Chapter V: Part II (3)

If we but mark how finely blend
The foul and fair, the dark and bright
That in this Mother-Sphinx unite,
We may believe her still our friend.

Excessive beauty floods the sky,
And earth is fair through all the year;—
In autumn, when the woods are sere,
In winter, when the white winds fly,
And blow their trumpets far and near,
There’s beauty for a loving eye.

The sculptor, in long ages past,
Enamoured, taxed his glorious art
That he might press his hungry heart
To Nature’s charms, and hold her fast.

Like him, we shall not fail to find
On earth, in sky, in air, in sea,
Many a dazzling deity,
If pure in heart, and great in mind.

Then let us live as best we may,
And bid our souls ascend, and sing
Like birds and brooks that greet the spring.
Shall we be found less wise than they?
Hence, Care, upon thy ebon wing!
I’m happy with my friend to-day.

LINES.

(_Written on recovering from the effects of a serious accident._)

I.

I felt the cold shadow
Of Death as he passed,
And counted that horrible
Moment my last.

No fear of a Future
Took part in the play
Of thoughts that were losing
The sweet light of day.

A shock and a tumult,—
A crash and a strife,—
And all that pertains to
The aim of my life

Swept o’er me and through me,
As if to remind
I had housed with the sluggard,
And loitered behind.

If this penance hath hinted
The value of time,
Hath taught me to reckon
Delay as a crime,

The days yet uncounted
May balance the cost
Of all I have suffered,
Of more than I’ve lost.

II.

When the Demon of Torture
O’ertakes and assails,
And thy skill, Cotyæus!
But little avails;

What is it that sheddeth
The balm of relief?
What anodyne softens
The pain and the grief?

’Tis the presence of friendship,
The clasp of a hand,
’Tis the kindness that speaketh
In tones to command

The Demon to loosen
His hold and depart,
That Hope may return to
Her nest in the heart.

This boon have I tasted
While couched in my room;
And fair, as the rainbow
That spanneth the gloom,

Shall be the remembrance
Of faces that shed
A magic that blunted
The thorns of my bed,
That wrought on the Demon
Of pain till he fled.

HALLOWE’EN IN CANADA;

AND HOW IT SETTLED A DOMESTIC QUARREL.

To-night, upon the land or sea,
Wherever Scotland’s bairns may be,
Whether they plough Australian soil,
Or in Canadian forests toil;—
Or, on the Ganges or the Nile,
Defy the gaping crocodile;
Or on the South Sea waters sail,
A terror to the fated whale;
In lonely dell or crowded street,
Wherever two or more may meet,
Warm hands are clasped—no formal grip,—
No dainty, bloodless fingers’ tip,
But such a cordial squeeze and shake
As leave behind a welcome ache,
Such greeting as can only mean,
_To-night, my friend, is Hallowe’en_.

The quicksand of the sliding years,
Is moistened with perpetual tears;
But as the sunshine tempers showers,
As perfume clings to wounded flowers,
As music tones the midnight storm,
As beauty clothes the lightning’s form,
So wedded to each human ill,
Some pleasing charm is felt or seen,
And hence, though exiles here, they thrill
With yearly joys of Hallowe’en.

But in this logic-leavened age,
When every boot-black is a sage,
When naught but the electric wire,
Or steam-propulsion can inspire,—
When lovers travelling to the moon,
Are married in a great balloon,[6]
“What folly,” says my neighbour wise,
A cyclopædia in his eyes,
“What superstition to uphold
This Hallowe’en, so ghostly, old,
A custom suit for infant schools,
Gray dotards, and the mob of fools.”
Just hearken to a truthful story
Of two plain folk who dwelt alone,
To city shows and glare unknown,
A forest life their only glory,
Then judge, ye unbelieving crew,
What faith in Hallowe’en can do.

THE QUARREL.

Tam Gregg and Jean, a thrifty pair,
He lithe and tall, she plump and fair,
Far westward in the wild woods’ shade,
A comfortable home had made,
And lived for years, true man and wife,
Without a single word of strife.
Till one day, with the toothache crossed,
His even temper Tammy lost,
And glowered, and snarled, and snapped, and swore,
And stamped upon the cottage floor,
Kicked the poor dog, and cuffed the wean,
And knit his angry brows at Jean.
At length some bitter words he said
Which fell like fire-flakes on her heart,
And turned her cheek from pale to red,
When bouncing up with sudden start,
She hurried from his evil view;
And with hot purpose inly vowed
That Tam his spiteful fling should rue.
For she was Highland born, and proud,
And boasted the McGregor blood,
Now coursing like a fiery flood
Through all her veins: her heart throbs loud,
But careless if its chambers burst,
Her head upon her hot hands bowed,
She thought: “Weel, Tam, you’ve said your worst,
And even if it holds a week,
I winna look at you, nor speak,
Till sorry for the wrang ye’ve done,
A wrang that would provoke the Deil,
Ye bend your hough, and seek to wun
Forgiveness for the pangs I feel.”
Three days crept past, they slept and woke,
And neither to the other spoke;—
Three wretched days, with sunless eye
Each passed the other coldly by,
Like shadows in a pantomime;
And in that silent lapse of time,
What thoughts, what griefs, were known to each,
Conjecture only scarce may reach.
The woods, but lately green, were bare,
And moaning winds were wandering there;
Their feathered guests had ceased to sing,
And southward flew on chilly wing;
Dark clouds obscured the sickly light,
And night seemed death, and day seemed night.
Sad signals these, and o’er the change
The vacant looks of both would range,
While Love, slow pointing to the past,
Asked each, “Must this forever last?”

Jean still maintained her stately tread,
But Tam grew sad, and drooped his head,
That uncombed, mop-like, sandy pow,
That never looked so wild as now.
He twitched his beard and peeped askance,
In hopes to catch some random glance
Of Jean’s blue eyes, but there, O, fate!
The sullen lids seemed charged with hate,
And curdled scorn, and wounded pride.
But anxious still the truth to hide,
His reasoning all perversely ran;
“If guilty, am I not a man?

