Chapter VI: Part II (1)

Away in a distant city,
Is a stranger all unknown;
Far, far from the leaping river,
That is rushing past his home.

He lay in the stilly silence
Of a quiet, darkened room,
Feeling that the dread death angel
Stands in the gathering gloom.

One foot on shadowy waters,
One foot on the earthly shore;
He swears to the shrinking mortal,
That his time shall be no more.

The spray of the silent river,
Is cold beaded on his brow,
For Jordan's billowy swellings
Are bearing him onward now

He is floating into darkness,
Going with the shifting tide,
And there is the seat of judgment,
Waits him at the further side.

But his eyes are looking backward,
In pauses of mortal strife,
And he sees the quiet village,
Where he preached the word of life.

And he sees the pleasant cottage,
To which in the flush of pride,
The popular village pastor,
Brought home a most haughty bride

But ever there comes another,
With a pale and pleading face,
So helpless, and so unwelcome,
A burden and a disgrace

And the river roars and rushes,
Leaping past with fearful din,
Its ever foaming caldron
Suggesting a deadly sin.

Saying, "I am partially sheeted,
In the winter's ice and snow,
What's plunged in my dashing waters,
No mortal shall ever know"

So ever with nervous fingers,
He harnesses up his sleigh;
So ever with stealthy movements,
He travels the icy way.

And stops where the yawning chasm,
Shows the yawning wave beneath,
And she knows with sudden horror,
That she has been brought to her death

Her weak hands cling to his bosom,
His ears are thrilled with her cry;
When the last struggling strength went forth
In that shriek of agony.

So his most unwilling spirit,
Still travels memory's track,
Despair staring blindly forward,
Remorse ever dragging back.

Again he walks by the waters,
While innocent mortals sleep,
Asking the pitiless river,
The horrible deed to keep.

Spring comes and the ice is breaking,
Does it break before its time?
Then he knows on God's fair footstool
No shelter there is for crime.

For the rushing, tempting waters,
Have got an accusing roar;
The treacherous sweeping eddy
Has brought the crime to his door.

Then he lives over and over,
That moment of anguished dread,
When the cry arose--awestruck hands
Had found and borne oft his dead.

Thus he, conscience-lashed and goaded,
Feeling as the murderer feels,
Has reached the last, last spot of earth,
The Avenger at his heels

Ah me! to plunge in those swellings,
Along with that ghastly face,
Going out on unknown waters
In that clinging dread embrace

So he floated on to judgment,
What award may meet him there,
Who knows--but his earthly punishment
Was greater than he could bear

OTTAWA.

Hail! to the city sitting as a queen
Enthroned a cataract on either hand,
The voice of many waters in her ears,
And the great river tranquil at her feet,
Smoothing his locks and all his foamy mane
After his wild leap from the rifted rocks,
And while he fawns about her feet, she sits
A young Cybele diademed with towers,
So young yet on her sandals there is blood,
And all the river will not wash it out
Spilt at her feet for being true to her,
So young, and well she doth become her state,
We look, and know her born to be a queen,
Before the mother finger o'er the sea
Touched her, and made her royal with a touch;
For, seated where the thundering waters meet,
Spanned by her fingers, she can lay her hand
On two fair provinces, and call them hers;
Greater than those which swell and pride themselves
In long, loud titles in the older world;
The whirl and hum of industry are here,
And all the fragrance of the enriching pine;
And on the river in the wake of boats
That snort and prance like Neptune's battle steeds,
Pawing the water with impatient steps,
Passes our floating wealth that seeks the sea.

THE LAKE ALLUMETTE.

"One is not."

Have you seen the beautiful Allumette,
The magnificent pine-fringed lake,
In its splendour the sun about to set,
Ere the fair lady moon awake.

The waters are tinged with a golden glow,
With rose and ruby and purple bars;
Heaven's mantle flung on the lake below
Till it fades off beneath the stars.

The distant hills, robed in violet mist
Of the heavenly hues partake,
As they stand, with the sunlight crowned and kissed,
On guard round the beautiful lake.

Over the waters ride gay little boats,
Diamonds flash from the dipping oars;
Laughter and song's mingled melody floats
To ripple and die around the shores.

Life is so gay on the Lake Allumette,
Ah me! does its sky ever frown
On a place unmarked, unheeded, and yet
In that place my brother went down.

Sad hearted we sit by Lake Allumette,
Who saw him go down in the wave;
And question ourselves in anguished regret,
Did we make every effort to save?

For those who are left, to some one so dear.
We tried feebly warning to set,
We have failed, we look with sorrow and fear
For woe that must come by Lake Allumette.

HOW PRINCE ARTHUR WAS WELCOMED TO PEMBROKE.

Do you know the town Pembroke so loyal and long
And so worthy the praise of a poet in song?
Nestled down by the lake shore, that ripples and shines,
And hemmed in by the hills with their crowning of pines.
Now this town is that town so wondrous and fair,
Long thought to be but a chateau in the air,
Where the sons are all brave and the daughters all fair.

