Chapter IV (1)

Thou askest with emotion,
Why am I thus so cold,
Urging all thy past devotion,
Well known--well tried of old;
Hush! bend a little nearer
That sad, o'erclouded brow--
Could love vows make thee dearer
To me than thou art now!

REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS.

DIED JANUARY 26th, 1864, THE HON. JAMES B.
CLAY, OF ASHLANDS, KENTUCKY, ELDEST
SON OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS HENRY CLAY.

Another pang for Southern hearts,
That of late so oft have bled,
Another name to add to the roll
Of their mighty, patriot dead;
A vacant place 'mid that phalanx proud.
Of which each glorious name
Is dear to a mighty nation's heart,
And dear to undying fame.

The God-given gift of genius his,
The patriot's holy fire,
For he we mourn was a worthy son
Of a great and glorious sire:
Ah! whate'er the changes time may bring,
Shall never pass away
From the people's mind, in North or South,
The deathless name of Clay.

Yet an exile in a foreign land,
His spirit passed from earth,
Far from the old dear scenes of home,
The loved land of his birth,--
The land he had well and truly served,
With heart, with sword, with pen,
Since first he had joined the march of life,
By the side of his fellow men.

No Southern breezes, soft and sweet,
Played around his dying bed,
No Southern flowers in glowing bloom,
Rich fragrance round him shed;
The wintry light of a Northern sky,
Earth robed in snowy vest,
Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze
As he passed into his rest

But near him gathered devoted hearts,
Wife, children, at his side,
Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked,
With fond, revering pride,
On him who had ever been to them,
Throughout his life's career,
A model of all that honor high,
Or virtue holds most dear.

And other mourners leaves he too,
Who had learned to love him well.
Though short the time since he had come,
Within our midst to dwell:
Friends who will keep his name fore'er
'Mid those they we set apart,
To cherish deeply, and revere,
Within their inmost heart.

Montreal, Jan. 27, 1864

WHEN WILL IT END?

Written during the Civil War in the United States.

O when will it end, this appalling strife,
With its reckless waste of human life,
Its riving of highest, holiest ties,
Its tears of anguish and harrowing sighs,
Its ruined homes from which hope has fled,
Its broken hearts and its countless dead?

In fair Virginia the new-made graves
Lie crowded thick as old ocean's caves;
Whether sword or sickness dealt the blow,
What matters it?--They lie cold and low;
And Maryland's heights are crimsoned o'er,
And its green vales stained, with human gore.

The stalwart man in the prime of life,
Sole stay of frail children and helpless wife;
The bright-eyed, ardent, and beardless boy,
Of some mother's fond breast the pride and joy,
And the soldier-love, the idol rare
Of maiden and matron, gentle and fair.

The men of the North so dauntless and free,
The flower of the Southland chivalry,
The best and the bravest on either side,
Their citizen soldier, the nation's pride,
Carelessly cast in each narrow, dank bed,
And fruitlessly numbered among the dead.

Are you nearer the end than when Sumter's gun
Answered the summons of Charleston,
And the nation plunged in this deadly strife,
That has wrecked its happiness, wealth and life,--
Say what is your answer to foe or friend?
"'Tis a strife of which none can guess the end."

Oh! keep your young strength for some stranger foe,
Let not brother's rash hand lay brother low;
Remember one soil your childhood nursed,
In the past together your bonds you burst;
Together for freedom you learned to strike,
And brave Washington honored you both alike.

You have proved to the nations your mutual might;
You have proved you can suffer, struggle and fight;
By hundreds and thousands lie heaped your slain,
Your life-blood crimsons hill, stream and plain;
Prove of nobler struggle you are able yet,
And your mutual wrongs forgive and forget.

Oh, Father of mercies! stay now each hand,
Put back in its sheath the blood stained brand,
Whisper sage counsel to rulers proud,
Calm the wrath of the people, fierce and loud,
So that their hates and their strife may cease,
And their land know once more the boon of peace.

MOONLIGHT REVERIES.

The moon from solemn azure sky
Looked down on earth below,
And coldly her wan light fell alike
On scenes of joy and woe:
A stately palace reared its dome,
Within reigned warmth and light
And festive mirth--the moon's faint rays
Soft kissed its marble white.

A little farther was the home
Of toil, alas! and want,
That spectre grim that countless hearths
Seems ceaselessly to haunt;
And yet, as if in mocking mirth,
She smiled on that drear spot,
Silvering brightly the ruined eaves
And roof of that poor cot.

And then, with curious gaze, she looked
Within a curtained loom,
Where sat a girl of gentle mien
In young life's early bloom;
Her glitt'ring light made still more bright
The veil and bridal flower,
Which were to wreathe the girl's fair brow
In the morrow's solemn hour.

With changeless smile she gleamed within
A casement, gloomy, lone,
Where lay a cold and rigid form,
A death bed stretched upon.
The fixed gaze of the half closed eyes,
The forehead chill and white,
The shroud and pall, more ghastly looked,
Wrapped thus in still, silv'ry light.

Long, sadly, gazed I, then a thought,
Sharp, bitter, filled my heart
'Gainst that cold orb, which in our joys
And sorrows took no part;
Which shone as bright o'er couch of death,
In prison's darkened gloom,
As o'er the festal scenes of earth,
Or stately palace room.

An inward voice reproved the thought,
And whispered, soft and low,
"Unto that glorious orb 'twas given
Its Maker's power to show.
Throughout long ages has it shone
With pure, undying flame,
His will obeying Dreamer, go,
And do thou, too, the same!"

THE CLOUDS THAT PROMISE A GLORIOUS MORROW.

The clouds that promise a glorious morrow
Are fading slowly, one by one;
The earth no more bright rays may borrow
From her loved Lord, the golden sun;
Gray evening shadows are softly creeping,
With noiseless steps, o'er vale and hill;
The birds and flowers are calmly sleeping;
And all around is fair and still.

Once loved I dearly, at this sweet hour,
With loitering steps to careless stray,
To idly gather an opening flower,
And often pause upon my way,--
Gazing around me with joyous feeling,
From sunny earth to azure sky,
Or bending over the streamlet, stealing
'Mid banks of flowers and verdure by.