And is it not a woman’s place
To yield with a relenting grace?”
Thus did he manage still to frown
And fight his best convictions down.
The fourth day fell on Hallowe’en,
And now remorse and anguish keen,
Like wild cats seized on Tammy’s mind.
A moment’s peace he could not find.
All day he shuffled in and out,
And snuffed, and coughed, and glowered about,
And tried to whistle, but his lips,
As dry as two sun-seasoned chips,
Refused to pucker:—what a look,
When baffled thus, his visage took!
The gloaming hour drew on, and Tam
Was seated by the chimney jamb.
His eyes were bent upon the fire,
And, listening to his heart’s desire,
“To-night,” thought he, “is Hallowe’en,
Seven years ago this very night
I first beheld my comely Jean,
And courted her till morning’s light.
O happy, happy hours! and now!”—
He struck his hand against his brow,
When suddenly a gladsome thought
He from the glowing cinders caught.—
Two nuts with eager hand he drew
From forth his pouch, and muttering low,
“_That’s her, that’s me_,” he gently threw
The orbs of fate amid the glow
Of golden fire upon the hearth,
And watched them with such eager gaze,
As if his all of heaven and earth
Depended on their puny blaze.
“Now,” whispered Tam, “if I but lean
My kindled kindness toward my Jean,
If over her my flamelet spread,
No matter how she bear her head,
Then must I be the first to speak,
And press repentance on her cheek.”
The nuts caught fire, and Tam’s at first
Swelled up as if its sides would burst;
But instantly a blaze shot out,
And reached and clasped his Jean about,
And round her never ceased to play,
Till both in ashy cinders lay.
“Enough,” cried Tam, with moistened eye,
“Thus may we live, and love, and die,
And thus at last together lie!”

Meantime, poor Jean, sore sick at heart,—
Though mindful of her vow and smart,
Began to feel her purpose fail,
And, strolling out among the kail,
She conjured up some soft excuse
For tooth-afflicted Tam’s abuse.
So came it, as the fates decreed,
She with herself and Heaven agreed
To take her chance, by pulling out
A kail stalk, which, “if tall and stout,
Then must Tam Gregg come ben and speak,
But otherwise if slim and weak,
I’ll take it as a solemn proof
That I maun first hold out my loof.”
Her eyes she bandaged, groped about,
Perturbed with many a tender doubt,
And mindless of the gain or cost,
Cared little if she won or lost.
Just then, as Tam the garden gained,
He spied her, and his heart was pained,
For scarcely could he understand
Whether his wife was daft or wise,
Groping around with shaky hand,
Her apron tied across her eyes.

With open mouth amazed he stood,
And watched her, all remorseful now,
The big veins throbbing on his brow,
Till she her verdict clutched, then rude,
Tore off the bandage from her sight,
And frowning, smiling, red, and white,
Confessed her prize a puny thing,
But little thicker than her thumb;
So must she cower her haughty wing,
And hold her lips no longer dumb.
Still wondering what the lass could mean,
Tam stole upon her ere she knew,
Exclaiming fondly, “Jean! why, Jean!”
His arm around her waist he threw.
No sooner done, no sooner said,
Than on his breast she leaned her head,
And wept like any child;—But no,
Our story must not further go,
Except to add, that tall Tam Gregg,
Grown wild with gladness, shook his leg,
And joked, and laughed and filled his cup,
And threw his auld blue bonnet up,
And kissed the bairn, and Jean, and sang,
Till through the woods such echoes rang,
That prowling catamount and bear,
Fled frightened to their distant lair.
Each learned the other’s plot and plan,
And through their veins such rapture ran,
That heedless of their recent pain,
They almost wished to quarrel again.

So ends the tale, and if I’ve shown,
That though the world has wiser grown,
A loving heart and generous mind
Some good in Hallowe’en may find,—
Then, Caledonians, prize it still,
And whether on the land or sea,
Your scattered homes may chance to be,
Maintain it with a right good will.

Old Scotia! Though they never more
May stand upon thy rugged shore,—
The lofty fame which thou hast won,
The daring deeds thy sons have done,
Thy storied glens, and streams, and heights,
Where heroes fought for freeman’s rights,
And stubborn as the will of fate,
Maintained their independent state,—
These, feeding still their patriot fire,
Will never let the flame expire;
And when, beneath a foreign sky,
Some home-nursed trifle meets the eye,—
A simple bluebell from the glen
Where trod the feet of “Cameron men,”
Or white-cheeked daisy from the braes
Where Burns exhaled his thrilling lays;—
A sigh will rise, a tear will start,
And every prompting of the heart,
Though half the globe should intervene,
Will teach them evermore, I ween,
To meet and hold their Hallowe’en.

[6] An instance of such performance was reported in the public prints at the time when these lines were written.

ETHEL.

Little sky-waif, come astray
Twice twelve months ago to-day!
What a world of joy is thine!
What a glow of summer shine
Cheers the house wherein thou art,
Sly magician of the heart!

In those large, those azure eyes,
All the splendour of the skies,
All the beauty that belongs
To the poet’s sweetest songs,
All the wisdom known and lost
That the wisest sage could boast,
Beam and lure and half reveal
Secrets that the gods conceal.

See those ringlets all unshorn
That her pretty neck adorn;—
Golden hues and silken gloss
On the charméd air they toss
Sun-gleams in a starry spray.—
Dearest little laughing fay!

See her tiny feet beat time,
In an ecstasy of rhyme,
To the pearly notes that win
From the speaking violin.
See her fingers, dimpled, white,
Mimic with a grave delight
Those that wonderingly she sees
Race along the ivory keys.

Hear her prattle, indistinct;—
Much we guess at, still we think
It may be some long lost speech
That she fondly strives to teach,—
Language known to airy things,
It may chance, whose spirit wings
In a merry mischief keep
Little human elves from sleep.

Ask her father, ask her mother,
They will vouch there is no other,
Never was on land or sea
Such a charming girl as she.
Surely they who know her best
Must the simple truth attest;
But if further proof you seek,
Let her solemn grandpa speak.—
He a mighty oath will swear,
By the silver in his hair!
By his sober-sided muse!
All good people needs must choose
Make confession, that for grace,
Loveliness of form and face,
Ways so simple, yet so wise,
Large-eyed Ethel takes the prize.

KEATS.

