WINTER SUNSHINE.

Good night! God bless thee, love, wherever thou art,And keep thee, like an infant, in His arms!And all good messengers that move unseenBy eye sin-darkened, and on noiseless wingsCarry glad tidings to the doors of sleep,Touch all thy tears to pearls of heavenly joy.Oh! I am very lonely, missing thee;Yet, morning, noon, and night, sweet memoriesAre nestling round thy name within my heart,Like summer birds in frozen winter woods.Good night!Good night!oh, for the mutual word!Oh, for the loving pressure of thy hand!Oh, for the tender parting of thine eyes!God bless thee, love, wherever thou art! Good night.

Good night, my love! Another day has broughtIts load of grief and stowed it in my heart,So full already, Joy is crushed to death,And Hope stands mute and shivering at the door.Still Memory, kind angel, stays within,And will not leave me with my grief alone,But whispers of the happy days that wereMade glorious by the light of thy pure eyes.Oh! shall I ever see thee, love, again,My own, my darling, my soul’s best beloved,Far more than I had ever hoped to findOf true and good and beautiful on earth?Oh! shall Ineversee thee, love, again?My treasure found and loved and lost, good night.

Good night, my love! Without, the wintry windsMake the night sadly vocal; and within,The hours that danced along so full of joy,Like skeletons have come from out their graves,And sit beside me at my lonely fire,—Guests grim but welcome, which my fancy decks,In all the beauty that was theirs when thouDidst look and breathe and whisper softly on them.So do they come and sit, night after night,Talking to me of thee till I forgetThat they are mere illusions and the pastIs gone forever. They have vanished now,And I am all alone, and thou art—where?My love, good angels bear thee my good night!

The “Miserere” of the wintry earthWent up to Heaven on the wings of air—I heard it, sitting by my lonely hearth—An awful music; sighs and moans of prayer,The anguish human words could never bearInto God’s ear, the agony whose birthThe soul hides from itself were mingled thereWith the fierce undertones of frantic mirth.Then came a hush, and suddenly the floorWas carpeted with sunshine, living gold,That filled the heart with summer; Heaven’s doorWas touched and opened, and at once there rolled,In strains of sweetest music from above,Back to the earth an answer, “God is Love!”

C horo sancto nunciatus,H omo, Deus Increatus,R egum, Rex, Puellâ natus,I n ignaris habitat;S umit vilem carnis vestem,T radens Gloriam CœlestemU t dispellat culpæ pestem,S atanamque subigat.

S urgit Stella prophetarum,A dest Victor tenebrarum,L umen omnium terrarum,V ia, Vita, Veritas.A nimas illuminavit,T enebrarum vim fugavit,O ras Cœlicas monstravitR edemptoris Claritas.

Christmas, 1864.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?Tell, if you can, the tale of their birth;Have the stars from Heaven come down to wooThe flowers, the beautiful daughters of earth?

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?Have angels open’d the pearly doors,And, leaving their streets of golden hue,Blest with their footsteps our grassy floors?

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?Doth not each orb in its bosom bearRuby and topaz and sapphire blue,And all the colours that angels wear?

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?Are they the tears of the saints above,Returned to visit the scenes they knew,And to weep and pray for some earthly love?

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?Who, the good that in all things lies?Who, the primal beauty that grewInto myriad forms in Paradise?

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?Tell, if you can, the tale of their birth;Are they not, children of men, with you,Sons of the Lord ofHeavenandEarth?

In my ear is the moan of the pines—in my heart is the song of the sea,And I feel his salt breath on my face as he showers his kisses on me,And I hear the wild scream of the gulls, as they answer the call of the tide,And I watch the fair sails as they glisten like gems on the breast of a bride.

From the rock where I stand to the sun is a pathway of sapphire and gold,Like a waif of those Patmian visions that wrapt the lone seer of old,And it seems to my soul like an omen that calls me far over the sea—But I think of a little white cottage and one that is dearest to me.

