faithfulness will makeMy humble lyre aloud to wakeIts every string in God's pure praise.
Then let my memory recallEach striking scene through which I've passed.What strong emotion fills my soul,As they in quick succession rollBefore my wondering gaze at last!
I feel my childhood's joys once more,Again I pass its sorrows through.Of richest mercies what a store,In health or else in sickness sore,As if by magic spring to view.
With all my sins upon my headI see two near escapes from death;Then is a feast before me spread,And I on heavenly food am fed,The precious gift of God through faith.
Lo, there I see Him guard me round,Lest strong temptations me o'ercome;Here I am in his favor found,While others in perdition drownedWere long since hurried to the tomb!
O, what a miracle is this,That I am saved from hell and sin!Predestined by pure Grace to Bliss,My soul in transport bows submissTo God, and hopes a crown to win.
Then may I mourn my past neglectOf all thy goodness, O, my God!Henceforward may I more respectThy just commands and still detectThose lurking sins that bring thy rod.
Should I be spared another year,May one great thought my bosom fill;To let it to mankind appearThat I am but a pilgrim here,Just left awhile to do Thy will.
But Lord, thou know'st I am but weak;Impart fresh strength that I may beMore and more anxious still to seekThe good of souls with spirit meek,And thus prove my sincerity.
And here I would once more recordThe fervent breathings of my soul,That thou would'st richest Grace affordTo all my children through the Word,And still our every act control.
Lily of the valley, this brief poetic sallyAt the very least is due unto thee.Thy fragrant wax-like flowers all freshened by Spring showersSeem purity embodied unto me.Lily of the valley blooming near the alleyOf the little garden close to my home!
Lily of the valley, I fain would gladly rallyAll the powers of sweet Fancy to my aidTo describe thy form retiring, which I cannot help admiringAs it peeps from its broad, leafy shade.Lily of the valley, etc.
Lily of the valley, thou very well dost tallyWith my notion of a modest, gentle maid.Thy delicate bell-cluster may lack in grandeur's lustre,Yet thou in true beauty art arrayed.Lily of the valley, etc.
Lily of the valley, Sol scarce with thee dare dally;He plants no rose-blushes on thy cheek,Yet indebted to his power art thou from hour to hour,And his beams play with theehide and seek.Lily of the valley, etc.
Lily of the valley, deem not my rhyming folly,For I love both thy form and thy scent;And this is chiefly true as thou kissest in the dew,While thy head in pure modesty is bent.Lily of the valley, etc.
Lily of the valley, bloom near my garden alley,And shed forth thy fragrancy around;I'll think as thou art growing of the lessons thou art showingTo me when in musing I am found.Lily of the valley blooming near the alleyOf the little garden close to my home.
Daisy, I have sought for theeIn the garden, on the lea,Ever since I learned to roamFrom my much loved English home.
Once I owned a little thingCalled a daisy here about,And it bloomed awhile in Spring,But the Winter froze it out.
'Twas a pigmy flower at best,Though in red robe it was dressed.English daisy's lively mienNever in its face was seen.
When it died I did not fret,Nor a dirge sung o'er its bier.Some few plants that I have metClaimed at least from me a tear.
Now what is it that I see?Daisies growing on a tree!White and double—white as snow,Hundreds of them in full blow.
Let me look awhile at them,Even through sweet fancy's eyes.Every flower's a perfect gem.And as such I will it prize.
But let Fancy stand aside,Common folks might me deride.Thinking something ailed my brain,Should I such a thing maintain.
Well, 'tis all as one to me,Fancy still shall have the sway.ThatDaisies here grow on a treeImean to insist alway!
[Footnote: The blossoms of the double flowering cherry tree. They bear a great resemblance to the white double daisy of English gardens, and in fact were pronounced to be the same by a lady friend of mine. I took the hint and wrote the above.]
The lilacs are now in the full flush of beauty,The fruit trees have blossomed, the tulips are gay,And birds' gushing melody points out our dutyTo God who doth bless us so vastly each day.
Brilliant verbenas in rich robes are glowing,And spireas their fair silver glories maintain,While violets and lilies their charms are bestowingTo add to the splendors of sweet Flora's reign.
O, soon will the odors of bright blushing rosesUnite with the woodbines in fragrance complete;For hoards of their incense this fine month discloses,To all who are fond of a garden retreat.
Viburnum Opulus its snowballs is forming,The peonies are ready to burst into bloom,Rude Boreas has ceased for awhile his dread storming,And Nature at last has got rid of her gloom.[Footnote: Guelder Rose.]
In flower-bedecked fields or vast woods at this seasonI would 'twere my privilege to frequently roam;But fear such indulgence might well be termed treasonAgainst the sweet duties and pleasures of Home.
Then since this solacement by God is denied me,I'll joy that in fancy it still is my lotTo rove with my own lovely Ellen beside me,Through scenes that can never by us be forgot.