Full late in life I found thee, glorious Keats!
Some chance blown verse had visited my ear
And careless eye, once in some sliding year,
Like some fair-plumaged bird one rarely meets.

And when it came that o’er thy page I bent,
A sudden gladness smote upon my blood;—
Wonder and joy, an aromatic flood,
Distilled from an enchanted firmament.

And on this flood I floated, hours and hours,
Unconscious of the world’s perplexing din,
Its blackened crust of misery and sin,
Rocked in a shallop of elysian flowers.

All melodies of earth and heaven are thine.
That one so young such music could rehearse
As swells the undulations of thy verse
Is what Hyperion only might define.

The voices of old pines, the lulling song
Of silver-crested waterfalls, the sweep
Of symphonies that swell the booming deep
To thy immortal minstrelsy belong.

Nor less the whispered harmony that falls,
Like twilight dews, from heaven’s starry arch,
For gentle souls that listen to the march
Of airy footfalls in ethereal halls.

Unhappy, happy Keats! A bitter sweet
Was thy life’s dream; death grinning at thy heels,
While Fame, before thee, smiled her grand appeals,
Tempting to dizzy heights thy winged feet.

Methinks thou didst resemble (over-bold
May be the fancy) thy Endymion,—
Now charmed with earth-born beauty and anon
Finding some imperfection in the mould.

He sued a heaven-born splendor to allay
The hunger and the fever of his heart;
And thus to Cynthia he did impart
The fearful secret of his misery.

Oh, had I missed this Hippocrene, and slept
Without full measure of the choicest draught
That ever mortal man divinely quaffed,
What depth of bliss the Gods from me had kept!

THE CRISIS.[7]

The roar of battle peals afar.
In lurid haze, the Northern star
Gleams through the flaming clouds of war;
Death rides the burning blast.

What havoc on the groaning plain!
What never ending heaps of slain!
What tepid pools of purple rain!—
We look, and stand aghast.

And still the strife resounds abroad,
Earth trembles, and her forests nod,
As if she felt the stamp of God,
And heard His voice at last.

He speaks, indeed! Who hath an ear
To learn His will, may hark and hear
These hallowed words, to freedom dear,
_Tyrants, release the slave!_

And till that mandate is obeyed,
May Northern hearts beat undismayed,
And all the world, with generous aid,
Cheer on the loyal brave.

Ha! o’er the Southern plains shall spread
The children of the honoured dead,
And evermore above their head
The dear old flag shall wave;—

Shall wave with all its stars, a sign
That though the hosts of hell combine,
The cause of freedom is divine,
And slavery must expire.

A sign that, not in vain, the great
And good of every clime and state
Have battled with a bloody fate,
Breathing heroic fire.

I love the flag, because it flings
Defiance in the face of kings,
While Liberty expands her wings
To crown the world’s desire.

[7] These lines were written in reference to the American civil war, at the time known as “Grant’s Battles in the Wilderness,” when, in a note to the War Department, (May 11, 1864), he penned those memorable words, “I propose to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer.”

IN MEMORY OF JOSEPH GUIBORD.

1875.

The storm of six long years is past,
And peacefully he rests at last.—
Thrice hearsed, thrice cursed, let honest fame
Blow treble honour to his name.
If endless years of praise ensue,
’Tis but the hero’s earthly due.
The humble printer’s mighty art,
Though banned, will vindicate her son,
And tell to every truthful heart
While woods grow green and waters run—
That he who braves a despot’s frown
Will wear at length the victor’s crown;
Even when slain, and torn asunder,
And scattered piecemeal, trodden under
The brutal feet of frenzied foes,
His deeds will rise, as Christ’s arose,
And, borne upon the chainless air,
Will plead for freedom everywhere.

Let curses from their rookery fly,
And flap their foul wings o’er his bones,
The autumn wind that round him moans
Will mock them, while in vain they try
To penetrate those friendly stones.

Come what might come, from man or elf,
He dared not quarrel with himself,
Nor stab the Truth that in his breast
Had found a warm and welcome nest.
No terrors of the burning lake,
Fancied or real, beyond the grave,
Nor purgatorial flames could shake
His manly soul, so firm and brave,
For he was neither fool nor slave.
True to himself, he lived and died,
Not wilful, nor elate with pride,
But steadfast in his honest thought,
Self-justified, self-ruled, self-taught.

Our Brother! wheresoever now
Thy spirit lifts its free-born brow,
Behold thy kindred!—not alone
In Canada will thousands own
Relationship; throughout all lands,—
Wherever freedom shines or dawns,
An army with uplifted hands,
Constrained by glowing links that bind
Nobility of mind to mind,
Will crown thee with their benisons.

Thus Guibord! shall the commonwealth
Of truth’s and reason’s fearless sons,—
Scorners of men who think by stealth,
Now hold thee in fraternal trust,
And consecrate thine injured dust,
While woods grow green and water runs.

IT MOVES.

“I know it moves,” so said the man
Whose genius read the astral scroll
From east to west, from pole to pole,
Yet, under a terrific ban,

Denied his thought, the truth denied,
And crushed in soul betwixt the strife
Of love of truth and love of life,
To silence doomed he slowly died.

Since that dark hour, ’tis joy to know,
The thoughts of fearless men have moved
As move the stars; the years have proved
Thy deathless worth, Galileo!

What marvel if he shrank with dread
Beneath the lifted iron hand
Whose marks were seen on every land,—
Red marks where truest seers had bled.

The glare of Bruno’s fiery shroud
Still seemed to haunt the midnight skies,
And falling on his menaced eyes,
His head the noble Pisan bowed.

And who the number may compute
Of kindred souls, whose secret fears
Have held them captive all their years,
And kept their lips forever mute?

Grim Persecution’s sleepless rage
Has many guises, all the same
In essence, differing but in name,
O’er all the earth, from age to age.

And if less potent now for harm,
Let Freedom’s watchmen guard her towers;
Happy to cry the all-well hours,
Ready to ring the prompt alarm.

Low sinks the race where thought and speech
Are helpless slaves to crown and cross;
Where heresy brings blame and loss;
And each is set a spy on each.

Blest is the soil where men can stand
And say it is a crime to hide
The light of reason, to deride
The one sure Deity’s command—

The voice of Conscience;—here to-night
This heritage of centuries, old
And new, in sacred trust we hold:
Our watchword—“Freedom and the Right.”