You wond'ring ask me why sit I lonely
Within my quiet, curtain'd room,
So idly seeking and clinging only
Unto its chastened, thoughtful gloom.
You tell me that never fragrance rarer
Did breathe from clustering leaf and bough;
That never the bright spring was fairer
Or more enchanting than she is now.

Ah, useless chiding! The loved ones tender,
Who shared my rambles long ago,
Whose cherished accents could only render
Words of affection soft and low,
Are parted from me, perchance for ever,
By miles of distance, of land or main,--
Death some has taken, and them, oh never
Upon this earth shall I meet again.

'Tis thus this hour of gentle even
Brings back in thought the friends long gone,--
Loved ones with whom this earth was Heaven
But who have vanished, one by one.--
'Tis thus I cherish with wilful sadness
The quiet of my lonely room,--
Careless, unmindful of all earth's gladness,
Or of her lovely evening bloom.

EARTH'S MOMENTS OF GLOOM.

"The heart knoweth its own bitterness"

The heart hath its moments of hopeless gloom,
As rayless as is the dark night of the tomb;
When the past has no spell, the future no ray,
To chase the sad cloud from the spirit away;
When earth, though in all her rich beauty arrayed,
Hath a gloom o'er her flowers--o'er her skies a dark shade,
And we turn from all pleasure with loathing away,
Too downcast, too spirit sick, even to pray!

Oh! where may the heart seek, in moments like this,
A whisper of hope, or a faint gleam of bliss?
When friendship seems naught but a cold, cheerless flame,
And love a still falser and emptier name;
When honors and wealth are a wearisome chain,
Each link interwoven with grief and with pain,
And each solace or joy that the spirit might crave
Is barren of comfort and dark as the grave.

Lift--lift up thy sinking heart, pilgrim of life!
A sure spell there is for thy spirit's sad strife;
'Tis not to be found in the well-springs of earth,--
Oh! no, 'tis of higher and holier birth.

AUTUMN WINDS.

"Oh! Autumn winds, what means this plaintive wailing
Around the quiet homestead where we dwell?
Whence come ye, say, and what the story mournful
That your weird voices ever seek to tell--
Whispering or clamoring, beneath the casements,
Rising in shriek or dying off in moan,
But ever breathing, menace, fear, or anguish
In every thrilling and unearthly tone?"

"We come from far off and from storm-tossed oceans,
Where vessels bravely battle with fierce gale,--
Mere playthings of our stormy, restless power,
We rend them quickly, shuddering mast and sail;
And with their, stalwart, gallant crews we hurl them
Amid the hungry waves that for them wait,
Nor leave one floating spar nor fragile taffrail
To tell unto the world their dreary fate."

"But He who holds you, wrathful winds of Autumn,
Within the hollow of His mighty hand,
Can stay your onward course of reckless fury,
Your demon wrath, or eerie sport command,
Changing your rudest blast to zephyr gentle
As rocks the rose in summer evenings still,
Calming the ocean and yourselves enchaining
By simple fiat of Almighty Will."

"We've been, too in the close and crowded city
Where want is often forced to herd with sin;
And our cold breath has pierced through without pity,
Bare, ruined hovel and worn garments thin;
Through narrow chink and broken window pouring
Draughts rife with fever and with deadly chill,
Choosing our victims 'mid old age and childhood,
Or tender, fragile infancy at will."

"Oh, Autumn blasts, He, whose kind care doth temper
The searching wind unto the small shorn lamb,
To those poor shiv'ring victims, too, can render
Thy keenest, sharpest blasts, both mild and calm
Rave on--rave on, around our happy homestead
Upon this dark and wild November night,
Ye do but work out your God-given mission,
Mere humble creatures of our Father's might."

"But, listen, we come, too, from graveyards lonely,
From mocking revels held 'mid tombstones tall,
Tearing the withered leaves from off the branches,
The clinging ivy from the time-stained wall,--
Uprooting, blighting every tiny leaflet
That hid the grave's bleak nakedness from sight,
Driving the leaves in hideous, death like dances,
Around the lowly mounds, the grave-stones white."

"And, what of that, ye cruel winds of Autumn?
Spring will return again with hope and mirth,
Clothing with tender green the budding branches,
Decking with snowdrops, violets, the earth;
And, oh! sweet hope, sublime and most consoling,
The sacred dust within those graves shall rise
In God's good time, to reign on thrones of glory
With Him, beyond the cloudless, golden skies."

FLOWERS AND STARS.

"Beloved! thou'rt gazing with thoughtful look
On those flowers of brilliant hue,
Blushing in spring tide freshness and bloom,
Glittering with diamond dew:
What dost thou read in each chalice fair,
And what does each blossom say?
Do they not tell thee, my peerless one,
Thou'rt lovelier far than they?"

"Not so--not so, but they whisper low
That quickly will fade their bloom;
Soon will they withered lie on the sod,
Ravished of all perfume;
They tell that youth and beauty below
Are doomed, alas! to decay,
And I, like them, in life's flower and prime
May pass from this earth away."

"Too sad thy thoughts! Look up at yon stars,
That gleam in the sapphire skies;
Not clearer their radiance, best beloved,
Than the light of thine own dark eyes!
With no thoughts of death or sad decay,
Can they thy young spirit fill;
Through ages they've shone with changeless light,
And yet they are shining still!"

"Ah! they bring before my spirit's gaze
Dreams of that home so blessed,
Where those who have served the Master well
At length from their labors rest;
And do not chide if, despite all ties,
Of close-clinging earthly love,
There are times when I turn a wistful glance
To that distant home above."

THE SUNSET THOUGHTS OF A DYING GIRL.

Friends! do you see in yon sunset sky,
That cloud of crimson bright?
Soon will its gorgeous colors die
In coming dim twilight;
E'en now it fadeth ray by ray--
Like it I too shall pass away!

Look on yon fragile summer flower
Yielding its sweet perfume;
Soon shall it have lived out its hour,
Its beauty and its bloom:
Trampled, 'twill perish in the shade--
Alas! as quickly shall I fade.

