(Mary Maud.)
O friends, I cannot comfort, but will share with you your grieving,In the valley of the shadow where you sit in helpless tears;Greater is the parting anguish, than the joy of first receivingThe sweet gift that was your treasure through five happy, goldenyears
When I laid within your arms the dear babe that God had given,There was hidden in the future all the tears that you must weep,Ah! the little ones so tangled in our heart-strings, they are rivenIn the parting, are but treasures lent not given us to keep
There's silence in the places her voice filled with happy laughter,Stillness waiting for the echo of the patter of her feet,You are gazing on her picture, and your heart is longing afterThe tender touch of the little hands, the mouth that was most sweet
In the valley of the shadow, where by God's will you are sitting,Earthly sounds shut out and stilled, yea, and heaven so very near,That the little golden head, through the open doorway flitting,Might come smiling any moment and be greeted without fear
With earthly toil and serving we will not get encumbered,Our hearts rise to our treasures that are laid up with the King,There your little maiden, Maud, with His jewels fair are numbered,There she learns the songs of gladness that the heavenly childrensing
Among those pure and precious who have known no earthly sinning,The Beloved's fair white lilies in the Paradise of God,Those He looked upon and loved, when their lives were but beginning,And brought home before their tender feet grew weary of the road
There clothed on with his beauty, round the child all bliss willgather,All the brightness of the Father's face when looking on His own;For the little children's angels see the bright face of the Father,And gather on the rainbow steps that are around the throne.
For evermore in safety, by the Lamb led to the valleys,Where the light of God is brooding, and life's storms are everfurled;No more watching, no more praying, no more guarding from the maliceOf all evil, lest her garments should be spotted by the world.
Heaven draws nearer in our sorrow, and the earth-born cares keepsilence,And the still, small voice says kindly, "Though the child may come nomore,Time is passing, and the moment approaches from the distance,When the message to come after will appear within the door."
Oh, well it is for baby, safe, and past all toil and grieving,The dear head is laid so early on a loving Saviour's breast;Be not faithless, oh my friends, but submissive and believing,The Hand that makes no blunders hath laid the babe at rest
First of women, best of friendsTake what a village rhymer sends,A tear wet trifle sent to tellThe giver must bid thee farewell!And shall I then when o'er the seaForget thee? No, it cannot beWhen thinking of much loved Grace Hill,[1] Its drops of joy, its drafts of illI shed the fond regretting tear,For those I did I do hold dear,First shall mid those I parted withStand Friendship's Ray Elizabeth
[Footnote 1: Burns]
1844
In leaving us, whom thou hast governed wellHolding the helm of state through all these yearsThe land at large unites in a farewellThat's mingled with regret akin to tears
My Lord, we welcomed you in coming hereAs one our gracious Queen thought fit to sendYour term of office hath so made you dearWe say farewell to you as friend to friend
It is not homage paid to honours wornLightly, as that which comes to one unsought;Nor to thy high desent, oh nobly bornNor to the aristocracy of thought.
And yet we do not undervalue hereHonours the nobles of our land enjoy;We hold in high esteem the British Peer,Warm to the ancient name of Clandeboye.
Warmly we feel to one who is akinTo that most marvellous genius Sheridan;But warmer still the tribute that you win,Paid, not to Lord, or Viceroy, to the man,
Who of no party, yet both far and near,In distant wilderness and crowded mart,With words that rouse and stimulate and cheer,Has drawn the whole Dominion to your heart.
From Essex, by thy waters, sweet St. Clair,To Gaspe, sentry on a stormy coast;From Prima Vista to Vancouver, whereWill your departure be regretted most?
No Viceroy of this land has ever leftSuch large regrets, as you my Lord, will do;For admiration, confidence, respectAre felt for you the wide Dominion through.
The miner at his work, the axeman whereHe hews out fortune with enduring toil;The farmer with his plenty and to spare,For laughing harvests crown our fruitful son.
The fisher on our coast, the pioneerWho strives the distant wilderness to tame;The Indian hunter, wild unknown to fear,On his swift horse swooping upon his game
From settlers fanned by keen Atlantic air,To those the broad Pacific's breezes cool,To forest shade and prairie verdure, whereSit Indian maidens in the mission school
Never did Governor before receiveSuch loyal homage as your heart has won,Nor left so fair a record as you leave,Or stood so near to us as you have done
You have the kindly sympathetic heartOf her who loved the common people well,The noble lady who with witching artTaught us to sing the "Emigrant's Farewell.'
And the dear lady who has reigned your queenOver the gaieties of Rideau Hall,Her genial, gracious courtesies have been,A talisman to win the hearts of all
Oh, Earl, and Countess, if good wishes mayAdd anything to your most brilliant state,The wide Dominion with one heart will prayYou may be blessed of God as well as great
Gather, oh gather! gather, oh gatherOn with the philabeg every manAnd up with the bonnet and badge of your father,Belt on the plaid of the great Campbell clanFrom the heather clad hills of that islandIn whose straths and glens your fathers were bornThey come, and so gather, ye hearts that are Highland,Welcome the Lord and the Lady of Lorne!Gather, oh gather, &c.
