By many a bard the Cameron clan is sung,Their march, their charge, their war cry, their array;Their laurels that from bloody fields have sprung,Where they have kept the sternest foes at bay.
The flowing tartan and the eagle plume,The gathering, and the glories of the clan,Let others sing, we will not so presume,We bring our humble tribute to the man.
The man with heart benevolent and kind,The man with earnest and persuasive tongue;Would there were many like him heart and mindTo combat with this fashionable wrong;
Who longs to remedy these human ills,Feeling God made of one blood all the earth;Whose sympathies have passed his native hills,And spread beyond the clan that gave him birth.
Is it not sad when in high places soNo sense of honour or of shame remains;Men who make laws while reeling to and fro,Statesmen with swaying step and muddled brains!
For scenes disgrace our new-built palace walls,And Canada on some reformer waits;Shall vice within the Legislative HallsBe rampant as the lions on the gates?
Oh for a man of action and of prayer,Who feels this sin a national disgrace;A man who has the strength to do and dareThe pluck and courage of the Celtic race.
If thou art he, thou'rt welcome to the van,To battle for the right in time of need;To win fresh laurels for the Cameron clan,And thousands bid thee heartily God speed.
TO THE HON. THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE.
O thou son of the dark locks and eloquent tongue,With the brain of a statesman sagacious, and strong,And the heart of a poet, half love, and half fire,Thou hast many to love thee and more to admire;But I bore thee, and nursed thee, and joyed at the fameWhich the sons of the stranger have spread round thy name.I am Erin, green Erin, the "Gem of the sea."Listen, then, to thy mother's voice, D'Arcy McGee.
Since the crown from my head, and the sceptre are goneTo the hand of the stranger, who held what he won,I have borne much of sorrow, of wrong and of shame,I've been spoken against with scorning and blame;But still have my daughters been spotless and fair,And my sons have been dauntless to do and to dare;For as great as thou art and most precious to me,Still thou art not my only one, D'Arcy McGee.
At the bar, in the senate, in cassock or gown,Our foes being judges, they've got them renown;On the red field of battle, of glory, of death,They've been true to their colours and true to their faith;And where bright swords were clashing and carnage ran high,They have taught the stern Saxon they know how to die.Well, no wit, poet, statesman or hero can beMore dear to my heart than thou, D'Arcy McGee.
Wild heads may plan glories for Erin their mother,Weak plans and wicked plans chasing each other;To me worse than the loss of a sceptre and crownIs a spot that might tarnish my children's renown,'Tis the laurels they win are the jewels I prize,They're the core of my heart and the light of my eyes;For my children are gems and crown jewels to me,And art thou not one of them, D'Arcy McGee!
I had one son, and, oh, need I mention his name!He who well knew where lay both our weakness and shame;His true, tender heart sought to measure and knowThis thing, most accursed, formed of babbling and woe;And his life did he dedicate freely, to slayThe monster that made my bright children his prey;In the place where the wine cup flows deadly and free,The bane of the gifted, oh D'Arcy McGee.
For so well hath the father of lies tried to flingA false glory around it, so hiding the sting,Saying wit gets its flash, and high genius its fire,From the fiend that drags genius and wit through the mireAh 'it biteth, it stingeth, it eateth away,And our best and our brightest it takes for its prey,'Tis the bowl of the helot, no cup for the free,As thou very well knowest, my D'Arcy McGee.
Hast thou risen my loved one and cast from thy nameAll the shadows that darken thy life with their shame;Thou hast raised thyself up, against wind, against tide,Thou art high, thou art honoured, my joy and my pride;Now the song of the drunkard is chased from thy place,And my pride is relieved from this touch of disgrace.Thou wilt help to make Erin "great, glorious and free,"And I bless thee my silver-tongued D'Arcy McGee.
There's a place in the North where the bonnie broom grows,Where winding through green meadows the silver Maine flows,Every lark as it soars and sings that sweet spot knows;For the mate for whom it sings,Till the clear blue heaven rings,Is brooding on its nest mid the daisies in the grass;And that psalmist sweet, the thrush,And the linnet in the bush,Tell the children all their secrets in song as they pass.
Oh brightly shines the sun there where wee birdies sing,A glamour's o'er the buds in the green lap of spring,In happy, happy laughter children's voices ring!Like some fair enchanted ground,In memory it is found,Where my childhood's golden hours of happiness were spent;There within a leafy nook,I have pored upon a bookTill romance and fairy lore with every thought were blent.
I mind how fair the world was one bright summer day,Sitting in a shady place better seemed than play;Childhood's golden memories never fade away;My child friend most sweet and fair,My bright Lily she was there;We read and mused in silence and spoke our thoughts by turns;Lily, with her lofty look,Turned oftenest to her book,The book that lay between us was the peasant poet Burns.
