Chapter XVII: Book II (3)

We are not forbid to sorrow,-- Jesus wept at Lazarus' tomb. Soon will come the glorious Morrow Which shall chase away our gloom; If we put our trust in God, And still seek to kiss His Rod.

STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY THE DREADFUL RAILWAY ACCIDENT AT THE DESJARDINS CANAL, MARCH 12, 1857.

Deep gloom pervades my spirit, and great sorrow fills my breast With an overwhelming sense, which leaves me but little rest, For a dreadful stroke has fallen on the town in which I live, And sympathy and condolence I would most gladly give.

I have gone through many a street since this event transpired, Seen the faces of my townsmen in grief sincere attired, Heard them make sad remarks, seen tears bedim their eyes, While from every feeling bosom burst forth responsive sighs.

The stranger in our midst might well wonder why we're sad, For tokens of prosperity can everywhere be had. The river has not risen to a mighty swelling flood, Nor raging fire destroyed the homes of the Evil and the Good.

No pestilence like a serpent, with dread envenomed fangs Has seized the young and beautiful and filled our souls with pangs. Then why has gloom profound so settled on each face, And the finger-prints of sorrow left on us so dark a trace?

Ah! loving hearts left homes all filled with family delight. Full of hope and joyous feelings, never dreaming of a blight To prospects of enjoyment that awaited their return, Where the smiles of wives and children make true love the brighter burn.

In such a happy state of mind they to Toronto went, And accomplished all their objects in the time which had been spent. Now, with still lighter hearts they make for home again, And in the cars meet many of their traveling fellow men.

Drawn by the snorting Iron Horse along the track they flew, What danger might be lurking near was hidden from their view. On, on, still on they went to a bridged precipice, When the Bridge gave way and all were hurled into the dread abyss!

The locomotive like a demon took first the fatal leap, Dragging the human-freighted cars with speed into the deep One plunged with him beneath the dark and icy wave, And one stood upright on its end, as if some few to save.

Oh, my soul shrinks back with horror from dwelling on the scene Which met the gaze of anxious friends who to that place have been. I'd rather dwell upon the fact that Death to some was Life; That they have gained by having done so soon with earthly strife.

What thoughts filled all the bosoms of that mixed devoted band Is only known to God Most High, who, in his mighty hand Holds all our life and breath as his own most sovereign gift, And who alone can mortals shield from such destruction swift.

O, I know that some there died who had tasted of his grace, And sudden death to them was summons to the place Prepared by Jesus for his Saints in the mansions of the Blest, And they now are drinking of the sweets of Everlasting Rest.

Amongst these we gladly number the three* whom we have lost, In sympathy with the bereaved would try to count the cost; But oh, 'twould prove a fruitless task; then, while we feel so sore, Let us humbly bow our hearts to God and worship and adore.

*Mr. and Mrs. John Russell and Mr. Secord, who were well known as consistent Christians by all who had the pleasure of their acquaintance. All left large families and a numerous circle of friends to mourn their shocking and untimely end.

TRIBUTARY STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LAYCOCK, WHO WAS ACCIDENTALLY KILLED WHILE ON A PROFESSIONAL JOURNEY, DECEMBER 10, 1857.

Tumultuous feelings like a torrent rush
Athwart my soul and bear my spirit down.
Pent up awhile they from my bosom gush
In such wild measure as I scarce have known.

For one I loved as friend for many years
Has met a shocking end in Manhood's prime!
And this dire stroke prospective pleasure sears,
As grass is scorched by Sol in torrid clime.

Living as neighbors, Friendship's sacred bond
Grew stronger every time we visits paid.
He, undeterred by business would respond
To my desire, and list the songs I made.

Oft at such times he has my Mentor proved,
Doing his best to aid me in my Art,
By prudent counsel which I dearly loved,
Proceeding as it did from kindly heart.

Now with bold hand I strike my rude harp's strings,
And sing a funeral dirge o'er his sad bier.
Up, up, my Muse, and sail aloft on wings
Of tuneful pathos while I shed a tear.

No more shall this kind friend thy efforts guide,
Listening thy mournful or thy joyous strains.
Death suddenly has torn him from the side
Of her he loved, who shared his joys and pains.

And I no more on Earth shall see his face,
Or hear his praise or censure of my songs,
Nor yet will he most critically trace
What of true poesy to them belongs.

No more will he, well pleased, sweet music bring
From our melodeon, while we join in praise.
His soul untrammeled now on high will sing
In God's pure worship and angelic lays.

His frame, too weakly for his ardent soul,
Will feel fatigue no more by night or day.
But then no more he'll take with me a stroll
By our fine stream, soft murmuring on its way.

Nor yet, with pleasure great, hold deep discourse
On many subjects dear alike to both:
Tracing the stream of Truth up to its Source,
To do which fully he was nothing loth.

No more will he to an attentive throng
Give well-timed lectures for his Country's weal;
Yet his remembrances will live among
Those whom his conduct taught his worth to feel.

Ah me! that it should e'er have been my lot
To sing in soul-wrung anguish this sad strain!
For, while his friendship will not be forgot,
I long may wait to find such friend again.

BRANTFORD, December 12, 1857.

SONG OF THE CANADIAN CRADLER.

1858.

With my cradle scythe, feeling brisk and blithe,
In the breeze-tempered heat of this fine day;
I'll haste to the field with the wheaten yield,
And there will I manfully cut my way.

Now in all my walks, with broad, rapid strokes;
I bring down the waving grain quite low.
Every sweep I try seems to make it sigh,
But cheerful on, and still on I go.

I heed not the sweat, making my clothes wet,
The toil and care will be well repaid;
For this golden store drives want from my door,
And the surplus is farmers' profit made.