Westward ho! Far away to the East is a cottage that looks to the shore—Though each drop in the sea were a tear, as it was, I can see it no more;For the heart of its pride with the flowers of the “Vale of the Shadow” reclines,And—hushed is the song of the sea and hoarse is the moan of the pines.

It is growing dark.At such a sunset I have been with Saul—But saw it not. I only saw his eyesAnd the wild beauty of his roaming locks,And—Oh! there never was a man like Saul!Strong arm, and gentle heart and tender waysTo win a woman’s very soul, were his.When he would take my hand and look on me,And whisper “Rizpah”—Ah! those days are gone!Why should I weep? was I not loved by Saul?And Saul was king of all the Land of God.“God save the king!” But, hush! what noise was that?Oh heaven! to think a mother’s eyes should lookOn such a sight! Away! vile carrion-beast!Those are the sons of Saul,—poor Rizpah’s sons.O my dead darlings! O my only joy!O sweet twin treasure of my lonely life,Since that most mournful day upon Gilboa,Torn from me thus!I have no tears to shed.O God! my heart is broken! Let me die!*****Gilboa! David wrote a song on it,And had it put inJasher—“Weep for Saul.”Armoni used to sing it to his harp.Poor blackened lips!············I wonder if they dream,My pretty children············Come, Mephibosheth,Here is your father; say “God save the king!”The Gibeonites! Ah! that was long ago.Why should they die for what they never did?No; David never would consent to that!*****Whose son is he, this youth? Dost know him, Abner?Ha, ha! they shout again “God save the king.”*****Was I asleep? I came not here to sleep.O poor old eyes, sorrow has made you weak.My sons! No, nought has touched them. O, how cold!Cold, cold! O stars of God, have pity on me,Poor lonely woman! O my sons, Saul’s sons!Kind stars, watch with me; let no evil beastRend that dear flesh. O God of Israel,Pardon my sins! My heart is broken!

“God save the king!” But, hush! what noise was that?Oh heaven! to think a mother’s eyes should lookOn such a sight! Away! vile carrion-beast!Those are the sons of Saul,—poor Rizpah’s sons.O my dead darlings! O my only joy!O sweet twin treasure of my lonely life,Since that most mournful day upon Gilboa,Torn from me thus!I have no tears to shed.O God! my heart is broken! Let me die!*****Gilboa! David wrote a song on it,And had it put inJasher—“Weep for Saul.”Armoni used to sing it to his harp.Poor blackened lips!············I wonder if they dream,My pretty children············Come, Mephibosheth,Here is your father; say “God save the king!”The Gibeonites! Ah! that was long ago.Why should they die for what they never did?No; David never would consent to that!*****Whose son is he, this youth? Dost know him, Abner?Ha, ha! they shout again “God save the king.”*****Was I asleep? I came not here to sleep.O poor old eyes, sorrow has made you weak.My sons! No, nought has touched them. O, how cold!Cold, cold! O stars of God, have pity on me,Poor lonely woman! O my sons, Saul’s sons!Kind stars, watch with me; let no evil beastRend that dear flesh. O God of Israel,Pardon my sins! My heart is broken!

Such a pretty, siren faceThine was, Natalie!Such a merry, winning graceDrew my heart to thee,In those distant, happy daysWhen thy heart was free.

Fearless then we gathered joy,Not a care had we,Happier girl and happier boyWell there could not be;In our bliss was no alloy,Playmate, Natalie.

Time is cruel. Thou and IParted, Natalie!And thy kissed lips said “Good bye!Surely write to me.”Thou wast then too young to sigh,Little Natalie!

One day, after years had flown,Something came to me,’Twas a portrait of my ownPlaymate, Natalie,—Natalie,—but not my own,Never mine to be!

There she sat, so lovely grown,Like a queen to see,—There she sat—but not alone,—With her—who is he?So my boyish dream has flown,Faithless Natalie!

In my heart there is a placeStill for Natalie!For the pretty, siren face,For the sweetly, winning ways,That were dear to me,In those happy far-off days,When her heart was free.