Ocean to ocean the welcome is ringing,Fair Indian summer, with blush and with smile,O'er forests her right royal vesture is flingingTo welcome the bride and heir of Argyle.Princess of Lorne, we rise to receive her,First royal lady our country has seen,To this, the wide land of the maple and beaver,We welcome thee Princess, child of our Queen.Gather, oh gather, &c.
We had regret we sought not to smother—Kind Earl, dear Countess were called to depart;But thoughtfully, kindly, the fair Queen our mother,Sends the son of her choice, the child of her heart.There is a stir, a bustle, a humming,The tartans are waving, plumes floating free,While trumpet and drum sound, "The Campbells are coming"We are all Campbells in welcoming thee.Gather, oh gather, &c.
Son of Argyle, so near to the sceptre,And Princess Louise fair child of a throne,We welcome to stand for our Queen in this empire,Rule us, and love us, and make us your ownBlow, wild pibroch, that welcomes no other!Shout million-voicedfailte, wave banners the while;She's worthy, fair child of so royal a mother,He's worthy the name and fame of Argyle.Gather, oh gather, &c.
(Mr Norman Dewar, commission merchant, a native of Glengarry, Canada who had been assisting Captain McCabe as commissary of the Memphis Relief Committee, died of yellow fever after three days illness A brave and gentle nature, he was loved by a host of friends and will long be remembered as among the noblest of the band of gallant men who during this fearful epidemic died at the post of duty)
Far away from stricken MemphisCame the tidings sad and sureThat among the many fallen,Fell the clansman Norman Dewar
There are eyes unused to weepingWith the tears of sorrow dim,Hearts with nature's anguish heaving,Yet 'tis wrong to weep for him
None who fell in glorious battle,In the shock of meeting steel,Fell more bravely, died more noblyMore like son of true Lochiel
When the cry arose in MemphisThat the yellow death had come,When the rich in fear were fleeing,And the poor with terror dumb,
Famine following the fever,Want of all things awful death,When forsaken by their kindred,Human souls gave up their breath,
There were men who felt God's pity,Strong to do and to endure,And among these brave and noble,At his post stood Norman Dewar
Firm and gentle, true and tender,Knowing all the danger well,This true son of old GlengarryStood on duty till he fell
Highland hearts have breasted battle,Highland veterans show their scars,Highland blood has flowed like waterIn our Gracious Sovereign's wars.
We have praised in song and story,Those who bravely fought and fell,For Old England's might and glory,For the Queen they love so well.
And shall we this time be silentO thou clansman firm and true,Shall not loyal brave Glengarry,Through her tears feel proud of you
Thou hast fought the sternest battle,Thou hast met the grimmest foe;Christ-like stood by the forsakenStood till death has laid thee low.
Praise thy sons, dear old Glengarry,Prompt to do, calm to endure;And among your very noblest,Set God's hero Norman Dewar.
The Rev Mr Young was one stormy day visiting one of his people, an old man, who lived in great poverty in a lonely cottage a few miles from Jedsburg. He found him sitting with his Bible open upon his knees, but in outward circumstances of great discomfort, the snow drifting in through the roof and under the door, and scarcely any fire in the hearth. "What are you about to day, John?" asked Mr Young on entering "Ah, sir," said John, "I am sitting under His shadow with great delight."
They only see the snow heaped on the moor,The bare trees shivering in the winter's breath,The icy drift that sifteth through the door,Me, old and poor, waiting the call of death.
They think my cot is bare and comfortless,With broken roof and paper-mended pane,They see but poverty and loneliness,And think in pity that my death were gain.
They know not, Master, that Thou art so near,Thou holdest me, I lean upon Thy might,I know Thy voice, Thy whisperings I hear,I stay beneath Thy shadow with delight.
The royal purple of Thy garment died,From Bozrah, is spread over even me,All my unworthiness, my want I hideUnder Thy princely vesture shelteringly.
Thy hand is underneath my weary head,Thy strong right hand that saved me long ago;I'm cradled in Thy arms and comforted,What more have I to do with want or woe
What more indeed! so sheltered, so embraced,For ever Thou art mine and I am Thine,Thy banner's love, Thy fruit sweet to my taste,Thou givest to my lips the Kingdom's wine.
How sweetly solemn is this awful place!Where all of earth fades out and vanishes,I cannot fear while I behold Thy face,My help, my friend, the Lord my righteousness.
I do not feel the waters cold and deep,Waters to swim in through whose waves I come,The love that holds me up is strong to keep,'Tis but a little way from this to home
My sight grows dim, my one Redeemer, Lord,Bring nearer still the brightness of Thy face,I hear Thy voice, assuring is Thy word,Close to Thy heart is my abiding place.