You may guess what great gladness there rang down the street,
Where the wise and the witty so neighbourly meet,
To compare their opinions to hear something new,
As their friends the Athenians of old used to do,
When the news was to all so gracious and good,
"There is coming to see us a Prince of the blood."
Then all our good people grew loyalty wild
To show love for the Queen as they welcomed her child.
Straightway counsel was ta'en as to what should be done
For to greet as befitted her Majesty's son,
In a way to bring credit and praise to the town.
"We must have an arch at the bridge, and a crown,
And '_Welcome to Arthur_,' arranged all so fine
With balsam and tamarack, spruce and green pine;
But the crown shall be flowers, the fairest that blow,
Or are made by deft fingers, from paper you know,
And many a fair one who skilfully weaves
Wreaths and garlands, shall bring them of ripe maple leaves;
And then, as 'Jason Gould' that so snug little boat,
The most cosy, most homelike was ever afloat,
Will not quicken herself for a Prince or for two,
But will at her own pace the Mud Lake paddle through.
It will be about midnight, or later than that,
And as dark as the crown of your grandfather's hat,
When that ponderous boat waddles up to the pier,
A tired Prince will his Highness be when he gets here.
We'll illumine the town, from mansion to cell,
County buildings and cottages, home and hotel,
And the arch with its motto, that triumph of skill,
Shall be seen in its glory by light from the mill,
Which floor upon floor many windowed shall blaze
And light up each bud in the crown with its rays.
We shall have out that carriage, so costly and grand,
Fit to carry the one Royal Prince in this land;
And a crowd bearing torches shall light up the way,
Till along Supple's lane be as brillant as day
And to guard and escort him our brave volunteers
With their swords and their bayonets, which ought to be spears,
Shall wait at the landing for him, and the band
With the noise and the music they have at command,
Shall be heard in the distance before they are seen,
Rolling out the first greeting in "God save the Queen."
Well, the Prince over portages rattled and whirled,
Suspected he drew near the end of the world,
But right royally welcomed, surprised he lit down
In this dazzling, ambitious and long little town.
And the night air was rent with full many a cheer
For joy that the son of our Sovereign was here
And he heard every sound, and he saw every sight,
That the people had planned for to give him delight;
And he felt he was cared for with loyalty's care,
In this wonderful town, so far off, and so fair,
In the whole wide Dominion there is not a town
So loyal so lovely as this of our own
Broad Ottawa washes no happier place,
As it lies in sweet Allumette's tender embrace
Oh, to see it when autumn and sunset unite
To drape earth and sky with one robe of delight,
When the banners of heaven in the west are unrolled,
And the blue lake is barred off with purple and gold,
And the Isle, like the patriarch's favourite son,
Its coat many coloured and royal has on
Thus fair as a vision, and sweet as a dream,
It burst on the gaze of the son of our Queen,
In the glory of fair Indian summer all drest,
And this was the welcome they felt and expressed

THE WELCOME

We welcome thee Prince to the land of the pine,
For thy mother's sake welcome, as well as for thine,
This town highest up in the Ottawa vale,
With the voice of pine forests gives cheer, and all hail
Our welcome as rude as the mountains may be,
But that cheer is the willing voiced shout of the free
And though rude be our welcome, you'll find us, I ween,
Most lovingly loyal to country and Queen.
Come and see our sweet lake, when its waters' at rest
Chafe not round the islands that sleep on its breast
And our woods many tinted in glory arrayed,
Dyed in rainbows and sunsets illumine the shade.
Come and see our dark rocks frowning sterile and high,
Their brown shoulders bare and upheaved to the sky;
Come and see our grand forests, all echoing round
With the strokes that are bringing their pride to the ground;
Where thousands of workers bold, hardy and free,
Carve out wealth for themselves and an empire for thee
Our river now placid, now surging to foam,
Shall echo kind thoughts that will follow thee home.
All good wishes that tender and prayer like arise,
And blessings that fall as the dew from the skies,
Shall be breathed out for thee our young Prince of the blood,
Son of much loved Victoria and Albert the Good.
May thy heart be all fearless, thy life without stain,
As the saint and the hero are joined in thy name.
Forget not the people whose love thou hast seen
God bless thee Prince Arthur thou, son of our Queen

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR AN ONLY ONE

(CLARISSA HARLOW)

Seek not to calm my grief,
To stay the falling tear;
Have pity on me, ye my friends,
The hand of God is here.

She was my only one,
Oh, then my love how great!
Now she is gone, my heart and home
Are empty desolate

I thought not, in my love
That we were doomed to part,
Now I am childless, and my fate
Falls heavy on my heart

O Thou who gave the gift,
Who took the gift away,
Who only can heal up the wound,
Give answer while I pray!

Do Thou send comfort down,
All goodness as Thou art,
Even in Thy last passion, Thou
Didst soothe a mother's heart.

I would not take her back,
From Thee, from Heaven and bliss,
Though yearning for her twining arms,
And happy loving kiss

I miss her bounding step,
Her voice of bird like glee,
Yet thank Thee I had such a child
To give her back to Thee

Father, my child! my child,
Is laid beneath the sod!
and, oh! with quivering lips I try
To kiss the chastening rod

Father, Thy will be done
Oh make my will the same!
And teach me in this trying hour,
To glorify Thy name.

SERVANTS.

They are but servants, say the words of scorning,
As though they meant to say, we're finer clay,
Yet, all the universe holds solemn warning,
Against this pride in creatures of a day

In fashion's last new folly, flaunting slowly,
With white plumes tossing on the Sabbath air
They pass with scornful words a sister lowly.
Do scornful lips know anything of prayer?

Alas! poor human nature's inconsistence,
Up to God's house we go, that we be fed;
And there, as beggars begging for assistance,
Say "Give us, Lord, this day our daily bread."

Without a price, the priceless blessings buying
Which are laid up for us, with Christ in God;
To Him we come as little children crying,
That He may guide us by His staff and rod,

We leave His presence on the Sabbath morning,
Feeling forgiven, feeling satisfied;
Then pass our lowlier sisters full of scorning
Ruffling ourselves as those that dwell in pride.