The breath of the south wind was laden with woeAs it moaned to the Northland “Prepare for the foe!”And the Northland was silent a moment, and thenThere was hieing and arming and marching of men.

To the front! There’s a struggle—the crisis is past!The foemen are flying! woe, woe to the last!There’s a hush, only stirred by the zephyr of peace,Wafting thanks to the God who makes fighting to cease.

But, oh! with the voice of that zephyr a cryStrives up after justice that seemeth to flyFrom the nations of earth.—O our God have regardTo that cry; let the cause of the injured be heard!

From the blood of the true, the unselfish, the brave,From the women and children they perished to save,Goes a cry that no sound of rejoicing can still:“Judge between us and those who have sanctioned this ill.”

’Tis easy to cry “Raca”[B]from withinCold, passionless morality’s strong tower,To those who struggle fiercely, hour by hour,’Gainst grim Goliaths of unconquered sin.’Tis easy, safely far from battle’s din,To wave a sword or raise a banner highTo those who have to fight each inch, or—die;Who must be wounded, even if they win.’Tis easy to point clean, weak hands of scornWhen some much-tempted brother falls or flies;Or some sweet Eve has strayed from ParadiseInto the outer world of briar and thorn.But in the great, high council of the skiesThere’s One who reads men’s hearts with milder eyes.

’Tis easy to cry “Raca”[B]from withinCold, passionless morality’s strong tower,To those who struggle fiercely, hour by hour,’Gainst grim Goliaths of unconquered sin.

’Tis easy, safely far from battle’s din,To wave a sword or raise a banner highTo those who have to fight each inch, or—die;Who must be wounded, even if they win.

’Tis easy to point clean, weak hands of scornWhen some much-tempted brother falls or flies;Or some sweet Eve has strayed from ParadiseInto the outer world of briar and thorn.

But in the great, high council of the skiesThere’s One who reads men’s hearts with milder eyes.

[B]St. Matthew’s Gospel v. 22.

Sing me the songs I love once more,The songs your lips have made so dear,For many a day must pass beforeAgain your music fills my ear.And when you are no longer near,I’ll in my loneliness rejoice,Deep in my inmost heart, to hearThe gentle music of your voice.’Tis not in words that friendship lies,E’en when those words in music move,But words have power that never dies,When said or sung by those we love.So when in weariness I roveThrough the world’s desert, seeking rest,The memory of your songs shall proveA solace to my lonely breast.And when you sing those songs again,For gayer hearts and brighter eyes,And thinking upon “now” as “then,”Memories of other days arise,Believe that none more dearly prizeThe strains your lips so sweetly pour,Than he who asked ’neath other skies,“Sing me the songs I love once more.”

’Tis not in words that friendship lies,E’en when those words in music move,But words have power that never dies,When said or sung by those we love.So when in weariness I roveThrough the world’s desert, seeking rest,The memory of your songs shall proveA solace to my lonely breast.

And when you sing those songs again,For gayer hearts and brighter eyes,And thinking upon “now” as “then,”Memories of other days arise,Believe that none more dearly prizeThe strains your lips so sweetly pour,Than he who asked ’neath other skies,“Sing me the songs I love once more.”

He is dead! and what words can we say that will tell half the sorrow we know;He is murdered! and mutters for vengeance are mingled with wailings of woe;He is gone! and the voice that thrilled thousands, like music, forever is hushed;He lies bleeding! and with him the heart of the nation lies bleeding and crushed!Ah! yes, he is gone! The pure stars that lighted him home to his rest,Saw his blood as he lay there, a martyr, his hand to a motionless breast;And the wings of the angels that quivered a moment before with his words,Flashed again—“He is dead,” and the souls of the waking were pierced as with swords.Hardly strange doth it seem that the Springtime refuseth this morn to be gay,And covers her eyes with a veil, and putteth her garlands away,For she feels that the heart of a prophet of man and of nature is still,And she hideth her flowers in her bosom and cannot be gay, if she will!O Canada, weep, ’twas for thee that he spoke the last words of his life!Weep, Erin, his blood has been shed in the healing of wounds of thy strife!Weep, Scotia, no son of thy soil held thy mountains and valleys more dear!Weep, England, thy brave, honest eyes never glistened with worthier tear!He was true to himself, to his faith, to the lands of his birth and his choice;He was true, when, a boy, he obeyed, as he deemed it, a patriot voice;He was true, as a man, to the light gained by years, spite of slanderous breath;He was true, as the champion of peace, amid foes, under ban,unto death!“Had he faults?” men will ask. Who is faultless? How many there are who redeemNot the faults that they have by one virtue to make them a shield of esteem,But lie evermore all content in their grave of misdoing; but heSent a light through his life that makes glorious for ever the name ofMcGee.