We're nearing home—forever all is well,In through the agate windows I can seeThe place prepared—glory ineffable,To which in royal love Thou leadest me
In the midst of Life we are in Death.
What is it that has stilled the usual hurry,Checking the eager tread of rapid feet?Why does the business face look sad and sorryWithin the place where merchants choose to meet?A something not unusual or strange,One face is missing on the Corn Exchange.
Alas! they say he had uncommon merit,High the esteem and confidence he won;He brought to business life a joyous spirit,And mixed commercial tact with boyish fun.We miss his breezy laugh, his pleasant face,The skill that marked him for the foremost place.
There is a ship steaming across the billow,That should have brought him to his mother's knee;Did warning dreams hover around her pillow,Of the dear face she never more shall see?She sits at home deeming that all is well,Who shall the tale of her bereavement tell?
She waited for him in the bright May morning,When the spring buds were blooming in their prime,And the green earth was crowned with their adorning,To greet his coming with the summer time.The mists have fallen and her eyes are dim,Looking across death's valley after him.
The good ship sailed upon the day of sailing,And furled her sails in port the voyage o'er;But in his home waiting is changed to wailing,For he will come to them on earth no more.The Master called—he answered speedily,And sailed away across the "silent sea."
They praise him in the land of his adoption,Say what he was, and what he might have been,Speak of the honours that were at his option,Since he came here a fair lad of nineteen.That upward has his path been ever since,To sit among the first a merchant prince.
The "never more" chills through the friendly praises,Never to see his face, his coming form;Never his foot shall stand on Antrim daisies,Or tread again the Parks of old Galgorm;Nor sleep among his fathers, silent, still,Beneath the sycamores in fair Grace Hill.
His mother in her island home is weeping,For what her eyes desired she shall not see;The fair young wife her widowed vigil keepingAmong her babes on this side of the sea—One in their sorrow which is all too deepFor comfort—theirs to sit apart and weep.
Mother and wife one in their poignant grieving,One in their anguish over lifeless clay;One in the consolation of believingThat he was worthy who has passed away.By sorrow consecrate and set apart,To ponder all the past within their heart.
The mother, with her heartstrings quivering afterThe Master's stroke, sits underneath the cross;The sad wife stilling all the childish laughterOf his sweet babes, too young to feel their loss.Who wonder in the quiet, darkened home,Why their glad-voiced papa will never come.
So in his home beside the terraced mountain,They sit within the shadow of his death;So they who were the tardy moments counting,Till he would come to them with summer's breath.His kith and kin by the Maine water's side,Weep very sore for love of him that died.
Oh Death is ever coming, loved ones going,Hearts rent with sorrow because one is not;The waves of trouble ever swelling, flowing,Past the tall castle, past the sheltered cot!"I am bereaved!" is the unceasing moan,Rising forever to our Father's throne.
O Christ Thou dost remember earthly weeping,When the bereaved at Thy dear feet have cried,Beside the grave where the much loved lay sleeping,"Lord if Thou hadst been here he had not died."Comfort the mourning friends, the sorrowing wife,O Thou the Resurrection and the life!
My brother George has gone from me,Far away o'er the trackless sea.His gladdening voice I hear not now,I see not the light of his sunny brow.My cheeks with lonely tears are wet;But go where he will he will love me yet.O Thou whose blessings the heart enlarge,Keep from all evil my brother George!
1842.
From Carlisle.
The young Prince of Anhalt Dessau,The Dowager's only son,Was a sturdy strong-limbed fellowAnd a most determined one.
Shook the tutor his locks of silver,"And if I have any skill,This young Prince of Anhalt Dessau,He will always work his will.
"I cry to the Wise for wisdom,I cry for strength to the Strong,That I train him to stand firmlyFor the right against the wrong.
"If he grow to gracious manhood,I shall not have wrought in vain,And my Fatherland so nobleShall most surely reap the gain."
The Dowager in her chamber,With pride did her blue eyes shine;"Fatherland hath many princes,But none of them all like mine.
"He has courage, fire and wisdom,Yet tender of heart is he;Proud, but just and full of pity;This is as a prince should be.
"My son, growing up so worthy,Shall comfort my widowed fears;And he shall be my strong right hand,Through the cares of future years."
The Dowager's waiting womenSaid; "Our Prince gives up the chase,And every day his steed reins heDown there in the market-place.
"He forgets his rank so princely,To his grievous harm and loss;A trap for his youth so tenderIs laid by the damsel Fos."
The Princess rode in her chariot,Away to the market-place,With her own proud eyes beholdingThe beautiful tempter's face.
But she saw a stately maiden,With such pure and dove-like eyes,Clothed in beauty like a flower,Or a saint from Paradise.
"No wonder my son, so youthful,Fixed his heart on one like thee;For if I were a Prince of Dessau,Willing captive I might be.
"But you are a doctor's daughter,My son's of a princely line;You may wed with one more humble,But never with son of mine.
"But my son is very wilful,We must conquer him with guile;To foreign courts he shall away,Where most noble ladies smile.
