Chapter III: Preface (3)

[This was probably written in the early part of the year 1861, before Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation had given deliverance to the captives, and when "the north star" was an object dear to many a slave who longed to breathe the free air of Canada. The Rev. E. H. Dewart says of it: "This spirited lyric is alike creditable to the talents, patriotism, and independence of its author. Its loyalty is an intelligent attainment, free from blind prejudice and crouching adulation."]

What land more beautiful than ours?
What other land more blest?
The South with all its wealth of flowers?
The prairies of the West?

Oh no! there's not a fairer land
Beneath yon azure dome--
Where Peace holds Plenty by the hand,
And Freedom finds a home.

The slave who but her name hath heard,
Repeats it day and night,
And envies every little bird
That takes its northward flight.

As to the Polar star they turn
Who brave a pathless sea:
So the oppressed in secret yearn,
Dear native land, for thee!

How many loving memories throng
Round Britain's stormy coast!
Renowned in story and in song,
Her glory is our boast.

With loyal hearts we still abide
Beneath her sheltering wing,--
While with true patriot love and pride,
To Canada we cling.

We wear no haughty tyrant's chain,--
We bend no servile knee,
When to the Mistress of the main
We pledge our fealty.

She binds us with the cords of love,--
All others we disown;
The rights we owe to God above,
We yield to him alone.

May He our future course direct
By his unerring hand;
Our laws and liberties protect,
And bless our native land.

THE APPEAL.

[It will be remembered that 1861 closed with an alarming prospect of war between England and the United States, growing partly out of the arrest of Mason and Slidell on board the British steamship Trent. Of course had war been declared Canada would have been involved. On Christmas of that year therefore Miss JOHNSON wrote this appeal, which was published in a Canadian paper.]

To prayer! to prayer! O ye who love
Your country's peace, your country's weal,
To Him who rules supreme above,
In this dark hour of peril kneel.
To prayer! to prayer! before the cry
"To arms!" shall make your spirit quake,--
And ere ye dream of danger nigh
The dark portentous war-cloud break.

So long hath Peace o'er hill and vale
Waved her white banner to the breeze,
We thought her smiles would never fail,
And only heard from o'er the seas
The murmur of an angry host,
The clang of arms, the cannon's roar,--
How false our hope! how vain our boast!
War threatens our beloved shore.

Great God! to whom the nations seem
Like dust that gathers on the scales,
A drop within a mighty stream,
A breath amid the northern gales,
We pray, the hearts of men dispose
So that the sounds of war may cease,
And nations who should ne'er be foes
Embrace, and pledge themselves to Peace.

I LOVE THE LAND WHERE I WAS BORN.

[The following poem appeared in the _Sherbrooke (P. Q.) Gazette_, sometime in the winter of 1863, and was the last article prepared by Miss JOHNSON for the press. It is of special interest for having been written during the dark days of the war in the United States, and when the sympathy of England and Canada for the North was by many questioned.]

I love the land where I was born,
'Tis a noble land and good;
It has many a field of wheat and corn
Where once the forest stood;
It has many a town and city grand,
Where the Savage used to roam;
To the poor of every other land
It offers a peaceful home.

I'm proud of the land where I was born,
I'm proud of the Parent Isle,
Whose banners float at the gates of morn,
And the gates of eve the while.
And my pulses leap with a joyous thrill,
Wherever they take the lead,
And join their hands with a hearty will
In doing a noble deed.

There's another land that's dear to me,
For it speaks the English tongue;
Like a shoot that springs from an old oak tree,
From the English race it sprung.
It has gained a mighty place on earth,
And a mighty name has won;
It has given to sage and hero birth,
And it boasts of Washington.

But a blot, a dark and loathsome blot,
Polluted that fair young land;
God waited till his wrath was hot,
And he took his sword in hand!
He had heard the bitter wail of woe,
He had heard the clanking chain--
He rescued a nation years ago,
He will rescue one again!

There's a gathering darkness in the sky,
There's a tramp of hurrying feet;
There's a clang of arms, and a battle cry,
And two hostile armies meet.
They meet! they charge! 'tis a dreadful sight!
They wade through a gory sea;
It is life or death, it is wrong or right,
It is freedom or slavery!

The nations stand with a wondering look,
And list to the roar and din;
While History bends o'er an open book
And steadily writes therein.
And what will she say of my native land?
And what of the Parent Isle?
To the North, or South, did they give their hand,
To which did they grant a smile?

God speaks in the wind and earthquake now,
And those who have ears may hear:
To the King of kings let monarchs bow,
And let all the earth draw near.
Let the nations mark his holy laws,
For though he keeps silence long,
With fire and sword He will plead the cause
Of the weak against the strong.

Take heed and beware, my native land,--
To thy ways and words take heed!
On the side of right and freedom stand,
And say to the truth, "God speed!"
Let England herself a lesson learn,
And let her take warning too;
Let her judge as she would be judged in turn,
Let her nobly speak and do.

THE WORLD TO COME.

