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MILESTONE
MOODS AND MEMORIES.

i ,;■=

miL

A lit hi

miLESTONE inooDs m mmmi

IPocnta au^ Sonotn

DONALD McCAIO,

.^u^/.>r ofKcply to John Stuart Mill, ,„ the Sulyation of \Vonu-»,

'(m»\ —

^oi*cnito:
PlUxNTED BV HI NTKR, liOSK .v 0)M1»ANV

1894.

: t«

lOiilfKiI jiiconlin^' to Act of the Tarliaiiieiit of C'anRdu, in the year one
thousand fi>,'ht huiulred and ninety-four, hy Donalu McCaiu, at
t':(; Dei)artinent of A,L,'riculturt'.

r UK FACE.

Dk All ivjulci", soini' ol' tlu' trifles Found on tlve iollowinj^
mji^vs have lain in my desk for nearly t'oi'ty years;

others of tluMn for over twenty. I am not certain that
I can now offer any adefjuate excuse for the folly of
|)ul>lishin<^ them, hut the saddest fetdinn^, and the dark-
est word wi'itten or spoken in any lanouanre, is " annihila-
tion." Kven to he forj^otten amid earthly surr()undin<^s is
I not a pleasant contemplation.

When I slee]), T think I would prefer doin^'- so (jn

)ine oentle hill, with the maples and pines waving over

[me, to i*estin<; beneath the j)roude.st monument: but in

any case I pray that neither wainiest friend nor worst

inciiiy will do me the dishonor of ])lacin^ over me in

iron, marble, or t>ra.ss, " Horn May loth, I.S:V2, died ."

If this be all, not this, for mei'ev s sake.

l'erha[)s it is this e^a)tism or vanity, which had haunt-
ed me through all the old pioneer days, and has follow-
ed me ever since, through all the changes the years Iwinc
brought, which is now responsible for what, I am awaie,
can bring me but little fame, and less fortune. All I

r REPACK,

luivt' ever lioped for in my most .sjin^uiiie momonts hasj
ht'on, that wlien Canada has outgrown li<;r novitiate
when she lias a literature of her own, and a standiii;']
anion^ tlic nations of the oaith, I mi^lit he reco^jnizeda.'-
one who liad in lier then, lonj( a^o, seen some heauty ii,|
Nature, some <^rnindeur in country and home, some great-
ness in God, and soniethinef of heaven in tlie face of wo-
man, and liad, in some sort worth remembering, recorded|
his convictions.

Dear reader, this is an open confession. The rest 11

leave with you.

DONALD McCAK^.

' 1

CONTENTS.

*♦>• —

I'AUE

In MiMn«»ii;ini {)

rriio Tmin). 19

^Pu Miiry 21

['Hstiuj' Flnw'rutH on the StrcHiu 24

Pile ( )Ul Su«,'ar Caini> 20

[..t u poet :]4

|Kv(ilution :«)

Another OKI Apple Tree 42

Ivitetl 40

Vly Island Home 4?)

iMootIs of Burns (Toronto Caledoninn S«»ciety'8 Prize Poem) . . ol

JTo i\ Plagiarist, arising out t>f incidents connected with M(M>ds

of Burns r»5

iThe Age of l*rogreas 58

Ia Song for the Sad (written after the siege of Lucknow) 84

iLove in a Cottage 85

riie Happy Days of Old n2

|\\ ayfarers JMJ

jSunset on Lake Manitctu 97

|waiting KK)

Poo Late 101

Kjuestionings 104

[At the Close of the D<iy 100

(Jrandsire's Christmas 109

v:ii

CONTF.ArS.

I'Vt.l

Kvoning Ill

Slmdows on thoFlooi Hi

PiKslinuh Luke (M, Mucnnnick) 11 J

T(. tho I»ii8lincli Luko I'oet,

IK;

Mine .md Thine \'j*

To Sfindy McSnanisi'Hn iL".'

M<»rninj4 Ill'

Kiiiowc'll, (Jentle Muhc liW

■^}^

^S^:^

':ZArij ^-O^:

niLESTQIfE HIQQflS jm [HEPillES.

-^>«^<-^

IN mf:moriam.

The .shadows leni^tlien, anil the sinking sun
GiMs the fai* mountain witli a <^'oMoii crest;
The Autunni clouds stretch motionless and dun,
Like cold grey ocean in the tlistant West.
With sixty years of life gone o'er my head,
I sit and dream of all those years have seen, —
Of the strange paths by which my steps were led,
Up to this hour by hill and valley green,
With varying aims and hopes that erst had been.

The moments vanish, liouis unllagging pass.
The days roll on, that measure off our lives ;
Youth's pictures tarnish, and the years, alas I
Leave us but little for which manhood strives, —
For all the dreams whereon Ambition fed,
For all the flowers Ho})e scatter'd by the way.
For all the loves, forgotten, false or dead.
For all the promised fruitage of our May,
How little garner d at the close ot day.

y.\ MEMORIAM.

The years l((j l>y, willi all tliey liad h> I'liii;^^,
The promise, and the pleasuio, mikI tlie pain,
The lonuinuf in tlie song's u-e (]i(l not sini:;
The race in which we cannot run again.
The liills are dim, and far we lioped to ciiml),
The <lie is cast, our patrimony spent,
We rest us now on this far brink of Time,
And trifle with the semblance of content :
This only left, of all the gods had sent.

Ah me 1 we cannot stem the tide of aoe,
That silent steals in darkness of the night,
Nor pluck one vain regret from memoiy's page,
Nor chan^-e life's written record, dark or bii<dit.
The hills mav melt, the mountains mav not be,
The woi'ld of waters over empires roil,
And hamlets deck the valleys of the sen,
But what shall change the deeply written scroll,
Of three score years imprinted on the soul ?

Our treasures linger longest shrined in tears, —

The sonfjs that thrilled our hearts lonir, lom-' wmo. —

The voices now that only fancy hears, —

The hands we cannot clasp again belov/ :

For recreant memory leaves her valued stores

Of fame or riches that have taken wings.

Which once she valued most, now least deplores, —

When the lone heart returns to other thinLT-s,

O'er which in other days she wept, now lowly si!)gs !

Amid those shadows pale of vanished years,
Seen through the lia/e that gathers on tlie hill, —

01*

J)e.'

Fro

Tin

Tur

A\' MEMORIAM.

(fh'anis of youtli's frit'iidships mid bere-iVL'inent's tciars;
Dear native land, my thoughts ai'e witli thee still;
And though my song must bear a chasten'd strain,
From which all passion has been washed and wrung.
Through glow of joy, or bittei- wail of pain,
Or darkest hour that hath been wept or sung,
Turn I to thee, more than when heart was young.

My dear loved laud ! thou all in all to me,

( )f home or country woven through my \\\^,

Till all its texture now is part of thee.

Chased with the tlowers of joy, the scars of strife I

In younger days I longed for other olime^,

Jn song or story, more for glory meet,

C) Bonny Doon. like far cathedral chimes,

How seemed thy song to me, the sole retreat

Of that strange sorrow of which pain is sweet !

But now I seek no other land afar,

I know no other clime so bricfht as thee;

What now I am, what we together are,

1 must remain, I can no other be;

For I but bear the color, sense and sound, —

The mingled woof and warp of joy and tears, —

The wrong and right of Time's unchanging round,

That stone by stone, to monument it rears,

The all we feel and sutler through the 3'ears.

Like echoes come the songs of loni: airo,

At early morn that through the forest rung ;

The little clearing waking in the glow

Of life's brave struggle, when the hea't was young.

■. 1

13 IN MEMORIAM.

In soft, low murmurs steal acio.ss tlic vale,
The notes of labor failing, as the tires
Of mad, bright Summer, ending, sink and pale.
And the last sonf^ster from llie (jrove retires
With ling'ring note, that on the air expires.

Brown Autumn gathers in her ripened stores,
The red sun burns through Indian Summer iiaze,
The ripe nuts patter on the yellow leaves,
The crimson maple sets the hill ablaze ;
The red deer, startled from his cool retreat
Down the long forest aisles allures the hound.
With thirsty zeal, hot breath, and lagging feet,
The huntsman follows woodland sight and sound,
Till gathering darkness ends the fruitless round.

These all are vanished, green and fair the fields,
High stands the mansion where the cottage rose :
To smoother hands the yellow harvest yields —
Not truer lives, nor warmer hearts than those
Whom I had known in boyhood's long ago : —
Not braver sons the coming years shall greet.
Nor fairer maidens future lovers know.
Than they who sleep to-day, but rose to meet
The dewy morning with unsandall'd feet.

I cannot know my forest home again,

I cannot be nor feel again a boy,

1 cannot taste one hour of vanished pain,

Which now were something near akin to joy.

I cannot meet the sleepers who had toiled

From waking East to slowly dark'ning West —

Whom doubt nor fear in life's rough battle foiled.

A\' MEMORIAM.

To US a heritage, a memory bless'd,

Brave sires and mothers passed unto their rest !

Are they not with iis, move around us still ?
In God's half-acre tlioui^di they lowly lie,
By little church, hy Ijrook, or wood, or hill.
This much is left us, all that cannot die, —
Their long, brave struggle, their unfailing hope ;
Their patient trust, their faith in God and man ;
Their jmtriot zeal, with every foe to co[)e ;
Nor count their lives a f(3aturo in the plan,
But dare for country all that mortpj can.

We hold the heritage for which they fought ;

We reap the harvest their strong hands had sown ;

We spend the wealth their lives and labor i)rought ;

Ours all the fruitage, theirs the toil alone !

Now their mute lips and folded hau'ls impose

On us, tiieirsons, the sacred trust to save

From rude invader's tread, or hand of foes.

The garnished sepulchre, or lowly grave,

Where rest the ash''s of the tjood and l)rave !