TO DR. LAYCOCK, ON HIS LEAVING BRANTFORD ON ACCOUNT OfILLNESS.
Doctor, you must not hence departEre I address a parting layFresh gushing from an honest heart,Which grieves because you cannot stay.
To Rhyme I make but small pretence,Yet what I write is what I feel;And should it prove but common-sense,Many defects this will conceal.
I have oft wished since you came here,That we might years together spend;And now I hang 'twixt hope and fear,In strange uncertainty, my friend.
Right glad, dear Doctor, would I beIf you left here in perfect health;I know 'tis prized by you and meAs far before the greatest wealth.
And well it may! For that is wealthIn most men's hands but splendid drossTo purchasefriendswho leave bystealthTheir friend, when he has found its loss.
Yet 'tis I own, when rightly used,A goodly thing for you and me,Who can't of hoarding be accusedAt least from all that I can see.
Then take what I most freely give—A wish sincere that you may yetReturn in health near us to live,An honest livelihood to get.
And may your partner live to shareWith you for years fresh joy and peace.For this I urge an earnest prayerTo God who makes my joys increase.
[Perhaps my readers will have the goodness to pardon me if I here present them with an exact copy of a Rhyming Letter which I received in answer to the poem above from my much respected and greatly lamented friend, the late Dr. Laycock, of Woodstock, Ont. I place it here because of the compliment he was kind enough to pay me on my rhyming abilities, and chiefly in relation to those Pieces to my Children. I candidly acknowledge that it was his opinion, so freely and perhaps flatteringly expressed, which weighed with me greatly as an inducement for giving so many of them in these pages.]
Dear friend, though a poor hand at rhymes, I'll tryInkindto yourkindverses to reply.Together we have passed some happy hours,Pleasantly loitering in the Muses' bower;Not with the Bards who sing of Wine and Love,But those who can the nobler Passions moveTo finer sympathies, and by their artInstruct, amend as well as cheer the heart!Such Bard our COWPER. Oft his pleasing strainsHave won us to forget the cares and painsThe world lays on us all; WORDSWORTH the same;And other bards besidesless known to fame;Thyself,dear friend, amongst the rest. Thy rhymesFlow from a heart in tune with Nature's chimes,And breathings of Sweet Home, Domestic joys,The opening graces of thy girls and boys,And themes like theseto Nature dearplease allWhose souls like ours respond to Nature's call.Nature, to whom proud Art canlend a grace,But whom if absentArt can not replace!
Take these poor lines in haste and sickness penned,As tribute from a warm and grateful friend,Who, though thy kindness he can not repay,Will ne'er forget thee, Cowherd, nor thy lay.
BRANTFORD, Nov. 16, 1854
"A friend in need's a friend indeed."
My friend much respected, 'tis hardly the thingThat I on some subjects so often should sing,And yet never manage a rhyme to bestowOn one whose great kindness I'd gratefully show.
It oft has been spoken, as oft has been pennedThat "It cannot be ever too late to amend."And as I'm unconscious of lacking respect,Will do what I can to repair my neglect.
O, can I look back to the time of my need,When thou, under God, prov'dst a kind friend indeed,And feel no emotion my bosom to swell?'Twere baseness of conduct too shocking to tell.
Time was when chill penury stared in my face,And I was made feel it almost a disgrace.As a fruit of thy kindness that time has gone by,So I to be thankful would constantly try.
O, well I remember how often I thoughtMy business endeavors would all come to naught;That I, 'midst my toiling should surely stick fast,And most sad disappointment meet me at last.
The Lord sent thee to me at such time of trial,When exercised well with the grace Self-denial.Thy kind way of speaking took from me my sadness,And left in its place a rich increase of gladness.
And oft since that time though a much chequered lifeAmidst this world's bustle, its turmoil and strifeMy mind has been solaced with thoughts of thy love,Which does thy relation to Christ clearly prove.
Under the weakness of age thou art bending,Yet no doubt have I that the Lord is still sendingThe joy of His presence thy spirit to cheer,By doing thy duty while thou stayest here.
And Oh, may it please our kind Father and GodThy steps to support with his "Staff and his Rod;"Then cause his bright Angels thy way to attend,And thus bring thee safely to Life-journey's end.
May thy good example to those that remain,Be useful in showing Religion is gain,That they may still follow the path that Christ trod,And join thee in singing the praises of God.
Christians of Brantford, list awhile,An humble Rhymer speaks to you.Perhaps the fact may cause a smile,Though I speak not from motives vile,But with your interest full in view.
You are engaged in warfare greatWith that great sin which oft has madeA loving husband full of hate,A young wife's beauty quickly fade,And early death become her fate.
You have to grapple with that fiendThat oft has made poor children weep,Bereft them too of every friend,Who would unto their wants attend—When they were sick afford relief.
You are engaged in mortal strifeWith that huge serpent which ere nowHas poisoned all the joys of life,Made many homes with discord rife,And sunk poor human nature low.