Mark you yon planet gleaming clear
With steadfast, gentle light,
See, heavy dark clouds hovering near,
Have veiled its radiance bright--
As you vainly search that gloomy spot,
You'll look for me and find me not!

Turn now to yonder sparkling stream,
Where silver ripples play;
Dancing within the moon's pale beam--
Ah! short will be their stay,
They break and die upon the shore--
Like them I soon shall be no more!

Yes! emblems meet of my career,
Are ripple, cloud, and flower;
Fated like me to linger here,
But for a brief, bright hour--
And then, alas! to yield my place;
And leave, perchance, on earth no trace!

No trace, my friends, save in your hearts,
That pure and sacred shrine--
Where, 'spite life's thousand cares and arts,
A place shall yet be mine;
And love as deep as that of yore--
Though on this earth we meet no more!

ALAIN'S CHOICE.

By the side of a silvery streamlet,
That flowed through meadows green,
Lay a youth on the verge of manhood
And a boy of fair sixteen;
And the elder spake of the future,
That bright before them lay,
With its hopes full of golden promise
For some sure, distant day.

And he vowed, as his dark eye kindled,
He would climb the heights of fame,
And conquer with mind or weapon
A proud, undying name.
On the darling theme long dwelling
Bright fabrics did he build,
Which the hope in his ardent bosom
With splendor helped to gild.

At length he paused, then questioned:
"Brother, thou dost not speak;
In the vague bright page of the future
To read dost thou never seek?"
Then the other smiled and answered,
"Of that am I thinking now,
And the crown which I too am striving
To win my ambitious brow."

"What!--a crown? Thou hast spirit, brother;
Say, of laurels will it be?
Thy choice, the life of a soldier,
Undaunted--joyous--free.
Though by wind and sun undarkened
Is thy blooming, boyish face,
To thy choice thou'lt do all honor,
For 'tis worthy of thy race!

"Am I wrong? Well, 'tis more likely,
With thy love of ancient lore,
Thou would'st choose the scholar's garland,
Not laurels wet with gore;
I'll not chide--'tis surely noble,
By mere simple might of pen,
To rule with master power
The minds of thy fellow-men."

But still shook his head the younger:
"What! unguessed thy secret yet?
Ha! I know now what thou seekest
To deck thy curls of jet:
Bright buds!" and he, laughing, scattered
Blossoms on brow and cheek,
"Pleasure's wreath of smiting flowers
Is the crown that thou dost seek."

"Not so--of all, that were vainest!
'Tis a crown immortal--rare--
Here on earth I must strive to win it,
But, brother, I'll wear it _there!_"
And he raised to the blue sky o'er him
Eyes filled with tender thought,--
Who shall doubt that to him was given
The glorious crown he sought?

THE FINAL RECKONING.

'Twas a wild and stormy sunset, changing tints of lurid red
Flooded mountain top and valley and the low clouds overhead;
And the rays streamed through the windows of a building stately,
high,
Whose wealthy, high-born master had lain him down to die.

Many friends were thronging round him, breathing aching, heavy
sighs--
Men with pale and awe-struck faces, women, too, with weeping
eyes,
Watching breathless, silent, grieving him whose sands were nearly
run,
When, with sudden start, he muttered: "God! how much I've left
undone!"

Then out spoke an aged listener, with broad brow and locks of
snow,
"Patriot, faithful to thy country and her welfare, say not so,
For the long years thou hast served her thou hast only honor
won."
But, from side to side still tossing, still he muttered: "Much
undone!"

Then the wife, with moan of anguish, like complaint of stricken
dove,
Murmured: "Husband, truer, fonder, never blessed a woman's love,
And a just and tender father both to daughter and to son"--
But more feebly moaned he ever: "Oh! there's much, there's much
undone!"

Quickly, then, a proud, stern soldier questioned: "Say, will not
thy name
Long descend in future story, linked with honor and with fame,
For thine arm was prompt in battle and thy laurels nobly won;
Patriot, citizen and soldier, what, then, is there left undone?"

Then the dying man upraised him; at his accents loud and clear
Into silence men lapsed quickly--women checked each sob and tear;
And he said: "To fame, home, country, all my heart, my thoughts
I've given,
But, Oh dreamers, can you tell me what I've done for God--for
Heaven?

"It was not for Him I battled with the sword or with the pen,
Not for His praise that I thirsted, but that of my fellow-men;
And amid the light now flooding this my life's last setting sun,
I can see, misguided worldling! that there's much I've left
undone."

Thicker, darker, fell the shadows, fainter grew his flutt'ring
breath
Then a strange and solemn stillness, 'twas the awful hush of
death:
Hope we that a tender Saviour, unto gentle pity won,
Judged that dying man with mercy, whatsoe'er he left undone!

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE G. C. OF MONTREAL.

The earth was flooded in the amber haze
That renders so lovely our autumn days,
The dying leaves softly fluttered down,
Bright crimson and orange and golden brown,
And the hush of autumn, solemn and still,
Brooded o'er valley, plain and hill.

Yet still from that scene with rare beauty rife
And the touching sweetness of fading life,
From glowing foliage and sun bright ray,
My gaze soon mournfully turned away
To rest, instead, on a new made grave,
Enshrouding a heart true, loyal and brave.

At rest for aye! Cold and pulseless now
That high throbbing breast and calm, earnest brow;
Laid down forever the quick, gifted pen
That toiled but for God and his fellow men;
Silent that voice, free from hatred or ruth,
Yet e'er boldly raised in the cause of truth.

For the prize of _our faith_ grateful he proved,
Breaking from ties and from scenes once loved,
From rank and fortune, and the lures of pride,
That tempt the gifted on every side,
To devote his genius--his pen of fire--
To aims more holy and themes far higher.

He was true to the land he had made his home,
And true to the grand old faith of Rome,
At whose feet he laid powers rarer than gold,
As knights laid their lances and shields of old,--
That Church on whose loving maternal breast
He peacefully sank to eternal rest.