Binder now keep pace, for this hard-run race
Will tell on the field ere night come in;
And rest will be sweet in our plain retreat,
Until a new day with its toil begin.

O, I think I see with exhuberant glee,
The _shocks_ in good order standing round,
And well-laden teams in my bright day-dreams,
Are now trotting briskly over the ground.

Then hasten the day when our grain and hay
Well secured beneath our good barn dome--
Will inspire our hearts to perform their parts
In the cherished joy of Harvest Home.

STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. B. HOWARD AND HIS FAMILY AS A TRIBUTE OF RESPECT ON THEIR DEPARTURE FROM BRANTFORD, AUGUST, 1858.

Howard, thy fervid Christian zeal,
Combined with large amount of love,
So blessed to bonny Brantford's weal,
So truly owned by God above,
Lead me, ere from our midst thou move
With those who form thy family,
To seek assistance from that Dove--
Inspirer of true Poesy,

That I may sing a well-timed lay;
One which may thy best feelings suit,
And thou may'st read when far away
With pleasure, as the genuine fruit
Of well-spent years that are not mute,
But which have spoke in loudest tone
To some who have been most astute,
As I in truth would frankly own.

They've told us of a work begun
Amongst thy people, brought quite low
By worldliness, which Saints should shun
If God's pure will they seek to know,
Or wish in safety's path to go.
Thou foundest them in this sad state
And to the yoke thy neck didst bow
With ardor, for thy soul was great.

Satan, no doubt, with jealous eye
Watched keenly for thy halting then;
But thy Redeemer, ever nigh,
Made much of his dread malice vain.
He spake the word and wicked men
Fell down before the high-raised Cross,
And forthwith steadily refrain
From pleasures now viewed but as dross.

Backsliding Christians trembling came
To that blest place--neglected long,
And there rekindled worship's flame,
And freely owned they had been wrong.
Then, feeling sense of pardon strong,
Afresh they family altars raise--
On which to offer sacred Song,
And join sweet prayer to grateful praise.

But 'tis a small, small part indeed
Of what God had for thee to do
Which I can sing; so I proceed
To waft my meed of tribute through.
For I would name, with pleasure too,
The part performed by thy good wife.
O, that I could in measure due
Descant upon her Christian life.

No party motives sway my soul,
Nor thirst for paltry worldly fame;
But feelings I need not control
Prompt me to dwell on her dear name.
Sweet sufferer, deem me not to blame
If I have sacred rapture felt
In noting freely since you came,
The virtues that with you have dwelt.

I frequent heard from one who saw
You lying oft on bed of pain,
How bright in you was love's pure glow,
Meek Patience following in his train.
Now, could we see our loss your gain,
Pleased we would bid you all depart;
And might from vain regrets refrain
Glad still to cherish you at heart.

GRUMBLINGS.

Man professes to be humble,
Signs himself "your servant, sir!"
But he's very prone to grumble,
Till it forms his character.

Grumbles he about the weather,
Now too hot, anon too cold;
Fancies oft 'tis both together
Ere the day is twelve hours old.

Then the dryness of the season
Rouses up anew his ire;
Next its wetness without reason
Makes him grumbling bolts to fire.

Grumbles he of prospects darkening,
Now, because _hard times_ have come,
And to evil promptings hearkening
By much grumbling spoils his home.

Hard to please in point of dinner,
Flings he grumblings at his wife,
Breaking her dear heart--the sinner!
Inch by inch in daily life.

Nor at night are matters mended;
Grumbles he if supper's late.
She had need to be offended,
Being tied to such a mate.

For a little kind enquiry
Of existing state of things
Might well curb his temper fiery,
As each day her troubles brings.--

Bonny Fred's about his teething,
Jane is sick in bed of mumps,
Chris from croup has labored breathing,
Maid-of-all work has the dumps.

Often thus are grumblings marring
Man's great duties in the world;
Filling it with strife and jarring,
Till God's judgments forth are hurled.

Grumblers sometimes vent their spite in
Gross abuse of those in power,
Promise well to show their might in
Doing right, had they their hour.

Give it them, and still they grumble,
Having not got all they want;
Neither are they longer humble,
Which but proves them full of _cant_.

Many will not cease their grumbling
Till death puts a stop to it.
May God save all such from tumbling
Into the eternal Pit!

VERSES, SUGGESTED BY THE FEARFUL ACCIDENT ON THE GREAT WESTERN R. R. NEAR COPETOWN, ON THE NIGHT OF THE 18TH MARCH, 1859.

March, with his usual terrors armed,
Resolved again to mark his flight
O'er the "Great Western," which has swarmed
With human freight by day and night.

Leagued closely, with a mischievous crew,
Held by stern winter in reserve,
He up and down the doomed track flew,
But did not from his purpose swerve.

His eye he fixed upon a part--
A deep embankment on a slope,
And joy o'erflowed his chilly heart
While lingering near the town of Cope.

Musing, he to himself thus spoke:
"Here shall my darling scheme be tried;
I and my gang at one bold stroke
Can easily produce a slide.

"Better to serve my purpose foul
I'll fix it for the eighteenth night,
And raise such storm as may appal
The bravest soul that lacks daylight!"

Then, as by some mysterious spell
He called for elemental strife.
Forth came dread clouds as black as hell
That seemed with every mischief rife.

Impelled by many a howling blast,
Uniting in terrific roar,
They down their fearful contents cast,
And quickly a deep chasm tore.

The midnight train came rushing on,
Nor dreamt the passengers of death.
Nor thought perhaps that ere day's dawn
God would call some to yield their breath.

With furious speed the Iron Horse
Plunged headlong in the new-formed deep,
While raging elements their force
Spend as if laughing at the leap.

Dragged swiftly down is every car
Save one, the last of all the train,
And still the storm prolongs the war
With drifting snow or pelting rain.