The heaven-gifted man with winsome witching art,Who touches at his will the kindly human heart,'Till it throbs with joy like pain and tears begin to start;He so tenderly touched oursWith his melting magic powers,Made feelings which he felt within our bosoms spring,Where he wished for Scotia's sake,Some plan or book to make,Or to write the bonnie songs his country loves to sing.
Fancies wild were ours on that day so long ago,Stirred by Burns's genius, for we had learned to knowThe beauty of sweet Erin and something of her woe;And in song we longed to tellOf the land we loved so well,Singing words of hope and cheer, wailing each sad mishap,Like the daisies on the sod,With their faces turned to God,Clung we to the island green that nursed us on her lap.
I said to Lily, fair, my hand among her curls,If we were Red Branch Knights, or high and noble Earls,Or poets grand like Burns, instead of simple girls,We might do some noble deed,Or touch some tuneful reed,Something for the land we love to bring her high renown,The land where we were born;Is spoken of with scorn,Her children's songs should praise her, her children's deeds shouldcrown.
My fair and stately Lily how thy hand sought mineClasped it warm and tender with sympathy in thine,As I wished that we could make our 'streams and burmes shine'There's many a ruin old,There's many a castle bold,There's Sleive mis with his head in mist, here's the silver Maine,But who of them will singTill the whole world shall ring,With the melody, and ask to hear it once again?
If one of her own children standing boldly forth,With eyes to see her beauty, a heart to know her worth,Would fling the charm of song o'er the green robe of the NorthLily said, sweet friend there's one,And his name is Herbison,Who sings of Northern Erin in sunlight and in storm,Of the legend and the tale,Of the banshees awful wail,Of Dunluce upon the sea, of the castle of Galgorm
Of the gallant deeds of the all but vanished race,The high O'Neils who kept with princely state their placeOf their white armed daughters in beauty's woeful raceIn that joyful youthful timeAll my pulses beat to rhyme,I thought what you were doing that I would also do,I would praise the bonnie North,And draw its legends forthFrom cottage and from castle the pleasant country through
I'd make the land I loved in poesy to shine,The Maine should flow along in "many a tuneful line,"Songs praising hills and streams full sweetly should be mine,And the legends I would sing,From lip to lip should ring,My native land should ask for, and hear my humble name;When like her tuneful son,Green laurels I had won,I'd think her love for me was better far than fame.
Blessed be the green recess by the sweet Maine water whereI a little child with my child friend sweet and fairBuilt with golden fancies this castle in the air!My child friend is at rest,Erin's shamrock's on her breast,I her little minstrel am all unknown to fame,For the songs are all unsung,And not a northern tongueHas spoken once in praise my very unknown name
But I know heroic souls beyond my feeble praise,I know of calm endurance like the great of other days,High deeds for battle song, worth a poet's noblest lays,Of the pathos of the strifeIn the lowly walks of life,Of many an unknown hero that has won the victor's crownAnd the lovely, lovely land,Landscape fair, and castle grand,Worthy the coming bard who will sing of their renown.
I love thee well, sweet Erin, though fate led another way;I'll call thee still,mavourneen, when head and heart are grey;Another one will say and sing what I have failed to say;But this very day to me,There has come across the seaSome pleasant verses bearing a well remembered name;That has done for Erin's landWhat I only thought and planned,And won a place in Erin's heart that I can never claim.
So unknown beside a pine-fringed lake away beyond the sea,Half in gladness of remembrance, half in wakened childish gleeI stretch my hand in homage and kindredship to thee,I greet thee this bright dayFrom three thousand miles away,And to thy well earned laurels I'd add a sprig of bayGlad to know thou'rt rhyming yet,For thy readers can't forgetErin's genial loving son,Poet of the steadfast North kindly David Herbison
DEATH OF D'ARCY McGEE
He stood up in the house to speak,With calm unruffled brow,And never were his burning wordsMore eloquent than now
Fresh from the greatest victoryThat mortal man can winThe triumph against fearful odds.Over besetting sin
'Twas this gave to his eloquenceThat thrilling trumpet toneMoving all hearts with those bright thoughtsVibrating through his own
Thoughts strong, and wise, and statesmanlike,Warm with the love of RightThat gave his wit its keenest edge,His words their greatest might
He little thought his last speech closed,That his career was o'er,That those who hung upon his wordsShould hear his voice no more.
He walked home tranquilly and slow,Secure, and unaware,That there was murder in the hushOf the still midnight air.
"Tis morning," said he, knowing notThat he had done with time;That a bloody hand would our country stainWith another useless crime.
He stood before a portal closedTo him for evermore,Behind him with uncreaking hingeOped the eternal door.
And ere the east grew red again,His life blood's purple flowHad made that pavement holy ground,And filled the land with woe.
My country! Oh my country!What is to thee the gain?Wilt nourish trees of libertyIn blood so foully slain?
A withered shamrock, yet to me 'tis fairAs the sweet rose to other eyes might be,Because its leaves spread in my native air,And the same land gave birth to it and me.