Ah! yes, he is gone! The pure stars that lighted him home to his rest,Saw his blood as he lay there, a martyr, his hand to a motionless breast;And the wings of the angels that quivered a moment before with his words,Flashed again—“He is dead,” and the souls of the waking were pierced as with swords.

Hardly strange doth it seem that the Springtime refuseth this morn to be gay,And covers her eyes with a veil, and putteth her garlands away,For she feels that the heart of a prophet of man and of nature is still,And she hideth her flowers in her bosom and cannot be gay, if she will!

O Canada, weep, ’twas for thee that he spoke the last words of his life!Weep, Erin, his blood has been shed in the healing of wounds of thy strife!Weep, Scotia, no son of thy soil held thy mountains and valleys more dear!Weep, England, thy brave, honest eyes never glistened with worthier tear!

He was true to himself, to his faith, to the lands of his birth and his choice;He was true, when, a boy, he obeyed, as he deemed it, a patriot voice;He was true, as a man, to the light gained by years, spite of slanderous breath;He was true, as the champion of peace, amid foes, under ban,unto death!

“Had he faults?” men will ask. Who is faultless? How many there are who redeemNot the faults that they have by one virtue to make them a shield of esteem,But lie evermore all content in their grave of misdoing; but heSent a light through his life that makes glorious for ever the name ofMcGee.

April7th, 1868.

Killynoogan,—hallowed name,—Though thou’rt little known to fame,My heart’s homage thou dost claim.

Though to stranger ears thou beBut a word of mystery,Meaning deep thou hast for me.

All thy quaint old masonryNow before my eyes I see,As, of old, it used to be.

Ah! too well I can recallEvery stone in every wall,—In my heart I count them all.

And the lawn before the door,I can see it as of yore,Bright with daisies spangled o’er.

And the hedge, along whose side,Oft, in childhood, I have triedTo escape, when playing “Hide.”

And the miniature wood,Where in boyhood I have suedCoyish maiden, Solitude.

And the garden full of flowers,Where I’ve past romantic hours,Dreaming of fair ladies’ bowers.

In the orchard, stretched at ease,On the grass, I hear the breezePiping ’mong the apple trees.

While from many a leafy nook,Grave as parson at his book,Rook replieth unto rook.

I can hear the river’s flowAs it murmurs, soft and low,Bringing news from Pettigo.

I can watch it to the mill,Where the never-tiring wheelDances round and drinks its fill.

Past the ever-bubbling “spa,”Past the castle of Magra,Razed by Cromwell’s cruel law,

On it goes with many a turn,Playing with its fringe of fern,Till it touches broad Lough Erne.

Here I leave thee, little stream,Lost, like much I dearest deem,In my life’s oft-shifting dream.

Lost! but let me backward haste,I have little time to wasteIn my ramble through the past.

Words are cumbersome, at times,Thought could visit fifty climes,While I’m seeking useless rhymes.

I am back upon the lawn,That I’ve often stood upon,But—is every body gone?

Knock,—is any one within?Not a sound, except the dinOf the mice,—they must be thin.

Look along the avenue,Is there any one in view?Surely, this cannòt be true?

Put your ear upon the ground!Listen! Is there any sound?Every thing is hushed around.

