Montreal.
(Written in Winter.)
By thee, fair City, is Mount Royal based,Which, though its inward fires are extinct,Seems—in the flush of morning, indistinct,When misty shadows are across it chased,Over its flaky bosom pure and white,Which glows and glistens in the early light,—Seems moved with passion. 'Neath it thou art traced,In winter's jewelled brilliancy arrayed,With sparkling spire and glassy dome displayed:A gem-wrought girdle on a maiden's waist.
"Our Father."
Father! How precious is that name to me!Name rendered sacred e'en by earthly ties,How full of vaster meaning when appliedTo Him high-dwelling in the heavenly home!How much of love it whispers to the soul!—Of that true, pure, and unimpassioned love—That lasting love which father bears to son!It speaks of kindly interest, fond regard,And anxious care, the offspring of that love.Its sound assures of guidance in the right,Of readiness to guard from what is ill,Of willingness to grant supporting aid,Of gracious blessings and of bounteous gifts.And then, unlike a father here below,The heavenly Father's favour and his helpAre unrestricted in their exercise—His store unbounded, power infinite.And while an earthly parent soon must go,He ever lives and ever is the same.
Sometimes my Heart by cruel Care Opprest.
to ———
Sometimes my heart by cruel care opprestFaints from the weight of woe upon my breast,My soul embittered far beyond belief;—As damned one, drinking galling draughts of grief,Which boils and burns within without relief,While fervid flames inflict the wounds unhealed,With hellish horrors not to man revealed;When Peace and Joy seem wrapt in sable shrouds,And young Hope's heaven is black with lowering clouds'Tis then thy vision comes before my view,'Tis then I see those beaming eyes of blue,And hear thy gentle voice in accents kind,And see thy cheerful smile before my mind;And taking heart, I battle on anew;And thank my God for sending to my soulHis own blest, soothing balm of peace again,Who sometimes still as in the days of oldBy angels sends His blessings down to men.
The Prayer of the Penitent Profligate.
Lord, I am weak and worthless, better fitTo grovel in the dust, a worm of earth,Than wear Thy holy image, which I doBut daily with defilement desecrate.Long-suffering God! in mercy infinite!That thou did'st not long since have cut me off,But still dost keep me in the place of hope!Weak, worthless, wicked is this heart of mine,But Thou, O Lord, art all in all to me,For Thou art strong, Thy power is supreme,The God of might, from Thee all strength is sprung;And Thou hast vanquished man's great Enemy,And by Thy strength I too may vanquish him,And thus be worthy, washed from sin, to wearThe holy image of my Maker, God.Then Lord, O Lord, give unto me Thy strength;I know Thou wilt, for Thou hast promised it:Omnipotent, Thy name; and love, Thine attribute!
God in Nature.
We see our Father's hand in all around;In summer's sun, and in cold winter's snow,In leafy wood, on grassy-covered ground,In showers that fall and icy blasts that blow.And when we see the light'ning's flash, and hearThe thunder's roar, majestically grand,A heavenly voice says, "Christian, do not fear,'Tis but the working of thy Father's hand."
Reflections of a Jacobite.
Mourn, mourn, ye spirits of the brave, for glories passed away;Mourn that the sceptre of your king should own a stranger's sway;Mourn that the crown, which graced his brow by sovereign right divine,Should e'er in regal mockery adorn an upstart line.
But mourn the more that those, who boast your blood within their veins,To such reproaches should submit while any drop remains,That those, whose names are heroes' names, transmitted from the free,The subjects of a foreign lord, in cherished chains should be.
Oh! for the days when life was naught except for what it prized!—When virtue, honour, truth, and right inspired and advised!—When men such loyalty and love to king and country bore!—The grand old days of chivalry!—alas! they are no more!
The Oath of the French Loyalist.
I swear by the holy Virgin,I swear by her Son divine,I swear by the throne of the Mighty,I swear by the hope that is mine;I swear by the youth and innocence,By the beauty that has been,I swear by the sacred ashes,By the blood of the martyred queen.