They were as plentiful as drops of dewIn our green meadows sprinkled everywhere,Heedless I wandered o'er them life was new,Now as a friend I greet thee shamrock fair
Because I dwelt with my own people then,Erin's bright eyes, and kindly hearts and true,That from my cradle loved me, and againWe'll never meet—spoken our last adieu
I am a stranger here, I have not seenOne friendly face of all that I have known,And my heart mourns for thee my island green,Because I am a stranger and alone
So thou art welcome as a friend to me,Tell me where lay the sod that brought thee forth,Idly I wonder as I look at theeIf thou hast come, as I did, from the North?
From the green glens that he beside the seaFrom cloud capt Sleive mis of the shamrock vest?From near old castles, where the dread bansheeWaits for the native lords when laid to rest?
Or did the tartaned stranger call thee whereMount Cashel's Lord rules o'er a fair domain?Or grass grown ruin all that's left to bearOf a lost race the all but fading name?
The lovely Maine lingers in flowing throughThe peaceful place that was my childhood's home,Myriads of shamrocks on its margin grew,Was it from these thy sisters thou hast come?
Such fair broad meadows by Maine water lay,Erin her mantle green for carpet spread,In merry childhood there we met to play,Dashing the dew from many a shamrock's head.
Where sleep the village dead there is a spotThat's dearer far than all the rest to me;It's interwoven with full many a thought,And with my young heart's childish history.
She was most fair that sleeps that sod beneath;The fair form shrined a soul akin to mine,And the sharp pain of heart ties cut by death,Has softened been but left unhealed by time
And Erin spread her skirt across her grave,And there were shamrocks nestling on the breast,And blue bells and all flowers that softly wave,Making more beautiful her place of rest.
If 'twas from there the stranger gathered theeI would forgive the sacrilege, and thouA precious relic to my breast would be,Nor prized the less because thou'rt withered now.
Ah me! I know thou canst not answer me,Yet sight of thee must all these thoughts awake;Enough, from mine own land thou comest, thou'lt beWelcome to Erin's child alone for Erin's sake.
From morn to eve, from evening unto morning,I mourn and cannot rest;So mourns the mother bird when home returningShe finds an empty nest.
I mourn the little children of my dwelling,That are forever gone,Sorrows that mothers feel my heart is swelling,And so I make my moan.
One little blossom on my bosom faded,And passed from me away,But near my door the drooping willows shadedMy little boys at play
My boys that came with flying feet to meet me,And questions wondrous wise,And bits of news which they had brought to greet me,And see my glad surprise
Bitter for sweet no human hand can alterNor bid one sorrow pass,With sudden stroke our darling little WalterWas laid beneath the grass
Ah then it was to me an added sorrow,To hear his brother moan,Where's little Walter, will he come to morrowI cannot play alone?
The summons for the child had come alreadyWhich said I must resignThe best beloved, the precious little Freddie,To other arms than mine
How still and lone are the familiar placesWhere little pattering feetMade music for me, and I saw bright facesDimple with laughter sweet
My arms are empty that woold fain be foldingMy lost ones to my breast,But well I know, the Father's face beholding,They are forever blest.
From Christ's dear words my bleeding heart would gatherAt length submissive grace,—He says that in the kingdom of His Father,They still behold His face.
In the bright garden of the Lord they're staying,Amid the angels fair;And heavenly whispers to my heart are saying—Look up, your treasure's there.
(I have borrowed thy pattern, dear Hood, to cut out our mourning garments.)
With garments for sorrow torn,With eyelids heavy and red,A woman sat by a new-made grave,Bewailing her slaughtered dead—Weep! weep! weep!Tears of remorseful pain;The sorrow that sorrows without a hope,Is poured forth above the slain.
Drink! drink! drink!It slayeth on every side,Till the blue-eyed baby is fatherless,And a desolate widow the bride.O for a gleam of lightOn the home, on the friendly hand,That pours in kindness the burning draughtThat maketh a desolate land.
Drink! drink! drink!The horse-leech ever craves,There are empty chairs in the desolate home,And the earth swells with new-made graves.Cellar, saloon, and bar,Bar, cellar, saloon,And a wasted life, and a hopeless death,Is the tempted victim's doom
O men with the friendly treat!O women with New Year's wine!It is not liquor you're pouring out,But your child's blood and mine,Drink! drink! drink!In joyous youthful prime,Drink that marks out the downward roadTo want and disease and crime
Drink in the lordly hall,Pour out the blood-red wine,—And grey hairs sorrow over the grave,That is dug before its timeDrink for the darling son,Till the softened brain goes mad,And darkness falls on the father's lifeWhich is bound in the life of the lad.
Every unwilling slaveStandeth on the bedroom's brink,But what will free the body and soulThat is enslaved by drink?Bar, cellar, saloon,Cellar, saloon and barAlas, that the demon of drink slays moreBy far than the demon of war
Drink! drink! drink!Till manhood and pride are gone,Drink over the grave of self-respect,And then in despair drink on.Drink! drink! drink!Drink at the fearful costOf knowing that though still cursed with life,Yet hope is forever lost.