Imagination scarce conceives The shrieks, the groans, the heart-wrung wails, Which rent the air! One yet believes They did exceed what's told in tales.

And still the wind its keenest darts
Hurls at the living and the dead.
Blest then were those whose fearful hearts
Could cling to Christ who for them bled.

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. THOMAS FAWCETT WHO LOST HIS LIFE BY THE ACCIDENT ABOVE MENTIONED.

Fawcett, twelve years have swiftly fled
Since first we one another knew.
Then mutual sufferings quickly led
To friendship which but stronger grew.

The Angel Death hath ta'en thy wife
From thy loved arms to dwell above;
I the sweet partner of my life
Had lost, and sadly missed her love.

Joy seized our sympathetic souls
As each to each his trials told;
We found that Bible Truth consoles
For loss of wives--worth more than gold.

Left with young families each was soon
Compelled again to seek a mate;
In love Heaven gave once more the boon
Of partners suiting well our state.

Laboring as Gospel Minister,
Thou Brantford left for other place,
Yet did thou not, I can aver,
Neglect to tell of God's rich grace.

Nobly thy work thou did'st pursue,
With a fair share of good success;
Daily grew clearer in thy view
The Scripture plan of Happiness.

At last amongst the poor Red Men,
Who needed much thy pastoral care,
Thy lot was cast, and O how fain
They were such ministry to share.

Of this we had the fullest proofs
When thy sad end to them was known;
Wailings were heard beneath their roofs,
And other signs of grief were shown.

They'll miss thee much, as Sabbath day
Brings fresh thy memory to their mind,
And gratefully a tribute pay
To thee--in thine thus left behind.

Oh! how can I now further sing?
How tell the horrors of that blow
Which caused thy death, when each rude string
Of my poor lyre doth tremble so?

Ah, me! that one on mercy bent,
Hasting to his sick brother's side,
Should be from life thus strangely rent,
And have his faith so greatly tried!

Peace! God All-wise gave this dread shock
And took his soul with Him to dwell.
He to the last stood on that Rock
Which can withstand the rage of Hell.

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF MR. RICHARD FOLDS, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE APRIL 21, 1859.

"The Righteous are taken away from the evil to come."

This truth may to Christians in darkness be shrouded, While mourning for friends in the grave newly laid, But a time will soon come when the Dayspring unclouded Of doubt, from our souls shall dispel every shade.

These words to his people by God have been spoken, To light up their passage on Life's dreary way, And each day's fresh mercy is from Him a token That he will prove to them a Comfort and Stay.

This friend, who by conduct to us so endearing Has drawn from us sympathy, called forth our love, Is gone--O, the thought is transportingly cheering! To join the glad throng of Redeemed Ones above.

And we who have witnessed his pure conversation Have listened to Truths which he uttered so well, Rejoice that the theme of Christ's glorious Salvation Was that upon which he delighted to dwell.

His constant infirmities were but refining A soul well endowed by both choice gifts and rare, And he through a long course of years has been shining By light gained from Heaven, which guided him there.

Friends, let these remembrances cheer and delight you, And patiently wait till your own change shall come. The death of dear Richard should not now affright you, Since he through that portal has passed to his home.

TO THE HUMMING BIRD.

1859

Hail to thee, Humming Bird
Beauteous and bright,
That flitt'st like a spirit
Before my rapt sight!
I bid thee a welcome
To sip from my flowers
The rich, honied produce
Of sunshiny hours.

O, be not so easily
Moved to depart!
Thy presence is cheering
To my saddened heart.
Thine shall be the treasures
Of clove-currant trees
And bells of the Columbine
Prized by the Bees.

My odorous tulips
I will with thee share,
Nor grudge thee the blossoms
Of apple or pear.
The sweet-scented woodbine
I shall not withhold,
Nor rare perfumed lilies,
Like pure burnished gold.

O then, pretty Humming Bird,
Stay thou with me,
Midst bright blushing roses
So charming to see.
I'll hail thee at morning
Or woo thee at noon--
Thy presence at all times
Regard as a boon.

Then why be so anxious
My garden to leave?
Know'st thou that I never
Attempt to deceive?
I would not confine thee
In cage if I could:
I glory in Freedom--
The best earthly good.

Then, Humming Bird, listen
My earnest appeal;
The love I have for thee
I cannot conceal.
My children, too, love thee,
My wife does the same,
And I am in transports
At sound of thy name.

TO THE SAME.

JUNE, 1859.

Whence, and what art thou? O thou beauteous little thing!
That like a dazzling sprite
Appearest in my sight,
Sipping from sweet flower-cups the honey stores of Spring.

I have sought for many days to find a proper word
As a fitter name for thee
More pleasing unto me,
But cannot find a better than that of Humming Bird.

True, I might thee call A Fluttering Ray of Light
Decked in prismatic hues,
Which a radiance diffuse
Just like a beam of glory straying from a Seraph bright.

Yea, I could picture thee as a new-born infant's soul,
Bidding adieu to Earth
A moment after birth,
But having love for flowers which it scarcely can control.

Or, I might describe thee as a precious, new-coined thought
Illumined by the Truth,
Always enjoying youth,
Till into Wisdom's Temple 'tis by its Builder wrought.

Yet, whatever thou may'st be, or howsoever called,
Thou'rt welcome to remain--
My garden sweets to drain,
And a lonely _Vision_ be evermore enrolled.

FIRE SONG.

TUNE, "AULD LANG SYNE."

When the wild cry of fire is heard
Borne on the midnight air,
And those who listen soon are stirred
To anxious ask "Where? Where?"
Our Firemen brave, full bent to save,
Rush to their engine room;
And flushed with hope they grasp each rope,
And with the "Rescue" come.

CHO.--Hurrah, then! for the firemen brave!
Who with stout hearts and arms
Are bent our lives and goods to save--
Not fearing fire's alarms.