Yet He to whom we come with wishes fervent,
When He came down as bearing our relief,
It was His will to come in form a servant,
Being despised, being acquaint with grief

Earth's mighty conquerors, it is said, have founded
Orders of merit, after fields were won.
And victors' brows the laurel wreath surrounded,
To tell of daring deeds most bravely done.

Trifles as fading as the classic laurel,
Became the guerdon of each mighty deed,
Titles and stars rewarded mortal peril,
And men for such as these would gladly bleed

But He, our holy, sinless, suffering Saviour,
When He sat down upon a conqueror's throne,
Ordained the soldiers of the cross that ever
They wear the name in which He victory won

Servants to do all things He hath commanded,
To bear the service which our Lord has borne,
To suffer for His name, with false words branded,
To pay with loving service bitter scorn

What was beforetime low, is now the highest,
And that is glory that the world calls shame,
Those who can say "I serve" to Him are nighest
Because the Son hath worn a servant's name

Lift up your heads heed not the words of scorning,
From those whose earnest life is not begun,
Blessed are they who on the judgment morning
Hear from the Master, "Servant, 'tis well done"

ALAS, MY BROTHER!

(P McD)

We waited for him, and the anxious days
Melted to years and floated slowly by
We spoke of him kind words of lofty praise,
Of yearning love and tender sympathy.

We laid by what was his with reverent care--
Started in dreams to greet him coming home--
But hope deferred left no relief but prayer,
And heart-sore longings breathed in one word--Come.

We never dreamed of murderous ambush laid
By savage redskins greedy for the prey--
Of him, our darling, in the forest laid
Alone, alone, ebbing his life away.

He who would not have harmed the meanest thing,
Who carried gentleness to such excess
That, to the stranger and the suffering,
His purse meant help, his touch was a caress.

Ah me! that cruel far off land of gold,
That lured him off beyond the ocean foam,
To roam a stranger among strangers cold--
His blank life only cheered by news from home.

The home that he was never more to see,
While yet his heart was planning his return,
Short, sharp and swift the message came, and he
Passed to his long home o'er the mystic bourne.

And while we watched for him the grass was green
Upon his grave, swept by the summer air;
There grow strange flowers--passes the hunter keen,
The stately caribou and grizly bear.

But never more his mother's eyes he'll bless,
Or with a fond embrace his sisters meet;
No brother's hand will he in welcome press,
Nor his hound's bay tell of his coming feet.

To us remains the mourner's _never more_,
And aching hearts and eyes with sorrow dim;
Thou who at Bethany their sorrow bore,
Draw nigh us also while we weep for him.

I WILL NOT BE COMFORTED BECAUSE ONE IS NOT

There is a gladness over all the earth,
For summer is abroad in breezy mirth,
Nature rejoices and the heavens are glad,
And I alone am desolate and sad,
For I sit mourning by an empty cot,
Refusing comfort because one is not.

And I will mourn because I am bereaved,
Others have suffered others too have grieved
Over hopes broken even as mine are broke,
By a swift unexpected bitter stroke,
And I must weep as weeping Jacob prest,
To grieving lips his last ones princely vest

You tell me cease weeping, to resign
Unto the Father's a will this will of mine,
You say my lamb is on the Shepherd's breast,
My flower blooms in gardens of the blest,
I know it all I say, Thy will be done
Yet I must mourn for him--my son! my son!

TO A FATHERS MEMORY

(J. M. D.)

I thank Thee Father that I feel Thee near,
That it is hand of Thine that's raised to smite,
Oh, make Thy loving kindness to appear,
Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right!

Poor woe-worn watchers! he is going home;
No skill can save him, and no love can keep;
He served his generation--he is gone,
And gathered to his fathers, falls asleep.

We've bitter cups to drain--but his is dry;
Burdens of care--but care has left his breast;
Tears--but they never more shall dim his eye;
Labour,--but he has entered into rest.

Oh, to be with him, toil and care all past,
Sleeping, dear mother earth, within thy breast,
I, too, could lay my hand in thine, O death,
And gladly enter where the weary rest.

ORSON'S FAREWELL.

(ORSON GROUT),

_One of the victims of the Southern Prisons._

Sit by me comrade, thou and I have stood
Shoulder to shoulder on the battle-field,
And bore us there like men of British blood,
But comrade this is death, and I must yield.

You have been leal, my friend, and true and tried
In battle, in captivity of me;
Since we went up to worship side by side
O'er the green hills I never more shall see.

From this dread prison pen, thou shalt go forth;
But I, I know it, never more shall rise,
Nor see my home in the cool pleasant North,
Nor see again my wife's dark mournful eyes.

Nor see my children, every shining head
And merry eye, for what know they of grief;
'Twill still their play to know that I am dead;
But childhood's woe, thank God, is always brief.

Try to cheer Annie in her widowed woe;
Let her hear words of comfort at thy mouth;
But, friend, I charge thee, do not let her know
Aught of the tender mercies of the South.

Tell her that I have never been alone,
One like the Son of Man was by my side;
The Everlasting arms were round me thrown
Of my dear Lord who for our freedom died.

I don't regret, that though of British birth,
I have been true to the cause unto death;
'Tis not alone the Union, or the North,
It is the people's cause o'er all the earth.

And it shall prosper, and this slaughter pen
Shall be a monument of Southern chivalry
Before the world;--thus proving to all men
Slave power begets and sanctions cruelty.

From here went up for years the bondman's cry;
In the same glaring sun and rotting dew,
The white war-prisoners' cry of agony
To the great God of Battles rises too.