Our brightest go down to death,We cannot our dearest save;And we dare not think of the judgment seatThat lieth beyond the grave.Drink! drink! drink!So many are licensed to sell,Drink; you will surely find the house,Whose guests find the way to hell.
Oh for the plighted bandOf those who are bound to saveTheir fellow men from the fearful doomThat extends beyond the grave!Alas! they are trying hardTo do, what they cannot do,To wage a war to the uttermost,And only hurt a few.
Bar, cellar, saloon,Cellar, saloon and barAre swiftly, surely, doing their workAs those who in earnest are;And the moderate drinker stands,Kind, at the head of the way,And opens the gate, with friendly hands,Of the road that leads astray.
Of the road that leads astray,And never will stop to thinkThat the shroud is sewed, and the grave is dug,For the lost by moderate drink;And the banded are loath to strike,They have friends on the other side,And therefore "Hell hath enlarged herself"And opened her mouth so wide
The strong and the brave are lost,Do we keep the tender and fair?Does the demon who strikes down fathers and sons,All the daughters and sisters spare?Bar cellar saloonCellar, saloon and bar,—Oh! who will preach a new crusade,Or join in this holy war?
With garments for sorrow torn,—With eyelids heavy and red,A woman sat by a new made grave,Bewailing over the deadWeep! weep! weep!How many will weep in vain?How many will rise in a holy cause,That the slayer may be slain?
(Noel.)
By the sad fellowship of human suffering,By the bereavements that are thine and mine,I venture—oh, forgive me!—with this offering,I would it were to thee God's oil and wine
I too have suffered—is it then surprisingIf to thy sacred grief I enter in?My spirit draws near thine all sympathising,Sorrow, like love, "makes aliens near of kin."
Thou'rt weeping for thy gathered blossoms, mother,The Lord had need of him, and called him soon,In morning freshness ere the dews of heavenWere chased before the burning rays of noon.
Thy darling child, like to God's summer blossom,Was very fair and pleasant to the sight,The sunny head that rested on thy bosom,The loving eyes that were thy heart's delight,
Made passers by look on him with a blessing,Saying, "His mother is not all alone;Her widowed sorrow, in that sweet caressing,Will find some comfort for the lost and gone."
I miss him from the doorway, blythely playing,Where he has turned on me his winsome face;O lovely child! I said, "by lone hearth staying,Thou'lt make the widow's home a pleasant place."
The little one, thy comfort in affliction,With the sweet face earnest and innocent;That was to thee like Heaven's benediction,Such children for a little while are lent.
Pilgrims and strangers are we in our praying,But birds of passage to a brighter shore;Yet build our nests as if for ever staying,We and our treasures, here for evermore
But when our nestlings by the Master takenUp in God's Paradise to safely sing;And by the empty nest we wail forsaken,In the great loneliness of suffering.
We lift our tearful eyes in sorrow's blindness,And cry to him for very helplessness,Then He reveals to us His loving kindness,Even in bereavements 'tis His will to bless
He says "Look up," that we may cease our crying,Seeing our treasures in glad safety there,And there our hearts will be—for upward flyingIn longing love, they cast off earthly care
Thy home is silent all the rippling laughter,The sound of racing feet at play, is fled,But he, thy darling led up by the Master,Is with the living—not among the dead
Thy little ones within the jasper portals,There by the crystal sea he learns to singThe new song only known to the immortals,Promoted to the presence of the King
The child is safe within the Father's mansionSafe on the hills of God in light to range,And heart ties stretched unto their utmost tension,Will, by God's touch, to golden harp strings change
On which the Master will soft music render,Soothing with heaven's airs thy pathway dim,On which love's messages all sweet and tenderShall run between thee and thy angel kin
And they will draw thee upward growing stronger,When flesh and heart will one day faint and fail,And thou wilt care for earthly things no longer,For all thy treasures are within the veil
So friend of mine 'tis thy birthday morn,And friends with fair gifts around thee come,Outside the circle I stand forlorn,My hands are empty my lips are dumb.
O Thou who seest in secret still,Who reads the heart when no word is said,The wishes that rise in prayer fulfilIn royal blessings to crown his head.
Entering the portals of manhood now,The boy we loved from our knowledge slips,With fresh consecration seal his brow,With thy altar fire retouch his lips.
He girds himself for the strife anew,And love foresees what the dangers are;But thou, O Captain, art tried and true,'Tis at thy charge he goes forth to war!
My empty hands to thy throne I lift,While parting sorrow my spirit swells,Lord, thou wilt give him a birthday giftOut of the place where Thy fulness dwells.
He's called and chosen to dare and do,To uphold Thy banner on battle field;Be Thou to him strength and wisdom too,In the day of strife, his sword and shield.
More than I ask Thou wilt give, O King!What is my friendship or care to Thine!To the banquet house Thy hand will bringAnd refresh his lips with the kingdom's wine.