While still the cry is going round,
And bells peal forth their notes,
The engine comes with rumbling sound,
Dragged by our bold "Red Coats."
And there too, rush, as if they'd crush
The ground on which they tread,
The band of "Hook and Ladder," who look
Truly devoid of dread!

CHO.--Hurrah, boys! for the fire brigade--
The men resolved to stand
In danger's front and bear the brunt
Of this foe to our land.

When fire is reached and water got;
In haste the hose they lay;
They fall to work, each brave "red coat,"
By night as well as day.
And now the hook and ladder boys--look!
Have made their "grapples" fast
To that huge frame midst glowing flame,
And down it comes at last.

CHO.--Hurrah, then! for the Fire Brigade,
Who heed not flame and smoke;
They work as though such working made
The zest of some good joke!

THE FIRE ALARM.

JUNE, 1859

Fire--fire--fire! Nigher still and nigher
Seem the tones of the "Alarum bell" borne on the air!
Awaking with a start, what a sinking of the heart
Even the strong are apt to feel, ere they are well aware!

Fire--fire--fire! Higher now and higher
Leaps the madly raging flames as the cry goes round!
In the darkness of the night what a truly awful sight
Is the burning up of homes, while we listen to the sound.

Fire--fire--fire! Behold the havoc dire!
When the black, wreathing smoke a moment clears away--
The flames both hiss and roar as the brave firemen pour
Constantly the crystal streams from Engines in full play.

Fire--fire--fire! Fresh force it does acquire!
The rising wind has sent the blaze unto the other side!
Yet men are standing round in torpor most profound;
Rouse ye up! now fall to work, and let your strength be tried!

Fire--fire--fire! Two blocks seem one vast pyre.
Oh, pity the poor houseless ones--fleeing now away!
Screen them from Winter's blast, for they are on you cast--
That sympathy in measure their losses may repay.

Fire--fire--fire! Thank God, the flames expire!
For a cold, but drenching rain most opportunely comes.
Now honor that Brigade which has such efforts made,
And don't forget your neighbors who have just lost their homes.

MY OLD ARM CHAIR.

1859.

My old Arm Chair! The wear and tear
Thou hast endured for me,
Long ere this time deserved a rhyme
Expressly made to thee.

When I thee bought, thy varnished coat
And well proportioned frame
My house adorned, and no one scorned
Thee Rocking Chair to name.

But since that day, my bairns in play,
Have tumbled thee about,
Till thou appears well struck with years,
And truly nigh worn out.

Dear to my heart--I'm loth to part
With such a well tried friend;
Yet even repairs to old arm chairs
Must some time have an end.

I've patched thee oft; and cushions soft
Those patches somewhat screen;
Still, thy poor arms--reft of paint's charms
Are scarce fit to be seen.

The rockers, too, I did renew--
Will hardly yield a rocking.
But out of sight to cast thee quite
Would, to my mind, be shocking.

I therefore say: Thou here shalt stay
As long as I remain;
And no neglect I can detect
Shall cause thee to complain.

Farewell, Arm Chair! thou canst not fare
Much worse than I have done;
For, by my pen, from fellow men
Large share of scorn I've won.

A TRIBUTE TO THE BRAVERY OF MY COUSIN, MRS. T. A. COWHERD, WHO CROSSED THE ATLANTIC IN MID-WINTER WITH THREE HELPLESS CHILDREN, AND UNDER VERY TRYING CIRCUMSTANCES.

1855.

Dear cousin, I hail you as Mother most brave, Who crossed in mid-winter Atlantic's broad wave! What you had to suffer in part I conceive, Though no gloomy story you made me believe.

Assisted by Fancy I see your sad plight, Before busy Liverpool passed from your sight; On shipboard I view you with three little babes, While the vessel rides proudly o'er blue ocean waves.

One small, year-old infant then hangs at your breast, And one child much older disturbs your night's rest By her frequent wailings from sickness most sore. The third is but young and yet needs watching o'er.

I still look and wonder how you could bear up, When drinking so deeply of this bitter cup. I picture you gazing, with tears in your eyes, Upon the poor sufferer and hushing her cries.

The vessel by dread winter tempests is tossed, And many more favored give all up for lost. But Hope--that sweet Angel! your courage supports, And in these great trials to _trust God_ exhorts.

I fancy I see you while nearing the land, On the ship's crowded deck in sorrow now stand, Still watching your babe as she gives her last sigh; Yet Thomas, your husband, to help is not nigh.

And then is most vividly brought to my view _That_ Coroner's Inquest so trying to you; The bearing your loved one away to the grave, Though you, quite dejected, are still on the wave.

Oh, then I can paint, it is true but in part, The anguish and grief of your warm loving heart, Expecting at lodgings your partner to see, As anxious as any fond mother can be.

Your painful suspense as day passed after day, And trifle of money was melting away; The pleasure which beamed in your calm, patient face, When _that_ friend was able your sojourn to trace.

Your journey so cold and so cheerless at last, Till you and the two tender children were cast On kindness of strangers in reaching our town, While Winter put on his most terrible frown.

My own keen emotions I need not express When you first came here and I saw your distress. Once more I would hail you as Mother most brave, Who crossed in mid-winter Atlantic's broad wave.

CANADIANS' WELCOME TO H. R. H. THE PRINCE OF WALES, 1860.

Canadians, welcome now the Prince--
Victoria's noble, first-born son;
Who comes amongst us to evince
How much his Mother's love we've won.

He comes not as, a despot's heir
From serfs their homage to demand.
He comes not with that outward glare
So suited to a slave-cursed land,

But as a freeman to the free,
His errand is of vast concern.
Then let us show our loyalty
By aiming sordidness to spurn.