That I will avenge the outrage,So infamous, vile, and base,The brutal and foul inhumanity,That darkens my land with disgrace;Or meet like a noble gentlemanThe fate that my sovereign has met,And die for my country's honour,For my queen,—Marie Antoinette.
Scotland: A Jacobite's Lament.
Where are those days, O Caledon,So glorious and bright,In which thy star resplendent shoneWith passing lustrous light?Alas! alas! those happier daysAre shrouded in the past,Thy glory was like that of Greece,Too bright it shone to last.
Where are those knightly heroes bold,Those champions of the right,That bore the shield and couched the lanceSo valiant in the fight?Whether for king and country's wealIn freedom's cause they strove,Or courted glory and renownTo win their lady-love.
The Wallace nobly lived and diedTo save his land from shame,The royal Bruce as nobly foughtHer freedom to reclaim.How would their generous hearts have mournedCould they have pierced the veil,And, peering into future years,Have read thy woful tale!
Then patriots raised the royal flagAround the noble Graemes,And dyed the heather with their bloodFor Scotland and King James.A wreath of honour nobly wonEncircled then thy brow;How is that garland, once so green,So sadly faded now?
Now mercenary lust hath ta'enThe place of chivalry,And that devoted Faith of yoreIs gone for bigotry.What wonder then that to my eyeThe tear will sometimes start?What wonder that the clouds of griefHang heavy o'er my heart?
The Orphan Maid of Glencoe.
NOTE:—The tale is told a few years after the massacre of Glencoe, by a wandering bard, who had formerly been piper to MacDonald of Glencoe, but had escaped the fate of his kinsmen.
I tell a tale of woful tragedy,Resulting from that fearful infamy;That unsurpassed, unrivalled treachery,That merciless, that beastlike butchery.
Upon the evening calm and bright,That followed on the fatal night,Just as the sun was setting redBehind Benmore's sequestered head,And weeping tears of yellow light,That, streaming down, bedimmed his sight,As he prepared to make his graveBeneath the deep Atlantic wave;I stood and viewed with starting tearsThe silent scene of glorious years,And thought me on my former pride,As when I marched my chief beside,Before my clansmen strong and bold—Returning to our mountain hold,Victorious in the bloody close,And weighed with spoils of vanquished foes—And filled the rocky glens aroundWith peals of wild, triumphant sound.But when I saw the bloody stains,And gazed upon the black remains,And thought upon my murdered chief,For rage I quick forgot my grief;And deeply vowed of vengeance thenUpon the cursed Campbell men.But then, alas! how vain my vow!Where were Lochaber's warriors now?When thus to bitter grief returned,Adown the valley I discernedA figure, and my fading eyeA female form could just descry,Who onward came in fleet career,Swiftly as speed the frighted deer.Her gait and garb so light and wildBespoke the maid the mountain's child;Her auburn tresses waved behind,Bespread luxuriant on the wind;And from her soft and deep blue eye,In colour like the midnight sky,There beamed a clear and beauteous lightAs from the blue of northern night;And to my side young Janet ran,—The pride and flower of the clan.With direful thoughts and faces dazedWe one upon the other gazed.Nothing she spake, but turning 'roundIn silence sought the cumbered ground.A bitter cry the maiden gaveAs she approached the open grave;And as among its ways she went,She wailed this mournful, wild lament.
Where, where is the beauty that once I could scan?And where is the power and pride of my clan?Ah! gloomy to-day is the vale of Glencoe!And the house of Ian Abrach is humbled and low.
The bright spot of my childhood is reft of its light!Dark, dark are the scenes it presents to my sight!And the homes of its people have shared in its fate,And its children are murdered through malice and hate.
Yes, the warm Highland heart, that had prompted the hostWith the other to vie in regaling them most,By the hand of the stranger, the wolf in the fold,When the feasting is over lies lifeless and cold.