With him that oft has torn awayThe laurel from the Sons of Fame,Caused them from Wisdom's paths to stray,Has turned to darkness their bright day,And covered them all o'er with shame.
Young as some are, all must have seenHis potent arm stretched forth to strikeAs victims those who long had beenStriving on human aid to lean.Mind friends you never do the like!
Oh, have you thought upon his power,And learned how weak are mortal menWhen brought into temptation's hour,And "storms arise and tempests lower?"Thestrongmay even falter then.
And feeling weak have you been ledTo put your trust in God alone,Who with his bounteous hand hath fedYou all your lives, and in the steadOf guilty man did sin atone?
If you have not done this beforeO flee, my dear young friends, awayTo Jesus Christ, the friend who boreOur sins, that he might us restoreTo God and Bliss and Endless Day.
Christians, arouse you! Quick, up and be doing!The monster Intemperance stalks through our land!Unfurl wide your banners, and good still pursuing,On "No Truce with Tyrants!" let each take his stand.Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!The might of this evil but few can withstand!
Shrieks and groans from the dying are heard all around you,And heartrending sights every day are displayed;While blasphemous curses may well nigh astound you,And dangers fast thicken; yet be not dismayed.Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!If these things appal you your help they demand.
Thousands of widows and orphans call on youWho lost their support from this tyrant's attacks,And he with his legions may soon fall upon you,If you now shrink from duty or show him your backs.Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!Your own peace and safety your efforts demand.
Our Jails and Asylums are full to o'erflowingWith victimized wretches struck by this fiend's hand,And many poor youths unsuspicious are goingTo destruction, led on by his magical wand.Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!The doom which hangs o'er them gives forth the command.
Then muster your forces and stand forth unyielding,In the name of Humanity heed not his rage.Mind not his blandishments—evil still gilding—But ever determine to war with him wage.Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!In this monster's overthrow firmly now stand.
Christians, arouse you! Quick, up and be doing!For help look to God's own Omnipotent Arm!Let no Tempter charm with the soft voice of wooing,Or frighten your hearts by the sounds of alarm.Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!'Midst trials and dangers like true heroes stand.
1854.
He who wrote these lively versesHath his talents misemployed,While he marriage ills rehearses—The conjugal life aspersesWhich so many have enjoyed.
And each brown or blue eyed charmer,Let her rank be high or low,Must have felt such verses harm her—Must have felt her cheek grow warmerWith just indignation's glow.
Were he then as bachelor livingHe might speak of bachelor life.But such men need not be givingCrabbed views of man and wife.
If he were to fair one marriedGreater still would be the shame;It would prove love had miscarried,He alone perhaps to blame.
Were it shown that he was jesting,Jests like this with ills are rife;Poets should be still attestingThis plain truth—Mankind are blest inChaste and sweet Conjugal Life.
Marriage is of God's ordaining,Serving purpose wise and good.Those who are from it abstaining,Should be found always refrainingFrom treating it in jesting mood.
From experience I am speaking,In protesting I preferA wedded life. If you are seekingTo have pockets with no leak in,From it let naught you deter.
But this thing make up your mind in,Choice should fall on one of worth.Love of wealth some men are blind in;For a wife may be worth finding,Though she be of humble birth.
If you are a true wife blest in,Mind you well fulfill your part,That you may, all cares distressed in,Prove the warmth of woman's heart.
I have proved it in rich measure,And with honest brow declare,Married life for sweetest pleasureCan with any life compare!
England's real strength is in the Lord of Hosts
Slumbereth now the British Lion,In his sweet green Island lair?No! He rushes forth to die onEurope's plains, or crush the Bear.
Now he may well hope for glory,Warring in defense of Right.Will he soon be faint and goryFrom the Czar's most lawless fight?
Oh, forbid it, God of Battles—In whom we would place our trust!Ere is heard his cannon's rattlesQuench the Bear's most savage lust!
Turn him back to his own regions,Though a wild and bitter clime;Wide disperse his barbarous legionsIn Thy own goodwayandtime.
If in Wisdom thou ordainestThis dread war shall still proceed—Let us feel thou ever reignestThrough the saddest hours of need;
That thou still as Sovereign rulestO'er the Nations of this world;That thou yet mad Despots schoolest,Ere they to the dust are hurled.
O preserve our generous Lion,And his partners in the War;Bid their hosts thy arm rely on;Guard each soldier, shield each tar.
Let we see them soon returningTo their now deserted domes;Let pure joy instead of mourningFill their fondly cherished homes.
May we profit by the lessonWhich events like this should teach—Seek to put away transgression,Act as healers of each breach.
Then we long may share God's favor—From the Queen upon her throneTo the lowly son of laborToiling his poor crust to own.
LINES WRITTEN ON THE MORNING OF THE DREADFUL FIRE WHICHCONSUMED THE B. B. & G. R. R. DEPOT BUILDINGS.
Oh! there has come on us a dreadful calamity,Our fine Depot Buildings in ruin lie low.And works which for months were in earnest activity,To Fire's fearful ravage have been made to bow.