And He, who was by suffering perfected,
Watches the nation's life, the captive's pain;
And from the strife, beside her martyred dead,
With shield blood-cleansed from slavery's broad stain,

Columbia shall arise renewed, and wear
Her coronet of stars, and round her fold
Her robe of stripes, by righteousness made fair,
Which still exalts the nations as of old.

But I shall rest upon the other side,
Rest in that place of which no tongue can tell,
And thitherward my wife and babes He'll guide;
Friend, life's for thee, and death for me, Farewell'

DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN.

In the Capitol is mourning,
Mourning and woe this day,
For a nation's heart is throbbing--
A great man has passed away

It was yester'even only
Rejoicing wild and high,
Waving flags and shouting people
Proclaimed a victory

For our God had led our armies,
In the cause of truth and right,
It was, therefore, the brave Southren
Had bowed to Northern might.

Then flashed o'er the land the tidings,
The flush of joy to quell,
Fallen is the people's hero,
As William the Silent fell.

The stealthy step of the panther,
The tiger's cruel eye;
A flash--and the wail of a nation
Rang in that terrified cry.

Shame falls on the daring Southren,
Woe on the Southren land,
The stars and bars are quartered
With the murderer's bloody hand

Well--he stood to his duty firmly,
Rebellion's waves rolled high,
He dared to be true and simple
To battle a gilded lie

And the life has died out of treason,
Died with oppression and wrong,
The shame is wiped from the nation
Worn as a jewel so long

But he, in the hour of triumph
Who wise and firmly stood
Planning for them large mercies,
Lies weltering in his blood.

For a cause so vile meet ending,
To set with a murder stain,
The "sum of human villainy"
Should die with the brand of Cain

Lay him down with a nation's weeping,
Lay him down with the heart's deep prayer
That the mantle of the martyr
Fall on the vacant chair

ADDRESSES.

TO HON. MALCOM CAMERON.

By many a bard the Cameron clan is sung,
Their march, their charge, their war cry, their array;
Their laurels that from bloody fields have sprung,
Where they have kept the sternest foes at bay.

The flowing tartan and the eagle plume,
The gathering, and the glories of the clan,
Let others sing, we will not so presume,
We bring our humble tribute to the man.

The man with heart benevolent and kind,
The man with earnest and persuasive tongue;
Would there were many like him heart and mind
To combat with this fashionable wrong;

Who longs to remedy these human ills,
Feeling God made of one blood all the earth;
Whose sympathies have passed his native hills,
And spread beyond the clan that gave him birth.

Is it not sad when in high places so
No sense of honour or of shame remains;
Men who make laws while reeling to and fro,
Statesmen with swaying step and muddled brains!

For scenes disgrace our new-built palace walls,
And Canada on some reformer waits;
Shall vice within the Legislative Halls
Be rampant as the lions on the gates?

Oh for a man of action and of prayer,
Who feels this sin a national disgrace;
A man who has the strength to do and dare
The pluck and courage of the Celtic race.

If thou art he, thou'rt welcome to the van,
To battle for the right in time of need;
To win fresh laurels for the Cameron clan,
And thousands bid thee heartily God speed.

ERIN'S ADDRESS

TO THE HON. THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE.

O thou son of the dark locks and eloquent tongue,
With the brain of a statesman sagacious, and strong,
And the heart of a poet, half love, and half fire,
Thou hast many to love thee and more to admire;
But I bore thee, and nursed thee, and joyed at the fame
Which the sons of the stranger have spread round thy name.
I am Erin, green Erin, the "Gem of the sea."
Listen, then, to thy mother's voice, D'Arcy McGee.

Since the crown from my head, and the sceptre are gone
To the hand of the stranger, who held what he won,
I have borne much of sorrow, of wrong and of shame,
I've been spoken against with scorning and blame;
But still have my daughters been spotless and fair,
And my sons have been dauntless to do and to dare;
For as great as thou art and most precious to me,
Still thou art not my only one, D'Arcy McGee.

At the bar, in the senate, in cassock or gown,
Our foes being judges, they've got them renown;
On the red field of battle, of glory, of death,
They've been true to their colours and true to their faith;
And where bright swords were clashing and carnage ran high,
They have taught the stern Saxon they know how to die.
Well, no wit, poet, statesman or hero can be
More dear to my heart than thou, D'Arcy McGee.

Wild heads may plan glories for Erin their mother,
Weak plans and wicked plans chasing each other;
To me worse than the loss of a sceptre and crown
Is a spot that might tarnish my children's renown,
'Tis the laurels they win are the jewels I prize,
They're the core of my heart and the light of my eyes;
For my children are gems and crown jewels to me,
And art thou not one of them, D'Arcy McGee!

I had one son, and, oh, need I mention his name!
He who well knew where lay both our weakness and shame;
His true, tender heart sought to measure and know
This thing, most accursed, formed of babbling and woe;
And his life did he dedicate freely, to slay
The monster that made my bright children his prey;
In the place where the wine cup flows deadly and free,
The bane of the gifted, oh D'Arcy McGee.

For so well hath the father of lies tried to fling
A false glory around it, so hiding the sting,
Saying wit gets its flash, and high genius its fire,
From the fiend that drags genius and wit through the mire
Ah 'it biteth, it stingeth, it eateth away,
And our best and our brightest it takes for its prey,
'Tis the bowl of the helot, no cup for the free,
As thou very well knowest, my D'Arcy McGee.

Hast thou risen my loved one and cast from thy name
All the shadows that darken thy life with their shame;
Thou hast raised thyself up, against wind, against tide,
Thou art high, thou art honoured, my joy and my pride;
Now the song of the drunkard is chased from thy place,
And my pride is relieved from this touch of disgrace.
Thou wilt help to make Erin "great, glorious and free,"
And I bless thee my silver-tongued D'Arcy McGee.