Oh! I dream! I might have known;Ihave wandered,—theyare gone,And offourremains butone.

Two were young and two were old;Threeare lying stark and coldIn death’s rigid, icy fold.

Dear old Killynoogan, thee,Once so full of life and glee,Lifeless, desolate, I see!

But, beloved and sacred spot,Nought of thee shall be forgot,Till what I am now—is not.

“What can I do that others have not done?What can I think that others have not thought?What can I teach that others have not taught?What can I win that others have not won?What is there left for me beneath the sun?My labour seems so useless, all I tryI weary of, before ’tis well begun;I scorn to grovel and I cannot fly.”“Hush! hush! repining heart! there’s One whose eyeEsteems each honest thought and act and wordNoble as poet’s songs or patriot’s sword.Be true to Him: He will not pass thee by.He may not ask thee ’mid His stars to shine,And yet He needeth thee; His work is thine.”

“Hush! hush! repining heart! there’s One whose eyeEsteems each honest thought and act and wordNoble as poet’s songs or patriot’s sword.Be true to Him: He will not pass thee by.He may not ask thee ’mid His stars to shine,And yet He needeth thee; His work is thine.”

October’s woods are bright and gay, a thousand colours vieTo win the golden smiles the Sun sends gleaming thro’ the sky;And tho’ the flowers are dead and gone, one garden seems the earth,For, in God’s world, as one charm dies, another starts to birth.

To every season is its own peculiar beauty given,In every age of mortal men we see the Hand of Heaven;And century to century utters a glorious speech,And peace to war, and war to peace, eternal lessons teach.

O grand, old woods, your forest-sires were thus as bright and gay,Before the axe’s murderous voice had spoiled their sylvan play;When other axes smote our sires and laid them stiff and low,On Hastings’ unforgotten field,eight hundred years ago.

Eight hundred years ago, long years, before Jacques Cartier clombThe Royal Height, where now no more the red men fearless roam!Eight hundred years ago, long years before Columbus cameFrom stately Spain to find the world that ought to bear his name!

The Sussex woods were bright and red on that October morn;And Sussex soil was red with blood before the next was born;But from that red united clay another race did startOn the great stage of destiny to act a noble part.

So God doth mould, as pleaseth Him, the nations of His choice;Now, in the battle-cry is heard His purifying voice;And now with Orphic strains of peace He draws to nationhoodThe scattered tribes that dwell apart by mountain, sea and wood.

He took the lonely, poet Celt and taught him Roman lore,Then from the wealds of Saxony He brought the sons of Thor;Next from his craggy home the Dane came riding o’er the sea,And last, came William with his bands of Norman chivalry.

And now as our young nationhood is struggling into birth,God grant its infant pulse may beat with our fore-fathers’ worth!And as we gather intoone, let us recall with prideThat we are of the blood of those who fought where Harold died.

October, 1866.

A good old poet sat by his hearth,While the wind and rain were raging abroad;And he thought of the poor who roamed thro’ the earthWithout a home or friend but God,While he was as snug as he could desire,Roasting his apples before the fire.And just with the thought came a voice outside:“O pray, let me in, I am wet and cold.”In a second the door has been opened wide,And there standeth a boy with ringlets of gold.“Come in, my boy, there is warmth for thee here;Come in and take share of my frugal cheer.”So the boy came in, and in spite of the stormA cherub he seemed who had come from the skies,With his curly locks and his graceful form,And the sparkling beauty that lit his eyes;But the bow that he bore was so spoilt with the rain,One would say he could never have used it again.Then the good old poet nursed the boy,And dried him and warmed him and gave him wine,And his heart grew glad, and the spirit of joyFrolicked and danced o’er his face divine;“Light of heart thou seemest, and light of head,Pray, what is thy name?” the old poet said.“My name is Love; dost thou know me not?Look, yonder my bow and my arrows lie,And I’d have you beware. I’m a capital shot.”“But your bow is spoilt.” “Never mind; I’ll try.”And he bent his bow, and he aimed a dart,And the good old poet was shot thro’ the heart.And he fell from his chair, and he wept full sore:“Is this my reward for my apples and wine?”But the Naughty Boy could be seen no more;He was forth again, for the night grew fine.“Bah! I’ll warn all the boys and the girls I know,If they play with this Love, they’ll have nothing but woe.”So the good old poet he did his bestTo make others beware of a fate like his;And he shewed them the arrow that pierced his breast:“Now you see what a terrible boy he is!”But an archer, who’s never two moment’s the same,Like Proteus, it’s hard to keep clear of his aim!