If the watchmen were both in the right path of duty,How came it we every one heard with amaze,That they saw not the fire till it fiercely was burstingRight through the gable in one perfect blaze.
I would not indulge in ungrounded suspicion,But truly the matter looks dark to my mind.And I trust before long a most strict inquisitionWill be instituted, the faulty to find.
But should this be done would it rear up the buildingsThat now form a rubbish heap blackened and hot?Ah, no! and the Muse peering into the FutureFears never such structures shall rise on that spot!
Then mourn, Brantford, mourn! for thy sad, sad misfortuneMay well make thy sons to remember this day;And all may well sigh and feel strongest emotion,For troubles now thicken in blackest array.
And oh, it would tend to thy weal in the future,If thou such events as a warning would takeTo cleanse from thy dwellings Sin's dreadful pollution,Lest God's greater judgments against thee awake.
October 4, 1853
An humble poet—save the mark!Wishes to give to you a layIn honor of your wedding day,But somehow labors in the dark,And fears from etiquette to stray.
And why? No invitation cameTo bid me tune my simple lyre—To fan my low poetic fire,Nor yet a hope of deathless fameWhich might for risk, serve me for hire.
I'll run the risk and fearless strikeA lyre too apt to slumber long,And pour my thoughts in artless song.Many there are who do the like,And yet in this may do no wrong.
Now, I would hope sweet blessings mayFlow to you from our Father kind:The rich gift of a happy mind,In Wisdom's paths content to stay,And purest peace in that to find.
I trust you will be filled with love,Such love as God alone can give;That you may still before Him live.Placing your hopes always above,May you his Spirit never grieve.
O, may you still, as man and wife,Mutual confidence possess;For this will free from much distressYour family in after life,And make your care and sorrow less.
May both such lovely patterns beOf what your character requires,That if brought through Affliction's firesMankind your purity may see;And which to see God most desires.
And may you ever useful proveIn making known Christ's saving Name;Your minds not swayed by worldly fame—In urging souls to taste that LoveWhich cheers our hearts through scorn and shame.
And should you by His Grace becomeA numerous, holy, happy band,Still he'll uphold you by His Hand,Till all at last come safely homeUnto that glorious Spirit Land.
Yes, vain Scoffer! so the Scriptures tell us,But awful was the silence at that time;A prelude of the wrath of God most jealous,Expressed in dreadful thunderbolts sublime.
Oh! hast thou ever marked the scene that follows,When the first Angel did his trumpet takeAnd blow a blast heard through all Earth's vast hollows,Which did the mountains to their bases shake?
Or realize "the hail and fire comminglingWith blood, and all cast down upon the Earth?"To mention this should set thine ears a-tingling,And check at times thy loud uproarious mirth.
But read thou on with most profound attention:Dire woes stand forth in gloomy vividness!Ah! would'st thou shrink from some vague apprehensionThat the perusal might cause thee distress?
Know thou, what follows is but the beginningOf plagues more fearful than we can conceive.This thou must see, and yet thou keep'st on sinning,As if such madness Conscience could relieve.
Stop, then, at once, lest in Eternal ruinThy soul engulfed shall see her folly great.Flee now to Christ; become a suppliant suingFor pardon from Him ere it be too late.
Stern Winter on foul mischief bentLeft his cold region of the North;As his Advance-guard early sentLoud howling blasts and snow storms forth.
These warriors hastened to obeyThe mandate of their frost-robed King,And as they came the Orb of DayWithdrew his rays which gladness bring.
They, gathering strength as nigh the drewUnto our homes, spread ruin round,And thus transformed each beauteous view,And in white mantle clad the ground.
Before their track lay pastures green,While root crops in abundance toldHow fruitful had the Summer beenEre she away from us had rolled.
Behind them was a widespread wasteOf leafless trees and drifting snows,And still with most malicious hasteThey dealt around their chilling blows.
Anon their King in ice-car rodeWith furious speed, and placed his sealUpon the devastation broad,—Exulting in his savage zeal.
This done, fair Nature at his feetLay prostrate in the arms of death!And now the poor lack food and heat,Benumbed by his dread icy breath.
For in our great Commercial WorldLoud storms have rung their changes round,While some are from high station hurledAnd in chill Penury are found.
Our Workshops, erst with men well filled,The scenes of Trade's most busy strife,Are almost silent now, and skilledMechanics want the means of life.
And shall it e'er be said of thoseWho have of means a full supply,That avarice has their heart's blood froze,—That they can see their brethren die?
Forbid it, O Thou gracious One,From whom we every good obtain;O, melt the hardest heart of stone,And quell its cruel thirst for gain!
That those who have may freely giveOf food and clothes a plenteous storeTo help the needy now to live:"Those tend to God who help the poor."
Tune, "Auld Lang Syne."