And thus while he inaugurates
The wondrous triumph of Man's art*,
See that our conduct compensates
For right performance of his part.

*The Victoria bridge at Montreal.

Then shall his stay amongst us here
Fill him with memories so sweet
That he may, at no distant year,
Be led his visit to repeat.

And while he views our country, filled
With wonders of the vastest kind,
May grain fields wide, industrious tilled,
And thriving Arts, please well his mind.

Eager to prove ourselves content
With British rule, and land so fair;
We gladly hail the Prince now sent,
And trust he will our blessings share.

A thousand welcomes then to you,
The Heir to loved Victoria's throne;
Canadians still to Freedom true,
Would warmly make their homage known.

BRANTFORD'S WELCOME TO THE PRINCE OF WALES, 1860.

Welcome, thrice welcome, to our fair town,
Albert Edward, the heir to Brittania's Crown!
We hail this your visit
With feelings exquisite,
And all party spirit most cheerfully drown
In the joy of the day;
While we earnestly pray
That God's richest blessings may compass your way.

No Niagara's vast glories have we,
No Bridge spanning River as wide as a sea;
Yet we have a county
Whose soil, for its bounty,
Surpassed is by none in this clime of the FREE..
_The Garden_, 'tis named,
Of all Canada, famed
For choicest of land, though but lately reclaimed.

We have no splendid buildings to show,
No Millionaire's palace that might notice draw,
But yet we may boast of
A very fair host of
Both women and men who their duty well know.
While sweet girls and bright boys
Sympathize in our joys,
As your Highness can see by their truth-speaking eyes.

Nor yet men with great titles have we;
But some meet you here brave as bravest can be.
These have been no strangers
To greatest of great dangers,
When war's horrid front threatened Liberty's tree.
Both Red Men and White
Mingled then in the fight,
And still live together to stand for the RIGHT.

Our good town, as your Highness well knows,
Is called after one long released from life's woes.
His memory we cherish,
And gladly would nourish
The motives that led him to march against foes.
For brave Captain Brant
Did most eagerly pant
The Flag of true Freedom in these parts to plant.

Welcome, thrice welcome to our fair town,
Albert Edward, the heir to Brittania's Crown!
No niggardly measure
Would we yield of pleasure,
To you and your Suite, as you doubtless will own.
For we British rule prize,
And would strengthen the ties
Binding us to VICTORIA, the good and the wise.

A CALL FOR HELP FOR GARIBALDI.

1860

Canadian freemen, one and all, Respond to Garibaldi's call, And help him now to speed the fall Of fair Italia's foes. Our God this year abundance sends, Oh, spend it not for selfish ends, But give to him who RIGHT defends, And strives to heal her woes.

See him as he unselfish stands, Surrounded by his patriot bands-- The admiration of all lands-- Wave Freedom's banner high. He moves--acclaiming thousands wait To open wide each city gate. And trust to him their future fate-- Assured redemption's nigh.

Whole-souled and brave as man can be, He fights alone for Liberty; Nor will he rest till Italy Shake off her tyrants' chains. This done he seeks not high estate; Success does not his soul elate; In lowliness he can be great, For meanness he disdains.

Can we to such a one deny Assistance? when to do or die He passes outward splendors by In singleness of heart? Forbid it, ye of British blood! Forbid it all who seek for good. Rise! show that you have understood An honest freeman's part!

Let not this noble Patriot's fate Be such as was Kossuth's the Great. May their magnific deeds create A glow of sympathy Which shall increase till every chain Enslaving man be snapped in twain, And universal Freedom reign In glorious majesty.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE'S ACCOUNT OF LINCOLN'S DEPARTURE FROM SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, FOR WASHINGTON.

He stood--the noble Lincoln--calm, though, sad, About to part from those with whom he lived So many years in sweetest amity. Before him prospects which might well appal The stoutest heart. His country, fondly cherished, But erst so great and fair, the humbled victim Of black traitors' arts, and on the verge Of fearful ruin's widely yawning gulf. While recollections of domestic bliss, Such as but few enjoy, might well indeed Make him quite loth to leave his much loved home. With steady eye he views the concourse vast, Big thoughts fast welling from his inmost soul Too big for utterance. Yet a few choice words Steal forth and fall upon attentive ears: "Here have I lived for many, many years; Here were my children born, and one beneath The graveyard sod rests now in death, at peace! I know not when each dear familiar face Now left behind may glad my eyes again; But this I know--a duty greater far Than ever fell to man since Washington Held Governmental reins, now falls to me. Without God's aid he never could have known Success. Upon that Being placed he still His firm reliance, and succeeded well. Succeed I cannot without aid Divine Imparted to me in this hour of need. I place in God my trust; and oh, my friends, Pray you for me that I may have His help! Then shall success, such as we well may crave, Be mine for certain in this crisis dread. I bid you all affectionate farewell."

This heard with throbbing hearts the gazing throng; And, deeply moved within their bosom's depths, Responded soon, "We will all pray for you!" Upon this scene might Angels fondly gaze, And place 't on record in high Heaven's archives, That Lincoln, feeling his own weakness much, His burden cast upon the Lord of all.

Go thus, thou chosen one, and firmly stand For Truth and Freedom in the Halls of State! Let no time-serving policy be thine; But, placing round thee men of sterling worth, Grasp tight the reins of Constitutional sway. If go they will, let dupes of Slavery go, And reap the baneful fruit they've nurtured long. In this they'll find a certain, speedy cure, For madness such as they have always shown. Go, Lincoln, then, and if Canadians' prayers May aught avail, thou may'st their prayers command.

FEBRUARY, 1861.

"Sumpter has Fallen, but Freedom is Saved."

(_New York Tribune, April, 1861_.)

Thank God 'tis so! for now we know
All compromise is ended.
List Lincoln's call, then freemen, all
Who have from braves descended.