Loud the bugle o'er the valley
Sends its quivering notes afar ;
Rings the answer, rally, rally I
( 'Omes in whispers, Is it war {

Only cowards need dissemble,
Bi'avest hearts niny (langer shun,
Sire with ashy lips may tremble,
When he arms his stripling son !

U /A' ME MORI AM.

Yes, 'tis war ! across the border,
Proud they come from every state,
Man, and horse, and gun in ortler,
Notliing left to Heaven or Fate !

Yes, 'tis war! the sad undoin*,',
All the promise of the years ;
But not we by craven wooing,
Shall avert the blood or tear::.

Let it come, we wait, are ready I
Sisters pale and mothers weep.
Sweethearts, too. Hold, boys ! Hold steady !
You have hearts and homes to keep.

With you rests your fathers' honor,
They were nianly, strong and brave,
Death might find them, later, sooner,
But it could not iind a slave.

By you stands your grand old mother,
Firm and faithful, calm and true,
Prestige, power and wealth together,
Past and future pledged for you.

British pluck, and, by that token.
Rose and Shamrock, 'J'histle dear,
And the "Thin red line " unbroken 1
What has Canada to fear \

O'er her homes, by lake and liver,
Western plain and Eastern sea.
Waves the Maple Leaf and Beaver,
Union Jack and Fleur-de-lis !

IN MEM(U<IAM.

IT)

Gather, ^^utlier, gathei', giibher !
From city mart ami sv Ivan vale,
Side by side come son and father,
No one falter, no one fail I

Gather gather, gather, gather !
From mountain slope and ocean blur,
Wife and maiden fair would rather,
If they mourn you, know you true.

Gather, leather, gather, gather!
Fair-haired son from swarthy sire.
Dark-eyed boy from blue-eyed mother,
Saxon brain and Celtic fire.

( Vuisin is it war ? In story
You would write that you had wun, —
We had little left but glory,
Scarce a country, sire or son. —

You have vanquished, be it gianted,
Seized and taken at your will,
All you wished and all you wanted,
There is something left us still.

See ! the battle tide receding —
Is it victory ? Cousin, say.
Our last soldier, dying, bleeding,
Stands above his Hag at bay.

Prone he sinks in deathly pallor,
First and last to duty true ;
Relic of old British valor, —
StiH in us, and still in you.

/.\ Mh'.MOKIAM.

lioast your fret dom ! Tlicy who pciisli
'Neath her banner sow the seed,
Cousin, we toi'-ether cIkm-ihIi
Freedom born on Ixunnynu'de.

Down the silent tide of a<.(es,
Dimly sliines her torch afar;
Kpochs long-, historic stages,
Mould and make us what we ai*e.

Let her dwell in hall or hovel.
Mother shall not nourish slave,
Kather s:h;ill not cringe nor grovel,
Witli his birthright, Hampden's grave I

Sceptres mny to earth be smitten.
Crowns be old barl)aric tilings;
Long befoie your code was written,
Cromwell tauijht the worth of kinijs.

Bunker Hill to you means glory,
Ours are sh lines of heroes too ;
Queenston Heights shall live in story, —
Our Canadian Waterloo !

Cousin, Cousin, let us meet you,
Kinsmen by our mighty dead ;
By Mount Vernon's shrine we greet you,
Silent, with uncovered head.

Fish and seal ? we care but little,
Gulfs, or isles, or open seas ;
Ties of blood and kin are brittle,
If they must give way to these!

IN .]fI':M()R/A.\/.

What matters how the lines he chosen,
Back juid forth our children (j^o ;
Welcome we our stranger cousin,
Welcome warm as you bestow.

Brothers leave us, fathers follow,
AH our bravest, strongest, best,
Seeking homes and harvests yellow,
Somewliere in your golden west !

Maidens fair, sweet love com|ielling.
More than Empire's western star,
Leave Canadian hall and sheelinix
For some freebo.n Lochinvar.

O'er the border, spite of tariff'.
What has duty here to do do ?
What does reckless maiden care, if
Smuijixletl in love's white canoe ?

Wildly o'er the silent valley,
Comes the bugle's note afar.
Loud the echoes, rally ! rally 1
Cousin, Cousin ! is it war !

Oh might I stay to see and know, fair land.
When thou art passing through thy trying day,
That wise, and true, and brave, thy sons may stand.
To guide thee safely on thy higher way; —

IH IN MEMORIAM.

That craven weakliiiL^, CHiiL,'ht in Mammon's toils,
For moss of })ottaife, or for power or place,
Had nob liis l)irthri<^^lit barterJ iox tluj spoils,
W^hich shall not hlcss, nor infamy etface,
Of traitor to his country, name and race.

I may not stay, tlie sun hath left the sky,
The golden rim hath vanish'd from the cloud,
And damp ami cold the evening winds go by,
And dark o'er all night hani-s her solenm shroud :
The trees have lost their garniture of green,
The brooklet sleepeth with a silent tongue,
And brown and bare the closing autumn scene,
And winter cometh, it shall not be long:
And here 'tis fitting 1 should end my song.

Dear Canada, my home I my song is sung,

A poor, weak tribute which I leave with thee ;

I dreamt of nobler things when life was young,

But now 'tis all, but if the time should be

When nobler bard may touch a higher strain.

Or wiser seer have briiifhter tale to tell,

When thou hast travailed through thy birth of j)ain,

If thou o'er this in retrospection dwell,

'Tis all I ask. Dear Land, Farewell I Farewell !

TlfE TRAMP.

THE TRAMP.

In a stone by the waysi'le, lialf naked and cold,
id sour'(i in the atruf,'gle of lite,
''ith his parchment envelope grown wrinkled and old,
it the Tramp, with Ids crust and his knife,
iid the leaves of the forest fell round him in showers,--
Ind the sharp, stingini^^ Hurries of snow,
liat had warned ott' the robins to sunnier bowers,
Idmonished him too, h(^ should go.

ut Autunm had gone, having gathered his sheaves,

Ind the glories of summer were past ;

liid spring, with the swallows that built in the eaves,

tad left him the weakest and last !
he sat there alone, for the world could not heal
flisease without pain, without care, —
ithout joy, without hope, too insensate to feel, —
)() utterly lost for despair !

[ut he thought, while the night, and the darkness, and

gloom,

hat gathei'e«i aiound him so fast,
[id the moon and the stars in their cloud-shrouded

toud).

If the fair, but the far-distant past !
[round him a vision of beauty arose,
[npainted, unpencill'd by art, —
[is home, father, mother, sweet peace and repose,
from the saci repertoire of the heart !

CUE TKAMr.

And briixlitlv the visions cfime <:li<lin<r {ilonj;,

Thronsrh tlie warm <'ol(lon i>"atos of I lie day, —

With voices of cliildhood, and mnsic and .st)n<^,

Like echoes from lands faraway.

And tlie glad riiij^ing laugliter of girlhood was there,

And one 'monii: the others so dear

'J'hat o'er his life's record, too black for despair,

Flowed the sad sacred joy of a tear !

And he held, while he listened, his crusi, half consuiiitj

In his cold, shrivelled hand, growing weak,

While a fdorv slione round hiai that warmed and illuini

The few frozen tears on his ciieek.

In the dark, silent nighr, thus his sjiirit had flown.

Like the sigh of a low, {tassing breath ; —

Life's bubble had burst, and another gone down

In the deep, shoreless ocean of death !

In the bright waking morn, by the side of the way.

On the crisp, frozen leaves shed around,

The knife, and the crust, and the casket of clay,

Which the tramp left behiml him, were found !

And bound round his neck, as he lay there alone,

Was the image, both youthful and fair.

Of a sweet, laughing girl, with a blue ribbon zone.

And a single white rose in her hair.

Was he loved ? Was she wed? Was she daughter or wij
Or sister ? The world may not read
Her story or his. They are lost with the life, —
Recorded, ' A tiamp was found dead!"

JV MAh'V

tlicre,

^(1111(1 (ieu'l Ity llie way," in the l^Iouiu ami ilio C"ld —

|e boy wiioni a mother liad kissM,

le son whom a father (,'ouhl prou<lly enfoM.

le brother a .sister had miss'd !

ound dead hy the way!" whom a maiden's first love
I hallow'd — e'en worsliipped in part,

d clotlied m a lij'ht from the jjlorv above,

enshrine in lier pure virj^dn heart!
consuiii(Bund dead, and alone, hy the way where lie died,

be tlirown, like a dog, in his lair!
nd illuiiiMt he peacefully slee])s, as the stone by his side,

d rich as the proud millionaire !

)WTI,

way,

>ne.

»ne,

,er or wi

TO MARY.

Mary ! the tields are green again,
And flowers are blooming by the river.

Life and beauty gild the plain,

Young and gay and bright as ever.

Spring comes with all its wonted joys,

All its varied rich creation, —

Its shady groves for girls and boys,

(jJad with song and animation.

Its ling'ring sunsets, lengthening eve,
Out beyond its winter measure;
Its dewy morns that rise to leave,
On every blade their pearly treasure.

TO MAn\

» I'

Tliiiij^s aiv aH always tliuy li.ive liocn,
Side l>y sido in beauty ran;^Mii;^',
Fra;^n'ant woods and valleys j^n-een ;
Mary, only we are chanLjing!

»m

Tis onlv we are not the same,
Onlv ours the tai'ni.shed treasures.
Time, that steals our youth must claim,
All its dearest, sweetest treasures !
Must dim the pictures one by one,
That hope or fancy held before us,
And witness the enchantment <(one,
That love or youth exerted o'er us.

The dreams that to fruition rose.
Were not so bright as fancy yic^lded;
The years that i)romised us repose.
Brought little rest, when time revealed it.
For though the groves are still as green,
And though the birds as glad are singing ;
Though vales as verdant lie between
The hills where flowerets still are springing :

Yet Mary, where has every joy,

And wish, and hope, and pleasure vanished, ?