O, no; I'm not an Englishman,Though it is something greatTo have for birthplace English soil,And live in such a State;Yet I'm notnowan Englishman,For why? I crossed the seaAnd live in dear Canadian clime,The Land of Liberty
I am notnowa leal Scotchman,Though born 'midst Scotia's hills,And recollections of her scenesMy bosom ever thrills,For I have sailed o'er ocean vast,And to this land have come,Where Freedom waves her banner o'erMy new, adopted home.
O, no, I'm not an Irishman,Though sprung from Erin's bowers,And Memory often takes me backTo those most happy hoursWhen, roaming o'er her fair green Isle,With warmth I pressed her sod,And felt my own, my native Land,The best that foot e'er trod.
[Footnote: The writer's main object in writing this song was to do what he could toward breaking down all remains of clannish feeling in this highly important country. Should a company, consisting of one or more persons from each of the countries mentioned, desire to sing it, each one might take the part applicable to him, and when the several sections have been gone through all join as full chorus in the last stanza, or slight verbal alterations may be so made that any single individual may sing it.]
For I have come to CanadaTo settle on her land,And to all her inhabitantsGive Friendship's honored hand.
I am no longer German nowThough "Fatherland" I loved,And vowed remembrance to takeOf her, where'er I roved.For here on this prolific soilI own a splendid farm,And lovely children growing upCall forth my feelings warm.
I would not be a Frenchman deemed,Though sprung of Gaulish race,And their pure blood I freely canIn my forefathers trace.For I would feel as much at homeAs ever man can beBack in our woods or in our towns,Whilst I have liberty.
O, yes; we are Canadians now,Wherever we were born;And we will strive in time to comeTo heal a land so tornBy party strife, by clannish fire,And aim to live in peace.Then put united efforts forth,Till life itself shall cease,To make her what she ought to be—Acknowledged on each handA noble, free, and powerful State,A great and glorious Land!
A CALL TO THE SOIREE* OF THE MECHANIC'S INSTITUTE, DECEMBER 23, 1857.
"Endeavor always to combine real good with pleasurable enjoyment."
Come, friends, to the Soiree; O why will you tarryWhen good things are waiting you there?For, after the eating, our friends, for this, meetingHave speeches prepared with due care.
Let all upper classes give ladies cash passes,'Twill cost but a very small price;And what they may spend in a way that will end inReal good, is a blow unto vice.
Come, merchants and doctors; come lawyers and proctors,And treat all your clerks to the feast.Fear not that your kindness will make them more mindlessOf what is your interest, the least.
Come, all ye mechanics, for no dreadful panicsWill meet you with grim spectre-faces.Bring also your spouses, nor leave in your housesThose charmers who wear childhood's graces.
Come, each son of labor, and do us the favorOf tasting the good things provided.A truce to your moiling! for hard daily toilingGives Rank that must ne'er be derided.
Haste all to the Soiree; none need to be sorryFor giving our Institute aid.The good you may do us'll diffuse itself through usTo the townsfolks of every grade.
* Pronounced as nearly as possible,swarry.
Dear friends, to this our social feast,We bid you welcome gladly,And trust you will not in the leastSpend moments with us sadly.
For though we've no great Bardling's strainJoined to rich organ's pealing,Yet none the less may Pleasure's trainBe softly near us stealing.
And should she deign to show her face,To smile on us benignly,Let's give to her a chaste embrace,By no means most supinely.
What though we lack exciting causeFor loud, uproarious laughter?Our temperate fare will not disposeTo heart-upbraidings after.
Yet we may well of mirth-enjoyA reasonable measure;And even skill and time employTo gain so bright a treasure.
Avoiding still too great extremes,Enjoy in moderationThe blessings which our Father deemsBest for us in each station.
Then we need have no vain regrets,No consciences unruly,—For sense of doing right begetsA sense of peace most truly.
Alcohol! Alcohol! who are thy victims?Come, answer me quickly; stand forth to the bar!That frown most defiantWill not make me pliant,I've pledged myself firmly to wage with thee war.For years thy dread shockI have borne like a rock,Still leaning for help on God's mighty aim.
Say, Alcohol, truly, who are thy victims?"Of the rich and the poor, the good and the fair,Mankind of each standing,Know well I've a hand inThe havoc and ruin they see everywhere!Daily with furyFrom Still and from BreweryI'm dealing out death without much alarm.
"Princes and Statesmen I count 'mongst my victims,With painters and poets, philosophers sage,Rich merchants, skilled doctors,Cute lawyers, keen proctors,Mechanics and laborers of each sex and ageAre found in my ranks,And lured on by my pranks,While I care not a pin what comes to them."
Then, Alcohol, tell me what do thy victimsIn such vile standing while here in this world?"They're spending their moneyNot for milk and honey,But for what will cause them to be quickly hurledTo that dreadful placeWhere there is not a traceOf richest mercy they here do contemn."