Oh! no tears for him who passed away
Ere frame or spirit knew touch of decay,
Ere time had deadened one feeling warm,
Or his genius robbed of one single charm.
As he was when death struck, his image shall dwell
In the countless hearts that loved him so well.

ON SOME ROSE LEAVES BROUGHT FROM THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

Faded and pale their beauty, vanished their early bloom,
Their folded leaves emit alone a sweet though faint perfume,
But, oh! than brightest bud or flower to me are they more dear,
They come from that rose-haunted land, the bright Vale of
Cashmere.

Cashmere! a spell is in that name! what dreams its sound awakes
Of roses sweet as Eden's flowers, of minarets and lakes,
Of scenes as vaguely, strangely bright as those of fairy land,
Springing to life and loveliness 'neath some enchanter's wand!

Cashmere! poetic in its name, its clear and brilliant skies
That seem to clothe earth, flower and wave in their own lovely
dyes;
Poetic in its legend lore, and spell more dear than all,
Enshrined in poet's inmost heart, the home of "Nourmahal."*

Yes, there oft fell her fairy feet, there shone the glances
bright,
That won for her the glorious name of harem's queen and light;
There, as she wandered 'mid its bowers, her royal love beside,
She taught him to forget all else save her, his beauteous, bride.

Cashmere! what would this heart not give to see thy favored
earth,
So rich in nature's peerless gifts, in beauty's dazzling worth,
Rich in a name that in mine ear from childhood's hour hath rung,
The land of which impassioned Moore with such sweet power hath
sung.

Yet, were I there, oh! well I know the time would surely come
When my yearning heart would turn again to my far Canadian home,
Longing to look once more upon its wintry wastes of snow,
And the friends whose hearts throb like mine own, with
friendship's changeless glow.

[* The heroine of Moore's beautiful poem The Light of the Harem.]

HARVESTS.

Other harvests there are than those that lie
Glowing and ripe 'neath an autumn sky,
Awaiting the sickle keen,
Harvests more precious than golden grain,
Waving o'er hillside, valley or plain,
Than fruits 'mid their leafy screen.

Not alone for the preacher, man of God,
Do those harvests vast enrich the sod,
For all may the sickle wield;
The first in proud ambition's race,
The last in talent, power or place,
Will all find work in that field.

Man toiling, lab'ring with fevered strain,
High office or golden prize to gain,
Rest both weary heart and head,
And think, when thou'lt shudder in death's cold clasp,
How earthly things will elude thy grasp,
At that harvest work instead!

Lady, with queenly form and brow,
Gems decking thy neck and arms of snow,
Who need only smile to win;
'Mid thy guests, perchance the gay, the grave,
Is one whom a warning word might save
From folly, sorrow or sin.

Let that word be said, thine eyes so bright
Will glow with holier, softer light
For the good that thou hast done;
And a time will come when thou wilt reap
From that simple act more pleasure deep
Than from flatt'ring conquests won.

Young girl in thy bright youth's blushing dawn,
Graceful and joyous as sportive fawn,
There is work for thee to do,
And higher aims than to flirt and smile,
And practise each gay, coquettish wile,
Admiring glances to woo.

Ah! the world is full of grief and care,
Sad, breaking hearts are every where,
And thou can'st give relief;
Alms to the needy--soft word of hope
That a brighter view may chance to ope
To mourners bowed by grief.

That gauzy tissue yon bud or flower
That tempt thee at the present hour,
To be worn, then cast aside,
Bethink thee, their price might comfort bring,
Fuel or food to the famishing
And help to the sorely tried.

Such harvest fruits are most precious and rare,
Worthy all toil and patient care,
Think of the promised reward!
Not earthly gains that will pass away
Like morning mist or bright sunset ray,
But Christ Himself, our Lord!

A WORLDLY DEATH-BED.

Hush! speak in accents soft and low,
And treat with careful stealth
Thro' that rich curtained room which tells
Of luxury and wealth;
Men of high science and of skill
Stand there with saddened brow,
Exchanging some low whispered words--
What can their art do now?

Follow their gaze to yonder couch
Where moans in fitful pain
The mistress of this splendid home,
With aching heart and brain.
The fever burning in her veins
Tinges with carmine bright
That sunken cheek--alas! she needs
No borrowed bloom to-night.

The masses of her raven hair
Fall down on either side
In tangled richness--it has been
Through life her care and pride;
And those small perfect hands on which
Her gaze complacent fell,
Now, clenched within her pillow's lace,
Of anguish only tell.

Sad was her restless, fev'rish sleep,
More sad her waking still,
As with wild start she looks around
Her chamber darkened--still;
Its silence and the mournful looks
Of those who stand apart,
Some awful fear seem to suggest
To that poor worldly heart.

"Doctor, I'm better, am I not?"
She gasps with failing breath--
Alas! the answer sternly tells
That she is "ill to death."
"What! dying!" and her eyes gleam forth
A flashing, fearful ray,
"I, young, rich, lovely, from this earth
To pass so soon away?

"No, no, it must not, cannot be,
Surely your skill can save--
Can stand between me and the gloom,
The horrors, of the grave!"
Breathless she listens, but no word
Breaks that dull pause of grief,--
Her pitying listeners turn away,
They cannot give relief

Tossing aloft, in fierce despair,
Her arms, with frenzied cry,
She gasps forth, "Save me--help, O help!
I must not, will not die."
But One can grant that wild appeal,
Can stay her failing breath--
Of Him she never thought in life
Nor thinks she now in death.

Without one prayer, one contrite tear,
For past faults to atone--
For wasted talents, misspent life,
She's gone before God's throne!
Prying that wilful, wayward heart
That leaned on gods of clay,
For calmer, holier death than hers
With solemn heart we pray.

THE CHOICE OF SWEET SHY CLARE.

Fair as a wreath of fresh spring flowers, a band of maidens lay
On the velvet sward--enjoying the golden summer day;
And many a ringing silv'ry laugh on the calm air clearly fell,
With fancies sweet, which their rosy lips, half unwilling, seemed
to tell.