And just with the thought came a voice outside:“O pray, let me in, I am wet and cold.”In a second the door has been opened wide,And there standeth a boy with ringlets of gold.“Come in, my boy, there is warmth for thee here;Come in and take share of my frugal cheer.”

So the boy came in, and in spite of the stormA cherub he seemed who had come from the skies,With his curly locks and his graceful form,And the sparkling beauty that lit his eyes;But the bow that he bore was so spoilt with the rain,One would say he could never have used it again.

Then the good old poet nursed the boy,And dried him and warmed him and gave him wine,And his heart grew glad, and the spirit of joyFrolicked and danced o’er his face divine;“Light of heart thou seemest, and light of head,Pray, what is thy name?” the old poet said.

“My name is Love; dost thou know me not?Look, yonder my bow and my arrows lie,And I’d have you beware. I’m a capital shot.”“But your bow is spoilt.” “Never mind; I’ll try.”And he bent his bow, and he aimed a dart,And the good old poet was shot thro’ the heart.

And he fell from his chair, and he wept full sore:“Is this my reward for my apples and wine?”But the Naughty Boy could be seen no more;He was forth again, for the night grew fine.“Bah! I’ll warn all the boys and the girls I know,If they play with this Love, they’ll have nothing but woe.”

So the good old poet he did his bestTo make others beware of a fate like his;And he shewed them the arrow that pierced his breast:“Now you see what a terrible boy he is!”But an archer, who’s never two moment’s the same,Like Proteus, it’s hard to keep clear of his aim!

Thou art gone, sweet love, to take thy rest,Like a weary child on thy mother’s breast;And thou hearest not, in thy calm deep sleep,The voices of those that around thee weep.Thou art gone where the weary find a home,Where sickness and sorrow can never come;A flower too fair for earthly skies,Thou art gone to bloom in Paradise.Thou art gone, and I hear not thy gladsome tone,But my heart is still beating “alone, alone,”—Yet often in dreams do I hear a strainAs of angels bearing thee back again.Thou art gone, and the world may not miss thee long,For thou didst not care for its idle throng;But this fond bosom, in silent woe,Shall carry thine image wherever I go.Thou art gone, thou art gone! Shall we meet no moreBy the sandy hill or the winding shore?Or watch as the crested billows rise,And the frightened curlew startling cries?Thou art gone, but oh! in that land of peaceWhere sin, and sorrow and anguish cease,Where all is happy and bright and fair,My own sweet love, may I meet thee there?

Thou art gone, sweet love, to take thy rest,Like a weary child on thy mother’s breast;And thou hearest not, in thy calm deep sleep,The voices of those that around thee weep.

Thou art gone where the weary find a home,Where sickness and sorrow can never come;A flower too fair for earthly skies,Thou art gone to bloom in Paradise.

Thou art gone, and I hear not thy gladsome tone,But my heart is still beating “alone, alone,”—Yet often in dreams do I hear a strainAs of angels bearing thee back again.

Thou art gone, and the world may not miss thee long,For thou didst not care for its idle throng;But this fond bosom, in silent woe,Shall carry thine image wherever I go.

Thou art gone, thou art gone! Shall we meet no moreBy the sandy hill or the winding shore?Or watch as the crested billows rise,And the frightened curlew startling cries?

Thou art gone, but oh! in that land of peaceWhere sin, and sorrow and anguish cease,Where all is happy and bright and fair,My own sweet love, may I meet thee there?

March, 1857.

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