Alcohol, tell me what more are thy victimsAs fruits of their orgies accomplishing here?Asylums they're filling,While jails by their swillingAre constantly crowded, or far off or near;And orphans are madeBy this great liquor trade,In thousands as all may very soon see!
Alcohol, listen the doom which awaits thee:More than half of thy doings thou'st kept out of sight.Every good man and trueDeems it is but thy dueThat thou should'st be banished to Regions of Night.And heart-broken mates,With all orphans' sad fates,Compel us to give forth this doom on thee.
Woodyatt, this Christmas I devoteSome portion of my time to tellIn humble verse what God hath wroughtFor us who're snatched as brands from hell.
The best of all my coaxing powersTo lure the Muse I'll freely spend,Nor heed a whit the fleeting hoursUntil my pleasing task shall end.
For I have found a friend in thee,Such as I strove in vain to findFor twenty years; and this may beA wonder to thy generous mind.
But so it is; and I would prizeThe gift my God has kindly sent,Nor quell the feelings which ariseWithin my breast, till life be spent.
So, while my unlearned lyre I take,Most gracious Muse, thy aid impart!Thou canst not at such time forsakeThy humble friend in this his Art.
No paltry theme shall form my layTo such a friend at such a time.Then let my thoughts in rich arrayCome forth in gently flowing rhyme.
Nor wealth nor earthly pleasures makeThe sum and substance of my song;Such themes let grovelling rhymsters take,Who write to please a worldly throng.
For him and me a better wayRemains, and I will freely singOf pleasures with most lustrous ray,—Of those which from religion spring.
And well indeed may'st thou, dear friend,Rejoice with me that God hath broughtSuch sinful creatures to attendUnto His voice who pardon brought.
I more than twice ten years have beenWithin the Way to Endless Life.Thou in the last few months hast seenThat Way with richest blessings rife.
And now, when seated round our fires,Or when we take our walks abroad,We seem as one in strong desiresTo speak the praises of our God.
Big thoughts our kindred bosoms swell,Deep gratitude our ardor fires,Until we long for words to tellThe fervency that Love acquires;
And ponder as so well we mayUpon our present happy stateCompared with that in which we lay—Objects of wrath at hell's dread gate.
We ask each other, Why is this?Why are we favored thus of God?Why are we made joint heirs of Bliss,Destined to dwell in His abode?
Quickly the answer comes to hand:Simply because of God's pure Grace.And does not Love like God's demandThat we all seasons should embrace—
To speak to others of Christ's worth,That they with us may fully shareThe glories of our heavenly birth,The riches He can freely spare?
Then let us, brother, with our might,Work for Him while 'tis called To-day;Looking above for strength, for light,Press forward in this thrice-blest way.
Let us dig deep into that mineOf hidden wealth stored in the Word,And with strong faith all else resignJust clinging solely to the Lord.
O, should our lives for years be spared,May not one word or thought or deedUnworthy God, be by us shared,Who are from Satan's bondage freed.
1856.
Sorrow stealeth o'er my spirit,For I hear O'Carr is dead.Once I tried to sing his merit,After health began to fade.Then I thought his end was nigh,That he very soon would die,
When I saw that he was leavingHis sweet home for distant Isle,Oft the thought my soul was grieving"He might linger for a whileAnd then leave his wife and babe,Far away o'er Ocean's wave."
Yet I know our loving FatherOften hears his children's prayers;That he would at all times ratherEase them of their ills and cares,Than lay on a single stroke,If not needful 'neath his yoke.
And I thought he then would listenTo our supplications strong;That each countenance might glistenWith sweet joy ere very long:Joy from seeing him come back,Having of good health no lack.
When I heard of his returning,And how he was sinking fast,Soon my soul was strongly yearningTo be with him ere he passedFrom these earthly scenes awayTo enjoy Eternal Day.
This, my wish, kept growing stronger,As each day flew o'er my head,Till I felt I could no longerBrook delay, when lo! he's dead.Now I prize this pleasing thought,He to Bliss is safely brought.
While hot tears bedim the visionOf dear friends who mourn his death,May they manifest decisionBy the wondrous power of Faith,In belief that those who sleepSafe in Jesus shall not weep.
We are not forbid to sorrow,—Jesus wept at Lazarus' tomb.Soon will come the glorious MorrowWhich shall chase away our gloom;If we put our trust in God,And still seek to kiss His Rod.
Deep gloom pervades my spirit, and great sorrow fills my breastWith an overwhelming sense, which leaves me but little rest,For a dreadful stroke has fallen on the town in which I live,And sympathy and condolence I would most gladly give.
I have gone through many a street since this event transpired,Seen the faces of my townsmen in grief sincere attired,Heard them make sad remarks, seen tears bedim their eyes,While from every feeling bosom burst forth responsive sighs.
The stranger in our midst might well wonder why we're sad,For tokens of prosperity can everywhere be had.The river has not risen to a mighty swelling flood,Nor raging fire destroyed the homes of the Evil and the Good.