SUPERSTITION.

O Superstition, could the world behold
Thy wrinkled visage,—worshipped as thou art,
Not all the pomp of earth, nor all its gold
Could purchase for thee one devoted heart;
The sons of science, eloquently bold,
Have felt the strokes of thy unsparing dart,
And knaves despotic, kneeling at thy shrines,
Have made thy slaves the tools of their designs.

To science turn; she cultivates the rough
And barren regions of the savage mind,
Her lore is not the visionary stuff
Of gloomy monks; blind leaders of the blind.
Her ways are mild and beautiful enough
To melt the rigour of a heart unkind,
Her truths are diamonds, such as will endure
Throughout all ages, palpable and sure.

VIGER SQUARE.[8]

Here in this quiet garden shade,
Whose blossoms spread their bloom before me,
The world’s gay cheats,—Life’s masquerade,
Like evil ghosts from memory fade,
And calm and holy thoughts come o’er me.

Ambrosial haunt; the orient light
Falls golden on thy soft seclusion;
And like the lone and shadowy night,
Grim care, abashed, has taken flight,
And joys gleam forth in rich profusion.

These odorous flowers that feast the bee,
Those mimic fountains sunward leaping,
And yon red-berried rowan tree,
That brings my childhood back to me,
With hallowed scenes of Memory’s keeping.

All these, and more, with beauty clad,
Invite the city’s weary mortals—
The pale-faced maid, the widow sad,
The sinking merchant, growing mad,
To muse within these peaceful portals.

Here is the stone that sages sought,
Here the famed lamp of blest Aladdin;
Objects that tell ambitious thought,
“All that thy greed hath ever caught
Cannot like us, console and gladden.”

[8] A beautiful public park, in the east end of Montreal.

1881.

Year of all years, that hath been unto me
More bitter than the depths of Acheron,
I will not curse thee for the ill thou’st done,
But bow as best I may to thy decree.

With what a buoyancy of hope and trust
I gave thee generous welcome at thy birth,
Swelling the chorus of the general mirth;
And thou my greeting hast returned with—dust!

Two happy eyes that shone upon thy dawn,
And beamed upon us from our chamber door
Are quenched, and closed to open nevermore—
The face, the form, the loving voice is gone.

Go, savage and inexorable year!
Haste to the gloomy Hades of the Past!
Not to thy memory are these moanings cast,
Not for thy exit falls the hasty tear.

DESPONDENT.

(_Occasioned by hearing a pathetic air played on the Flute._)

Oh! cease, sweet Minstrel, cease to play,
My eyes with tears are filling fast;
I see life’s pleasures fade away,
I feel misfortune’s coldest blast.

Thy witching strain is sad and sweet,
I cannot bear its melting sound;
It tells of joys that passed too fleet,
And early loves in sorrow drowned.

I see the ranks of early years
Like awful spectres pass along;
I see a dismal lake of tears,
I hear lost Hope’s expiring song.

Then cease, Musician! cease to play,
My heavy heart is filled with grief;
And every note but seems to say—
The world for me has no relief.

THOMAS D’ARCY McGEE.

(_April 7th, 1868._)

There is mourning to-day in the halls of the great,
And homes of the people of lowly estate.
A deed has been done which o’ershadows the heart
With a darkness and horror that will not depart.—
The Poet and Statesman lies cold in his gore,
His eloquent accents will thrill us no more:
No more, with our hearts to all charities strung,
Shall we listen to catch the sweet sounds of his tongue.
That tongue, whose enchantment could hold us in thrall
Will never more gladden the close, crowded hall;
But the light of his genius will shine o’er the land,
And his fame, like Mount Royal, forever shall stand,
For his thoughts were the lights of our northern sky,
And the soul’s spoken melody never can die.
O God! could no virtue, no pity restrain
The wretch who has sown such a harvest of pain?
What though on the scaffold he die for the deed
That causes fond hearts, like his victim, to bleed?
A million such lives no atonement can make
For the star that is quenched, for the sorrows that shake
Our trust in the highest and holiest plan,
Our faith in the ultimate goodness of man.

THE NEWS-BOY.

Hark on the street the News-boy’s call,
Above all other sounds it rings;
“Great news by telegraph”[9] he brings,
A luxury devoured by all;
And some with vacant visage laugh;—
Laugh while they read of ruthless war,
Of huge disasters, near and far,
Of crimes that give the world a jar,
O wondrous news by telegraph!

The Press is modern Jove, and he
Swift Mercury, who bears abroad
The utterance of the sleepless god,
Wherever thriving cities be;
Wherever steeples pierce the sky;
Where desperate politicians bawl,
Responsive to their country’s call,
And drunkards reel against the wall,
There peals the eager News-boy’s cry.

Through central and suburban part
He hurries on, and who may tell
What hopes his little bosom swell,
What distant visions warm his heart.
At times you see him—hapless one!
With elbows out, a tuft of hair
Seeking, through crown-rent hat, the air,
His feet half shod, or wholly bare,
And buttons of importance gone.

But whether ragged, spruce or grand,
Proudly his pile of pence he jinks,
And, reckoning his profits, thinks:—
“The day may come when I shall stand
Among the richest and the best.”
And then his troubles, light as chaff,
Pass from him; he could leap and laugh;
“Great news, great news, by telegraph!”
Again he shouts with swelling chest.

And thus his rill of boyhood runs;
And oft dependent on his mite,
A widowed mother waits at night,
Waits with her famished little ones,
And listens for his homeward tread.
A happy smile illumes her face;
The mother and the boy embrace,
And, all within the humble place,
A sudden light from Heaven is shed.

He tells her of the day’s success,
Of incidents both grave and gay,
The dandy’s hat that flew away,
And wind-tossed ladies in distress.
The widow gazes while he speaks;
Another voice in his she hears,
Another face in his appears,
And holy are the silent tears
That trickle down her pallid cheeks.

But other parents, different far,
Await the News-boy, and purloin
The little fellow’s honest coin
To spend at some pernicious bar;
They think not how, with weary tread,
All day the child has nobly striven
To merit praise;—with curses driven,
A scanty supper, harshly given,
He weeps within his little bed.