"One he'll see whose rank is princely,Fair of form and fair of face;She shall win him by her beautyFrom his love in the market-place."
Said the lily maiden weeping,"'Twere well we had never met,Go, my Prince, to be with princes,Be happy, and so forget."
Said the Prince of Anhalt Dessau:"What's to be God keeps in store;I am Prince of Anhalt Dessau,But your lover for evermore.
"Duty is the yoke of princes,It is good I go away;For that widow's son there's blessing,Who his mother can obey.
"But we who are ruling princes,Should be patterns of faith and truth,The Prince thou hast loved, my lily,Shall never deceive thy youth.
"For as sure as to the oceanArrow-swift flows on the Rhine,I go for my mother's pleasure,I am coming back for thine."
A year past—the waiting-womenSaid: "Our Prince is back again,"And he shows before the Empire,That his mother's plans are vain.
He came from the courts of Europe,He came to his mother's knee;But first went to the market-place,The maiden he loved to see.
Said the Princess, "Son, you're welcome,Anhalt Dessau's hope and pride;Have you well and wisely chosenFor Dessau a high-born bride?"
"I saw many royal beauties,Dames courtly and fair and kind,But with married eyes I saw them,For my heart was left behind."
Said the lady to her council:"So our plans have failed thus far,He'll forget his low-born chosenWhen he learns to look on war.
"While he's gone I'll seek to rid meOf the beauty which I dread,I will give a precious dowerTo him who shall woo and wed."
Said the Doctor to his daughter:"Here's a life of wealth and ease,And a fair bridegroom too, daughter,For we must our Princess please."
"Ah me!" said the lily maiden,"That I am the cause of strife!Woeful is the gift of beauty—I'll be an unwilling wife.
"I have no strength for the battle,No more than a wounded dove;O Leopold Anhalt Dessau,Where art thou, my only love?"
With a moan of helpless sorrow,From the bridegroom turned her face,And saw a gallant troop of horseDrawn up in the market-place.
A strong arm is soon around her,Young Dessau is by her side,"Draw and defend yourself, you wretch!Who would dare to claim my bride."
Then he stood before his mother,With a stern and angry face;"I have stopped a gallant wedding,Begun in the market-place.
"The maid thou wouldst give in marriage,Is mine by her plighted word;And his blood who would supplant me,Has reddened on my good sword.
"Be a queen in Anhalt Dessau,Let tower and town be thine;But leave unto me my treasure,This fair low-born love of mine.
"She's my first love and my last one,And never we two shall part;I'll take her—with rites most holyI will bind her to my heart."
Now the holy words are spoken,At the young Dessau's command.He wedded the lily maiden,And he gave her his left hand.
"What's to be," said Anhalt Dessau,"Is known but to God above,But I have obeyed my mother,Been true to my early love.
"Now must I go to the battle,Leave mother and bride behind;My wife, be a child to my mother,Mother, to my love be kind.
"A soldier's life is uncertain,Let us sternly do our best,Love and duty be our watchword,And leave to our God the rest."
And thus the high Prince of Dessau,While giving obedience dueTo his gracious lady mother,To his own first love was true.
* * *
He is gone away to battle,He's always in high command;As a man of vast resources,Who is as the king's right hand.
Drilling, battling, planning, seiging,The bravest of all the brave;The wisest of all in counsel,Loyal, courteous, kind and grave.
This was in the time of battles,Battles for the native land;Whatever was in safe keeping,Was held by the strong right hand.
Anhalt Dessau, bold and daring,Anhalt Dessau wise and slow,With a brain full of expedients,To subdue or outwit the foe.
In each conflict still to conquer,In each counsel wiser grown,Till he stood above his fellows,A supporter of the throne.
Till the king in council chamber,Said: "My lords we must deviseNew honours for Anhalt Dessau,My general brave and wise.
"Leopold of Anhalt Dessau,First in counsel, first in fight,What high reward you choose to nameIs yours by undoubted right."
"My Liege, to have served my countryAnd King till the strife is o'er,To be Sovereign Prince of Dessau,Is so much that I ask no more.
"Nought for me but that I labourFor my country all my life,If you wish to do me honour,Make a princess of my wife.
"I married her with my left hand,For she was of low degree,I'd wed her with my right—with both,For so dear is she to me."
"We will make thy wife a princess."Said the King with kindling brow,"God grant she may bring to Dessau,Many sons so brave as thou.
"You are Sovereign Prince of DessauBy the right of princely birth,She is Sovereign Queen of Beauty,As fair as there walks the earth.
"She's fairest, and you the bravest,With love for a joining band,Shall rank equal with the noblestThat walks in our Fatherland."
* * *
Tears passed over Anhalt Dessau,And sprinkled his locks with snow,He had wealth, success and honours,And his share of human woe.
His fair wife and his goodly sonsFilled his heart with joy and pride;But that heart was wrung with sorrow,When his only daughter died.