Your Stripes and Stars, ye gallant tars,
Keep proudly o'er you waving;
Strike for the _right_ with all your might,
Stern danger freely braving!

Ye Soldier hosts, stand to your posts
Like Anderson, unflinching.
Those Southern foes need heavy blows
To cure them of their "lynching."

A traitor's fate may them await,
But yet their monstrous madness
May work you woe for aught ye know,
And fill the world with sadness.

Innocent blood--of this a flood
For vengeance loud is calling!
And God's light hand shall blast that land
With plagues the most appalling,

Which dares to hold from love of gold
Poor slaves in galling fetters!
Rise, East--West--North! Your might put forth,
For you are Freedom's debtors!

SONG.

MY LOVE IS NO GAY, DASHING MAID.

My love is no gay, dashing maid,
With rosy cheeks and golden curls,
Nor high-born lady well arrayed
In glittering diamonds and pearls.
Yet she is a lovely, loving wife,
Who can blithely sing while working well;
And so happy is our married life,
That I on its pleasures fondly dwell.
O my love is no gay, dashing maid,
But a wife in matronly worth, arrayed.

I've seen young girls of beauty rare,
With ruby lips and sparkling eyes,
Use all their charms to form a snare
By which to carry off a _prize_.
I've noted the wedded life of such,
Oft finding them slatterns void of love;
And none need wonder so very much
If I value high my turtle dove.
For she is no vain, dashing maid,
But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.

Through years of matrimonial care,
And constant toil from day to day,
To me her face has still been fair,
As if her charms would ne'er decay.
And our house is full of girls and boys,
The pledges sweet of a sacred love,
Sent to keep young and bright the joys
Which many with wealth oft fail to prove.
O my love is no gay, dashing maid,
But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.

THE SEWING MACHINE.

1861.

I sing the Sewing Machine,
The blessings it brings to the fair.
Some of those blessings I've seen,
And therefore its praises declare.
'Tis a curious thing
Of which I now sing,
And poets have sung it before me;
But if the theme's good,
'Twill be well understood
I'm right in prolonging the story.

Well finished Sewing Machine!
Whose form is so graceful and neat;
Thou of inventions art Queen,
And to look at thy work is a treat.
Each nice burnished wheel,
With the plate of pure steel,
Thy gold bedecked arms and the gauges,
All speak of the skill
Which the genius at will
Puts forth in the work that he wages.

Wonderful Sewing Machine!
No visions of gloom and despair
Float over my mind serene,
As I thy performance compare
To the old-fashioned stitch,
The dread sorrows which
Accompanied work by the fingers
Of those forced to sew
'Midst a life full of woe.
With pity my soul on it lingers.

Excellent Sewing Machine!
Thy musical click-a-click-click,
Removes far away the spleen
From those who of toiling are sick.
Thy task speeds along,
While the fair ones in song
Give vent to their feelings of gladness.
How diff'rent I ween
From the sight often seen
By HOOD with a heart full of sadness.

[Footnote: See "Song of the Shirt."]

Dutiful Sewing Machine!
Now cheerfully stitching away,
Neatly and quickly, as seen
In the things by my wife made to-day;
Enraptured am I,
For no heart-bursting sigh
Escapes from the dear operator;
But a smile of delight
Is now alwavs in sight,
Of happiness sweet indicator.

Beautiful Sewing Machine!
How thankful am I to the man
Through many years who has been
Thus carefully forming thy plan!
May smiles from the fair,
Rid of much toil and care--
Shine on him, in moments of anguish.
May their tender hands
To obey his commands
Be ready, should he in life languish.

TABBY AND TIBBY.

As Tabby and Tibby were playing one day,
I, watching their frolicksome mood,
Greatly wondered they never got tired of play,
But the secret I soon understood.

For, listening, I hear on the drum of the ear,
These thoughts in cat language conveyed--
The which I interpret lest it should appear
Of telling the truth I'm afraid.

Said Tabby to Tibby: "Our master's downcast;
Else why are his looks full of gloom?
There's something like spectres in future or past,
Which strangely before his mind loom.

"So, daughter, still further in frolic indulge,
And thus chase his sadness away;
Our motives we need not to mortals divulge;
Then at it in right earnest play."

This said, she gave Tibby a sly, knowing wink,
And straight on her haunches sat down,
While Tibby, who is of all kittens the pink,
Laid the counsel safe by in her crown.

And now, as if struck by electrical shock,
The young one swift bounded aside,
And then with an air which would true valor mock,
Some strange soldiers' antics she tried.

Advancing, retreating, with rig well upreared,
Her looks testify to her ire;
And every manoeuvre, it is to be feared,
Will bring some calamity dire.

But meantime, the mother in calmest content,
And careless as cat could well be,
Just waited till Tibby's flash-valor was spent,
Yet now and then winking at me.

I judged from this fact that a wrinkle had struck,
To the depths of her sage cat-like brain;
And I thought of my beautiful kitten's ill-luck
In entering on such a campaign.

The thought had scarce flashed through the chambers of mind,
When she pounced like a tiger on prey!
Oh, horror! but stop! with relief I now find
They both were engaged in mere play.

But whether in play or real earnest, it seems
Young Tibby's no match for her mother;
So thus I now end this my first of cat dreams,
Not caring to write such another.

LINES COMPOSED AT MR. M'LARTY'S, WEST MISSOURI, AUGUST 3, 1873.

McLarty, I can't leave your house, Your darling daughter, charming spouse, Without at least a single rhyme Commemorating that sweet time When I, with my beloved wife, Shared your dear home, with comforts rife.