The angels heed his lowly state,
And pity him, and kindly weave
A destiny which none perceive,
Save those at the celestial gate.
Then give, my brothers, words of cheer
To waft the News-boy on his way;
His country, at some future day,
May learn his name, and proudly say:—
_Of noblest men he is the peer._

[9] This was written in the early days of telegraphing, when the News-boy delighted to proclaim that his papers, sparkled with intelligence, flashed along the electric wire.

CHARLES HEAVYSEGE.

A man of worth, a man of mind,
Has bade farewell to human kind.
No pomp, no sound of muffled drum,
No multitudes’ uncertain hum
Has stirred the air; but stifled sighs,
And gleaming tears and shaded eyes
Are tokens of a reverence felt
For one who to the Muses knelt,
In fealty with noblest vow,
And rose with garland on his brow.

So child-like, modest, reticent,
With head in meditation bent,
He walked our streets!—and no one knew
That something of celestial hue
Had passed along; a toil-worn man
Was seen, no more; the fire that ran
Electric through his veins and wrought
Sublimity of soul and thought,
And kindled into song, no eye
Beheld until a foreign sky[10]
Reflected back the wondrous light,
And heralded the poet’s might.

Though doomed to less of sun than shade,
No weak complaint he ever made;
But bravely lived, content to let
The great world roar, and fume, and fret.
In visions of the days of eld
He revelled, and in joy beheld
The glory of the Hebrew sages,
Whose utterance has toned the ages.
The sacred mount, the cave, the stream
Where holy seers were wont to dream,
He knew and loved, and summoned thence
The agents of Omnipotence;
Fantastic sprites, and buried men
To fight gray battles o’er again.
Behold dread Samuel’s shade appear!
Behold Goliath’s mighty spear!
And lithe-limbed David’s sling and stone,
And Saul’s fierce madness; one by one
They rise before us, march, or stand,
Obedient to the Poet’s wand.

Dear friend, adieu! if Malzah-like
An adverse Fate ordained to strike,
Beset thee on life’s weary way,
And followed close from day to day,
He failed to conquer, failed to wrest
One murmur from thy manly breast.
Companion of my happiest hours,
Would that my words were fadeless flowers!
That I might lay them on thy tomb
To mitigate its lasting gloom,
And evermore above thee bloom.

[10] The lofty genius of this author attracted no attention in Canada till noticed by the _North British Review_ in an article on his “Saul,” which appeared in the August number of 1858.

BOOKS.

In books I find companionship, they are
My household gods, and naught shall wholly bar
Their voices from me; from their precious pages
I quaff the immortality of ages.
They are the spirits of the dead, not dumb,
From ancient tombs and monuments they come
To hold communion with the living; they,
While nations perish and the world grows gray,
Their regal power and pristine beauty keep,
Despite the havoc, and inglorious sleep
Of centuries that bore a crimson hue,—
Despite the flames which they have travelled through,
Unscathed they hold their sceptres, meek they bear
These royal dignities;—like light and air
They enter, silver-shod, the humblest door,
And breathe their benedictions on the poor.
Ye avatars, true saviours of the world,
Round whom the hopes of wisest souls are curled,
Be mine through life, in pain, or pleasure, mine!
If near me still your pleasant faces shine
The skies may lower—upon my thorny path
The heavens may pour their cataracts of wrath,
I need not falter, need not hold my breath,
Nor tremble at the menaces of Death.

THE DRUNKARD.

He drank;—
All warning he repelled with scorn.
He boasted his superior strength,
But in the light of manhood’s morn
That boasted strength was from him shorn,
His days had measured out their length.

He reeled;—
And day by day the cheerful sun
Looked kindly on his crooked path,
The nights beheld no credit won,
But brooded over evils done,
And fearful threats and burning wrath.

He fell;—
A maniac’s look he cast around,
Then shook the air with one wild yell,
And smote with bloody hand the ground,
And uttered startling words whose sound
Ended with blasphemy and hell.

He died;—
With madness in his blood and brain,
With curses on his purple lips,
And bloodshot eyes whose every vein
Lay like a red and burning chain,
As raised by demons’ knotted whips.

He lay;—
Not as the spoils of death are laid,
When Nature hath no outrage borne,—
Not as the old or young, arrayed
In decent shroud, when calm they fade,
And honoured by the eyes that mourn.

He lay
Unblest, unprized, uncombed, unwashed,
A fresh, red, cut was on his brow,
His teeth were set as last they gnashed,
His eyes glared fierce as last they flashed,
And few could bear to see him now.

His grave!—
I stood beside the Drunkard’s grave,
And moralized above the sod
Which rested on the wine-cup’s slave,
The dupe of self, whom none could save,
Now left to silence, and his God.

A NIGHT ON THE SKATING RINK.

Our rink is in motion,
Like waves of the ocean,
When Summer shines broad on the sea.
The skaters strike out,
Scarce forbearing to shout,
All happy and joyous and free;
And the speed of their flight,
Like an arrow of light,
Takes the breath from a laggard like me.

II.

The exquisite whirl
Of that lovely girl
Has tripped up some heart—I fear—
Ah! were I as young
As when first I sung,
And the rustics were fain to hear,
I would pour out my soul
In a strain that should roll
Aloft to the heavenly sphere.

III.

But though old enough now
To have sons teach me how
To voyage the crystalline floor,
I yield to the power
Of the jubilant hour
And think of my moustache no more;
For a poet, at least,
Should partake of mirth’s feast
Till his top is exceedingly hoar.

IV.

See!—see where she flies,
How adroitly she plies
Those feet with the shining wings,
With a graceful swerve
And a classical curve,
While beneath her the ice-path rings;
And the wind in a freak
Stops to kiss her fair cheek,
Then around her in ecstacy sings.

V.

Still sweep we around
With a rippling sound,
Keeping time to the orchestra’s swell,
Which, like a bright river
Falling headlong forever
O’er a precipice down to the dell,
Bears our troubles far hence,
And entrancing each sense,
Makes the world one melodious spell.

VI.

Let bacchanals drink,
Till like dotards they wink,
Or laugh with a maniac’s stare;
They embrace but the ghost
Of true pleasure, at most,
And their morrow is dark with despair;
But the health-giving cheer,
That we revel in here,
Makes our lives more enduringly fair.