They spoke, as maidens often speak, of that ideal one
By whom the wealth of their warm young hearts will at length be
wooed and won--
Fond girlish dreams! and half in jest and half in serious strain,
Each told of the gifts that could alone the prize of her love
obtain.

The first who spoke was a bright-eyed girl, with a form of airy
grace,
Mirth beaming in every dimple sweet of her joyous smiling face:
"I ask not much in the favor'd one who this dainty hand would
gain;--
No ordeal long would I ask of him--no hours of mental pain.

"Let him but come in the pomp of rank, endowed with wealth and
pride,
To woo to a lofty palace home his youthful, worshipped bride,
Heaping my path with presents rare, with radiant jewels and
gold,--
Love's flame 'neath poverty's breath, 'tis said, soon waxes faint
and cold."

Outspoke another, with proud dark eye, and a stately, regal mien:
"Thou saidst thou wast easily pleased, May, and so thou art, I
ween,
Thou askest paltry rank and wealth--aim higher would be mine!
Rare mental gold--the priceless fire of genius divine."

"And I," said a third, with soft sweet voice, "would exact still
less than ye,
No need for glitter of lofty state, no gold or jewels for me;
Nor ask I that genius' lofty power in his ardent soul should
dwell,
Enough, if he love but me alone, and love me only well!"

Another said that her choice would fall on manly beauty and
grace,
That he she would love must matchless stand, the noblest of his
race,
Excelling in sports of flood and field, and as lion brave in war,
Yet, with hand and voice, in lady's bower, attuned to light
guitar.

And now, with one accord, they turned to a dove-like maiden mild,
With a seraph's purity of look, and soft graces of a child;
"Speak out, speak out now, sweet shy Clare, we anxious wait for
thee,
Coy, gentle one! fear not to say what thy heart's young choice
will be."

A moment paused she, and then a flush, like sunset, dyed her
brow,
And softly she murmured "Sisters, dear, I have made my choice
ere now,
And the rarest gifts that you could name, be they earthly or
divine.
In strange perfection--God like grace--will be found all, all in
mine."

She ceased, and a thoughtful silence stole o'er those youthful
brows of mirth,
They knew she spoke of the Bridegroom King--the Lord of Heaven
and earth;
And e'er fleet time of another year had sounded the passing
knell,
The maiden Clare and her Bridegroom fair were wedded in convent
cell.

TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. SISTER
THE NATIVITY, FOUNDRESS OF THE CONVENT
OF VILLA MARIA (MONKLANDS.)

Oh, Villa Maria, thrice favored spot,
Unclouded sunshine is still thy lot
Since first, 'neath thy mortal old,
The spouses of Christ--working out God's will,
Meekly entered, their mission high to fill
'Mid the "little ones" of His fold.

But grief's dark hour, that to all must come,
At length is on thee, and as a tomb,
Hushed, joyless, art thou to-day,
For the lofty mind that thy councils led,
To womanly sweetness so closely wed,
Has been called by death away.

"One 'mid a thousand!" no words could tell
The peerless worth that, like holy spell,
Won all souls to saintly love;
And that knowledge rare of the human heart
That, with heavenly patience and gentle art,
The coldest breast could move.

Oh! girlish natures, good blended with ill,
That she trained with such watchful, wondrous skill
To be noble women and true--
The bliss of those households whose hope you are,
Where your worth shines steady as vesper star,
Unto her is surely due.

And those chosen souls, called to holier state,
That on the Heavenly Bridegroom wait,
Their cell an Eden below,
Whom she guided safely through wile and snare,
Making virtue appear so divinely fair,
How much unto her they owe!

And many now sleeping 'neath churchyard sod,
But whose souls are reigning on high with God
Through her teachings true and blessed--
With what strains of rapture, ravishing, sweet,
Their teacher and guide did they once more meet,
As she entered on her rest.

When to Villa Maria will come again
Spring, with opening buds and gentle rain,
Though her place be vacant there,
The spirit of her teachings will ever dwell
In the earthly home she loved so well,
Treasured with sacred care.

The winds of winter, with sob and sigh,
And dirge-like voices go wailing by,
Waking echoes in every breast.
As they sweep o'er the snow-clad reaches wide,
And the cold pale shroud where, on every side,
The eyes are forced to rest.

And the stars shed their radiance pure, yet faint,
Like aureole round the brow of a saint,
As on earth they calm look down;
And raising our tearful and heavy gaze
On high, to their solemn, silvery rays,
We whisper--"Thus shines her crown."

Mother beloved, O sainted nun,
Disciple true of the Crucified One,
Thy teachings we keep for aye,
Till, our life's brief course wrought out, we meet
At our Father's glorious judgment-seat,
In realms of cloudless day!

December 23rd, 1875.

SEA-SHORE MUSINGS.

How oft I've longed to gaze on thee,
Thou proud and mighty deep!
Thy vast horizon, boundless, free,
Thy coast so rude and steep;
And now entranced I breathless stand,
Where earth and ocean meet,
Whilst billows wash the golden sand,
And break around my feet.

Lovely thou art when dawn's red light
Sheds o'er thee its soft hue,
Showing fair ships, a gallant sight,
Upon thy waters blue;
And when the moonbeams softly pour
Their light on wave or glen,
And diamond spray leaps on the shore,
How lovely art thou then!

Still, as I look, faint shadows steal
O'er thy calm heaving breast,
And there are times, I sadly feel,
Thou art not thus at rest;
And I bethink me of past tales,
Of ships that left the shore,
And meeting with thy fearful gales,
Have ne'er been heard of more.

They say thy depths hold treasures rare,
Groves coral--sands of gold--
Pearls fitted for a monarch's wear
And gems of worth untold;
But these could not to life restore
The idol of one home,
Nor make brave hearts beat high once more
That sleep beneath thy foam.

But I must chase such thoughts away,
They mar this happy hour,
Remembering thou dost but obey
Thy Great Creator's, power;
And in my own fair inland home,
Mysterious, moaning main,
In dreams I'll see thy snow-white foam
And frowning rocks again.

THE WHISPERS OF TIME.