[Dear as Canada was to our authoress, dearer still to her heart was the true Father-Land, "the heavenly country" for which the children of faith in the olden time looked. Being born again she bore such a relationship to the world to come that we may say of her, as she does of "the bride of Christ": "The Cross was infinitely dearer to her than ten thousand worlds. It was twined around her heart with ties that nothing could ever loose. She wept, but they were mingled tears of joy and sorrow: sorrow, for she mourned that her sins had cost the life of the Son of God; joy, for she knew that that sacrifice had made a perfect atonement for her. She knew that the Father had forgiven her iniquities, and that he would no longer remember her sins. As she clung to the Cross, a bright beam of glory shone around her; she raised her tearful eyes, and a crown of everlasting beauty met her admiring gaze: she knew that crown was reserved for her, and that on her bridal day her Lord would place it on her own brow." With such an experience and such a hope, we are not surprised that she should thus discourse:]

The earth renewed presents a glorious scene: Mountains and valleys of perpetual green; Delicious plains, and odoriferous bowers, Unfading forests, never-dying flowers; Fruits that on fragrant trees immortal grow, Rivers that murmur sweetly as they flow, And gardens decked with everlasting spring, And shining warblers on the tireless wing. No howling tempest breaks the sweet repose, No piercing thorn surrounds the blushing rose, No sultry heat parches those blooming plains, No night is known where day forever reigns; No thunder's roar, no lightning's vivid glare, No darkened sky, disturbs the beauty there.

The royal city, the divine abode Of ransomed men and their eternal God, Rises 'mid blooming bowers and lofty trees, And waves its banners to the gentle breeze. Upon its pearly gates and shining walls A flood of everlasting glory falls, And tinges with its own delightful glow The lovely river murmuring below. That river from the living fountain springs, And, guided by the mighty King of kings, It wanders through the saints' celestial home, Where, robed in white, the ransomed nations roam Through golden streets, and gardens fair and free; And on its banks stands life's unfading tree. All, all is bliss, and love, and glory there; No pain, no sickness, no corroding care, No grief, no aching hearts, no tearful eyes, No broken bands, and there no severed ties; For, o'er those broad and beautiful domains The Prince of peace, the great Immanuel reigns. The good have met, of every age and land, Around the throne a glorious throng they stand; The crown of life, the blood-washed robes they wear, The conqueror's palms of victory they bear; They bend the knee, they raise the joyful eye; And hark! Oh, hark! that vast assembly cry: "Worthy the Lamb to be exalted thus, Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!" And angels with the ransomed millions sing, "Glory and honor to our God and King!"

TEMPERANCE

A WELCOME TO A TEMPERANCE PICNIC.

Old and young are welcome here
To the banquet we have spread:
It will cause no bitter tear
When the festal hour is fled;
It will break no mother's heart,
For the deadly bowl we shun!
Welcome then--and when we part
Blessings go with every one.

[The following lines were also written by Miss JOHNSON for a temperance picnic, held in a grove near her father's house. They were read by her brother Edwin, now a lawyer in Stanstead, P. Q.]

From north and south, from east and west
They come with banners gay;
Hope lights each eye and fills each breast,
And all are friends to-day.

The fairest of the sister band--
With greeting most sincere,--
Magog extends an eager hand,
And bids you welcome here!

Hail, brothers in a noble cause,
'Tis well we thus should meet:
For every meeting closer draws
The bonds of union sweet.

And we who battle for the right,
And breathe the solemn vow
To win or perish in the fight,
Should be united now.

Up, brothers, up! to arms! to arms!
The sword must needs be drawn:
These are indeed no vain alarms,
The foe is marching on!

And shall he blight our happy land
With his polluting breath?
And scatter woe on every hand,
_And infamy and death?_

By yonder mountain and by lake
Which their approval show,--
For each beloved Township's sake,
We boldly answer--No!

Then let our banners be unfurled,
'Mid scorn or 'mid applause;
We dare proclaim to all the world
_We love the temperance cause!_

A LIFE-SCENE--THE LETTER.

"I'm at work upon the railroad"--
So the brother's letter ran,--
"I'm at work upon the railroad,
With the wages of a man.

"I am up at peep of morning,
And I only stop to eat;
But I bear it all extremely well
Except the noon-day heat.

"I do not feel much homesick,
Though I think of other scenes,
And what you have for dinner
When I eat my pork and beans!

"'Tis the time for pies and dumplings,
Currant jelly and all that,
For an hour in mother's pantry
I'd give my bran-new hat.

"You wrote about the chickens,
About the crops and hay;
But not a word about the colts--
The black one or the gray.

"Tell father not to worry
About that note at all:
I shall have a hundred dollars
I can send him in the fall.

"You cannot think how proudly
It makes my bosom swell,
To think that I am toiling
For those I love so well.

"Tell mother I remember
Her parting words to me;
And all that she has prayed for
I hope I yet may be.

"The workmen bring the bottle,
They say, 'Just take a sip;'
But, mother, _not a single drop
Shall ever touch my lip._

"Here's a kiss for brother Charley--
The little roguish elf,
I hope he'll not forget me,--
And another for yourself.

"How much I want to see you
I will not try to tell;
I never knew I loved my home
And all my friends so well!

"My lamp is burning dimly,
So, sister dear, good-night;
Think often of your brother,
And don't forget to write."

The sister read the letter
With a look of pride and joy;
And the father and the mother said,
"God bless the darling boy!"

THE PLEDGE.

[Whether the following is a real or a supposed case we know that in this fallen world of ours there have been many sadder scenes than the one depicted; for "who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? Who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes? They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine.... At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder."--Prov. 23: 29-35.]