VII.

So I’m jovial to-night
With the wine of delight,
I am back to my boyhood again;
For a moment like this
Brings a torrent of bliss
That floods over heart and brain;
And the era foretold
By the sages of old
Has commenced its millennial reign.

JACK FROST’S HAPPY DREAM.

1883.

In his white world of snow by the northern pole—
I can point the identical spot on the map—
Jack Frost became weary of working, poor soul,
So pulled up his collar and pulled down his cap,
And stretched himself down in his hut for a nap.

Soon snoring he lay, and he dreamt a fine dream
Of his antics abroad; of whole streets of glare ice,
Where stout ladies falling unthinkingly scream,
And gray-bearded gallants, exceedingly nice,
Making haste to assist them, are down in a trice.

Of snow drifts and sleigh-loads of people upset,—
Roaring sport for the young, but a grief to the old;—
And flying toboggans—the jolliest yet—
Landing lovers in snow-banks, which out of the cold
The laughing defiants a moment enfold.

At length in his vision he noticed afar
Our Crystalline Palace in grandeur arise,
Till it gleamed in mid air like a magical star,
Creation’s last jewel, a thing of the skies,
And he sprang to his feet in a whirl of surprise.

He swallowed some ice cakes and mounted his steed,
A Storm, that stood ready to serve at his call,
Strong-winded, and shod with such marvellous speed,
That he came like the rush of a huge cannon ball,
Till he brushed the wide border of gay Montreal.

At the Windsor alighting, Jack spied with amaze,
The Palace translucent that rose in his dream,
Its opaline walls and tall towers ablaze
With a light that outrivalled Aurora’s first beam,
And he laughed a huge laugh that was more like a scream.

And he danced and cut capers around the wide square,
Like a harlequin, crowing at times like a cock,
His hands on the snow and his feet in the air,
Till fatigued with his fun, on a glistening block
Of his own manufacture he sank with a shock.

Then he chuckled and sneezed, and profanely made boast—
In spite of the churches that seemed to protest—
That he hoped in an orthodox fashion to roast,
If our Palace of Ice was not truly the best
That ever invited his limbs to take rest.

“And here,” said the fellow, “I mean to remain,
Till this Carnival’s over, and then I suppose
I shall have to be off to the Arctic again,
Where the Wind-god his trumpet in merriment blows,
And scatters my hail and my harvest of snows.”

MONTREAL CARNIVAL SPORTS.

1884.

The Frost-King sat on a throne of snow,
On a plain in the Royal Isle:
In his hand a sceptre of ice he bore,
On his brow a crown of ice he wore,
And his face was set in a holiday smile,
When he bade the carnival trumpet blow
For the famous Sports to begin.
The voluble hills returned the din
In echoes that travelled o’er many a mile;
O’er the broad St. Lawrence to St. Helen’s Isle,
To the sounding rapids of old Lachine,
To the Boucherville woods with their tufts of green,
And the peaceful hamlets that smiled between.

A multitude vast as the waves of the sea,
When Tritons rejoice that the winds are free,
People from far off Southern lands,
Where the eagle exults on outspread vans,—
People who came from the prairied West,
And pine-clad East, and numbers untold
Of natives who laughed at the teeth of the cold
Were there for a gala-day, threefold blest.

The trumpeter wight was an Arctic sprite,
Whose limbs were lank and whose locks were white,
And when he had blown with all his might,
The Frost-King raised his sceptre high,
When it flashed all the lights of a boreal sky,
And thus, in accents of festive tone,
He welcomed the guests who encircled his throne:—

“Friends! who have journeyed far to share
The verve of our Canadian air,
Greeting and love to all.
’Tis wise to lay aside each heavy care
And all the petty ills that do enthral,
To find in ampler scope this lusty joy,
This social amity, where no alloy
Of turbid passion mingles with the gold
Of kindly fellowship:
Where harmony betwixt the heart and lip
Its primal sanctity delights to hold.
Pleasure is native to the heart of man,
Here let it freely flow;
Here let an ocean tide of gladness roll,
Here where no tyrant’s interdict can ban
The sacred glow
That freedom kindles in the human soul.

Now let the _Sports_ begin, and first
Let youths and maids who stand athirst
For Canada’s supreme sensation,
For motion’s wild intoxication,
Launch from yon hills their swift _Toboggans_.
Behold, upon the utmost crest,
How democratic Jones and Scroggins
With Lords and Ladies freely jest.
Blow, trumpet, blow!
The signal sound how well they know!
Down, down they plunge, what frantic speed!
No lightning-shod celestial steed
E’er swifter clove the azure air
Than headlong down the polished slide
Those young athletes and damsels ride,
Obedient to the trumpet’s blare;
Like foamy waves that seek the shore,
When red-mouthed storms behind them roar,—
Like avalanches loosed from high,—
Like meteors rushing down the sky,—
They spurn the steep, they leap, they fly,
Till on the flats in bubbling joy they pour.

A _Sport_ of more elastic grace
Now claims from us its honoured place.
Again, my merry sprite,
The trumpet sound, and let the night
In starry azure veil the face
Of Earth, enrobed in purest white.
The signal blast the _Skaters_ know,
And eagerly—with cheeks aglow,
Their costumes varied as the flowers
And blossoms that the Summer hours
On all the sunny lands bestow—
They skim in joy the crystal floor,
So full their bliss they ask no more.
In sooth it is a goodly show,
Twice twenty hundred twinkling feet
In fairy flight, advance, retreat,
Whilst others, more ambitious still,
In loops and scrolls assert their skill.
The Champion of a hundred rinks,
Behold him there! his bosom mailed
With trophies rich; what fancy jinks
Those lithe, light limbs that never failed!
What complicated, airy links
They weave, as weaves a spider’s feet!
Till tip-toe wonder, stares and winks,
And plauding hands his triumphs greet.
What ho! what means yon wild array,
In blanket-coats and sashes gay,
With red fire armed, that wind this way?
Stretching afar for many a mile,
Hither they haste in Indian file,
Ha! Ha! the rebel horde I know;
Blow, Trumpeter, the trumpet blow!—
To arms!—the _Snowshoe_ host have sworn
To storm our castle walls,—this morn
A faithful courier warning gave;
Defiant let our war-flag wave!
And you, my guests, remain in sight,
Spectators of the weirdest fight
That ever shook the vault of night.