It was in the early morningOf life, and of hope to me,I sat on a grassy hillsideOf the Isle beyond the sea,Erin's skies of changeful beautyWere bending over me.
The landscape, emerald tinted,Lying smiling in the sun,The grass with daisies sprinkled,And with shamrocks over run,The Maine water flashed and dimpled,Still flowing softly on.
The lark in the blue above me,A tiny speck in the sky,Rained down from its bosom's fulnessA shower of melody,Dropping through the golden sunlight,And sweetly rippling by
Afar in the sunny distance,O'er the river's further brim,Like a stern old Norman warder,Stood the castle tall and grim,And, nearer a grassy ruin,Where an old name grew dim
I knew that the balmy gladnessWas brooding from sea to sea,But I felt a note of sadnessThat sobered my youthful glee,The love of my mother ErinStirred all my heart in me
Oh Erin! my mother Erin,Thou land of the tearful smile,Hearts that feel, and hands of helpingAre thy children's blessed Isle'The stranger is so no longerThat rests on thy breasts awhile
Be he Saxon, Dane or Norman,That steps on thy kindly shore,Who sets his foot on thy daisiesIs kinder for evermore,For thycead mille failthaThrills warm to his bosom's care.
But Erin, never contentedStruggles again and again,As all proud and free born captivesMust strive with the conqueror's chain.That, if ever snapped asunder,Is riveted firm again
The words of an Hebrew exile,Like to some sweet song's refrain,That sweetly goeth and comethAnd echoes through heart and brain,"Be sure that the day is coming"When Erin shall rise again
"She only of all the nations,"Since in dust our temple lies,"Has not our blood on our garments"Has brought no tears to our eyes,"He says, they prosper who love us"Thy Erin at last shall rise."
I waited, watched for the blessingPromised, oh so long ago,I looked for the brilliant futureThe end of the long drawn woe,My hopes, with my years, Time the reaper,Hath laughingly laid them low.
Oh Erin! my mother Erin!Will "to be" repeat what has been?Will your sons ever "shoulder to shoulder"Be strong and united seen?Will ever the foreign liliesBlend with the nation's green?
For in other lands the peoples,Quite forgetting ancient wrong,Have blended and fused, becomingBecause of their union strong,Leaving all old feuds and battles,As themes for romance and song
From party's Promethean vulture,When wilt thou get release?When will the strife of races,The strife of religions cease?And the hearts of thy loving childrenMingle and be at peace?
(Job iii. 26)
It was not that I lived a life of ease,Quiet, secure, apart from every care;For on the darkest of my anxious daysI thought my burden more than I could bear.The shadow of a coming trouble fellAcross my pathway, drawing very near;I walked within it awestruck, felt the spellTrembled, not knowing what I had to fear.The hand that held events I might not stay,But creeping to His footstool I could pray.
With sad forebodings I kept watch and wardAgainst the dreaded evil that must come;Of small avail, door locked or window barred,To keep the pestilence from hearth and home.The dreadful pestilence that walks by night,Stepping o'er barriers, an unwelcome guest,Came, and with scorching touch to sear and blight,Drew my fair child into her loathsome breast;Nothing had ever parted us till then,O child! when shall I hold thee once again?
As if the plague's red cross upon my door,With "Lord have mercy!" scared the passers by,So friends of mine that I had had before,Fled from the face of my calamity.Shut in, and yet shut out, my days went on,Shut in with woe, shut out from human kindWithin my boundaries, watching sad and lone,Hope with despair kept struggling in my mind.It is not always human hearts can sayTo Him who smites, "I trust Thee though Thou slay."
They're taught of God who say "Thy will be done,"When in the presence of the thing they fear,Both flesh and spirit fail when hope is gone,And what we dread the most is drawing near;I said, "an end comes to the darkest day,And the bright, sunshine follows after rain,This fearful pestilence will pass away,And I can comfort those she holds in pain;I'll take them to my heart, nor will I care,That her touch marred the faces I thought fair"
I clung to hope I would not let it go—And praying thoughts went up with every breath,For when the sickness came I did not knowThat with her came the angel they call Death.My child will be restored to me I said,Death took her hand-and almost unawares,She slipped away from me and joined the deadBack on my heart fell my unanswered prayers,Stunned I took up my child that was so sweetAnd wrapped her poor form in the winding-sheet
All desolate I bore her to her bierWith unaccustomed hands I laid her down,With grief too hard and deep to shed a tearWe stood beneath the heavens gathering frown,And then the storm burst on us in its might,The loosened winds rushed round to moan and rave,'Twas fittest so—they bore her from my sight,Through the wild ram and laid her in her grave,Then conscious only of a dreadful loss,I sat with sorrow underneath my cross
The little ones whose mother's with the deadCame with their many wants around my kneeAnd added, needless burden some one said,But ah! they were God's messengers to me,For here were duties that my hands must do,Although my wound might only bleed and smart,And so there came some solace to me throughThe helpless hands that touched my aching heartAh! little children bringing everywhereGod's blessed comfort mingled in with care
And so I do my task, my daily task,Working the work that's given me to do,Getting the daily strength for which I ask,The needed courage still to help me through;And my great sorrow passes out of sight,I have not time to sit and make my moan;But in the solemn stillness of the night,My woe comes back to me with heavy groan.And yet our Father weaves His golden threadInto the warp of duty's homespun web.