And now I backward cast my eye O'er eight-and-twenty years, gone by, Since first to you the land I sold Which now you prize far more than gold. Ah, then with trees 'twas covered o'er Thousands of which are now no more; But in their stead rich, waving grain, On hill and dale and pleasant plain Abundant grows; and year by year Adds comforts to your home so dear.

Fair trout creek still flows softly by, Though not so pleasing to the eye, As when at first its stream I saw, So many, many years ago. For then no logs unshapely, rude, Did on that beauteous creek intrude; But o'er its smooth and gravelly bed It held its course, and murmur shed Like sweetest music on my ear, And made me long to live just here.

But urgent duty called me hence, To scenes less pleasing to the sense Of one who had a poet's eye For Nature's works. I bade good bye To what so quickly had become To me almost as dear as home.

And now, kind friends, we must return To that same home, while bosoms burn With platitude for kindness shown To those you had so little known.

We linger still: 'tis hard to part From you, when fondly heart to heart Beats now, as if for years we'd been Fast bound in friendship's bands serene.

God bless you all! we fervent pray, And make you happier every day! Should we in future meet no more, O, may we all reach Canaan's shore.

FAMILY PIECES

LINES TO MY MOTHER, WHO DIED WHEN I WAS ABOUT TWO YEARS OLD.

I had a mother once, and her dear name Has power even now to thrill my very frame, And call forth feelings which can only rise When Love doth view its object in the skies. So would I view thee, Mother, and rejoice That I have power to raise my feeble voice And tell what thoughts arise within my breast, As thus I view thee entered into rest.

O, say, my Mother, canst thou see thy son? Dost thou behold the poor, erratic one Who has been tossed on Life's tempestuous wave Till he has fairly longed to find his grave? I fain would know if, when I heave a sigh, Tears e'er bedim thy sympathetic eye? When I have drunk so deep of heartfelt woe, And: roved the vanity of all below, Oh, say, my Mother, hast thou felt a share Know'st thou what 'tis to be weighed down with care?

Why write I thus? for souls in heavenly bliss Feel not our woes--know not what sorrow is-- Unless their past experiences they feel, To aid, by contrast, in producing weal. For it is written, "God shall wipe away Tears from all faces," in Eternal Day! Then let me rest content, and strive to show True patience, while I suffer here below, And follow Christ wherever he may lead: Thus proving faith sincere by every deed. O, then, whenever he may call me hence, I shall be willing to leave time and sense And mount aloft to dwell with God forever, To taste that bliss from which naught can me sever.

TO MY WIFE.

Ellen, dear, it is clear
I have not half thy merits told;
Sweet of life, lovely wife,
More precious thou hast been than gold.

Listen now; truth I trow
Will be my guide while I relate
What pure love, sweetest dove,
Thou still hast shown in marriage state.

When I'm ill thou dost fill
The office of a comforter;
Soothing sickness with such quickness
That disease seems banished far.

If low spirits we inherit,
Thou swiftly drivest them away
By sweet song all day long,
Until I feel quite young and gay.

Then our house, tidy spouse,
Is kept by thee so trim and neat,
That from home I'll not roam
To try and find a snug retreat.

Of girls and boys, and many joys,
We have, my dearest, quite our share;
How to use them, not abuse them,
Should always be our constant care.

But alas! how soon pass
All present good desires away.
Feel we weakness? then in meekness
Let us unto our Father pray.

He is strong, and has long
Upheld us by His mighty arm;
O how glorious! Faith victorious
Will us preserve always from harm.

Then let us pray, love, day by day,
That our dear children may be brought
Into His fold, ere they are old:
Even as God himself hath taught.

O, what pleasure in rich measure
We then should feel, my own true love!
For naught ever could us sever,
But all at last would dwell above--

By God's grace in that place
Inhabited by Spirits bright.
This secured, we allured,
Might view by Faith the glorious sight.

TO THE SAME, WHEN AWAY FROM HOME

Oh, when will my beloved come To her own home again? Surely it will not be my doom To miss her always in each room, And of her loss complain.

Dear Chris and Jenny wish her home, And ask why she's not here; And I in quest of her would roam, But fear to miss her much-loved form, Which I would hope is near.

Yet I would not impatient be; Thou art on Mother tending. Thy love to her I like to see. It will not lessen mine to thee, Until my life is ending.

And should'st thou stay another week, A month, or even a year-- Thy conduct past would loudly speak Thy faithfulness, thy spirit meek, And say I've naught to fear.

Then stay, my dear, till thou hast done All that thy mother needed; Yet just remember there is one Who will be sadly woe-begone, His loneliness unheeded.

For well I know that such a wife Is better far than gold; And all the joys of bachelor life, However free from care and strife, On my mind take no hold.

Just now her brother brings me word That I must go and see her. For all the joys this will afford May I be thankful to the Lord, And go from care to free her.

Within an hour I see her face Bedecked with smiles to greet me, But yet she seems in woeful case, For marks of _toothache_ I can trace As she comes forth to meet me.

We spend the night with th' dear old folk, The moments quickly fly, While we link-armed start on a walk, But soon return to sing and talk-- The fire all sitting by.

Upon the morrow then return To home, "sweet home," again. Our hearts afresh with love do burn, As we at hand our house discern, And all it does contain.

TO MY DEAR LITTLE BOYS, JAMES, CHRISTOPHER AND ALFRED.

Three lovely boys who bear my name, Have all upon me equal claim, And seem to ask a rhyme from me-- A humble poet as you see. James, Christopher and Alfred, dear, You often do my spirit cheer, Each in his own most charming way, From hour to hour, from day to day. James by his often tuneful mood, And other things best understood By a fond parent, at the time, To he as sweet as music's chime. In him, though young, my eye can trace A something in his pretty face Which shows strong passion lurks within That childish breast--the fruit of sin. I also think I truly see A trait somewhat too miserly. I may be wrong--I hope I am, For 'twould be sad in my sweet lamb.