And the youth that had cheerfully led in the chase,Whose mind never dreamed of dishonour so base,And who weary that night had retired to rest,Awoke with the treacherous steel in his breast.
And the damsel, bewildered with witcheries wove,Elated with flattery, fêted with love,In the height of her maidenly beauty and joy,Having lain down to dream, was awakened to die.
And not even the babe that reposed on the breastIn its innocent peace was permitted to rest.Prophetic and awful, the curses of guilt,Are the cryings of children whose blood has been spilt!
And there lies the chieftain, beloved and revered,His rule it was just, nor in conflict he feared;He was butchered at night by the villainous foe,And discoloured with blood in his couch in the snow.
*****
My father! my father! Why here dost thou lie?Arouse thee, dear father, arouse thee, 'tis I!Why dost thou not answer? My God! it is so!And his lips are as cold and as white as the snow.
Thou wilt lead not again in the field or the chase,Nor clasp thy dear Janet in loving embrace.Ah! dreary and barren life's desert to me!Kind heavenly Father, O take me to Thee.
*****
And, O heaven for strength! And my mother!—Thy handToo is cold, and discoloured with death's pallid brand;And thine eye, which had beamed with thy love as thou smiled,Is fixed on the welkin both wanly and wild.
And hushed are the tones of that motherly voice,In whose kind commendation I used to rejoice.Alas! I am lonely without thee to cheer;Do thou, gentle Mother of Jesus, be near!
*****
I am fatherless, motherless—Ronald!—my God!—Thy sepulchre too is the snow-covered sod!My Ronald, my hero, the king of my heart!O Christ, Thou hast power, do Thou life re-impart!
The sisters of old were made glad at Thy will,But my lover lies breathless and motionless still.Can naught else restore warmth to the frame of the dead?Not my passion's embrace, nor the hot tears I shed?
But, alas! my Narcissus is lifeless at length,For ever laid low his Herculean strength,And that manly bosom, that throbbed with the swayOf a heart true and noble, is silent for aye.
Yet he looks like a prince, as he lies in reposeOn his marble-white tomb, and o'er-wreathed with snows.The snow too is thy shroud, and thy funeral chantIs the wail of a maiden lamenting thy want.
O Ronald, so generous, noble, and true,How unworthy thy loved one! how deeply I rueMy pride, my caprice, and the preference shown—But now thou art dead, and the damned one is flown.
How deeply he loved! and how zealously wooed!My God! 'tis beside where our cottage late stood!He could have escaped, but alone would not fly,And—aha!—for my safety, for me did he die.
Aha! aha! the maiden cried,Aha! aha! the rocks replied;'Twas carried weird upon the wind,And wildly woke the hills behind;It smote the birds upon the wing,They fled afar, and ceased to sing;It pierced my heart that still its blightIt bears upon it day and night;Still when the eventime is nighI hear the maiden's withering cry,And see her spectral shadow by,Which stays and haunts my restless dreams,Disturbed by those heart-rending screams.Aha! she cried, and down the glenShe madly took her way again.
Through shadowy vale, o'er shaggy hillYoung Janet wanders frantic still,Watched and sustained from year to yearBy pity of the mountaineer,Who knows the story of her woe,And curses deep her kindred's foe;And on from year to year the sameShe wildly calls on Ronald's name.
A Parody
Once upon a midnight dreary, as I sauntered weak and wearyFrom a jovial fellow-student's room upon another floor;As I sauntered, sadder, sicker, suddenly I heard a snicker,And the lights began to flicker, and right out went three or four."Some infernal trick!" I muttered, as I neared my chamber door;"I won't stand this any more."
Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in my first September,And each night-attired member fled like ghost upon the floor.Lamp I vainly sought to borrow, though I threatened on the morrowThey would catch it to their sorrow, they would catch it sad and sore—I would have them on the morrow the dread Faculty before—Fearful here for evermore.