To arms our veterans! man the walls,
Receive them with a million balls
Of roaring flame, with dart and brand,
And serpents that no mortal hand
Can parry; let our trusty _Pinch_,
Who never has been known to flinch,
Protect the gates; our princely friend,
Great _Zero_, shall in wrath defend
The turrets and the loop-holed walls;
Let _Blizzard_—a tremendous power—
In fury guard the centre tower;
And _Coldsnap_, thine the task to shower
With fiery hail and blistering squalls,
And cannonade of burning snow
From every point the reeling foe!

The rebels advance with a shout and a cheer;
But they reck not the might of that spectral host,
Each warrior chieftain a blood-freezing ghost,
Who answered their mirth with a jeer.
Strange voices—such sounds as the winter winds make
When lattice and casement they wrench at and shake,
Were heard in those halls;
And such terrible calls
As made the most valiant assailant to quake.
The castle, a lucent volcano, emits
An ocean of flame on the heads of the foe,
They waver—they stagger—they lose their five wits,
And print their appalling defeat in the snow.
Short, sharp and decisive the battle—no breach—
In that marvellous structure the rebels could reach.
To the mountain, abashed, bearing torches, they fled,
Oppressed with the weight of their wounded and dead.
The Frost-King, no longer enveloped in wrath,
With pity surveyed their laborious path;
And then, to the multitude bending, he said:—

“What folly, what ingratitude!
To think with such rebellious war
This wonder of the world to mar!
This temple that in mist and flood
And cataract in embryo slept,
Till near this Royal Island crept
The fluent particles, on which
I breathed and wedded each to each,
And made the solid lustre rich
In dazzling beauty, fit to reach
And rival, in these gleaming spires,
The loveliness of astral fires,
The mellow radiance of the moon.
Ah! whether late or soon
We with our retinue depart,
Is there a single human heart
Will mourn our exit? Shall we not
Some few months hence be quite forgot?
If even so, another year,
With equal pleasure, equal cheer,
King Frost shall hold his court, we wot,
And meet your warmest welcome here.”

PETER WIMPLE’S COURTSHIP.

This poem was written when the author
was a pupil of a literary institute in the
State of New York, and was read at a public
entertainment given by that institution, too
long ago to make mention of the date desirable.

I.

Twice forty years have rolled away
Since first I saw the light of day,
And sage experience bids me say,
Without a grumble,
The youth who yields to woman’s sway,
Down hill will tumble.

II.

While in my “teens,” like some of you,
And life’s gay colours all were new,
My heart was in a constant stew
About the fair;
Though oft a learned friend and true
Said: “Pete, beware!”

III.

Love songs I scribbled when a lad,
For many a transient choice I had,
Now marching gay, now moping sad,
Time’s flight unheeded;
A switch, which cures—or kills—the mad,
Was what I needed.

IV.

My sixteenth summer drawing nigh,
I winked with an experienced eye;
At church I chanced a maid to spy,
With beauty blest,
Who made me heave a double sigh,
And spoiled my rest.

V.

The fairest form of hundreds there,
I gazed upon her graces rare,
And breathed, for once, a pithy prayer,
In earnest diction.
Some took my wild, unearthly stare
For deep conviction.

VI.

Oh, how I spent the days ensuing,
With sighs, and groans, and nothing doing
Save weaving plots for instant wooing,
And sudden marriage!
Meantime the Fates for me were brewing
A sad miscarriage.

VII.

’Twas summer, and at dawn of day,
When bird to bird gave greeting lay,
Alone I sought the meadows gay,
Or forest shade,
And there in fancy would portray
The blue-eyed maid.

VIII.

Each fragrant flower that met my view,
Each pendant drop of glittering dew,
Each little bird that warbling flew
From spray to spray,
Each bore methought, some semblance true
Of Jane Levay.

IX.

Her name I carved on fifty trees,
I breathed it to the passing breeze,
And bade the winds o’er all the seas
To bear it far;
I fancied her by fond degrees,
The morning star.

X.

My inward man I felt consume,
My cheeks waxed thin and lost their bloom;
Some prophesied an early tomb
Would hide poor Peter;
I heeded not their words of gloom,
My thoughts ran sweeter.

XI.

At length it came at gloaming hour,
Dan Cupid strove with all his power,
And sent, at once, a fiery shower
Through all my frame;
My shivering nerves could scarce endure
The scorching flame.

XII.

While thus my youthful marrow fried,
“Ye Gods,” said I, “who lovers guide,
This night my charmer must be tried,
I’ll go and see her;
I’ll make her my affianced bride,
My ever-dear.”

XIII.

In Sunday trim I soon was dressed,
My clothes, be sure, were not the best,
But people were of humbler taste
In those good days;
Girls were not pinched about the waist
By belts or stays,

XIV.

Folk then might go to church or play
In home-made suits of plain sheep-gray,
And no proud fop be heard to say
“What awkward shapes!”
Those simple times, long fled away,
Reared no such apes.

XV.

Our sweethearts spun the frocks they wore,
Before their wheels upon the floor
They stepped as lightly evermore
As belles of France
Who wander from their native shore
To skip and dance.

XVI.

Thus Eastern maids, whose vernal bloom
In Homer’s verse can ne’er consume,
Assumed the distaff and the loom,
With cheerful hands;
Their fame is like a sweet perfume
Of their own lands.

XVII.

But to our theme—too long delayed:
In Sabbath costume now arrayed,
My hat, a gift, of oat-straw braid,
My kerchief white,
I started as began to fade
The western light.

XVIII.

I found it hard my thoughts to rally,
Love’s heaven appeared a little squally,
But on the road I made no dally,—
My heart was jumping:
You would have vowed it beat to jelly,
To have heard it thumping.

XIX.

The whip-poor-will was on the wing,
And “whip-poor-Pete” he seemed to sing,
Yet what such plaguy thought could bring
To Peter Wimple?
I gave my head a manly swing,
At whim so simple.

XX.