Then Chris, what must I say of him, Who shows us many a little whim? But with it all displays affection For one so young in much perfection, And can forget his sorrows all, Though his young heart he filled with gall. If but his mother seem to cry he upward turns his bright brown eye, And asks so earnestly a kiss That we're compelled to love our Chris.

Once, dear child, O strange to tell, From brother Willie's knee he fell And sadly burned his little arm, Which greatly filled us with alarm. He cried, as might have been expected, And quick relief was not neglected. But while his heart was fit to burst, He spied a wound on Mamma's hand, And though his own w as far the worst, The sight of Hers he could not stand. He ceased his crying, gave a sigh, "Poor Mamma's sore," [Footnote: A literal fact] became his cry. My darling child, this act of thine Makes me right glad to call thee mine.

But I must hasten; one remains Who well deserves my ablest strains. This is my Alfred--lovely babe A smiling cherub sure art thou, How can I best describe thy charms? How can I write about thee now? Nearly four months have passed away Since thou first saw the light of day; And in that time we've hardly had One tedious night with thee, my lad. By day thy chirruping and smiles Thy own dear mother's heart beguiles, And makes me run a dreadful risk Of falling to idolatry! But let me tell thee, little _Frisk_, This will not do for thee or me! 'Tis time to quit; I cease to write, And bid my precious babes good night!

TO ALFRED, JUST LEARNING TO WALK

1854

O, Alfred dear, thou wilt, I fear,
Get burned before 'tis long;
Thy little tricks with fiery sticks
Have called forth this my song.

That roguish eye seems to defy
All I can say or do.
Thy chubby face does not disgrace
The food thou art used to.

Come now, my boy, thy skill employ
In walking to Papa;
Well, now, my child, I own I smiled
To see thee choose thy _Ma_.

But still I will that thou fulfill
My just commands to thee;
Sometime I shall soon make thee squall
For disobeying me!

And now a walk or else some talk
I do insist upon;
But mind that chair or thou wilt fare
Not cry well, my son!

Thy limbs are strong, so don't be long,
Nor mind that little mountain;
Ah, down he goes! and out there flows
Big tear-drops from their fountain.

Fear not, my son, thou hast well done;
I'll wipe thy tears away,
And lie in hopes on Life's rough slopes
Thou wilt not go astray.

Now come again, I can't refrain
From tuning one more trial;
Don't stagger on so woe-begone,
But use some self-denial.

Thou wilt have need if thou succeed
In life, to use it often,
And I have found in moving round
It does life's trials soften.

Mind thou the stove! nor further rove,
For fear thou get a burning
Let not thine eyes in such surprise
Upon thy Pa be turning.

See, there at last thou hast got past
The dangers which beset thee,
So in my arms, proud of thy charms,
I'll hug thee if thou let me.

I fain would hope that thou wilt cope
With ills besetting mortals,
Depending on God's Arm alone,
And so reach Heaven's portals.

TO AMELIA MY LAST INFANT DAUGHTER

1854

On the fifth of chill November
Came my Amie unto me,
Adding one more lovely member
To my numerous family.

Daughter, thou art welcome truly
To the care we can bestow;
May we do our duty duly
While we stay with thee below.

Think not, daughter, we will slight thee,
Since so many claim our love;
Gladly--wish we to delight thee,
As we look for help Above.

Thou art to us, little charmer,
Dear as any child we own;
And our love to each grows warmer
For the sorrows we have known.

Take then, daughter, take our blessing,
It comes forth from loving hearts;
Though we shrink hot from confessing
Oft we fail to act our parts.

TO FREDRIC

Fred, thou art six months old
This very day!
And I no more withold
From thee a lay.

That rosy, smiling face--
Thou need not fear--
Has weeks since claimed a place
'Midst "rhyming gear."

Thy winning, childish pranks
Make further claim
To set thee in the ranks
Of infant fame.

But when I think what troubles
Thou hast passed through,
The obligation doubles
What I've to do--

In rhyming for thee, Fred,
My dark-eyed boy;
And I have left my bed
To sing the joy.

I feel from day to day
In seeing thee
So full of lively play--
Most sweet to see.

By such most lovely smiles,
Such crowing, too,
Ah, Fred, thy many wiles
Have charmed me through!

'Tis true _Ma_ lost much rest,
By day and night,
Through thee when so distressed.
Which scarce seemed right.

But doubtless 'twill be seen
To be for good,
Since God our Friend has been,
And by us stood.

Then, with this full in view
I 'll close my rhyme,
And hope that it may do
Thee good some time.

TO MY DAUGHTER IDA, WHEN THREE MONTHS OLD.

1859.

Ida, it is a burning shame That thy short, sweet poetic name Has not a single lay called forth From my _cranium_ since thy birth! Thy pale-face, brown-eyed style of beauty Every day points out my duty. Conscience, too, whispers 'tis not right That I this task should longer slight. So now I take thee on my knee And woo the Muse right eagerly, In earnest hope she'll lend her aid Until this tribute be well paid.

Ida, thou art of babes the best; This much at least must be confessed, Unless thy mother's words are wrong-- Words shadowing forth Affection strong. Thou art indeed, sweet tempered pet, As good a child as I have met. And oh, my heart for thee' has bled, When thou wert forced to be spoon-fed, Because of Mamma's trying weakness. Yet this thou didst still bear with meekness, And ever from the first thy cries Had for companions tearful eyes, And such a mournful, piteous mien As is not in bad temper seen. When I saw this thou may'st be sure, I felt quite ready to endure Thy tediousness by night or day, While mother on a sick-bed lay. Now, as reward for all my toil, Thou cheerest me by many a smile. And while I gaze on thy sweet face Bedecked with every infant grace, My soul's best feelings are called Forth-- I see in thee increasing worth.