NORA TO DAVID HERBISON.

There's a place in the North where the bonnie broom grows,
Where winding through green meadows the silver Maine flows,
Every lark as it soars and sings that sweet spot knows;
For the mate for whom it sings,
Till the clear blue heaven rings,
Is brooding on its nest mid the daisies in the grass;
And that psalmist sweet, the thrush,
And the linnet in the bush,
Tell the children all their secrets in song as they pass.

Oh brightly shines the sun there where wee birdies sing,
A glamour's o'er the buds in the green lap of spring,
In happy, happy laughter children's voices ring!
Like some fair enchanted ground,
In memory it is found,
Where my childhood's golden hours of happiness were spent;
There within a leafy nook,
I have pored upon a book
Till romance and fairy lore with every thought were blent.

I mind how fair the world was one bright summer day,
Sitting in a shady place better seemed than play;
Childhood's golden memories never fade away;
My child friend most sweet and fair,
My bright Lily she was there;
We read and mused in silence and spoke our thoughts by turns;
Lily, with her lofty look,
Turned oftenest to her book,
The book that lay between us was the peasant poet Burns.

The heaven-gifted man with winsome witching art,
Who touches at his will the kindly human heart,
'Till it throbs with joy like pain and tears begin to start;
He so tenderly touched ours
With his melting magic powers,
Made feelings which he felt within our bosoms spring,
Where he wished for Scotia's sake,
Some plan or book to make,
Or to write the bonnie songs his country loves to sing.

Fancies wild were ours on that day so long ago,
Stirred by Burns's genius, for we had learned to know
The beauty of sweet Erin and something of her woe;
And in song we longed to tell
Of the land we loved so well,
Singing words of hope and cheer, wailing each sad mishap,
Like the daisies on the sod,
With their faces turned to God,
Clung we to the island green that nursed us on her lap.

I said to Lily, fair, my hand among her curls,
If we were Red Branch Knights, or high and noble Earls,
Or poets grand like Burns, instead of simple girls,
We might do some noble deed,
Or touch some tuneful reed,
Something for the land we love to bring her high renown,
The land where we were born;
Is spoken of with scorn,
Her children's songs should praise her, her children's deeds should
crown.

My fair and stately Lily how thy hand sought mine
Clasped it warm and tender with sympathy in thine,
As I wished that we could make our 'streams and burmes shine'
There's many a ruin old,
There's many a castle bold,
There's Sleive mis with his head in mist, here's the silver Maine,
But who of them will sing
Till the whole world shall ring,
With the melody, and ask to hear it once again?

If one of her own children standing boldly forth,
With eyes to see her beauty, a heart to know her worth,
Would fling the charm of song o'er the green robe of the North
Lily said, sweet friend there's one,
And his name is Herbison,
Who sings of Northern Erin in sunlight and in storm,
Of the legend and the tale,
Of the banshees awful wail,
Of Dunluce upon the sea, of the castle of Galgorm

Of the gallant deeds of the all but vanished race,
The high O'Neils who kept with princely state their place
Of their white armed daughters in beauty's woeful race
In that joyful youthful time
All my pulses beat to rhyme,
I thought what you were doing that I would also do,
I would praise the bonnie North,
And draw its legends forth
From cottage and from castle the pleasant country through

I'd make the land I loved in poesy to shine,
The Maine should flow along in "many a tuneful line,"
Songs praising hills and streams full sweetly should be mine,
And the legends I would sing,
From lip to lip should ring,
My native land should ask for, and hear my humble name;
When like her tuneful son,
Green laurels I had won,
I'd think her love for me was better far than fame.

Blessed be the green recess by the sweet Maine water where
I a little child with my child friend sweet and fair
Built with golden fancies this castle in the air!
My child friend is at rest,
Erin's shamrock's on her breast,
I her little minstrel am all unknown to fame,
For the songs are all unsung,
And not a northern tongue
Has spoken once in praise my very unknown name

But I know heroic souls beyond my feeble praise,
I know of calm endurance like the great of other days,
High deeds for battle song, worth a poet's noblest lays,
Of the pathos of the strife
In the lowly walks of life,
Of many an unknown hero that has won the victor's crown
And the lovely, lovely land,
Landscape fair, and castle grand,
Worthy the coming bard who will sing of their renown.

I love thee well, sweet Erin, though fate led another way;
I'll call thee still, _mavourneen_, when head and heart are grey;
Another one will say and sing what I have failed to say;
But this very day to me,
There has come across the sea
Some pleasant verses bearing a well remembered name;
That has done for Erin's land
What I only thought and planned,
And won a place in Erin's heart that I can never claim.

So unknown beside a pine-fringed lake away beyond the sea,
Half in gladness of remembrance, half in wakened childish glee
I stretch my hand in homage and kindredship to thee,
I greet thee this bright day
From three thousand miles away,
And to thy well earned laurels I'd add a sprig of bay
Glad to know thou'rt rhyming yet,
For thy readers can't forget
Erin's genial loving son,
Poet of the steadfast North kindly David Herbison

DEATH OF D'ARCY McGEE

He stood up in the house to speak,
With calm unruffled brow,
And never were his burning words
More eloquent than now

Fresh from the greatest victory
That mortal man can win
The triumph against fearful odds.
Over besetting sin

'Twas this gave to his eloquence
That thrilling trumpet tone
Moving all hearts with those bright thoughts
Vibrating through his own

Thoughts strong, and wise, and statesmanlike,
Warm with the love of Right
That gave his wit its keenest edge,
His words their greatest might

He little thought his last speech closed,
That his career was o'er,
That those who hung upon his words
Should hear his voice no more.