Must age life's every charm destroy ?

With 3'outh must every dream be banished !

Why should they vanish, all be o'er —

Our evening walks and moonlight roving ?

Our idle themes, our svlvan love,

And all our idle dreams of loving ?

TO MARY.

Why ? S|»i'm;fs I hat shoiu^ I'oi' \\> \i\\t lied ;
Th(5 fhjsvL'iH tliey broU'rlit an; also witluMVil,
An<l those to-(lay that deck tlic iiu'U*!,
Must Ije for otlufrs jrn,\vn and <,^ather'd.
The ho|)es that made us «^dad are ;^'one,
liike evoniiii; shades with (hirkness hleu<ied ;
The birds that sun;,' for us liave llown,
The strains we listened to are en<h'd.

Tiie liaunts where we in childhood roved,
And fondly kjii^ed that youth were over,
And looked and lin^^er'd, lau^died and loved,
Have lost their cliarni to us forever.
For wdien oui" dearest friends are dead ;
When those who still remain are colder,
When joys that knit our hearts have tied,
And we as well as they are older :

Then Mary why should we remain,
Oi" cast a lini^'ring look behind us,
On scenes that smile on us in vain,
And but of vanislied joys remind us !
Since Mary we have had our day,
Why should we envious gaze on others,
Whose youth, like ours, nmst pass awny.
Whose rest, like ours, is witli their lathers :'

2:i

Since life at best is but a dream
Which finds youth's heritage expended.
And leaves us little to redeem
The treasure lost, when all is ended :

24 CASTING FLOWERETS ON THE STREAM.

Then wlierefore sii^-li we, little maid ?
The world will move aloni' without us ;
So pass we outward to the shade,
And wrap our evening cloak about us.

(^VSTING FLOWERETS ON THE STREAM.

Casting flowerets on the stream,
In the Maytime's merry weather,

Fred and Phyllis, in a dream,
Tied a bud and spray together.

They were children, both, at play,

Startled, as the silent river
Bore the little bud and spray

Onward from their sight forever.

Phyllis sighed to see them go,

" Gone I " she said, and tears had started ;
" Will they on together flow ?

" Will the bud and spray be parted ? "

" Yes or no ? " said Fred, and smiled,
Lightly in a sage endeavor

To console the weeping child,
Gazing sadly down the river.

CAS'J'JXa l'1.0i\'ERETS 0.\ TUl: .\ri<l:AM.

Answers she b}' falling tears,
And l>y silent li}»s that tremble ;

Telling tales the coming years

Will have tauixht her to dissemble.

" Back," said Fred, " we to the hill,
Where are other flowers in waitin<:r ;

We may pluck them at our will,
Bud and spray together mating."

Phyllis, dreamy little maid,

While their hands were locked together,
Look'd from dewy eyes and said,

"Fred, I do not wish another.

"To-day wliatever songs we sing ;

With whatever flowers we deck us ;
Hack the coming day will bring

But the faded leaves and echoes !

" 1 cast the little bud away,

Heeding naught if it should leave me ;
It can never more be May —

Fred, it was the first you gave me !

" Life's deep tide has not the power

Back a single joy to give us ;
We have pluck'd our spray and flower,

All but mem'ry's dream must leave us ! "

I 1

•J(>

rill: ()/./> SluAR L\l.\//\

THE OLD SUCAR CAMP.

The old sugar cainp.

There is but little in the name ;
It almost harshly falls upon the ear,
And yields so much the hopeless note of toil,
The strife and strugi^le of the weary years,
That wealth and plenty from their vantage-ground
Of brighter days, and calm luxurious ease,
May gaze in wonder at the simple shrine,
Where poor devotion pays the vows of age.
And yet, around it cling such memories
As in their acting mould the lives of men,
And mve a color to their after-thouohts,
Tinged with the hazy radiance of that past
To which each dusty wayworn pilgrim turns,
When he is sated chasing life's mirage.
And, disenchanted, turns him to the east,
To trace the threads in memory's tangled skein,
Along the strangely checker'd path which time
Has led his footsteps towards — life's western goal.

Here, facing round again, upon youth's morn.
He counts the stages where the nights were spent ;-
Where Hope sat pining, waiting for the dawn ;
But learned, through cycles of the changing years,
That youth had dipped his pictures in the sun
Where time retains the drab, — but dims the jzoM.
Yet seeks he here some centre for his thouirhts,
That wander backward, held at every stage
By some poor fragment in life's broken glass,

'I HE OLD SUuAK CAMP.

'27

Which, liftiiiL-; sadly iij* to memory's gaze,
He linds a leii.se that tixes to one spot,
More of the past in stereoscopic guise.
Than all the others in that broken whole.

Thus gathers round a few decaying logs.
That once sustained a rudely-fitting roof,
The same sad longing o'er the vanished past
That lifts the hands up to the yews and elms,
Where age sits thinking, but where childhood play'd.
For man still, ever shrinkinLj from the ''•loom,
.\nd cloud;-', and darkness, round the setting sun.
Turns to the latest golden olimmer thrown
Back from the turrets of his air-built fanes,
Which, in the happy years of long ngo,
In that fair Eden whence we all have come,
Rose 'neath the magic wand (jf youth and hope.
Alas I Time's noiseless finger, changing all,
Weaves round those shrines the drapery of decay,
Till whereso'er an altar we have raised.
We turn in silence from the crumbling stones,
And learn where'er a human foot has trod,
We never find the [)lace again the same.

in that old cam[), 'tis many years,
And checker'd years, since the last embers died
Of the last fire that ever shall Vje lit
liy hands now mould'ring in the dust of death.
Bark o'er the intervening gulf of time,
T stand once more whcio, f »rtv vears a^o,
l)5V I nstlinf; leaves conceal'd the viri'in soil,

28 THE OLD SUGAR CAMP.

And artless wikl Hovvcrs raised their modest heads,
To taste tlie sweetness of approaching' spring.
These are no more ; a verdant web of grass
Extends thick-matted where ihe Howers had been.
The underwood is gone, and forest trees
Encumberinfj the soil are long since burned.
All but a few 'twere sacrilerre to touch :
They were the shelter from the rude North Wind
Of those who, safe from all earth's bittei* blasts.
Rest in the silent city of tlie dead.

Around this lonely j^ile of wasting logs.
In the strange stillness of the Autunui night,

A iew old maples here and there keep watch,

Like silent sentinels that guard a tomb ;

Their fellows fallen many years ago,

Sank from the wounds that ended in decay,

And left them helple>^s in the northern blast.

Of those now left, kind nature's healing hand

Has cover'd o'er the ,scars the axe had made ;

But still, as from the poison'd taint of sin,

Their hearts are rotten, and some rtithless gust

Must shortly lay them with their brothers low.

A single butternut, where many stood,

Still stands unnotic'd by the passei-by.

It had its days of interest and pride,

For children watch'd it through the summer months

As older children watch for autumn stores

In fields and orchards, which that da}^ were not.

'Mid these surroundings other forms arisf.

Cold in the moonlight, flitting to and. fro,

THE OLD SUGAR CAMP.

And shadowy l>aTi(Js, no loii,i,'er ai! (;t' cartli,
Pass and repass atnonj^ tho spiictral trees,
As in the busy scenes of lonj^ af,'().
Tlie waking Spring returns witli sunny morn:
The sap goes coursing tlirough the niaple trees,
And ready even with her willing liands
To swell the scanty revenue of toil,
A careful mother, with her ha]>py t)ani],
Goes forth to gather up the ii(piid stores.
Year after year the old camp Mies are lit, —
Year after yeai the same unl)ioken Itand
Prepare the liquid treasure to secure:
And when, U[)on the first exciting morn,
The axe awoke the echoes of the wood,
The red deej', startled, stood awhile to (£aze
On the intruder, and the curling smoke ;
Then hasten'd to a covert more secure.

And now hegan a round of husy weeks.
The nightly frosts, south winds, and vernal sun
Brouirht forth the forest nectar from tlie trees,
To lighten labor with a promised gain.
But oft there camo a day of sleety snow,
When frost, succeeding, sealed the dripping founts,
And the bleak grimness of a raw March <lay
Gave to the toilei's a much needed rest.
Soon follow'd cleari)ig out of icy pails
And frozen trouujhs, to wait a brighter time
That only served the labors to renew.

These were the days of anxious toil and care,
When fashions changed not, and the same old coat

31 » THE OLD SUGAR CAMP.

(>anuj forth to lionor iiuiiiy a yula day ;

And one stein bonnet, brown with sun and rain,

And years of service, still was counted new,

And safely ^niarded under lock and key

Till Sabbalh niorn, when forth at duty's call

The faithful wearer trudged o'er many a mile,

To join the songs that are in Zion sung,

And gather up the promises of rest

That faith had treasured in a better clime.

All this the passing years brought to an end.
The days of man and womanhood at length
O'ertook the toilers ; and, with new-born hopes,
New scenes were sought for, and new homes were fouivi]
Caught in the world's wild busy feverish strife.
Beneath one roof-tree now they seldom met.
All but the youngest of the band had gone —
She still remained to grace the dear old home,
And through the calm of uneventful years,
Peace and content appear'd the destined lot.

The calls of want were now no lon<'er known ;
For honest toil had to fruition turned,
And brought its simple harvest of repose.
Yet, as the seasons, in their stately round,
Brought back the tiowing to the maple trees,
Thft old camp-fires rekindled once again —
Glowed \vith a milder and more chasten'd liMit.
The old keen busy bustle all was gone,
The feverish care to make the most of time ;
Tiie noisy glee of happy girls and boys
That toy'd with youth, and health, and laugh'd at toil

THE OLD SUGAR CAMP.