Thou art, and, therefore, Thou art near, oh God!Thick darkness covers me, I cannot see;Is this the Shepherd's crook, or the correcting rod,And by Thy hand, O Father, laid on me?
I cry to Thee, and shall I cry in vain?My soul looks up as if through prison bars,Up through the silent Heaven, ah, turn againThy face to me, hide not behind the stars.
Thy presence hath been with me in the past,Where "heaps of witness" mark out all the way;Thy years change not, Thy love is still as vast,I look to Thee, I trust Thee though Thou slay.
My friends walk on the hills the sun hath kissed,Flowers at their feet, their sky is blue and fair;I'm prisoned in this vale of tearful mist,Shut in with sorrow, darkened by despair.
I, too, once walked with footsteps glad and free,Light round my head, and in my mouth a song;Manna fell round my dwelling-place for me.For me the living waters flowed along.
Thy hand had set my feet upon a rock,That Rock stands fast, why then this loss and harm?I cannot find the footsteps of the flock,I cannot feel the Well-Beloved's arm.
They hold me in derision, for they say,Where is the God in whom you seemed to trust!Righteous art Thou O Lord! and if I mayBut find Thee I will lay me in the dust.
Saying, awake, arise my God, to meTurn in Thy love the mercy of Thy face;Then shall the day break, and the shadows flee,And I will sing of Thy sufficient grace.
A Prize Poem.
I know Canada is fair to see, and pleasant; it is wellOn the banks of its broad river 'neath the maple trees to dwell;But the heart is very wilful, and in sorrow or in mirth,Mine will turn with sore love-longing to the land that gave me birth;And I wish that, oh but once again! my longing eyes might seeThe green island that lies smiling on the bosom of the sea;That is fed with heaven's dew and the fatness of the earth,Fanned by wild Atlantic breezes that sweep over it in mirth.
Its green robe is starred with daisies; it is brilliant fresh andfair,With a verdure that no other spot of earth affords to wear.It has banks of pale primroses that like bits of moonlight glow;There are hawthorn hedges blossomed out like drifts of perfumed snow,Bluebells swinging on their slender stems and cowslips on the lea.I was better for the lessons they in childhood taught to me;And still sweet is every memory, and blessed each regretThat twines round that dear island home, which our hearts cannotforget.
From where Antrim's giant columns at the north are piled on high,The sentinels of centuries tow'ring up against the sky,From mountain top and purple heath, from valleys fair to see,Where streams of flashing crystal bright are flowing merrily,To Kerry's lakes of loveliness that dimple in the sun.'Tis fair as any spot of earth that heaven's light shines upon.O Erin, my mother Erin, dear land more kind than wise,I think of thee till loving tears come thronging to my eyes.
Thou hast nourished on thy bosom many sons of deathless fame;Who, while the world will last, shall shed a lustre on thy name.While Foyle's proud swelling waters roll past Derry to the sea;While yet a single vestige of old Limerick's walls there be;Shall those who love thee well, fair land, lament that feuds divideThe sons of those who for each cause stood fast on either side.From every ruined castle grey, well may the banshee cryO'er bitter waters once let loose that have not yet run dry
O would the blessed time might come when, party feeling done,The noble deeds of both sides will be gathered into one!On the battle-fields of Europe thy sons quit themselves like men,Till those who made them exiles longed for their good swords again,Wherever fields were fought and won, in thickest of the fray,Where steel bit steel, thy sons have fought and laurels bore awayAnd thou hast bards in deathless song thy heroes' praise to sing,Or make hearts throb responsive when for love they touch the string
Thou hast lovely, white-armed daughters so tender and so true,As modest as the daisies, and as spotless as the dew,With flashes of sweet merriment, and virtue still and strongThey fire the patriot's heart and charm the poet into songThou hast nourished those right eloquent to plead with tongue and pen,For those eternal rights which men so oft deny to men,And land of saints in song like mine, but little can be saidOf those who stand for God between the living and the dead
Thou'rt not without His witnesses for children of thy sod,In lofty and in lowly life, are found who walk with GodLand of the hearty welcome! who travels thy valleys o'erKnows more of human kindness than he ever knew before.While some are kind to friends alone, thy sons whate'er befalMore like the blessed sun and rain have kindliness for all.O Erin, my mother Erin! much my love would say of thee,Were my lips but half so eloquent as my heart would have them be.