What does time whisper, youth gay and light,
While thinning thy locks, silken and bright,
While paling thy soft cheek's roseate dye,
Dimming the light of thy flashing eye,
Stealing thy bloom and freshness away--
Is he not hinting at death--decay?

Man, in the wane of thy stately prime,
Hear'st thou the silent warnings of Time?
Look at thy brow ploughed by anxious care,
The silver hue of thy once dark hair;--
What boot thine honors, thy treasures bright,
When Time tells of coming gloom and night?

Sad age, dost thou note thy strength nigh, spent,
How slow thy footstep--thy form how bent?
Yet on looking back how short doth seem
The checkered coarse of thy life's brief dream.
Time, daily weakening each link and tie,
Doth whisper how soon thou art to die.

O! what a weary world were ours
With that thought to cloud our brightest hours,
Did we not know that beyond the skies
A land of beauty and promise ties,
Where peaceful and blessed we will love--adore--
When Time itself shall be no more!

THE DEATH OF THE PAUPER CHILD.

Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale!
No sobs--no grieving now:
No burning tears must thou let fall
Upon that cold still brow;
No look of anguish cast above,
Nor smite thine aching breast,
But clasp thy hands and thank thy God--
Thy darling is at rest.

Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lids
Over the violet eyes,
Whose liquid light was once as clear
As that of summer skies.
Is it not bliss to know what e'er
Thy future griefs and fears,
They will be never dimmed like thine
By sorrow's scalding tears?

Enfold the tiny fingers fair,
From which life's warmth has fled,
For ever freed from wearing toil--
The toil for daily bread:
Compose the softly moulded limbs,
The little waxen feet,
Spared wayside journeys long and rough,
Spared many a weary beat.

Draw close around the lifeless form
The shreds of raiment torn,
Her only birthright--just such rags
As thou for years hast worn;
Her earthly dower the bitter crust
She might from pity crave,
Moistened by tears--then, final gift,
A pauper's lowly grave.

Now, raise thy spirit's gaze above!
See'st thou yon angel fair,
With flowing robes and starry crown
Gemming her golden hair?
Changed, glorified in every trait,
Still with that beauty mild;
Oh! mourning mother, thou dost know
Thine own, thy late-lost child.

An heir to heaven's entrancing bliss,
Veiled in its golden glow,
Still thinks she of the lonely heart
Left on this earth below.
Courage!--not long thy weary steps
O'er barren wastes shall roam,
Thy daring prays the Father now
To quickly call thee home!

VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ.

THE BRIDE OF A YEAR.

She stands in front of her mirror
With bright and joyous air,
Smoothes out with a skilful hand
Her waves of golden hair;
But the tell tale roses on her cheek,
So changing yet so bright,
And downcast, earnest eye betray
New thoughts are hers to-night.

Then say what is the fairy spell,
Around her beauty thrown,
Lending a new and softer charm
To every look and tone?
It is the hidden consciousness--
The blissful, joyous thought
That she, at length hath wholly won
The heart she long had sought.

To-morrow is her bridal day,
That day of hopes and fears,
Of partings from beloved friends,
Of sunshine and of tears:
To-morrow will she says the words,
Those words whose import deep
Will fix her future lot in life--
Well might she pause and weep!

Yet, only once, a passing cloud
Rests on her girlish brow,
Her dark eye gleameth restlessly--
She's thinking of her vow.
But quick as light and fleecy clouds
Flit o'er a summer sky,
The shadow passeth from her brow,
The trouble from her eye.

In silvery tones she murmurs forth
"My heart is light and glad,
Youth, beauty, hope, are all mine own,
Then, why should I be sad?
To graver hearts leave graver thoughts
And all foreboding fears,
For me, life's sunshine and its flowers,--
I am too young for tears!"

AFTER THE BALL.

Silence now reigns in the corridors wide,
The stately rooms of that mansion of pride;
The music is hushed, the revellers gone,
The glitt'ring ball-room deserted and lone,--
Silence and gloom, like a clinging pall,
O'ershadow the house--'tis after the ball.

Yet a light still gleams in a distant room,
Where sits a girl in her "first season's bloom;"
Look at her closely, is she not fair,
With exquisite features, rich silken hair
And the beautiful, child-like, trusting eyes
Of one in the world's ways still unwise.

The wreath late carefully placed on her brow
She has flung on a distant foot-stool now;
The flowers, exhaling their fragrance sweet,
Lie crushed and withering at her feet;
Gloves and tablets she has suffered to fall--
She seems so weary after the ball!

Ah, more than weary! How still and white,
With rose-tipped fingers entwined so tight:
A grieved, pained look on that forehead fair,
One which it never before did wear,
And soft eyes gleam through a mist of tears,
Telling of secret misgivings and fears.

Say, what is it all? Why, some April care,
Or some childish trifle, baseless as air;
For the griefs that call forth girlhood's tears
Would but win a smile in maturer years,
When the heart has learned, 'mid pain and strife,
Far sterner lessons from the book of life.

Ah! far better for thee, poor child, I ween,
Had thy night been spent in some calmer scene,
Communing with volume or friend at will,
Or in innocent slumber, calm and still;
Thou would'st not feel so heart-weary of all
As thou to night thou feelest, "after the ball!"

THE YOUNG NOVICE.

The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung
around,
But the rites were o'er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound;
Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer,
Is a girl, as seraph meek and pure--as seraph heav'nly fair.

The blue eyes, veiled by the lashes long that rest on that bright
cheek
Are humbly bent, while the snow-white hands are clasped in fervor
meek,
While in the classic lip and brow, each feature of that face,
And graceful high-bred air, is seen she comes of noble race.

But, say, what means that dusky robe, that dark and flowing veil,
The silver cross--oh! need we ask? they tell at once their tale:
They say that, following in the path that fair as she have trod,
She hath renounced a fleeting world, to give herself to God.

Her sinless heart to no gay son of this earth hath she given,
Her's is a higher, holier lot, to be the Bride of Heaven;
And the calm peace of the cloister's walls, abode of humble
worth,
Is the fit home for that spotless dove, too fair, too pure for
earth.

THE TRANSPLANTED ROSE TREE.