The waters of my own loved stream—
The Hudson—shone with silvery gleam,
And in the moon’s subduing beam
The signs of war
(Whose glory was my topmost dream)
Glittered afar.

XXI.

“Those were the times that tried men’s souls;”—
The blazing cannon’s thunder rolls
Around the hills; no church bell tolls
The soldier’s fall;
He passes to the goal of goals
In crimson pall.

XXII.

My father and my elder brother
Their martial ardour could not smother,
So, bade adieu to home and mother,
And rushed to battle;
They fought, alas! ’gainst one another,
Like men of mettle.

XXIII.

In Carleton’s ranks my father stood,
A loyal man of stubborn mood;
My brother—for his country’s good—
Led on by Green—
The routed foe with shouts pursued
And weapons keen.

XXIV.

Pardon, dear folk, this slight digression,
Too grave to stamp a gay impression;
Old men forget themselves in session
As journals tell ye:
But hearken now a full confession
Of what befel me.

XXV.

I hurried on, ’twas wearing late,
With soft caresses in my pate;
I reached my charmer’s cottage gate,
But here I halted;
My grit, like some old pewter plate,
Was tried—and melted.

XXVI.

I felt a weakness at the knee,
Large drops were running warm and free
Like rillets hasting to the sea—
Adown my cheeks,
I called on Heaven to pity me,—
He finds who seeks.

XXVII.

My prayer was answered by a strain
Which fell, like magic on my pain;
The songstress was my peerless Jane,
Her voice I knew;
The words on memory’s leaves remain
Like honey dew.

SONG.

1

A little bird of plumage gay
Sat singing in a myrtle tree;
What think you did the birdie say?
What said it, love, to you and me?

2

It said be happy in the light
Of love’s young morn, when love is truth;
Be happy ere has taken flight
The witchery of dreaming youth.

3

An owlet sat at close of day
Too-hoo-ing in a linden tree;
What think you did the owlet say?
What said it, love, to you and me?

4

It said, be wise ere comes the night
Of lone repining, keep your truth,
Be wise and wed ere takes its flight
The witchery of dreaming youth.

XXVIII.

The song had ceased; again I started,
So resolute, so joyous-hearted,
No earthly power could then have thwarted
My steps from Jane;
A little laughing Cupid darted
From vein to vein.

XXIX.

Thus, marching forward to the door,
“O Jane, dear Jane,” I muttered o’er,
“For thee, my love, I’d venture more
Than did Leander
In swimming to his Hero’s shore
A fearless gander!”

XXX.

I gained the porch, one victory that,—
A moment paused, and lightly sat
My fashionable Sunday hat
Upon three hairs;
I rapped, my heart went pit-a-pat,
With all my airs.

XXXI.

I rapped, and heard a sweet “Come in,”
Don Quixote-like, I set my shin,
Resolved to dash through thick and thin
Upon adventure:
Three inches higher I raised my chin
And thus I enter.

XXXII.

We met, kind Venus! Oh! we met,
And how could I that hour forget?
Love’s glorious summer sun is set
With aged Peter,
But here its twilight lingers yet
And warms his metre.

XXXIII.

“Pardon me, Bird of Night,” said I,
“I heard you sing while passing by,
And such a voice as thine might vie
With Orpheus’ lyre,
Which charmed all things beneath the sky
At his desire.

XXXIV.

Its melody, as authors write,
Stayed listening torrents in their flight,
And shook the mountains with delight,
While round him came
Wild forest beasts (a wondrous sight!)
Subdued and tame.”

XXXV.

This precious gem of pagan lore,
I picked up somewhere weeks before,
And laid it up in secret store
With shrewd design,
To bring it forth in this amour
And make it shine.

XXXVI.

Her cheek, as fair as blow of peach,
Grew crimson at this flattering speech;
She placed a chair within my reach
And said: “Be seated,—
Where did you learn, bright youth, to preach
Your brain is heated.”

XXXVII.

This taunting stroke I ill could bear,
And answered only with a stare,
Then dropped like lead, into the chair,
And down she sat,
First having, with a courteous air,
Bestowed my hat.

XXXVIII.

Now snugly seated face to face,
Between us just three boards, a space
I might have crossed with half a pace,
But modesty
Made wide, as any gulf, that place
’Twixt bliss and me.

XXXIX.

“That song,” said she “you heard me sing,
Is nothing but a foolish thing;
My folk, the whole live-gathering,
Are gone to-night,
And music seems to make Time’s wing
Move swift and bright.”

XL.

“Now or never, do or die,
Here’s a lucky chance,” thought I,
“No bar to love, no gazer nigh
Our bliss to damp;”
While kindness streamed from Jane’s bright eye
As from a lamp.

XLI.

Her half-bared bosom rose and fell
Like placid ocean’s gentle swell;
Her glance like summer sunshine fell
Upon my heart;—
How could I else than act too well
A lover’s part?

XLII.

“Then you are _solus_, dearest maid,”
She laughed outright, and blushing said,
“Have you commenced the _dearing_ trade
So soon, fair lad?”
This jeering banter, promptly paid,
’Most drove me mad.

XLIII.

Till then I deemed myself, a man,
And lord of every amorous plan,
Now through my limbs a shiver ran,—
The air grew chill;
“Your cheeks,” said she “are thin and wan
Pray, are you ill?”

XLIV.

I smothered down a heavy sigh,
And gayly made her this reply:—
“If I were ill would you deny
A cure for me?”
“O, all I could,” said she, “I’d try
To comfort thee.”

XLV.

Such kind, endearing words as these
Brought me almost upon my knees:
“I’ve got” said I, “a sad disease
Which you can cure,
And set my aching heart at ease,
Of this—be sure.”

XLVI.

A sudden change subdued her look,
The rosy blood her cheek forsook,
She rose,—her silken hood she took,
And looking in it,
Said: “Please excuse me while I look
Outside a minute.”

XLVII.

A quiet respite now I got
To stare about the room and plot;
It was a neat though humble cot
Of wooden frame;
A home, it was devoted not
To folly’s name.

XLVIII

Here stood the huge-rimmed spinning wheel,
There sat a tray of Indian meal,
And overhead, like polished steel,
A musket lay;
A dog and puss together reel
In frantic play.

XLIX.