No pestilence like a serpent, with dread envenomed fangsHas seized the young and beautiful and filled our souls with pangs.Then why has gloom profound so settled on each face,And the finger-prints of sorrow left on us so dark a trace?
Ah! loving hearts left homes all filled with family delight.Full of hope and joyous feelings, never dreaming of a blightTo prospects of enjoyment that awaited their return,Where the smiles of wives and children make true love the brighterburn.
In such a happy state of mind they to Toronto went,And accomplished all their objects in the time which had been spent.Now, with still lighter hearts they make for home again,And in the cars meet many of their traveling fellow men.
Drawn by the snorting Iron Horse along the track they flew,What danger might be lurking near was hidden from their view.On, on, still on they went to a bridged precipice,When the Bridge gave way and all were hurled into the dread abyss!
The locomotive like a demon took first the fatal leap,Dragging the human-freighted cars with speed into the deepOne plunged with him beneath the dark and icy wave,And one stood upright on its end, as if some few to save.
Oh, my soul shrinks back with horror from dwelling on the sceneWhich met the gaze of anxious friends who to that place have been.I'd rather dwell upon the fact that Death to some was Life;That they have gained by having done so soon with earthly strife.
What thoughts filled all the bosoms of that mixed devoted bandIs only known to God Most High, who, in his mighty handHolds all our life and breath as his own most sovereign gift,And who alone can mortals shield from such destruction swift.
O, I know that some there died who had tasted of his grace, And sudden death to them was summons to the place Prepared by Jesus for his Saints in the mansions of the Blest, And they now are drinking of the sweets of Everlasting Rest.
Amongst these we gladly number the three* whom we have lost,In sympathy with the bereaved would try to count the cost;But oh, 'twould prove a fruitless task; then, while we feel so sore,Let us humbly bow our hearts to God and worship and adore.
*Mr. and Mrs. John Russell and Mr. Secord, who were well known as consistent Christians by all who had the pleasure of their acquaintance. All left large families and a numerous circle of friends to mourn their shocking and untimely end.
Tumultuous feelings like a torrent rushAthwart my soul and bear my spirit down.Pent up awhile they from my bosom gushIn such wild measure as I scarce have known.
For one I loved as friend for many yearsHas met a shocking end in Manhood's prime!And this dire stroke prospective pleasure sears,As grass is scorched by Sol in torrid clime.
Living as neighbors, Friendship's sacred bondGrew stronger every time we visits paid.He, undeterred by business would respondTo my desire, and list the songs I made.
Oft at such times he has my Mentor proved,Doing his best to aid me in my Art,By prudent counsel which I dearly loved,Proceeding as it did from kindly heart.
Now with bold hand I strike my rude harp's strings,And sing a funeral dirge o'er his sad bier.Up, up, my Muse, and sail aloft on wingsOf tuneful pathos while I shed a tear.
No more shall this kind friend thy efforts guide,Listening thy mournful or thy joyous strains.Death suddenly has torn him from the sideOf her he loved, who shared his joys and pains.
And I no more on Earth shall see his face,Or hear his praise or censure of my songs,Nor yet will he most critically traceWhat of true poesy to them belongs.
No more will he, well pleased, sweet music bringFrom our melodeon, while we join in praise.His soul untrammeled now on high will singIn God's pure worship and angelic lays.
His frame, too weakly for his ardent soul,Will feel fatigue no more by night or day.But then no more he'll take with me a strollBy our fine stream, soft murmuring on its way.
Nor yet, with pleasure great, hold deep discourseOn many subjects dear alike to both:Tracing the stream of Truth up to its Source,To do which fully he was nothing loth.
No more will he to an attentive throngGive well-timed lectures for his Country's weal;Yet his remembrances will live amongThose whom his conduct taught his worth to feel.
Ah me! that it should e'er have been my lotTo sing in soul-wrung anguish this sad strain!For, while his friendship will not be forgot,I long may wait to find such friend again.
BRANTFORD, December 12, 1857.
1858.
With my cradle scythe, feeling brisk and blithe,In the breeze-tempered heat of this fine day;I'll haste to the field with the wheaten yield,And there will I manfully cut my way.
Now in all my walks, with broad, rapid strokes;I bring down the waving grain quite low.Every sweep I try seems to make it sigh,But cheerful on, and still on I go.
I heed not the sweat, making my clothes wet,The toil and care will be well repaid;For this golden store drives want from my door,And the surplus is farmers' profit made.
Binder now keep pace, for this hard-run raceWill tell on the field ere night come in;And rest will be sweet in our plain retreat,Until a new day with its toil begin.
O, I think I see with exhuberant glee,Theshocksin good order standing round,And well-laden teams in my bright day-dreams,Are now trotting briskly over the ground.
Then hasten the day when our grain and hayWell secured beneath our good barn dome—Will inspire our hearts to perform their partsIn the cherished joy of Harvest Home.