For ah! she was long in dying,And his love was strong and warm;To keep her from an early grave,He'd have given his right arm.
She was a most winsome maiden,And she had her mother's face;She brought back all his wooing time,His love in the market place.
"My daughter," he said, "you're dying,You are fading fast away;What is there you would have me do,Love, before your dying day."
"Thou the kindest and the bravest,My father most dear!" she said,"Whate'er you've done has pleased me,Take that comfort when I'm dead.
"But if you would do me pleasure,"She said with a lovely smile,"The men whom you've led in battle,Poor fellows! the rank and file.
"I'd like to see them marching,To feast them with mirth and glee;When laid in my grave so early,They'll think kindly thoughts of me."
"My daughter, of all my treasures,The loveliest and the best;I know that my king so gracious,Will grant you your last request."
With banners and martial music,With drum-beat and trumpet-blare,They all marched to Anhalt Bernberg,To the palace court-yard there.
With all martial pomp and clangour,Were the salutations made,Where, supported at the window,The dying one was laid.
And tables were spread to feast them,With plenty that made them groan,But away by the Saale river,Old Leopold wept alone.
* * *
Leopold of Anhalt Dessau,He has reached three score and ten;They think it time he step aside,Giving place to younger men.
For old fashioned are his tactics,And old fashioned too is he,And a new king has arisen,And new counsellors there be.
Still the old man leads the army,But he gets no word of cheer;For the young king is impatient,And the courtiers laugh and jeer.
The troops are drawn up for battle,For the long expected fight;"'Tis my last," said Anhalt Dessau,"May our God defend the right!"
He stood among the veterans,Whom he had so often led;And, according to his custom,He uncovered his grey head.
"We are going into battle;How many shall come awayIs known to the God of armies,Who shall lead us through this day.
"For we have come here to conquer,As we conquered everywhere;Uncover, my lads, and ask forThe help that we need, in prayer.
"O God, who through life hast led me,Help me still, this once I pray;Nor let the shame of first defeat,Come now when my head is grey!
"Be thou present with our army,Do Thou let Thy might decide;But oh! if Thou be not with us,Be not on the other side.
"But leave it to drill and manhood,Amen. In God's name come on."So Leopold Anhalt Dessau,His last battle fought and won.
And the King rescued from danger,By the victory that day,Lighted from his horse to greet him,Clad in his roquelaure grey
Bowed low to him as a masterIn all the warrior's art,And then, as a friend in greeting,Pressed the hero to his heart
Now his sword rests in the scabbard,He has done for aye with war,For Leopold Anhalt Dessau,Now sleeps with the sons of Thor.
Mary, ah me! gentle Mary,Can it be you're lying there,Pale and still, and cold as marble,You that was so young and fair.
Seemeth it as yestereven,When the golden autumn smiled,On our meeting, gentle Mary,You were then a very child.
Busy fingers, flitting footsteps,Never resting all day long;Shy and bashful, and the sweet voiceEver breaking into song
Always gentle, kind and thoughtful,Blameless and so free from art,'Twas no wonder one so lovelyFound a place within my heart.
You, while life was in its spring time,Made the Scripture Mary's choice;Jesus saw you, loved you, called you,And you listened to His voice.
Ever patient and rejoicing,Shielded thus from unseen harm;On you journeyed, safely leaningOn an everlasting arm.
Three short years have not yet passed usFlitting rapidly away,Since we shared in the rejoicingOn your happy bridal day.
He, the lover of your childhood,Won a bride both good and fair;Three short years have not yet passed us,Mary dear—and now you're there.
Well may he grow sick with weeping,And with sore heart mourn his loss;Sadly look on those two babies,Left so early motherless.
Not for thee we weep, my darling,An eternal gain is thine;We weep because we dearly loved thee,And for those you left behind.
I often thought to write to thee, what timeI almost fancied heaven-born, genius mine,And fondly hoped my island harp to wake,To some new strain sung for my country's sake.'Twas a vain hope and yet its presence smiledUpon my day dreams when I was a child,And only faded when my heart grew cold,For head and heart alike are getting old.Had I been gifted, some bright lay would be,With touching melody, poured forth for thee.Now, what I think the best I wish for thee.
* * *
May you never be a stranger;Ever living with your own,With the same eyes beaming round you,That on your childhood shone.
Friendship knitting true hearts to you,From youth to kindly age;And affection brightening, gladdeningYour pleasant heritage.
Yet not wishing to live always,Or shrinking back afraid,When you come—as come we all mustAnd pass over to the dead.
With a hope then firmly anchored,Of a living faith possessed,Passing from among your kindredInto everlasting rest.
We honour Brother Jonathan,For what he has done and dared;Nobly and firmly he hath stoodHis freeborn rights to guard.
And when we see him, go ahead,We are not with envy vexed;We wish him all prosperityYet will not be annexed.
We know he has much moral force;Much that is good and great;Much enterprise and energy,Which we would imitate.