He walked home tranquilly and slow,
Secure, and unaware,
That there was murder in the hush
Of the still midnight air.

"Tis morning," said he, knowing not
That he had done with time;
That a bloody hand would our country stain
With another useless crime.

He stood before a portal closed
To him for evermore,
Behind him with uncreaking hinge
Oped the eternal door.

And ere the east grew red again,
His life blood's purple flow
Had made that pavement holy ground,
And filled the land with woe.

My country! Oh my country!
What is to thee the gain?
Wilt nourish trees of liberty
In blood so foully slain?

LINES TO A SHAMROCK

A SONG OF EXILE

A withered shamrock, yet to me 'tis fair
As the sweet rose to other eyes might be,
Because its leaves spread in my native air,
And the same land gave birth to it and me.

They were as plentiful as drops of dew
In our green meadows sprinkled everywhere,
Heedless I wandered o'er them life was new,
Now as a friend I greet thee shamrock fair

Because I dwelt with my own people then,
Erin's bright eyes, and kindly hearts and true,
That from my cradle loved me, and again
We'll never meet--spoken our last adieu

I am a stranger here, I have not seen
One friendly face of all that I have known,
And my heart mourns for thee my island green,
Because I am a stranger and alone

So thou art welcome as a friend to me,
Tell me where lay the sod that brought thee forth,
Idly I wonder as I look at thee
If thou hast come, as I did, from the North?

From the green glens that he beside the sea
From cloud capt Sleive mis of the shamrock vest?
From near old castles, where the dread banshee
Waits for the native lords when laid to rest?

Or did the tartaned stranger call thee where
Mount Cashel's Lord rules o'er a fair domain?
Or grass grown ruin all that's left to bear
Of a lost race the all but fading name?

The lovely Maine lingers in flowing through
The peaceful place that was my childhood's home,
Myriads of shamrocks on its margin grew,
Was it from these thy sisters thou hast come?

Such fair broad meadows by Maine water lay,
Erin her mantle green for carpet spread,
In merry childhood there we met to play,
Dashing the dew from many a shamrock's head.

Where sleep the village dead there is a spot
That's dearer far than all the rest to me;
It's interwoven with full many a thought,
And with my young heart's childish history.

She was most fair that sleeps that sod beneath;
The fair form shrined a soul akin to mine,
And the sharp pain of heart ties cut by death,
Has softened been but left unhealed by time

And Erin spread her skirt across her grave,
And there were shamrocks nestling on the breast,
And blue bells and all flowers that softly wave,
Making more beautiful her place of rest.

If 'twas from there the stranger gathered thee
I would forgive the sacrilege, and thou
A precious relic to my breast would be,
Nor prized the less because thou'rt withered now.

Ah me! I know thou canst not answer me,
Yet sight of thee must all these thoughts awake;
Enough, from mine own land thou comest, thou'lt be
Welcome to Erin's child alone for Erin's sake.

LAMENTATION

(WALTER AND FREDDIE.)

From morn to eve, from evening unto morning,
I mourn and cannot rest;
So mourns the mother bird when home returning
She finds an empty nest.

I mourn the little children of my dwelling,
That are forever gone,
Sorrows that mothers feel my heart is swelling,
And so I make my moan.

One little blossom on my bosom faded,
And passed from me away,
But near my door the drooping willows shaded
My little boys at play

My boys that came with flying feet to meet me,
And questions wondrous wise,
And bits of news which they had brought to greet me,
And see my glad surprise

Bitter for sweet no human hand can alter
Nor bid one sorrow pass,
With sudden stroke our darling little Walter
Was laid beneath the grass

Ah then it was to me an added sorrow,
To hear his brother moan,
Where's little Walter, will he come to morrow
I cannot play alone?

The summons for the child had come already
Which said I must resign
The best beloved, the precious little Freddie,
To other arms than mine

How still and lone are the familiar places
Where little pattering feet
Made music for me, and I saw bright faces
Dimple with laughter sweet

My arms are empty that woold fain be folding
My lost ones to my breast,
But well I know, the Father's face beholding,
They are forever blest.

From Christ's dear words my bleeding heart would gather
At length submissive grace,--
He says that in the kingdom of His Father,
They still behold His face.

In the bright garden of the Lord they're staying,
Amid the angels fair;
And heavenly whispers to my heart are saying--
Look up, your treasure's there.

THE SONG OF THE BEREAVED.

(I have borrowed thy pattern, dear Hood, to cut out our mourning garments.)

With garments for sorrow torn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat by a new-made grave,
Bewailing her slaughtered dead--
Weep! weep! weep!
Tears of remorseful pain;
The sorrow that sorrows without a hope,
Is poured forth above the slain.

Drink! drink! drink!
It slayeth on every side,
Till the blue-eyed baby is fatherless,
And a desolate widow the bride.
O for a gleam of light
On the home, on the friendly hand,
That pours in kindness the burning draught
That maketh a desolate land.

Drink! drink! drink!
The horse-leech ever craves,
There are empty chairs in the desolate home,
And the earth swells with new-made graves.
Cellar, saloon, and bar,
Bar, cellar, saloon,
And a wasted life, and a hopeless death,
Is the tempted victim's doom

O men with the friendly treat!
O women with New Year's wine!
It is not liquor you're pouring out,
But your child's blood and mine,
Drink! drink! drink!
In joyous youthful prime,
Drink that marks out the downward road
To want and disease and crime

Drink in the lordly hall,
Pour out the blood-red wine,--
And grey hairs sorrow over the grave,
That is dug before its time
Drink for the darling son,
Till the softened brain goes mad,
And darkness falls on the father's life
Which is bound in the life of the lad.