All tlie.su were o'o'. Yet with eadi wakiiiL;' year,
As eaued swallows, feelinf; Autumn niuli,
Their winj^s beat wildly 'gainst their prison bars,
And strug;j;le with their fellows to be free ;
So a strange longing to that household came,
To catch the spirit of the vanish'd years,
And catch the woodnotes of the dawning Spring
From songsters tuj-ning from their distant climes.
This, and a })ride upon the festal board,
'J'o place the treasure gather'd by her hand,
Brought forth the mother and the daughter, still
1 jeneath the shelter of her childhood's home,
That once again, when haj)py Christmas time
Brought all together to that dear old home,
And children's children sat upon her knee.
She might bring forth the harvest of her toil.

Thus, the old camp for ten successive springs
liecame the miniature of former scenes.
Where just a little for that little's sake,
And for the sake of happy vanish'd hours,
And for the sake of Christmas yet to be.
Was gather'd in a thoughtful, thankful mood,
'Mid chasten'd mem'ries of departed years.
But dark with sorrow rose tlu? ixatherinfj ijfloom
That soon must o'er this calm contentment fall
With pois«»n'd breath, the scourge of Western homes,
Dread dire Consumption, with its certain close,
Had found a victim. Of that happy pair,
The youngest soon had found a lasting rest.
A single year of painful hope and fear,

32 THE Ol.h SUGAR CAMP.

And liectic cIm ck, uimI l>iiL;lit (Mikiinllcil eye,
Had left tlic fatal work of Death complete.
And in tliat month, and just on such a day
As both had often in the past repair'd
To the old camp, wliere half in woik and play,
Their yearl}^ liappy lioliday was spent,
Brothers and sisters to the loved ol<l home,
Loved for the sake of one no lonu^ei- there,
Had gather'd for that duty, saddest, last,
To bear a sister to her narrow bed.

Sad and bereft, an aged mother stood,
Worn with the struggle of her three-score years,
The light and joy all vanished from her life,
And all the zeal in time's hard battle o'er.
The hands fell down that long were used to toil ;
The mind, elastic still at sixty years,
Turned from the }jresent wholly to the past,
Amid the images beyond recall,
To live in mem'ry life's wild dream again,
One more decade still bound her to the earth —
Not of it, though remaining in the world —
To fill the destined measure of her days,
And ripen lor the harvest of the tomb.

Oh ! what to her, to us, to an}- soul
In that great ciisis which has no escape,
Is all the wealth of gold, of fame, of power,
Which life's long struggle gathers to our feet ?
When, standing out on time's extremest verge.
We gaze across the stream with longing eyes,

THE or. I) srcAR cami\

'rocalcli unc ^Huaiii of li^lil l»riuk tliroiii;li the vuil
That hides tliat ocean whose cold silent wave
No wreckasjje ever cast on sliorc of time \
Here she must stand ani wait ten weary years,
I for thoughts alone the bread on which she fed ;
Her zest in earth's enjoyiiients, hopes and cares,
Forever vatiish'd from hei" stricken heart,
That longed to reach the haven of its rest,
And hun(T:er'd for a citv that al)ides.
But time, that gathers in onr Autumn stores,
And gathers in the fi'uitage of oui- lives,
Brought her at last the end that comes to all.
The worn-out heart stood still, to beat no more ;
The hands wei-e folded o'er the silent breast ;
The eyes forever closed on things of time,
And all earth's glory vanish'd like a breath.

Out from our sight we bear our best belov'd ;
We may not linger by their house of clay ;
Tiie bier fast follows on the fleetinu: breath.
She whom we loved was ready Ibi* the tomb.
Around stood pioneers with hardened hands.
And eyes but little used to shedding tears ;
Yet here with bared heads they stood and wept,
for she who slept that silent, dreamless sleep
Could not be number'd with the common herd ;
And they had loved her in that checker'd past
Which now the haze of time must soon obscure.
80 reverently they bore her to her rest.
And turned in silence, leaving her to sleep.

i ;

34 NOT A POET,

What is tliciH! inuio to tell ? Tlie story ou.is.
The old caniplires have slept for twenty years,
And, like their huilders, nijvcr shall awake.
The curtaiii falls o'er one more lowly lile,
And there is left but memory of the deeds
Of love and wortli tliat filled tliree score and ten
Of busy years, along the humble walks
Where only liope was left to sweeten toil,
And only faith was left by buried hope,
To liyht the pilgrim to the rest of God.

NOT A POET.

Not a Poet ? no, he sings not ;

Are not poets sometimes mute ?
Is he greater, he whose bosom

Feels the tlirill or plays the lute ?

Is the blare of brazen trumpet.

Sounded in the ear of Art,
Strong as silver chord that vibrates

Through the chambers of the heart ?

Is the voice of Alpine thunder,
Calling from its cloud retreat,

Stionnfer than the brook that murmuis
All its music at our feet ?

Is the sigh from wave of ocean,
Beating 'gainst life's hither shore,

Stronger as it sinks to silence,
Or amid the tempest's roar ?

.voT A poirr.

.•in

Tlirills not all life's solemn inusii-

Tlirough the soul's stnuii^'e woof and \var|i

From the monotones of Nature
On lier yreat yKoiiaii liiifp ?

Anil the I'oet, In; wlio L>'athers

All the sad and s(denm strain ;
TliOU^h tlic why and whence of heinf',

Still

)Ut 11'}) >i an(

I ivJie

nae remain

Stands lie by the Caves of Silence,
Where the ni(dit-winds como and iro

Asking still that awful (juestion,

Answerini^r winds, " We do not know

Waits he still, in time-liound fetters,

Gazing through Ins prison bars ;
Callinrj out in helpless pleading

To the cold and voiceless stars.

Thus adown the cycling ages,

Kneels he at some heathen thr(HH\

Hands upraisc;d to JJaal or Moloch,
Reaching to the Great Unknown.

But the awful // that meets him,
Drifting hopeless from the shore ;

Into utter, outer (hirkness,
If 'tis darkness, evermore I

But do not the winojs of morn in if
Wait upon the darkest night ?

Is tliere not a sun still shining
Always on the .shores of light ?

EVOlJ'TrON.

.Jn(l;4(j Iiiiii kindly, it' ho wiimlt'is
From tho lino so })lain to thee.

What to some is truth uiKjuestioticci,
He may Htrani;ely fail to see.

You may stain 1 wliore others left you,
He has on and onward trod,

Till no chart will show his boarint.^ —
Js he farther, then, frotu (lod ?

EVOLUTION;

OR, THE NEW PHILOSOPHY OF THE UNCONDITIONED.

'TwAS long before our sires were born,
While we their babes were sleeping;
While this old world was young and warm,
She tried her first house -keeping.

And Nature — but the time and place,
Are matter of opinion —
Sat watching somewhere out in space,
Where Chaos held dominion.

She saw the steamin'.: waves go by.
In angry, fretful brewing,
And thought she'd like some fish to fry,
Or set some chicken stewing.

/:n)/.i'ri()\.

But then the ]>riinal o;,'<^^ was not,
Nor lisli nor fowl to liatch it ;
BeHidcH, there wus not tl»en a pot,
Nor hook nor line to catch it.

So brooding o'er a little hay,
Where .some sua slime had «,'athered,
She waited, as we wait to-day,
For creatures foul or feathered.

With patient zeal she kept her place,
Through many a spring and suiiiin<.'r,
To greet, as herald of the race,
The very first new comer.

So looking down 'twixt hope find doubt,
In fear the hatch was lagging,
She saw two little eyes peep out,
A little tail a wagging !

It was an ancient polliwog,
Had drawn himself together.
And got his molecules agog,
From out the slime his mothei-.

At tirst old Nature; felt a thrill,
To see' tilt! creatun^ wri^'de,
And let her happy thoughts distil,
In soft maternal giggle.

But when she turned the thing around,
She did not feel contented ;
The more she looked, the more she found,
It was not what she wanted.

.*»7

hTO/.C/VOA.

Then o'er her face sped frown and pout,-
With two electric Hashes,
She turned the creature inside out,
As hoarders turn their hashes.

She cast it on an ehbin^r wave,
Out o'er an angiy ocean ;
Thus to life's primal genus she gave
The poetry of motion.

But when at length she dried her tears,
She thought perliaps that may he
She'd spent too many thousand years
In hatching such a baby !

But soon she ceased lier angry pout.
And furnished the Acarus.*
And showed the biggest thing yet out,
The megaleosaurus !

Then o'er the ancient brine was seen
Some very fishy creatures,
And scaly too, of doubtful mien,
But very open features.

Some protoplasm lay asleep,
And some rough -hewn carmudgeons,
And from the seething, souring heap,
Came forth a pair of gudgeons.

*In a work, Vestiges of (,'reation, supposed to have lieen written by
Robert Chambers, some fifty years ago, the theory of spontaneous gtn-
eration was said to lie ))roved by certain experiments carried on l)y a
Mr. Crosse and afterwards by a Mr. Week.^ from whose re searches " |
creature called the Ararv-^ was evolved from certain elicniical mixtures
described in the work.

i':\-()/.("nox.

And other forms came rank and rife,
Nautilic and medusic ;
Each took a liarpy for a wife,
And thus gave birth to music !

At first the brain was but a blob,
( A')nnections, on ngl ionic ;
And from the worst and hardest, knob,
Came forth the cfreat Teutonic.

Then swiftly swimmini>- in the van,

Per record sans errata, —

Came son^ething ver}^ much like man,-

Lamellabranchiata,

Then round its shininix groove elate,
The .i;lad old world went ringing;
One little Indian on a ofate,
His boomerang: a-swinofin<jf.

The stars were singing, all on hand,
The morning rooks were cawing ;
And pereh'd upon his airy stand.
This "Birdotredum sawin."

In business all began free trade,
Not yet the dream, Protection :
The little Indian's choice was m<iid,
Bv natural selection.