But there's upon his scutcheon stains,Which we lament to see;And will not share—will not annex—Our soil and air are free—
And far more glorious is the flagWhich o'er the Briton waves,Than that whose stars of freedom shineUpon the stripes of slaves.
We love our Queen—we love our laws;We feel that we are free—As independently we sit,Each 'neath his maple tree.
Serene, while over other landsRolls revolution's storm,Where they can't speak their grievances—Dare not demand reform.
We can, as freeborn subjects, makeOur wants and wishes known—Our voices move the parliamentAnd vibrate to the throne.
We're Britons and as such we'll notFor annexation sue.Our prayer is still, God save the QueenAnd bless our country too.
1850.
Dearest of all, whose tenderness could riseTo share all sorrow and to soothe all pain;The blessings breathed for thee with weeping eyesWill come to thee as sunshine after rain.
My spirit clings to thine, dear, in this hour;Thy sorrow touches me as though 'twere mine;And pleading prayers for thee shall have the powerTo draw down comfort from my Lord and thine.
For thou hast felt the sorrow and the careOf other lives, as though they were thine own;And grateful prayers, for a memorial areLaid up for thee before the great white throne.
You sit bereaved, and I sit with you thereIn sympathy, my soul and yours can meet;Missing the face that was so very fair,Missing the voice that was so very sweet.
I know how hard to bear heart-hunger isFor her quaint words and bits of bird-like song;The touch of dimpled hands, the soft warm kiss,O Friend, it makes the "little while" so long!
Take comfort, dear, the "little while" is brief,It is His love sends pain to thee or me,We gather fruit of peace from blossomed griefAnd where our treasure is our hearts shall be
'Tis good to suffer, as He knows whose handMixes the bitterness for every cup,No grief befals but love divine has planned,Every bereavement cries to us, look up
Dearest, look up, and see where, sweet and fair,Flow the bright waters ruffled by no storm,Under the trees whose leaves for healing are,See 'mid the blessed throng one angel form
The tired pet, who wanted to go home,The Elder Brother drew her to his breast,Earth weariness earth soil alike unknown,Crowned without conflict, bore her into rest
Among the shining ones she walks my friend,Robed in the garments of her Fatherland,And your earth-weary feet shall upward tend,Drawn by the beck of that dear pierced hand
Who in his arms enfolds your little one,And calls you, "Come up higher where we are,For with the well belov'd the child is gone,Follow and faint not, friend, it is not far
"The little one for whom your fond heart bleeds,The dear, dear lamb who sees her Father's face,Up to the great white throne the rough path leads,Where Christ shall fold you both in one embrace"
Is it well with the child? and she answered, it is well.
If earth's weariness for rest is changed,Rest on the far off shore,If earth's sighing's changed for singingPsalms of praise for evermore.
And the bed of pain for roaming free,Beneath the living trees,Whose leaves of healing wither notIn any earthly breeze.
And to mix with those who, robed and crowned,Walk by the crystal sea;To gather with the other lambsBeside the Saviour's knee.
We will keenly miss our absent child;Lonely tears our loss will tell,But His voice says, "It is well with her,We answer, "It is well."
It is well to know that safely homeIs this our dearest one;To know she's with the children fairGathered around the throne,
'Tis no light thing that God has stoopedOur dear one home to bring,From weariness and painfulnessTo the presence of the King.
Let weeping and rejoicing,Mingled, our sorrow tell;We are lonely, oh our FatherBut Thou knowest it is well.
(From the "Globe.")
October's leaf was sere;The day was dark and drear.Wild war was loosed in rage o'er our quiet country then;When at Moravian town,Where the little Thames flows down,In the net of battle caught was Proctor and his men.
Caught in an evil plight,When he'd rather march than fight,Every bit of British pluck and resolution gone.And sternly standing near,As a British brigadier,Stood Tecumthe, our ally, the forests' bravest son.
A prince, a leader born,His dark eye flashed with scorn,He said: "My father, listen, there's rumours from afar,Of mishaps, and mistakes,Of disasters on the lakes,My father need not hide the mischances of the war.
"My braves have set their feet,Where two great rivers meet;We went upon the war-path; we raised the battle-song;We met in deadly fight,The Yengees in their might,Till the waters of the Wabash dyed crimson flowed along.
"They ask us, in their pride,To idly stand aside,To be false to our allies, and neutral in this war;They think that Indian menWill never think againOf wrongs by Yengee spoilers, how false their treaties are.
"Allies both firm and true,For our Father's sake to you,Our Great Father round whose throne the mighty waters meet;When din of battle's high,Only coward curs will fly;It is not Shawnee braves show foes their flying feet,"
"This is insolence to me,"Said Proctor bitterly."But a paltry leader," said the brave red-skinned ally"We stand in hopeless fray,To meet defeat today;A shadow falls around me, my fate is drawing nigh."
High-hearted Indian chiefNo thought of fear or griefStilled the swellings of his heart, tamed the lightning of his glanceWithout lordship, without land,"Lord alone of his right hand,"Of a heart that never beat retreat when duty said advance.