Amid the flowers of a garden glade
A lovely rose tree smiled,
And the sunbeams shone, the zephyrs played,
'Round the gardens favorite child;
And the diamond dew-drops glistening fell
On each rose's silken vest,
Whilst light winged bee and butterfly gay
On the soft leaves loved to rest.

But one morn while a sunbeam bright
Lit up its delicate bloom,
And a zephyr lightly hovered 'round,
On wings of sweet perfume,
A strong hand came, and ruthlessly
Tore up the parent tree,
And bore it off, with each fair young rose,
From butterfly, zephyr and bee.

What mattered it that an antique vase
Of _Sèvres_ costly and old,
Was destined, henceforth, in royal State,
Its fair young form to hold?
What mattered it that the richest silks
Of the far famed Indian loom,
With priceless marbles paintings rare,
Adorned its prison room?

It even pined for the garden free,
For its pleasant friends of yore,
And brooded over the bitter thought,
It would never see them more:
And its young head daily lowlier drooped
Upon its sorrowing breast,
While it chafed against the kindly hand
That tended and caressed.

But Autumn came with angry storms,
With clouded and wintry skies--
Rudely it touched the lovely flowers,
And withered their brilliant dyes;
The sunbeam false hid its glowing glance,
Or with chilling coldness shone;
The zephyr fled to Southern climes,
And the flowers died alone

Then the rose tree looked on the gloomy earth,
On each withered tree and flower,
And it warmly blessed the loving care
Of its new, protecting power:--
No more it mourned past Summer joys,
But brightly blossomed on,
With beauty brighter than when once,
The garden's queen, it shone.

FLIRTATION.

Yes, leave my side to flirt with Maude,
To gaze into her eyes,
To whisper in her ear sweet words,
And low impassioned sighs;
And though she give you glance for glance,
And smile and scheme and plot,
You cannot raise a jealous thought,
I know you love her not.

Now turn to laughing Lulu,
That Witty, gay coquette,
With her teeth of shining pearl,
Her eyes and hair of jet:
With a mirthful smile imprison
Her hand within your own,
And softly press it--what care I?
You love but me alone.

To Ida's chair you wander,
You're bending o'er her now,
Until your own dark curls have brushed
Against her queenly brow;
In vain she strives to bind you
With fascinating spell;
For if sharply now I suffer,
You suffer too as well.

This fit of gay coquetry
Is meant, ah! well I know
To avenge my quiet flirting
At our ball a night ago,
With that winning, handsome stranger,--
Remember, Harry dear,
'Twas yourself who introduced him,
Yourself who brought him here.

Let us cease this cruel warfare,
Come back to me again!
Ah, what do we reap from flirting
But heartaches, mutual pain?
You'll forgive my past shortcomings--
Be tender as of yore
And we both will make a promise
To henceforth flirt no more.

HARRY (ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED) TO
CHARLEY (WHO IS NOT).

To all my fond rhapsodies, Charley,
You have wearily listened, I fear;
As yet not an answer you've given
Save a shrug, or an ill-concealed sneer;
Pray, why, when I talk of my marriage,
Do you watch me with sorrowing eye?
'Tis you, hapless bachelor, Charley,
That are to be pitied--_not I!_

You mockingly ask me to tell you,
Since to bondage I soon must be sold,
Have I wisely chosen my fetters,
Which, at least, should be forged of pure gold.
Hem! the sole wealth my love possesses
Are her tresses of bright golden hair,
Pearly teeth, lips of rosiest coral,
Eyes I know not with what to compare.

Don't talk about all I surrender--
My club, champagne dinners, cigars,
My hand at _écarté_, my harmless
Flirtations with Opera "stars."
Think of the pleasant home, Charley--
Home! I utter the word with just pride--
Its music, soft lights, countless comforts,
Over which she will smiling preside.

And picture in fancy the welcome
That will greet my arrival each night!
How she'll help me to take off my wrappings
With her dear little fingers so white;
The sweet silvery voice that will utter
The airiest nothings with grace,
The smiles that will dimple all over
That loving and lovely young face.

If sickness should ever o'ertake me,
O! just think how cherished I'll be--
What loving cares, gentle caresses,
Shall be showered on fortunate me;
While you in some lone, gloomy attic,
To dull death posting off at quick pace,
Will encounter no tokens of pity
Save the smirk on some pert waiter's face.

And who, perhaps, twelve hours after,
Bringing up your weak tea and dry toast,
Will look in, find you "_gone,_" and drawl forth,
"Number ten has just given up the ghost."
Then, Charley, to good counsel listen,
Brave not an old bachelor's fate,
But, doing as I've done, go marry
A loving and loveable mate.

A MODERN COURTSHIP.

Why turn from me thus with such petulant pride,
When I ask thee, sweet Edith, to be my bride;
When I offer the gift of heart fond and true,
And with loyalty seek thy young love to woo?
With patience I've waited from week unto week,
And at length I must openly, candidly speak.

But why dost thou watch me in doubting surprise,
Why thus dost thou raise thy dark, deep, melting eyes?
Can'st thou wonder I love thee, when for the last year
We have whispered and flirted--told each hope and fear;
When I've lavished on thee presents costly and gay,
And kissed thy fair hands at least six times each day?

What! Do I hear right? So those long sunny hours
Spent wand'ring in woods or whispering in bowers,
Our love-making ardent in prose and in rhyme,
Was just only a method of passing the time!
A harmless flirtation--the fashion just now,
To be closed, by a smile, or a jest, or a bow!

Ah, believe me, fair Edith, with me 'twas not so,
And I would I had known this but six months ago;
I would not have wasted on false, luring smiles,
On graces coquettish and cold, studied wiles,
True love that would give thee a life for thy life,
And guarded and prized thee, a fond, worshipped wife.

Oh I thou'rt pleased now to whisper my manners are good,
And my smiles such as maiden's heart rarely withstood,
My age just the thing--nor too young nor too old--
My character faultless, naught lacking but gold,
And to-day might I claim e'en thy beauty so rare
If good Uncle John would but make me his heir.