And the hushed and humorous talking, and the doors' successive lockingFilled me—thrilled me with fantastic terrors often felt before;So that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating"'Tis some prank they are repeating that they played the night before,"Sewn, perchance, my couch's covering, firmly fixed my chamber door,"Effigy upon my floor."
Then toward my chamber turning, for my wonted slumber yearning,Straightway I could hear them laughing somewhat louder than before;"Surely," said I, "surely that is ominous, foreboding that is,"Let me see, then, what the rat is, and this mystery explore—"I'll discover what the rat is, and this mystery explore;"For methinks 'tis something more."
Open then I flung the portal, and—oh! miserable mortal!Down there fell a pan of water in a most tremendous pour;Not the least cessation made it, not a second stopped or stayed it;But before I could evade it, down it fell from off the door—Fell,—and with its icy current chilled me to the very core;This there was, what could be more?
Deep into the darkness staring, long I stood there thundering, tearing;Shouting, threatening threats no mortal ever dared to threat before;And my face was wild and ashen, and to aggravate my passion,Each, in an insulting fashion, thrust his head from out his door;And the worst of all the wretches met me with a mocking roar,Asking,—Had I got to shore?
Instantly my speech grew stronger; I could stand it now no longer;"Cur," said I, "or madman, my forgiveness now implore,"For my patience now is sapping, and the truth is this is capping"What too often has been happing, what in future shall be o'er,"Now most humbly my forgiveness I demand that you implore.But he answered, "Nevermore."
And the wretches, unremitting, still are sitting, still are sitting—Sitting each successive session on the freshmen as of yore:Who, with burning indignation, and with angry imprecation,Undergo initiation to this school of modern lore,And the rackets now resounding through this school of life; and loreShall be silenced—nevermore.
Tomakewaw,—A Parody.
"Give me of your fruit, banana!Of your yellow fruit, banana!Growing on the tropic islands,Fertile islands in the ocean;I a little trick will play me,Play it on the darkened staircase,Where no light has late been burning,Where the students walk in darkness,Walk on foot, perchance on shin-bones!""Lay aside your fruit, banana!Quickly lay your fruit aside you,For the eventime is coming,When the stairs are wrapt in darkness;And I've yet to waft me distant,Many leagues o'er land and ocean,To a famous school of learning,In the land of the pale faces,In the city of the mountain!"Thus aloud cried Tomakewaw,Chief of all the imps of darkness,On an island in the ocean,In the wide Pacific Ocean.And the tall tree shook its branches,Shook with mirth its ladened branches,Saying with a burst of laughter,"Take my fruit, O Tomakewaw!"Then its fruit he picked with gladness,Gathered it with exultation,Sped across the wide Pacific,Over mountain, over prairie,To the shores of the great river,To the banks of the St. Lawrence,To the city of the mountain.Here within the school of learning,Sought he out a student's chamber,Where he peeled the fruit delicious,Cleft the yellow rind asunder,Ate the fruit—but saved the peeling.And he then with quiet movements,Took up the banana peeling,Issued out into the darkness,Noiseless glided through the passage,Till he reached the darkened staircase,Where, upon the topmost step hePlaced with care the oily peeling,Placed the smooth banana peeling.Later on we have "The Sailing."
The Principal's Ash-Barrel.
In a notable college the story is told—'Twill bear repetition, although somewhat old—That, at some unauthenticate date in the past(I think 'twas the month or the year before last),The Principal brought a complaint 'gainst the StewardConcerning a matter he long had endured:He deposed that the former—the cause of the quarrel—Had neglected to see to his scavenger-barrel,And requested the Faculty grave and sedateTo sit and consider the point in debate,Which this reverend body would straightway have doneHad not a professor objection begunBy insisting that such an undignified actTo the Faculty was not becoming, in fact,That he, for his part, refused to complyWith the purpose the Principal wished to apply,Considering it 'neath both his place and apparelTo sit upon anyone's scavenger-barrel.