Every unwilling slave
Standeth on the bedroom's brink,
But what will free the body and soul
That is enslaved by drink?
Bar, cellar, saloon,
Cellar, saloon and bar
Alas, that the demon of drink slays more
By far than the demon of war

Drink! drink! drink!
Till manhood and pride are gone,
Drink over the grave of self-respect,
And then in despair drink on.
Drink! drink! drink!
Drink at the fearful cost
Of knowing that though still cursed with life,
Yet hope is forever lost.

Our brightest go down to death,
We cannot our dearest save;
And we dare not think of the judgment seat
That lieth beyond the grave.
Drink! drink! drink!
So many are licensed to sell,
Drink; you will surely find the house,
Whose guests find the way to hell.

Oh for the plighted band
Of those who are bound to save
Their fellow men from the fearful doom
That extends beyond the grave!
Alas! they are trying hard
To do, what they cannot do,
To wage a war to the uttermost,
And only hurt a few.

Bar, cellar, saloon,
Cellar, saloon and bar
Are swiftly, surely, doing their work
As those who in earnest are;
And the moderate drinker stands,
Kind, at the head of the way,
And opens the gate, with friendly hands,
Of the road that leads astray.

Of the road that leads astray,
And never will stop to think
That the shroud is sewed, and the grave is dug,
For the lost by moderate drink;
And the banded are loath to strike,
They have friends on the other side,
And therefore "Hell hath enlarged herself"
And opened her mouth so wide

The strong and the brave are lost,
Do we keep the tender and fair?
Does the demon who strikes down fathers and sons,
All the daughters and sisters spare?
Bar cellar saloon
Cellar, saloon and bar,--
Oh! who will preach a new crusade,
Or join in this holy war?

With garments for sorrow torn,--
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat by a new made grave,
Bewailing over the dead
Weep! weep! weep!
How many will weep in vain?
How many will rise in a holy cause,
That the slayer may be slain?

COMFORT YE, COMFORT YE MY PEOPLE

(Noel.)

By the sad fellowship of human suffering,
By the bereavements that are thine and mine,
I venture--oh, forgive me!--with this offering,
I would it were to thee God's oil and wine

I too have suffered--is it then surprising
If to thy sacred grief I enter in?
My spirit draws near thine all sympathising,
Sorrow, like love, "makes aliens near of kin."

Thou'rt weeping for thy gathered blossoms, mother,
The Lord had need of him, and called him soon,
In morning freshness ere the dews of heaven
Were chased before the burning rays of noon.

Thy darling child, like to God's summer blossom,
Was very fair and pleasant to the sight,
The sunny head that rested on thy bosom,
The loving eyes that were thy heart's delight,

Made passers by look on him with a blessing,
Saying, "His mother is not all alone;
Her widowed sorrow, in that sweet caressing,
Will find some comfort for the lost and gone."

I miss him from the doorway, blythely playing,
Where he has turned on me his winsome face;
O lovely child! I said, "by lone hearth staying,
Thou'lt make the widow's home a pleasant place."

The little one, thy comfort in affliction,
With the sweet face earnest and innocent;
That was to thee like Heaven's benediction,
Such children for a little while are lent.

Pilgrims and strangers are we in our praying,
But birds of passage to a brighter shore;
Yet build our nests as if for ever staying,
We and our treasures, here for evermore

But when our nestlings by the Master taken
Up in God's Paradise to safely sing;
And by the empty nest we wail forsaken,
In the great loneliness of suffering.

We lift our tearful eyes in sorrow's blindness,
And cry to him for very helplessness,
Then He reveals to us His loving kindness,
Even in bereavements 'tis His will to bless

He says "Look up," that we may cease our crying,
Seeing our treasures in glad safety there,
And there our hearts will be--for upward flying
In longing love, they cast off earthly care

Thy home is silent all the rippling laughter,
The sound of racing feet at play, is fled,
But he, thy darling led up by the Master,
Is with the living--not among the dead

Thy little ones within the jasper portals,
There by the crystal sea he learns to sing
The new song only known to the immortals,
Promoted to the presence of the King

The child is safe within the Father's mansion
Safe on the hills of God in light to range,
And heart ties stretched unto their utmost tension,
Will, by God's touch, to golden harp strings change

On which the Master will soft music render,
Soothing with heaven's airs thy pathway dim,
On which love's messages all sweet and tender
Shall run between thee and thy angel kin

And they will draw thee upward growing stronger,
When flesh and heart will one day faint and fail,
And thou wilt care for earthly things no longer,
For all thy treasures are within the veil

MAJORITY.

So friend of mine 'tis thy birthday morn,
And friends with fair gifts around thee come,
Outside the circle I stand forlorn,
My hands are empty my lips are dumb.

O Thou who seest in secret still,
Who reads the heart when no word is said,
The wishes that rise in prayer fulfil
In royal blessings to crown his head.

Entering the portals of manhood now,
The boy we loved from our knowledge slips,
With fresh consecration seal his brow,
With thy altar fire retouch his lips.

He girds himself for the strife anew,
And love foresees what the dangers are;
But thou, O Captain, art tried and true,
'Tis at thy charge he goes forth to war!

My empty hands to thy throne I lift,
While parting sorrow my spirit swells,
Lord, thou wilt give him a birthday gift
Out of the place where Thy fulness dwells.