He had looked on battle oft,Now his eagle glance grew soft,And who can tell what sights his prophetic vision sawEvents were drawing near,And he was a mighty seer,Even greater than the prophet, the grim Elskwatawa.
For, in a waking dream,He saw forest, vale and stream,Which, by force or fraud, the white race wrung from doomed red men."Old things are passed," he said,"No blood that can be shed,Will ever give us back our broad hunting-grounds again"
"Over the burial mound,Over the hunting-ground,Over the forest wigwam the greedy white wave flows,In treachery, or wrath,They sweep us from their path,Backward, and ever backward, beyond Sierra snows
"We tried to stem the wave,We have been bold and brave,We held the losing cause, the Great Spirit hid his face,Our nation's place is gone,The white wave will roll on,Until from sea to sea we have no abiding place
"Although we do not standTo do battle for our land,The allies that we fight for, though white men, do not lie,Their foes are ours, stand fast,This fight shall be my last,'Tis fitting, on the war-path, the Shawnee chief should die
"Where we have pitched our camp,Red blood shall dye the swamp,The battle to the swift, the victory to the strong,But be it as it will,My braves shall vanish still,Slain by pale face customs, snared by their treacherous tongue"
He turned, where in their prideStood his warriors by his side,For them to-morrow's sun might shine, to-morrow's breezes blow,"But Tecumthe's lot is cast,This fight shall be his last,And they will do my wish," he said, "when I am lying low"
Wyandot's chieftain grave,Young and lithe, hold and brave,Stood by Tecumthe, waiting the beginning of the fray;Tecumthe silence broke,And thus to him he spoke,"My brother from this onset I'll never come away.
"This scarf of crimson grand,By brave Sir Isaac's hand,Was bound round me with praise, when his heart towardsme was stirred;I belt it around you,My brother brave and true,Think about Tecumthe, and remember his last word.
"When on the red war-path,War fiercely to the death,Be pitiful and tender to the helpless and the fair,I fought—have many slain,But not a single stainOf blood of maids or children dims the good sword I wear.
"Brother, a forest maidWithin my wigwam stayed,She is called before me, far beyond the glowing west,This battle lost or won,You'll take my little son,Train him a Shawnee brave, let him be in deer skin drest.
"When grown a warrior strong,To feel his nation's wrong,When he is fierce in battle, and wise in council fire,Worthy my sword to wear,Then with a father's care,Let thy hand belt upon him the good sword of his sire.
"Tell him, I lived and foughtFor my nation and had notA thought but for their good on resentment for their wrong,Nor ever wished to haveAny gift the pale-face gaveNor learned a single word of the fatal pale-face tongue
'Tell him, he is the lastOf a race great in the past,Before the foot of white men had stepped upon our strandAnd if fate will not giveAny place where they may liveLet him die among his people and for his people's land.
'I strip this coat off hereOf a British BrigadierIt is a costly garment with gold lace grand and brave,The Shawnee chief is best,In shirt of deerskin drest,Not in pale-face gift they'll find me who lay me in the grave.
"I have lost all but lifeTo meet in mortal strife,To kill many, that the white squaws weep as ours have done,To lie among the dead,With garments bloody red,And go to happy hunting grounds beyond the setting sun.
'This will be, Wyandot brave,You'll give to me a grave,In dimness of the forest, in earth my mother's breast,Each tall tree a sentinel,Will guard the secret wellOf where you laid Tecumthe down to his lasting rest'
After the fatal fightThe strife became a flightThey found the chief Tecumthe lying still among the slainNever to fight again.Ah! little recked he thenThat dastard white men outraged his body to their shame.
After the headlong flight,In the dark dead of night,They came, from further outrage his loved remains to saveWithin the forest deepThey laid him down to sleep;And the forest guards the secret! no man knows his grave.
Our land, our pride and boast,Spreads now from coast to coast,Stands up a great Dominion among the ruling powers.For us this chieftain fought,An ally unbribed, unbought;We guard his name and fame in this Canada of ours.
We have grown strong and bold,Able to have and hold;Our allies the red men are cared for with our care.East or in the wild Nor-west,In peace they hunt or rest;No man their lands may covet because they're broad and fair.
The incident related in the following lines occurred thus:—At a meeting of Presbytery appointed to deal with the case of the Reverend David Macrae, of Gourock, Scotland, one of the members of the Court had stolen out to enjoy his pipe and the quiet of his own thoughts for a few minutes before engaging in the strife of debate, when he was accosted by a stranger, woefully dilapidated, who asked him with great earnestness if he would tell him where he could see Mr. Macrae, as he was most anxious to have some conversation with him. "Do you know, sir," said this poor, ruined one, "that on the doctrine of future punishment Mr. Macrae and I are in perfect accord, and I am very desirous to tender him my cordial sympathy and support. I esteem it my duty to do what I can to comfort and cheer this young and courageous minister of the Gospel, in the cruel and unjust persecution to which he is being subjected."