As Moses longed for Lebanon, so I long that once againMy feet might press the shamrocks in the meadows by the Maine.Oh to see the wee brown larks again, once more to hear them sing,As up to heaven's blessed gates they soar on tireless wing!I'd watch them till I'd half forget the burden of my years,And tender thoughts of childhood would well up in happy tears.I may never see thee more,mo run, but with each breath I drawThou art still to memavourneen, soan slainte leat gu bragh.
Sons of the bright, green island,Gathered by the pine-fringed lake,In honour of his memory,Who battled for your sake,Listen, we too pay our tributeTo a fame that well endures;He, who ventured much for liberty,Is ours as well as yours.
Men fought in vain for freedom,And lay down in felon graves;"Your noblest then were exiles,Your proudest then were slaves"When the people, blind and furious,Maddened by oppression's scorn,Struggled, seethed in wild upheaval,Was the Liberator born.
Who took the sword fell by the sword,This man was born to show,How thoughts would win where steel had failedOne hundred years agoBy force the patriot tried in vainTo stem oppression's might,This man arose and won the cause,By pleading for the right.
He stood to plead for libertyOn Dunedin's Calton-hill;No man had ever greater powerTo move men's hearts at willErin, without name, senate, flag,This, her advocate and son,Pleaded for those who tried and lost,With those who tried and won
He stood to ask for justice,For ruth and mercy's grace,For a people of another faith,And of another raceHe stood on ground made holyBy resistance unto wrong,And Scotia's freemen gathered round,Full twenty thousand strong
And rock and distant city,The broad Forth gliding clear,Yea, every heath-clad hill-topHad hushed itself to hear,From the shades of hero martyrsOf patriotic fame,From the land they thought worth fighting for,High inspiration came
He won the cause he strove for,With bold undaunted brow,And his name and fame roll brightening onAlong the years till now,All honour to his memory,May his words, where'er they fall,Bring forth the love of liberty,And equal rights to all
'At last he is dead'So the wondering, horror-struck neighbours said,A skilful touch of his knifeHas cut the thread of a wasted lifeHe has reached the end of the downward road,And rushed unbidden to meet his God,Over every duty past every tie,Unwarned, unhindered, he rushed along,Through the wild license of sin, and wrong,And into the silent eternity
Relax thy anguished watch, O wifeAnd fold thy hands—and yet—and yet,After all the tears which thou hast wept,Through nights when happier mortals slept,Thou only wilt weep with fond regret,Over the corpse of the hopeless deadFor the cause accursed, of drink he has bled,For that cause he lived and suffered and diedMany deaths in one horrible life,—The death of his honour, the death of his pride,On that altar he sacrificed child and wifeHope, liberty, purity, more than lifeLifes life, God's image, he crushed and killed,Tore and defaced, wasted and spoiled,Uncurbed in passion, iron willed,Forthislong years he has laboured and toiled,Devoted his talents, his time his breath,And at the last his blood he has shedTruly the wages of sin is death
He was once a babe on a mother's breast,Tenderly nourished, cared for, caressedWatched with a mother's love and prideDreams of the future warm and bright,High hopes ambitions in rainbow lightClustered around him a fairy swarmOf tender fancies sweet and warm,As she hung over his cradle bed,In all this world there's none so bright,So clever as mother's heart's delightMy child of promise," she proudly said
Oh would to God that he then had diedDied when the anguish of heartstrings torn,The sudden stilling of childish laughter,The awful vacance that fills the placeOf the soft, warm touch, of the dear, dear face,Of the sweet dead child that the heart gropes afterFor God's own voice to the mourner saith,"Be still, I am God, there is hope in his death'
Alas! for the woe that under the sunCan find no comfort! this child lived on.What must be his mother's sorrow and sin,If she held the glass to his infant lipsTaught him the taste of sweetened gin,As a cure for every childish pain,To be tried and tampered with once and againIf she taught him to worship at fashion's shrine,In its magic circle to look on wine.To pour it sparkling in ruby light,The adder's sting the serpent's bite,Came to him at last among evil men,But he once was a boy,A mother's joy,Clever and gifted with tongue and pen,The cup of temptationWas inspiration,Oh would to God he had died even thenThe mother's tears shed over the slain,Had then had hope in their bitter pain
O mothers, stronger than life is loveAnd your love is most like God's above,And power likest God's to you is given,With the greatest trust that is under heavenHe gives to your hands to have and to holdMore precious than rubies, better than goldGod's little children to teach and to train,And to lead them upward to Him againGod keep you and save you from earning the curseThat shadows the life with hopeless remorseHe once was a lover an innocent maidInto his keeping gave up her life,Into his hand her own she laidFor better, for worseAs a blessing, a curse,Took on her the sacred name of wife,And stood at her post through all these yearsOf sorrow and sin, of anguish and tearsThere have been martyrs for God and right,Passed through blood and fire into endless lightCount all the martyrs to right that diedSince Abel's blood to Jehovah criedThere are but few in that shining throngCompared to the martyrs of sin and wrongCount not that woman's life by years,Count by the dropping of heart-wrung tearsTo the common lot of toil and care,That dims the eye and the heart strings wring,He added, of woe that none could share,Whole ages of sorrow and suffering
She bore her torture for duty's sake,Firm as saint in the tower and at the stake,Bore want and woe, and his evil name,For him who for years was dead to shameShe saw his brood about her kneeInto an evil lot they were bornTo bear for his sin the cruel scornOf the world unthinking, hard and coldPrematurely saddened, early old,They never knew home as a place of rest,Except when their home was the mother's breast,And worse than all she had to seeThem taught the secrets of sin and woe,Which happier children never knowAlas! that such a thing should beHer darlings were made to pass through the fireTo the Moloch of vice and sinful desire,The father's example of life and tongueBrought the knowledge of evil to them while young,And in sorrow and shame,That none may name,In strife and sin all tempest-tostThe innocence God gives to babes was lostAll is over, nought's left but dishonoured clay,But the evil men do lives longer than they.Of a truth the saddest for tongue or penAre these words o'er a ruin—"He might have been,"And sadder the words in jest set free"This is; but alas! it should not be."He has passed into darkness who lived in vain;But what shall their future portion be,Who, passing by on the other side,Themselves from the curse secure and free,No plan of relief or rescue tried?Or worse, made profit out of his pain,And lured him on to his death for gain?