They met out utter'd not a word,
The manner of their wooing,
Was like the flutter of a bird, —
A mute, internal cooing.

EVOLLTION.

But yet they were a happy pair,
Thouijli lanofuane still was lackincf,
There burst upon the startled air,
A loud primeval smacking.

•fe e,— • ome,

But words at length begen \
At first fiom kiss came kissing ;
For love was often found from home,
As now, he went a Tnissing !

They took the stage in dishabille,
A custom still prevailing;
They faced the devil in their peel,
Nor found their courage failing.

First act in bower of garden fail", —
Thus runs the tale in chapel,
But soon the wisest, sweetest pair,
Had ate the sourest ap[)le.

Then seemed their morning wardrobe scant
Their robe de nnit felt thinner;
They could no longer j)lay at cant,
80 tried the role of sinner.

Their children wander'd East and West,
So runs the fact or fable ;
Some stayed at home and tried their bes^
To build tlie tower of Babel.

But strive oi* stiuggle as they would.
The end was always sorrow ;
'Twas sometimes famine, sometimes Hood,
But last, and worst, Gommorah !

EVOLUTION.

So now the races are but three,
The Saxon, Celt, and Cuffy ;
When Nature fixed his family tree,
She was a little huffy.

The Hindu, Ghiiianian, and Jap,
They may be taken solid ;
And then per million or per cap,
They may be labelled stolid.

Just wise enough for little trade,
For little truck and barter ;
But not the stuff from which is made
A lebel or a martyr.

The Irishman is hard to place;
This much is safely written,
That Britain means to him disgrace,
And he disgiacc to Britain !

Tlie Saxon, too, is all awry,
The Celt, 'tis hard to teach him ;
Poor Cuiiy was hung out to dry,
Before 'twas tricii to bleach liim.

Though Nature knew the veuture ma<hj,
Her old repute might taiiiish.
She forced poor Sambo on tlie tiade,
\\\ j)aint, but little vainish.

So til us lie stands half- done tcj-day,
All head and jjab and jjjidlet ;
Emerging from the far away.
An evoluted mullet,

42 ANOTHER OLD AprLH riUil:

Made up of many a liinnan note,
With light and shade insertion ;
He waits at Jordan for a boat,
He does not like immersion.

To get the Celt upon the stage,
There were some jars and hitches;
He up and started in a rage,
To rough it, sans his breeches.

But he was born to push his way,
'Gainst Saxon, Thug, or Spartan ;
So stands befoie the world to-day
In sporran, dirk an<] tartan.

He has his politics, 'tis true ;
But though of Grits the grittest,
His faith is bounded by the view, —
" Survival of tlic fittest!"

ANOTHER OLD APPLE TREE.

" This fruit forbidden, chihiren hence ! '
Said surly canine, tall rail fence ;
Both now removed from present tense.

As all life's glories are !
It stood against the morning sky,
With gnarled trunk, and branches high ;
Some green, some withered, old and dry.

With promise faint and far.

AMyruER oi.n Arri.E tree.

1 1 boi'c 'i>ut small and scraggy fruit,
And liigli it Innig: 'twas green to boot —
One end was oblate, one acute,

And bard as hard could be.
But Anie and I, we always found,
If north or south on duty bound,
The shortest, straigbtest way was round

By that old apple tree !

We sought its shade one luckless day,
When flowers, found l)loorning by the way,
Were leagued witii folly, whisper'd "stay,"

Though wis loiii said " abstain."
We struggled bard, we struggled long, —
W''ighed first the dan^rer, last tlie wrong:
But pleasure sung her sweetest song,

" Wlu) heedetb future pain? "

We stood with longing in our look.
Till down went diiHK^r, 1)asket, book,
And then the limbs we gentlv shook.

With circumspection meet.
Down came the bait, and if we stole,
We reasoned, " Surely on the whole.
The guilt was with the wicked i>ole,

That brought it to our feet !"

Alas ! the farmer saw the loot,
And broke the charm with howl ami lioot;
1 fac(Ml the d(;g, — Amo s<>iztMJ the fruit.
We lonired to be at school !

44 ANOTHl'lR OLD APPLE /'PPIC.

More welcome learnini^'s thorny way,
Than terrors of this judgment day, —
More lurid, in a striking wa\',

Than master's rod or rule !

Firnt round, the canine fell on top;
^]y -ci vcs were sore, I wished he'd stop ;
An^l Amy, too, was like to drop,

From fear and dog allied.
Success '! 'i.y pain and conscience drown,
But /iir'il <• vailed for me renown,
When tit( .1 ',hat lield my braces down.

Was tou ' 'T^ Amy's side.

The struixjxle ended dishabille,

I, pain and shame from head to lieel,

All one big nerve, its function, feel,

And life a solemn thing.
1 stood like Indian warrior dressed,
One nether limb, abraiscd, distressed,
Hung through the armhole of my vest —

My pants were in the ring.

Our dinners ? Well, in shoit, were not,
Our hearts were sore, our laces liot.
Our leputation gone to pot —

That apjjle must atone
Kor net results, oin- wounded pride,
Oui" Imns and eggs in Ituttcr fried.
All safe and wai iii the dog's inside —

That apple left alone,

ANOTHER OLD AP/'LE TREE.

Soon Ijite alternatt) stained our lips
Of ^reon oiitsidf; and snowy pips,
^I'ill fiiif^^ers brown with acid drips,

Had fed us core and stem.
Let Mercy weep in Eden's l>ower,
If dwellers there knew more the power
Of evil, in temptation's hour.

Than we, then pray for them.

Ame's shoes, I know, were hole.s and rips ;
Dark crescents graced her finger tii)s,
jBug Love's sweet bow huno; o'er her lit>s,

And O ! her eyes were brown.
I know to-day the fruit was sour,
But ! 'twas Summer's morning hour —
And you may too have felt the power

Of eyelids drooping down.

And vou were there, and life was vounLT,
Nor erred in thought, in deed, or tongue ;
In stately pride and virtue strong,

braver heart than mine 1
But some have prayed while you have slept,
O'er sins unspoken, vows unkept, —
O'er soul in travail, wailed and we})t ;

Some nobler hearts tlum thine !

Go, change thy level liead for gold,
Thy hollow heart for mim^s and mould ;
Then bring it, pulseless, slimy, cold,
A cfift to Mammon's shrine !

4»; rARTElK

Who cares thv ))roth(3r goes unfed ?
In sbaiiK.' thy sister luin<^'s Ihi- IuukI ?
If tliou art clothed, and wanned, and led,
With purple, oil, and wine !

The years depart, their ghosts abide.
Like shadows dancino- on the tide.
Which waves soon carrv far and v/ide,

As leaves of that old ti'ce !
0, Amy, child, do you still know,
This bitter sweet of loni: ajjo ?
Or lies the little maiden low,

That brijigs those dreatiis to me ?

PARTED.

All night a wave iiad travelleti o'er the main,
And in the morning kiss'd the sunlit shore ;
The broken wateis baekwanl roll'd again,
To meet or mingle in that wave no more.

Through all the cvclinij- a.^'cs yet to be,
'The sever'd atoms o'er the waters ride ;
Nor shall they gather e'en on utiborn sea,
^JNeath newlit sun, to mingle with its tide.

Nor shall they meet again in morning dew.
Nor mists that build the palaces of eloud :
Nor painted bow, with all its golden hue,
Borne on the bosom of its own dark shroud.

PARTED.

A lily spread iis pL-tals to the sun,
Another morn tho lily was not tiicio ;
Its pure life's lesson and its lal)or done,
Its soul far Houtini^ on the trend.ling air!

Its irathered beautv from the earth and skv,
Its warm, sweet perfume, like a maiden's breath.
Had met and mingled, vani,-.h'd like a sigli,
And pass'd foiever to the reaUns of death.

At morn a rose hun*^ deck'd with silver irem,
At noon 'twas wither'd, of its (rraee bereft :
At eve the fras-'rance lin<^er'd round the stem,
Another morn, its place alone was left !

lily fair ! queen of your bright domain,
Where poets dream, and youth and beauty meet ;
i low quickly gather'd back to death again !
How rudely scatterd all that made you sweet !

bright, sweet rose ! on virgin's bosom worn,
F'air emblem of our life's short joy and pnin ;
Thy glory fled, why must thy lingering thorn.
Like love's dead dreaui and buried hopes remain ?

Of all the vanished niglits, must that too, fade?
So glad with moon and stai', and summer air ; •
And breath of flowers, and nungling light and shade,
For lovers sent, two lovers who were there.

They sang their hynni of Eden in the grove,
They watched the mooid^eams trend >ling through the
lenves ;

■jf

48 IWRTEI).

They drcaiiiM theii- dream, their Ha<], sweet dream f-i
love ;

'I'liey L^atlieiM only irieni'ry-Iaden slieaves.

Two hearts awoke to love's wild pulse of joy,
That yet must learn what pain such hearts can Ijear
When sire must weep above his slee[)ing boy,
And mother lay to rest a dau_<^diter fair.

They stood beside two lonely little graves,
Without a stone, they knew who slei)t below ;
Thev cared so little for what marble saves,
But could they only lift the veil and know, —

That in that heaven of pearly gate and street,
Of pure white robes and saintly s[)irits, there.
They too, should yet behold, and kiss, and meet
Those warm .young lips, bright eyes, and golden hair

They kept this solemn sabbath ot the soul,
In silent worship, with their hearts bereft ;
Then turned them sadly towards life's western goal
With Oh ! so little worth the livinc: left.

They wander'd outward to the shoreless main.
Love's dream, their youth, and summer's glory lied:
With hearts still lingering o'er the sad refrain,
Of music dying. Hope, the minstrel, dead !

A pilifrim rested bv a ruin'd tower,

Weary he waited in the twilight grey ;

All he had loved since youth till this dark hour,

The hungry grave had swallow'd as its prey.