He's called and chosen to dare and do,
To uphold Thy banner on battle field;
Be Thou to him strength and wisdom too,
In the day of strife, his sword and shield.

More than I ask Thou wilt give, O King!
What is my friendship or care to Thine!
To the banquet house Thy hand will bring
And refresh his lips with the kingdom's wine.

MY OWN GREEN LAND

It was in the early morning
Of life, and of hope to me,
I sat on a grassy hillside
Of the Isle beyond the sea,
Erin's skies of changeful beauty
Were bending over me.

The landscape, emerald tinted,
Lying smiling in the sun,
The grass with daisies sprinkled,
And with shamrocks over run,
The Maine water flashed and dimpled,
Still flowing softly on.

The lark in the blue above me,
A tiny speck in the sky,
Rained down from its bosom's fulness
A shower of melody,
Dropping through the golden sunlight,
And sweetly rippling by

Afar in the sunny distance,
O'er the river's further brim,
Like a stern old Norman warder,
Stood the castle tall and grim,
And, nearer a grassy ruin,
Where an old name grew dim

I knew that the balmy gladness
Was brooding from sea to sea,
But I felt a note of sadness
That sobered my youthful glee,
The love of my mother Erin
Stirred all my heart in me

Oh Erin! my mother Erin,
Thou land of the tearful smile,
Hearts that feel, and hands of helping
Are thy children's blessed Isle'
The stranger is so no longer
That rests on thy breasts awhile

Be he Saxon, Dane or Norman,
That steps on thy kindly shore,
Who sets his foot on thy daisies
Is kinder for evermore,
For thy _cead mille failtha_
Thrills warm to his bosom's care.

But Erin, never contented
Struggles again and again,
As all proud and free born captives
Must strive with the conqueror's chain.
That, if ever snapped asunder,
Is riveted firm again

The words of an Hebrew exile,
Like to some sweet song's refrain,
That sweetly goeth and cometh
And echoes through heart and brain,
"Be sure that the day is coming
"When Erin shall rise again

"She only of all the nations,
"Since in dust our temple lies,
"Has not our blood on our garments
"Has brought no tears to our eyes,
"He says, they prosper who love us
"Thy Erin at last shall rise."

I waited, watched for the blessing
Promised, oh so long ago,
I looked for the brilliant future
The end of the long drawn woe,
My hopes, with my years, Time the reaper,
Hath laughingly laid them low.

Oh Erin! my mother Erin!
Will "to be" repeat what has been?
Will your sons ever "shoulder to shoulder"
Be strong and united seen?
Will ever the foreign lilies
Blend with the nation's green?

For in other lands the peoples,
Quite forgetting ancient wrong,
Have blended and fused, becoming
Because of their union strong,
Leaving all old feuds and battles,
As themes for romance and song

From party's Promethean vulture,
When wilt thou get release?
When will the strife of races,
The strife of religions cease?
And the hearts of thy loving children
Mingle and be at peace?

BEREAVEMENT.

(Job iii. 26)

It was not that I lived a life of ease,
Quiet, secure, apart from every care;
For on the darkest of my anxious days
I thought my burden more than I could bear.
The shadow of a coming trouble fell
Across my pathway, drawing very near;
I walked within it awestruck, felt the spell
Trembled, not knowing what I had to fear.
The hand that held events I might not stay,
But creeping to His footstool I could pray.

With sad forebodings I kept watch and ward
Against the dreaded evil that must come;
Of small avail, door locked or window barred,
To keep the pestilence from hearth and home.
The dreadful pestilence that walks by night,
Stepping o'er barriers, an unwelcome guest,
Came, and with scorching touch to sear and blight,
Drew my fair child into her loathsome breast;
Nothing had ever parted us till then,
O child! when shall I hold thee once again?

As if the plague's red cross upon my door,
With "Lord have mercy!" scared the passers by,
So friends of mine that I had had before,
Fled from the face of my calamity.
Shut in, and yet shut out, my days went on,
Shut in with woe, shut out from human kind
Within my boundaries, watching sad and lone,
Hope with despair kept struggling in my mind.
It is not always human hearts can say
To Him who smites, "I trust Thee though Thou slay."

They're taught of God who say "Thy will be done,"
When in the presence of the thing they fear,
Both flesh and spirit fail when hope is gone,
And what we dread the most is drawing near;
I said, "an end comes to the darkest day,
And the bright, sunshine follows after rain,
This fearful pestilence will pass away,
And I can comfort those she holds in pain;
I'll take them to my heart, nor will I care,
That her touch marred the faces I thought fair"

I clung to hope I would not let it go--
And praying thoughts went up with every breath,
For when the sickness came I did not know
That with her came the angel they call Death.
My child will be restored to me I said,
Death took her hand-and almost unawares,
She slipped away from me and joined the dead
Back on my heart fell my unanswered prayers,
Stunned I took up my child that was so sweet
And wrapped her poor form in the winding-sheet

All desolate I bore her to her bier
With unaccustomed hands I laid her down,
With grief too hard and deep to shed a tear
We stood beneath the heavens gathering frown,
And then the storm burst on us in its might,
The loosened winds rushed round to moan and rave,
'Twas fittest so--they bore her from my sight,
Through the wild ram and laid her in her grave,
Then conscious only of a dreadful loss,
I sat with sorrow underneath my cross

The little ones whose mother's with the dead
Came with their many wants around my knee
And added, needless burden some one said,
But ah! they were God's messengers to me,
For here were duties that my hands must do,
Although my wound might only bleed and smart,
And so there came some solace to me through
The helpless hands that touched my aching heart
Ah! little children bringing everywhere
God's blessed comfort mingled in with care