They will place a bridal wreath, maiden,To crown all your shining hair;The mist-like cloud of the bridal veilWill float round a face most fair.
They will dress you in bridal robes, maiden,And the holy words be said,And the ring put on and two made one,And the maiden we love be wed.
You'll give him your virgin hand, maiden,And become a wedded wife;That hand will mingle "honey for two"To sweeten the bitter of life.
They will give you costly gifts, maiden,And many a wish besideWill rise in prayer in blessings come downOn thy head O fair young bride
And kind will the bridegroom be maidenTrue and tender as years roll onWho learns to love in the school of ChristWill cherish what he has won
And so what can I say more maidenWooed and won and to be wed,Pray that His blessing who loved till deathMay rest on your fair young head
In the hollow of His hand maiden,He will keep you who fainteth notHe will cause the splendour of His faceTo shine on your happy lot
You are coming home with the breath of springFlying home to a love-lined nest,Most loving care hath made it fairYour hands will do the rest
And the bridal robe you have laid asideAnd the vail all of lacy foam,The maiden's wed, the tour is spedSo welcome, welcome home
The past is laid by with the bridal wreathThe bride has come home a wife,And now we pray that blessings mayCrown all your wedded life
What shall be the blessing, my dearest dear,When it's all that we have to give?That peace and love, from God above,Be yours while ye both shall live.
That high love that makes of the wife a queen,Of a cottage a palace home,The coarse web fine, life's water wine,The fire-side chair a throne.
Love that drops like dew from heaven to fillWith all blessing your earthly cup;That draws you nigh to Him Most High,Bidding your souls look up
Unto Him who has ordered all your lot,To the Hand that will give the best,That bids you come up to His homeTo be His wedding guest.
Oh Allumette, hemmed with thy fringe of pine,Watched over by thy mountains far away,Thy waters have been troubled oftentime,Never before as they have been to day!
The red man on the war path, with light stroke,Hath cleaved thy waters moving stealthily;Hunter and hunted deer thy surface brokeWith splash and struggle of the living prey.
Across thy bosom venturous ChamplainAnd faithful Brule have pursued their way;Seeking for distant golden Indian vainFinding Coulonge while searching for Cathay
The knights of industry the sons of toil,Trouble thy waters in the eager strifeTo win success and wealth, the glittering spoilFor which men daily peril more than life
'Twas a new motive from their homes to dayThat drew an eager wondering people out,Like those who from Mount Zion took their way,From Judah and the regions round about
It might have been the Jordan flowed alongOr that, sweet stream where people met for prayer,Still expectation held the gathering throngBy the lake shore, in the hushed Sabbath air
And earnest, fervent pleading prayer was madeRose the sweet strains of the old Scottish psalmAnd words of witness for God's truth were said,The only sound that broke the sacred calm
Then down into the waters of the lake,The preacher and believer slowly came,Not heeding scornful words for His dear sake,Who bore the cross for us despised the shame
Buried with Him by baptism to deathFollowing the path which He the Sa lour trod,To rise with Him to that new life He saithHe hath laid up for us with Christ in God
(To Miss E E.)
I cannot write, my tears are flowing fast,Yet weeping is unnatural to me;Oh! that this hour of bitterness was past—The parting hour with all I love and thee
If I had never met or loved thee so,To part would not have caused me this sharp pain;Parting so oft occurring here below,And they who part so seldom meet again.
Yet over land or sea, where'er I go,My home, my friends, shall flit before my eyes—And oft I anxiously shall wish to know,If in thy bosom thoughts of me arise.
Oh, I will think of bygone days of glee,Though on each point of bitter sorrow driven;I will not bid thee to remember me,But oh! see to it that we meet in Heaven.
1844.