.1/1' />/.A\/> J 10 ME.

Am<I parted, scatter'd far throu^li every clime,
\\\\\'v lusarts which dust to dust luid liaiided o'er
To the et(!riial cliaiJ<,'e of space and time,
Throuoh all duration's endless evermore!

:erii L'oal

MY ISLAND HOME.

siN(j not to me of your tropical ^dories,

Of the land of the orange, the tig or the vine,
riiough unclouded the sun may unsparingly pour his

Warm rays o'er its bosom, still dearer is mine ;
Still dearer the land which moss-circled dais}'-

And wild mountain heather bedeck with their bloom,
Where the hero still dreams by the brook, winding mazy

Among the green vales of his own Island Home !

[Among the green vales, where careless his childhood,

Untrammell'd by fashion, delighted to stray,
And twine on the hill, 'neath the shade of its wildwood,

A wreath to be worn but in life's opening day,
VA\' the fast rising waves of life's stormy ocean

Should leave him no more thus unheeding to roam,
>r the dark darinj]: strucfnrle of war's wild commotion

Divide him by death from his dear Island Home I

Where love's waking joys early taught him to ponder
On visions of greatness seen beaming afar,

uVnd hopefully led him, e'en erring, to wander
And gather a name 'mid the glories of war.

.■)(»

J/r ISLAXD llOML

Y(;t sini; not to ww, of licli sh'eains fioni vour mountains
Of your v.'illcy-i (jl'liaiiioiids or [irarl-ijildud foaiu,

For dearoi' to nic are tlio rilis from tlie fountains
Tliat flow 'moiiy the liills of my own Island Home !

'Mong the hills of my home, the land of my fathers,

The hirthplace of heroes, untrodden by slave,
vVhore Liljerty gems for its coronet gathers,

Mong names of tlie mighty, from rolls of the brave;
Wliere the rude minstrel's song in its wild rustic numbers|

Though to ])alo pedant lore and to science unknown.
Awakes in each bosom the soldier that shnuhers —

The glory to guard of his dear Island Home I

Of the land where the ashes of patriots sleeping,

Lie pillarless, left on the fields where they fell,
Yet safe rest the names from Oblivion in keeping,

That sacred to freedom in memory dwell I
And kindle a warm and und^dng devotion

In the breasts of her children wherever they roam.
Till " the green vales of Scotland " means one with emotioij

To eacii wandering son of that dear Island Home !

Where still from her valleys to laelody rising,

Sounds far up the mountain the bard's melting strain
Where fearless her children, oppression despising.

The terror of tyrants unchanging remain.
Then sing not to me of rich streams from your fountain^

Of your valleys of diamonds or pearl-gilded foam,
When dearer to me are the rills from the mountains

That flow thi'ouirh the vales of mv own Island Home

MOODS OF lU hWS.

MOODS or lUMJNS.

,()n1o Calciloiiiaii Society'^ Silser Meilal I'ri/.o I'oom. Awiudod

.Jan., lss:».)

Wkj.co.mi; fiiio Stratli, and ^dcn, an' touii.
Vviw. far an' near, frac Init ;in' lia';
I'm unco' fain as time hrinijs roini'
Thisnicht a^ain.to meet ye a',
Assembled here at mem'rv's ca',
To lirinLT tlie l)V-i;ane days to min',
And gather fiae the farawa'
The sao, sweet notes o' Auld lanLT ?>Nne.

Ye've come in honor o' our hard,
Tlie pleuLjhman o' the banks o' Ayr,
Wha sani^ love's joys and worth's reward,
Amid Ids heritage o' care ;
'Mid a' the dool he had to l>ear,
His heart still warmed at nituro's ca';
Wee covvrin mouse an' wounded liai'e,
lie was a brithfr to us a'.

Wha cares what spot ye ca' yom- hame,
Frae north to south o'er Scotland fair ;
Ye're loyal brither Scots the same,
Your passport this, we ask nae mair.
So l)id ye welcome a' to share.
In homage to the " soul of sono- ''
Wha left in trust to Scotland's cai'o.
The lame that must to Time belonir.

:)2 MOODS OF IWRNS.

Ye're maybe tVae the source o' Dee,
Fnio l>()nnie Doori oi- Annandale,
Frae Balloclunyie or I .I'aii^ielea, —
Frae Yarrow's holms or Lanark vale ;
Or maybe ye're frae Grief or Ciail,
Frae Aberdeen, or theie awn';
Still kitli or kintra's no tlie hale,
Ye ken "A man's a man for a' ".

Or ablins ye're frae Carrick side,

Frae dank loch Goil or Locher fell,

Frae Frith o' Foith or Strath o' ( -lyde,

Or frae Gleniffer's dewy dell.

If south the Tweed ye've chanced to dwell,

Or in the isle o' Tara's ha'.

Just keep that slily to yoursel;

Ye'U maybe, be a man for a'.

Ye're maybe frae the heathery hills,
Frae bauld Brae Mar, or Ben ]\Iacdhu ;
Sons of the moorlands, locks an' rills,
AHifjhIand welcome waits for vou.
An' ofin ye're manly, leal an' true,
Although our Bard has irn-en awa\
He's left ye lasses fair to loe,
Nae matter how your lot may fa'.

In his bright roll ye canna want,
Ye've Chloris, Maggie, Jean an' May ;
An' gin your beef or brose be scant,
Ye'll aye at least a haggis hae ;

MOO PS OF BC/yWS,

Then why to gruesome care gie way,
Gin hock or port ye canna prie ;
Ve aye can make ae happy day,
While ye line still the harley broe.

Ye're maybe but a pleughman lad,
That whistles lightly owre the lea ;
Then tak' your bonnet an' your plaid,
Your Nannie's at tlie trystin' tree;
An' she is fair an' voung an' free,
An' leal to vou through o^ood and ill ,
By Lugar's sti'eam she waits for ye,
Man! you're a monarch, come what will !

But mayl)e ye are auld an' grey.
An' doon the brae ye hirple slow ;
But mill' ye man ye've had your day •
Come biiTi John Anderson my Joe,
Your spouse sits at the ingle lowe,
An' she is croose and canty still,
Wi' blessings on your frosty pow ;
llaith John, ye hae na fared sae ill !

If death's siiell wintry blast's blown owre,
Love's youth its plighted joys to kill,
Your Mary's only gaen before,
Yon ling'ring star's abooii ye still.
An' roun' Montgommery's castle hill.
The flowers o' faith an' hope still liloom,
Life's purest joys I'ime caiina fill, —
Tis ])ut the dust that seeks the tomb.

MOODS or /yd/A\\'6.

Aniaii.n the iiiools Death wi-aps our cares,
But tlirough that gate we a' luauu gae,
The Cotter's hope, the Patriot's i)rayers,
Remain to cheer us hy tlie way.
But not alone life's o^loannn' urev,
For light to giM, we bless our Bard,
But Patriot tire, for manhood's day,
Oui' foes to meet, our ri^jhts to c^uard !

Then let invasion draw her blade ;
She'll find us strike as well as draw, —
They're nae a' dead, the Light Brigade !
Ha'e up an' at them Forty Twa ;
An' Coldstream Guards u]) an' awa'! —
Char<'e Enniskillen an' Scots Grev 1
An' gather Cameron men an' a',
Ho up ! an' rally Scots wha hao !

Brave Saxon brithren, while ye boast,
O' England's glory, England's gains ;
Oh reed ye ever a' it cost.
In Celtic fire and Doric brains !
When Scotia pays 'mid strife and pains,
The victor's death to honor due ;
Then 'mid her tartans' crimson stains,
Gives o'er the dear won prize to you.

Dear Scotia ! frae this western shore,
We look to thee across tlie sea,
With faith the stronger, love the more,
Because our Bard has sunii* in thee.

KriSTIAi TO A PLAulARlST.

\Vc know the u^lory yet to V)e,
Must iar<relv rest with t'hec an' thine;
An' bless for homes and altars free,
The great and good o' Auld Lang Syne !

. >.>

EPISTLE TO A PLAGIARIST.

F. Welleslit Porter, — Finn or Frank,
Or Fred, or Theophrastus Such ;
Pm wae to think 3'our silly prank,
Sliould pu' a l)ar<li«' doun sae n)iicli.
I wasna tapniaist i' the class,
1 stood a hittie down the raw ;
But didna think 3'e should hae less,
E'en had they gi'en ye goud an' a'.

I see'd ye had a classic stride,

An' high an' wide ye tiapp'd your wings,

I see'd, — I ken na what beside, —

Ay, gore, an' war, an' swords, an' things ;

I see'd much beauty in your san;r,

Poetic figures i'st they ca'

The host that dance in fancy's thrang,

An' a' her fairy pictures draw.

I glinted up, but vainly sought
To see your bird the cluds aniang ;
I heard its note, but little thought,
'Twad split its weasand wi' its sang !

56 EPISTLE TO A PLACIARIST.

I see'd your robin on the hearth,
Your lark I never see'd ava,
For wlien the/o«7 was brochtto earth,
My certes, it was but a craw !

Man, if the lass that loes ye best,
An' kens ye're sic a pawky dog,
Wad like a star upo' your crest,
Just hing your medal at your lug.
When she looks up wi' love elate,
An' thinks how much is in a name ;
Admit 'tis charming to be great,
But, oh, the slipp'ry paths o' fame !

If some wee laddie takes your han',
Wha ca's ye daddie, dad, or da,
An' wishes sair to be a man.
An' sees his model in his pa ;
Or some wee lassie, fair and sweet,
Looks up to you in winsome glee,
In whon:i her mither's smile ye meet,
Her mither's face, her mither's e'e.

Then tak your silver medal doun,
While they admire wi' infant pride,
An' think ye worthy o' a croun
(_)' laurel wreath, an' bays beside.
Life's flowery byways lie before,
The gilt an' glare bcda/e their eyes ;
They feel youth's tire, an' long to soar,
Ye tell them how to win the prize.