The Presbytery with one accord in one place,Were met to consider and speak on the caseOf David Macrae, bent with reverend skill,On putting him through th' ecclesiastical millI was there, I slipped out just the plain truth to tell,To ha e a quate thinkin time a by myselOn the new fangled doctrine o nae hell ava,Which gies wrang doers comfort that is na sae sma'.It's a gey soothm thoct aye, it pleases them weel,Leavin hooseless an hameless the muckle black deil,It delivers mankind frae a fear and a dread,Sae I pondered along never lifting my headIs it richt? is it wrang? is it truth or a lie?We will cannily find oot the truth by and byIf it's truth or a lie that lies at the rootShould be shown when the doctrine grows up and bears fruitThus I daundered and pondered, on lifting my e'eAn answer to some o my thocts cam to meThere cam' doon the causey a comical chiel,Wi an air an a gait that was unco genteel,By the cut o' his jib an the set o his claesHe was ane o thae folk wha ha e seen better days,He was verra lang legged hungry-lookup an lean,His claes werna' new, nor weel hained nor clean,Tight straps his short trews to meet shiny boots drew,Where wee tae an' big tae alike keeked through,His coat ance black braid-claith, was rusty enough,It was oot at the elbows an' frayed at the cuff,It was white at the seams, it was threadbare and thinAn' to hide a defects, buttoned up to the chinBruised and dinged in the crown and the brim was his hat,But set jauntily on his few hairs for a that,Paper collar an' cuffs showed in lieu of a shirt,As he daintily picked his way over the dirt,His face leaden and mottled with blossom that growsOut of whisky, an' deep bottle-red was his nose;His e'en bleared an' bloodshot, were watery an' dim,Pale an' puffy the eyelids, an' red roun' the rim;Thae e'en, that ha'e gotten a set in the head,Wi' watchin' ower often the wine when it's red.Eh, me, sirs! what wreck in the universe canBe sae awsome to see as the wreck of a man!Whatever of talents, or good looks, or gear,What w'alth o' good chances had been this man's here;What gifts that might make his life lofty and grand,A blessin' to others, a power in the land.All was gone, gifts an' graces, the greatest, the least,Were hidden beneath the broad mark o' the beast—Stamped on, I may say, frae the head to the feet,All lost of the man but his pride an' conceit;Varnished ower wi' the airs o' the shabby genteel,He was gingerly steppin' his way to the diel.But now he is gaun to greet me on the wayComin' forrid as ane that has something to say.Takin' off wi' a flourish the bit o' a hat,He booed wi' an air maist genteel ower that;"Excuse me, sir, stoppin' you thus on the way,Can you bring me to where I'll see David Macrae?He's a preacher that men of my culture must choose;I assure you he holds and he preaches my views;A doctrine divested of all vulgar fears,That I've held and believed in for years upon years.A doctrine most sensible, likely, and true,I endorse it, sir, as, I trust, you also do?"I answered him, gien a bit shake to my head,As I looked at the man and considered his creed;"You'll see Mr. Macrae, my man, there is nae doot,If you stan' aboot here till they're a' comin' oot;But my frien', this new doctrine, that fits ye sae fine,May be yours verra likely, but ne'er can be mine."
I sit by the fire in the gloaming,In the depths of my easy chair,And I ponder, as old men ponder,Over times and things that were.
And outside is the gusty rushing,Of the fierce November blast,With the snow drift waltzing and whirling,And eddying swiftly past,
It's a wild night to be abroad in,When the ice blast and snow drift meetTo wreath round all the world of winterA shroud and a winding sheet.
There's a dash of hail at the window,Thick with driving snow is the air;But I sit here in ease and comfortIn the depths of my easy chair.
I have fought my way in life's battle,And won Fortune's fickle caress;Won from fame just a passing notice,And enjoy what is called success.
As I sit here in ease and comfort,And the shadows they rise and fall,And the dear old familiar facesLook out from the pannelled wall.
Ah! reminders of living fondnessGleam out in their pictured looks;And in ranks round from floor to ceiling,Are my life-long friends, my books.
The bright wood fire crackles and sparkles,Leaping up with a sudden glow,Playing hide and seek with the shadowsThat flit round me to and fro.
They come and look over my shoulder,And they vanish behind my chair;Ah! the notice that life's NovemberHas sprinkled with snow my hair.
Ah! the shadows that gather round me,That will never more depart,That are flitting around my chamber,That are closing around my heart!
All the shadows of undone actions,And the shadow of deep regret,Over many occasions wasted,And of duties, alas! unmet.
Over words that are left unspoken,And of woe that was left unshared,Over high resolutions broken,And calls that would not be heard.
And the shade of a deeper sorrowStill hovers about my chair;It is this, and not life's November,Has sprinkled with snow my hair.
For my life has passed into evening,And I sit, mid the shadows here,Hearing still the shadowy whisperThat success may be bought too dear.