Howard, thy fervid Christian zeal,Combined with large amount of love,So blessed to bonny Brantford's weal,So truly owned by God above,Lead me, ere from our midst thou moveWith those who form thy family,To seek assistance from that Dove—Inspirer of true Poesy,
That I may sing a well-timed lay;One which may thy best feelings suit,And thou may'st read when far awayWith pleasure, as the genuine fruitOf well-spent years that are not mute,But which have spoke in loudest toneTo some who have been most astute,As I in truth would frankly own.
They've told us of a work begunAmongst thy people, brought quite lowBy worldliness, which Saints should shunIf God's pure will they seek to know,Or wish in safety's path to go.Thou foundest them in this sad stateAnd to the yoke thy neck didst bowWith ardor, for thy soul was great.
Satan, no doubt, with jealous eyeWatched keenly for thy halting then;But thy Redeemer, ever nigh,Made much of his dread malice vain.He spake the word and wicked menFell down before the high-raised Cross,And forthwith steadily refrainFrom pleasures now viewed but as dross.
Backsliding Christians trembling cameTo that blest place—neglected long,And there rekindled worship's flame,And freely owned they had been wrong.Then, feeling sense of pardon strong,Afresh they family altars raise—On which to offer sacred Song,And join sweet prayer to grateful praise.
But 'tis a small, small part indeedOf what God had for thee to doWhich I can sing; so I proceedTo waft my meed of tribute through.For I would name, with pleasure too,The part performed by thy good wife.O, that I could in measure dueDescant upon her Christian life.
No party motives sway my soul,Nor thirst for paltry worldly fame;But feelings I need not controlPrompt me to dwell on her dear name.Sweet sufferer, deem me not to blameIf I have sacred rapture feltIn noting freely since you came,The virtues that with you have dwelt.
I frequent heard from one who sawYou lying oft on bed of pain,How bright in you was love's pure glow,Meek Patience following in his train.Now, could we see our loss your gain,Pleased we would bid you all depart;And might from vain regrets refrainGlad still to cherish you at heart.
Man professes to be humble,Signs himself "your servant, sir!"But he's very prone to grumble,Till it forms his character.
Grumbles he about the weather,Now too hot, anon too cold;Fancies oft 'tis both togetherEre the day is twelve hours old.
Then the dryness of the seasonRouses up anew his ire;Next its wetness without reasonMakes him grumbling bolts to fire.
Grumbles he of prospects darkening,Now, becausehard timeshave come,And to evil promptings hearkeningBy much grumbling spoils his home.
Hard to please in point of dinner,Flings he grumblings at his wife,Breaking her dear heart—the sinner!Inch by inch in daily life.
Nor at night are matters mended;Grumbles he if supper's late.She had need to be offended,Being tied to such a mate.
For a little kind enquiryOf existing state of thingsMight well curb his temper fiery,As each day her troubles brings.—
Bonny Fred's about his teething,Jane is sick in bed of mumps,Chris from croup has labored breathing,Maid-of-all work has the dumps.
Often thus are grumblings marringMan's great duties in the world;Filling it with strife and jarring,Till God's judgments forth are hurled.
Grumblers sometimes vent their spite inGross abuse of those in power,Promise well to show their might inDoing right, had they their hour.
Give it them, and still they grumble,Having not got all they want;Neither are they longer humble,Which but proves them full ofcant.
Many will not cease their grumblingTill death puts a stop to it.May God save all such from tumblingInto the eternal Pit!
March, with his usual terrors armed,Resolved again to mark his flightO'er the "Great Western," which has swarmedWith human freight by day and night.
Leagued closely, with a mischievous crew,Held by stern winter in reserve,He up and down the doomed track flew,But did not from his purpose swerve.
His eye he fixed upon a part—A deep embankment on a slope,And joy o'erflowed his chilly heartWhile lingering near the town of Cope.
Musing, he to himself thus spoke:"Here shall my darling scheme be tried;I and my gang at one bold strokeCan easily produce a slide.
"Better to serve my purpose foulI'll fix it for the eighteenth night,And raise such storm as may appalThe bravest soul that lacks daylight!"
Then, as by some mysterious spellHe called for elemental strife.Forth came dread clouds as black as hellThat seemed with every mischief rife.
Impelled by many a howling blast,Uniting in terrific roar,They down their fearful contents cast,And quickly a deep chasm tore.
The midnight train came rushing on,Nor dreamt the passengers of death.Nor thought perhaps that ere day's dawnGod would call some to yield their breath.
With furious speed the Iron HorsePlunged headlong in the new-formed deep,While raging elements their forceSpend as if laughing at the leap.
Dragged swiftly down is every carSave one, the last of all the train,And still the storm prolongs the warWith drifting snow or pelting rain.
Imagination scarce conceivesThe shrieks, the groans, the heart-wrung wails,Which rent the air! One yet believesThey did exceed what's told in tales.
And still the wind its keenest dartsHurls at the living and the dead.Blest then were those whose fearful heartsCould cling to Christ who for them bled.