EPISTLE 10 A PLAGIARIST.

Ye teai;h them that to win a name,

How needless 'tis to sweat and moil, —

Ye ken a shorter road to fame,

An' wealtli, an' worth, than honest toil.

Ye ken the brazen jade pretence,

An' dawds o' cheek tak longer strides,

Tlian truth an' brains an' common sense,

An' often f^ain their end besides.

Ye choose your motto like the lave,
Let faith an' truth an' a' be lost ;
But from the wreck of Maidiood save,
The gaud, " Success at any cost !"
Let worth gae whistle to the win' ;
Let honor pack her kit an' sail ;
Let shachel-lefjfjit sham come in,
An' be successful, that's the hale !

lie Heigh, Porter, man, ye needna tried
The rhvmino britlierhood tae hurt ;
They hae that silly thing ca'd pride,
That keeps tliem maistly oot the dirt.
I'm fear't ye dinna read your Burns,
For there, that man's the man for a',
Wha's honest pride indignant spurns,
What touches honor's liiirhest law.

I hope ye're but a thowloss boy,

Wham some wild youthfu' freak lias led

To mingle wi' your base alloy,

The gems ye plunder'd from tlu; dea«l.

;")«

THE AGE or PROCRESS.

But iu)o' your wee ])it pride to liain'
I'll 8ay iiac iiiair, but just tak tint.
That after this the bairn's your ain
Afore ve kirsen it in iirint.

THE AGE OF PROGUESS.

The following extracts are from a poem writleii tome tlurty-nintj
years ago, when Spiritualism, Free Love and Phrenology, were at tlicirj
best, so far as the lecturers" harvest in thesK tields was concerned. Atj
that time I have known L. N. Fowler, O. Leroy and others give
courses of lectures on Phrenology, ^Matrimony, and kindred suhjccts,!
when it was ditiicult to secure sitting room at a Dollar a night in the!
Gait Town Hall, which I think would seat comfortably at least oW'
persons. The excitement consec^uent on these lectures gave rise to thej
poem, of which only portions are here given.

At that time, also, Slavery was an active living fact in American Life.j
which accounts for some of the allusions found in the poem.

This is the ai^e about, wliieli snores write,

Not saintly wholly, nor millennial quite ;

If superstition be to cloisters tied,

Knaves still survive, and foUv is not dead.

If progress high and wide her banner waves,

Its shadow tails upon a tliousand graves ;

From the cold face of the departed years,

She gathers gems, but finds them frozen tears ; —

Finds thousands toil, and sweat, and wee}» and wear,

To deck the palace of a millionaire;

Finds gospel fakirs* plant and spread their tent,

To save poo!" sinners at so much per cent.,

\)Wv

Wlio

Allot

Whil

Or s)

Or pi

*A pair of religious fakirs spoken of as converted Jews, struck tlie
Town of (lalt, about twenty-four years ago, and set all the religious

THE AGE OE PROGRESS.

■)«*

I)ivi<le the .spoils witli sharpers in the told,
Will) t;ike from I'avens cithei- hroa<l or gold ;
Allot one share, perhaps the church to paint ;
While one buys diamonds for luxurious saint,
Or swells his purse to cherish some abuse,
Or purchase silvei- for his table use.*

Oil yes! 'tis doubt and dread on every hand,
Who scapes on sea tMicounters sharks on land ;
Cowards with swoi-ds, and l)eL;-<^^ars in black co'its,
And all have bean is, -|-we catmot tell the goats ;
Lawn-throated thieves who scape a hempen cord.
Hut wait the Summer of a J)ives' reward.
We cannot, through hypocrisy and cant,
Detect the greatness of a bogus saint ;
The mildly good lack all the genius deep
Ot prowling wolves that pose and pass for sheej> ;
For who can judge of vice adorned in rutHes,
Tyrants in chains, or beauty hid in muffles,
Some masquers lavish hot, impassioned kisses,
On wither'd hags for sentimental misses ;

ipeople of \\w place l>y the ears. After a time tliey were tiiscovered to

! be thorough scoundrels, who over their hot brandy, laughed at the

gullahility of their victims ; ran jewchy and other bills, which they

never paid ; while one of tlu ui, some time afterwards, was reported to

be the hero of a notorious case of lietrayal and desertion, which took

I place in one of our Northern Counties.

*The famous Taiile Silver escapade, which took place a few years
hvgo, and came to light while the princip;il in the affair was posing as
|an Evangelist in Toronto, is a case in point.

tForty years ago it was thought to be very unclerical to wear a full
Ibeard or mustache.

TH?: ACE 01' PROGRESS.

Some take an heiress witli her |L,njl(l in barter,
And spend their future fencinf^ with a tartar.
-And to be mistress of the grounds atid cottage,
Some take the nursiiinf of a churi in dotMLre.
What of it all ? The money's liers of course,
Romances sometimes tiiiisli with divurce,
'Neath whose kind sway Misogynists luay bear
To take a trip on Matrimony's car.
And if they find the iourney lono^ or rouo-h.
Take a mild exit at some switching oft';
And when their troubles have ixone out of mind,
lienew the pleasure if they feel inclined.

O happN' age, when every theme is bright.

And every prospect jiromises delight;

If little sins should terminate in sorrow,

The great escape, and need not fear to-morrow.

Rejoice all ye who flourish pregnant purses,

Ye hold a passport from the two worlds' curses;

Well pleaseil with this, to lose the other loath,

And wisely grasping all ye can of both.

If now and then a stra<'<xlinij: sunbeam must

Pierce the soul's darkness, and disjday the dust,

What need that conscience grate beneath conviction,

While oil of Mammon will destroy the friction.

If sinners iini-liing a drunken revel,

Get midnight views of Hades and the devil '

And then his regions for prolonged enjoyment,

When earth denies them pity or employment.

*Tis not your crime, yoxi but the pi'ofits draw,

While Iheijy })Oor yahoos, have got drunk by law.

THE ACE or r ROCK ESS.

Well, liave them i^aoled, and jui^f^ed, for nicrcy sake,

()iir st'itntcH pnnisli crimes they hel)» to tnake.

If unwed iiiotliers seek some dark retreat,

Or tiiid !io mercy till a wiridiiiL,' slieet.

Let their betravt rs seek the ^loi'ious west,

All'! sijdv into reduudaiicy of rest.

Oi", Mniiiiii;' seers, console their victims witli

A late improved edition of Joe Snuth.

But 'tis not all a sinij-le-handed i^ame.

For ardent cliase can yield no conquest tame ;

T;i,ke one example, as some poiit says,

Oi" hopiilfss lovt,', the love of lattci' (h»ys.

Own Pedro dwelt l)eside tlie Susipiehanna,

Where saints ami sages whistle " O, (Susanna! "

Mis sii'e, a PortUL,nicsp of noble birth,

Loved a Madonna of Italian earth ;

A'ld with lier after to C^ohimbia roves.

When Don was born to seal their liappy loves ;

Thus he was s[)ning from two impassioned races,

With hearts as sentimental as their faces ;

But IteiuLj both a <>entleman and scholar,

His tastes era veil more and moi-e the nnirhtv dollar.

His hei'itiige but yielded scanty sesters,

Ti' cultivate ,\[onte Carlo or a mistress ;

Vv't was he styled a fascinating fellow,

Willi poverty his hell, his heaven duello.

Like many other men, or miids, or books,

Tlie world knew nofchintj: of lum, save his looks,

AihI thoso { Take first a face not Saxon wholly,

And eyes like Spanish maids', half melancholy ;

rilE Aiili OF PROGRESS.

Dark eyebiows arclieil, and a nose (.'iicassian,
Teeth almost pesiily, whiskers ahiiost Russian.
All this had touched tlie i'.tir, who never spoke,
So many liearts were wounded, some were broke.
Don, her'dless of tlie misehiet" he niii^ht make,
Moved heedless (jn, nor loved for mercy's sake ;
Till some assumed he must be sour or c<»ld,
And others fancied he was getting old.
Alas ! that fact unmasks the best disguise,
Don, all the while, was waiting for a prize.
So caught, at last, the fortuneduinter's fever,
Then passed the iceberg from his mood forever.

He left his home, 'twas said for recreation.

But wiser heads believed 'twas specuhition.

He sailed from Cincinnati in a ship

'J'hat peddled niggers <lo\vii the Mississip.

The master [)lied with tale, and joke, and laughtei',

Don learned the owner had a lovely daughter,

And that he was a planter, fast and wild.

And she, the daughter, was an only child.

Don's heart, or pocket, felt a strange unquiet,

Such feelings sometimes spring from change of diet.

But out on pleasure, not in haste, however,

He'd see the girl, she dwelt just by the river.

And to his f j'iend the master I he, if luck shone,

Might count some louis on an introduction,

Which came in course. Don Pedro met the lady.

The day was warm, but Inez's bower was shady,

And all as fair as lover could express,

By thought or wish to lead him to success.

rill: Alii-: (>!• r/<(h.Ri-:ss.

r,;;

On love's briijlit chessboard lio knew all the moves,
Of lead or follow, as the fair one proves
Self-willed or docile, prone to watch the hook,
Or yield uiiwoood, unwon, to smile or look.