Many thanks, my best Edith! I now understand
For what thou art willing, to barter thy hand:
A palace-like mansion with front of brown stone,
In some splendid quarter to fashion well known,
_Sèvres_ china, conservatory, furniture rare,
Unlimited pin-money, phaeton and pair.

It is well, gentle lady! The price is not high
With a figure like thine, such a hand, such an eye,
Most brilliant accomplishments, statuesque face,
Manners, carriage _distingué_ and queenlike in grace,--
Nothing wanting whatever, save only a heart,
But, instead, double portions of cunning and art.

Ah! well for me, lady, I have learned in good time
To save myself misery--you, sordid crime.
I will garner the love that so lately was thine
For one who can give me a love true as mine;
But learn ere we part, Edith, peerless and fair,
_Uncle John has just died and has left me his heir!_

VOICES OF THE HEARTH.

TO MY HUSBAND ON OUR WEDDING-DAY.

I leave for thee, beloved one,
The home and friends of youth,
Trusting my hopes, my happiness,
Unto thy love and truth;
I leave for thee my girlhood's joys,
Its sunny, careless mirth,
To bear henceforth my share amid
The many cares of earth.

And yet, no wild regret I give
To all that now I leave,
The golden dreams, the flow'ry wreaths
That I no more may weave;
The future that before me lies
A dark and unknown sea--
Whate'er may be its storms or shoals,
I brave them all with thee!

I will not tell thee now of love
Whose life, ere this, thou'st guessed,
And which, like sacred secret, long
Was treasured in my breast;
Enough that if thy lot be calm,
Or storms should o'er it sweep,
Thou'lt learn that it is woman's love,
Unchanging, pure and deep.

In this life's sunshine gild thy lot,
Bestowing wealth and pride,
Its light enjoying, I shall stand,
Rejoicing, at thy side;
But, oh! if thou should'st prove the griefs
That blight thy fellow-men,
'Twilt be my highest, dearest right,
To be, love, with thee then.

And thou, wilt thou not promise me
Thy heart will never change,
That tones and looks, so loving now,
Will ne'er grow stern and strange?
That thou'lt be kind, whatever faults
Or failings may be mine,
And bear with them in patient love,
As I will bear with thine?

TO MY FIRST BORN.

Fair tiny rosebud! what a tide
Of hidden joy, o'erpow'ring, deep,
Of grateful love, of woman's pride,
Thrills through my heart till I must weep
With bliss to look on thee, my son,
My first born child--my darling one!

What joy for me to sit and gaze
Upon thy gentle, baby face,
And, dreaming of far distant days,
With mother's weakness strive to trace
Tokens of future greatness high,
On thy smooth brow and lustrous eye.

What do I wish thee, darling, say?
Is it that lordly mental power
That o'er thy kind will give thee sway,
Unchanging, full, a glorious dower
For those whose minds may grasp its worth,
True rulers and true kings of earth?

Or would I ask for thee that fire
Of wond'rous genius, great divine,
The spell that charms the poet's lyre,
Till like a halo it will shine
Around a name praised, honored, sung,
In distant climes by many a tongue?

Ah, no! my child, with such vain themes
I will not mar thy quiet rest
Nor wish ambition's restless dreams
Infused into thy tranquil breast;
Too soon will manhood's weight of care
O'ercloud that waxen brow so fair.

For thee, my Babe, I only pray
Thou'lt live to bless thy parents' love,
To be their hope, their earthly stay,
And gaining grace from heaven above,
Tread in the path the good have trod,
True to thy country and thy God!

GIVEN AND TAKEN.

The snow-flakes were softly falling
Adown on the landscape white,
When the violet eyes of my first born
Opened unto the light;
And I thought as I pressed him to me,
With loving, rapturous thrill,
He was pure and fair as the snow-flakes
That lay on the landscape still.

I smiled when they spoke of the weary
Length of the winter's night,
Of the days so short and so dreary,
Of the sun's cold cheerless light--
I listened, but in their murmurs
Nor by word nor thought took part,
For the smiles of my gentle darling
Brought light to my home and heart.

Oh! quickly the joyous springtime
Came back to our ice-bound earth,
Filling meadows and woods with sunshine,
And hearts with gladsome mirth,
But, ah! on earth's dawning beauty
There rested a gloomy shade,
For our tiny household blossom
Began to droop and fade.

And I, shuddering, felt that the frailest
Of the flowers in the old woods dim
Had a surer hold on existence
Than I dared to hope for him.
In the flush of the summer's beauty
On a sunny, golden day,
When flowers gemmed dell and upland,
My darling passed away.

Now I chafed at the brilliant sunshine
That flooded my lonely room,
Now I wearied of bounteous Nature,
So full of life and bloom;
I regretted the wintry hours
With the snow-flakes falling fast,
And the little form of my nursling
With his arms around me cast.

They laid his tiny garment
In an attic chamber high,
His coral, his empty cradle,
That they might not meet my eye;
And his name was never uttered,
What e'er each heart might feel,
For they wished the wound in my bosom
Might have tune to close and heal.

It has done so thanks to that Power
That has been my earthly stay,
And should you talk of my darling,
I could listen now all day,
For I know that each passing minute
Brings me nearer life's last shore,
And nearer that glorious Kingdom
Where we both shall meet once more!

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

The world had chafed his spirit proud
By its wearing, crushing strife,
The censure of the thoughtless crowd
Had touched a blameless life;
Like the dove of old, from the water's foam,
He wearily turned to the ark of home.

Hopes he had cherished with joyous heart,
Had toiled for many a day,
With body and spirit, and patient art,
Like mists had melted away;
And o'er day-dreams vanished, o'er fond hopes flown,
He sat him down to mourn alone.

No, not alone, for soft fingers rest
On his hot and aching brow,
Back the damp hair is tenderly pressed
While a sweet voice whispers low:
"Thy joys have I shared, O my husband true,
And shall I not share thy sorrows too?"

Vain task to resist the loving gaze
That so fondly meets his own,
Revealing a heart that cares for praise
From him and him alone;
And though censure and grief upon him pall,
Unto to her, at least, he is all in all.