Don knew each art tliat could .luiu.so or plase,
And played each part with subtle grace and ease.
He held love's coin, and multiplied its mairic,
Used all the ar^Miments in Cupid's logic;
He knew tliat Inez was a worthy prize,
So used the silent laoi^'uage of his eyes,
Which, added to the sweetness of his tongue,
Seemed fatal ordnance 'gainst a heart so young.
But when that fortress stood Vjy all unshaken,
Don felt impatience in his breast awaken,
So told his amorata the next day.
That on the morrow he must go away ;
Business was pressing, then sans fuss or fisiian,
" Inez," said he, " I hope you are a Christian."
This startled Inez, and his friends would, too,
For all believed Don Pedro was a Jew,

But when in love, whatever saints say of it,
The fair may worship Allah or his prophet.
But to our tale. Don Pedro could not go,
The prize was worthy, but the work was slow.
All subterfuge and idle play must stop,
Straight to the point, " Sweet Inez, may t hope."
Sweet Inez saw what he would be about.
And, half in pity, helped the fellow out,
Vet eoolly watching foi- some nobler game,
Denied, if ever she had felt a tiame.

f ti

77/A" ./(//-; Ol' r ROC R hiss.

Thin waR tho deatli-blow of Don Podro's bliss,
" Love's (Ircani is o'er, and brinies it only this,"
He said, and laid liis hand upon his heart.
" Inez farewell," said, too, with |)iincelv art;
And lastly said, when turninir to the river,
" Oh, cruel fair, I'lii desolate forever."

And so he seemed, for evenin^^ found the Don
Howling his disappointment to the moon
Beside the Mississi})pi, where he strayed,
Wrapt in dark purpose of a Lethal shade.
But yet 'tis hard to die without a name,
Unloved, forf^otten, melancholy, tame,
^Y hope forsaken, woman e'en unkind.
He })Oured his sorrows on the waves and wind,
And prayed the stars for pity. So began
Don Pedro's dark soliloquy on man.

" Thou silvery moon, thou mild attendant star.
Whose beams, commingling, travel from afar
To light and cheer this busy scene of man —
This maze of being without end or plan,
For what is man ? W^hat, even in his prime ?
A bubble floating on the sea of time,
Who, in life's morn, 'mid Hope's bright visions sings,
Nor heeds what sorrow from to-morrow springs.
But laughs and weeps with every change lie sees.
Like hour-lived insects floatino- on the breeze.

" Oh, Jupiter, of stern and awful brow,
Before whom all the other godlings bow ;
Whose throne is highest on Olympus' mount,
Ye nymphs that level at Castalia's fount,

Thou wilier'*! '>oy, wliose shaft has ])ici-co<l e o?i mc.

An<l thrown poor Sapplu) liciullon'^' in tlio sea :

Ve endless liosts down L<> AicadiMn I'an,

Who war and woop nnd dnncc juui sini;" for ninn,

Wliy must he Hn*' to discontent ami pain,

Why horn to act hut Death's dark scene aj^aiii ?

Why cursed with endh;ss hjOidnLf to ho i^reat,

jint still the playthinL; of uidx-niliuw- Fate;'

And last, Whv Fortune 'jjainst all hi'dier rules

Withholds her favors to bestow on fools ? "

<jr»

Thus Don continued in nusantliro])o mood,

Till wrath and i-ailing seemed to do him ,L;"ood,

For soon his back was turned to the water,

And all his passion for tlie planter s dauL,diter

Was turning too : for Don, alas, was human,

He wanted gold, but could have sjiare(l the woiniMi.

Dear languid belles, such are the parasites
That haunt your days and serenade your nights ;
Awake the hopes that vanish ere 3'our youth,
As do your loves, all false and fungus growth.
Which e'en in childhood springs around your heart,
' ' ' g and eating eveiy noblei" part,

' some bow which lonu' has idle Iiuult
soi old hall forgotten, not unstrung,
.V hen found its power to throw the shaft has tlown,
Its strength and elasticity are uone ;
And so \vith y the tears of maidenhood
O'er paper lo^- and paper heroes shed.
Take so muc. nsion that your bricfht ideal
heaves little v u-mth of love to .<^;pare the real,

77/ A" y/O-A' OF PA'OGA'JiSS.

And finds your lives tan)e, commonplace and cold,
When every feelini,' is by Art made old.

FOGIKS,

Friends, foes and citizens, lend me your ears.
I ask you not for syn\pathy or tears,
If this unchanijfeablo last stroke of Fate
Awakes not love it surely bankrupts hate.
You know this carcass here, that onlv waits
Tlie dead I nan's cart to pass it through the gates,
He was your townsman — Deacon in the church.
And taufifht his sons religion with, a birch.
High in his day, and very orthodox,
He knew the martyrs as contained in Fox ;
His creed was very short, but very st»'ong.
With reasons more tlian others, twice as long.
His labor ethics for their autlior speak
Twelve hours a day and seven days a week.
All other time gave generously away,
As July first, on twenty -fourth of May.
Behold him n-^w, no friend to claim his dust.
Interred by strangers, just as strangers must.

I will not ask, Had he a nobler part ?

How much of soul, liow much of head or heart ?

It proHts not I should on virtues dwell.

To you, long doubtful, let me therefore tell

How he, for long a figure on your street.

Lies low to-day and cold beneath a sheet.

'Twas thus thn final ending came about.

You ail remember, some too well, no doubt ;

Jas: !.(

In his b

W'hen St

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rnyieldi

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ciiai

THE ACE Ol' PROuRESS.

(Wheii tii'st the wave of Progress stiuck our town
I^Vnd turned our old-time notions upside down,
\h could not change nor act a second part,

10 power could reach his head or toucli his heart.
He raged, he fumed, he frettetl and he fried,
^riiey called him " [)oor old togie," and lie died.

lied *uiid the fierceness, froth and foam that springs
l^'roiii mad devotion to terrestrial thimi's.
Dieil thus : for forc(.'d aside into the cold,

found him homeless, friendless, feeble, old.
IVnd dazed and listless, on the Inisy street ;
IVnd wandering idly with uncertain feet ;
His stock awry, his garments thin and torn,
I^V stranger in the town where he was born.

lIu.s ! how changed from him we used to know,
[n his bright Heyday of the long ago ;
When steam was young, and progress had not come
To spoil his visions, and to strike him dumb.

Inyielding still, 'uimutabie as fate,
Too firm to swerve, too proud to change his gait.
^00 slow to learn, too over quick to know,
[Tuo prone to strife, to give or take a blow,
Keen in polemics, and in science sure,
L^ertain in all things, and in motives pure.

do reniendter when our town begun
lo learn about ihc planets and the sun ;
fcVheu wanderinif sau'e.s in our halls each ni'dit,
puulied out our candles with their stellar light;

<t u|) (Ik; spheres, th(» milky-way unfurled,
|\iid ciiungod its nebulosity to world.

THE ACE CI' /'A'()(;A'ESS.

To lum 'twas liuiacy of darkest dye,

Nor was there poverty of reason why,

He saw and knew, and felt, tln^ eartli was flat,

The sun no higger tlian a (Quaker's liat;

He knew the sun and stars, liow tar or near,

Were all to light our egotistic sj)here !

What thouorh the moon did sometimes iifo astrav,

And burn her waning rusldight through the day ;

What thouji'li slie sonietinics, too, forii:ot to liij'ht

Her little taper in the darkest night.

To him no barrier rose to strain l)elief,

What fault of his, if scieiict; came to grief.

He put it thus, '^ My friend you cannot feed,

A lusty offspring on agnostic creed,

Hence I approve and patronize the Devil,

And not a myth personitied, as Evil.

I hold a lake of brimstone flaming hot,

Is something better than just 'go to pot !' "

Oh worthy deacon, never in the lurch,
None ablin- foi.'ght the battles of the church ;
Alas ! that now a toot you cannot hear,
From Zion's towers or turrets, far or near.
Death's lusty breakers caught you on the hip.
And left you sti-ainhed like a broke»» s]n[).

Friends, thus it came about our townsman died,
Not cold, in want, nor comiorts unsupplied.
You will recall, I found him faint and thin,
Cohl and unclad, deserted by his kin;
A victim banki'ii[)t in tie' lace of mind.
Left by his febows many h'agues behind.

THE ACE 0/' /7vVV;A7:'.s\.

I \vt']>l t'» think the fogiu i.icu was o'ei',
Tiiathiciul tat faces must be seen no more ;
'Twas not liannonious, 'twould ineon^ruous seem,
iViiiong lank sliadows of a Pliaraoli's (hv;nn,
sorrowed tliat their honest work was done,
'or now the a;^^e of reason had be^^'un.

)ut what ! alas ! O must 1 live to see
race neglected, so beloved by me ?
[iVorse than nei^lected, driven from the stai^a>,

likI doomed to bear contumelv with aij'ti.
[t shall not be, for still Arcadian Pan
Is still a god, and still he cares for man ;

lieu see my cot on yonder mountain iflow.

i!)Ove the I'abble of the vale below,
^Vhere sun and shade in ])leasinL;' daluance play,

iiid streamlets murnnn- to the closinuf day ;
pehold my vineyard on its shaggy brow,

lIiiI goats that labor in my wooden j)l()w.
peliold my wine-press after Noali's motlel.
Wine to insjiire, but not contuse the noddle.

lit'liold my docks, m}' little mountain ni:nM,

lie guardian angel of the peaceful shade,
lu'liold mv wealth, mv couch of fraiiTant moss,
My home, my all, my ottoman of grass ;
^ly liow unerring, to procure you game —
Hi'^se, with my energies, your virtues claim.
I'lien come, dear fogies let us dwell together,
^\llat though despised, if dear to one another.
^'oniM lingering i-elics of a by-gone age,
LV)!ne to my cottage — 1 will be your page.

70 THE ACK OF rRO(}Ri:ss.

Pleased will I listen to yoni- midnight song,

Of deeds acconiplislied when your hearts were young

And gaze npproving at your rising joys,

As memory wakes the scenes when ye were boys ;

Or fancy paints again your happy lot,

'Mid rustic innocence to-day forgot ;

Till once again ye tread youth's sacred groves,

Bright with the visions of your vanished loves.

Or watch awlnle, awakened thought pursue,

Some darker theme to autumn's sombre hue ;

Till, 'mid your dreams, involuntary start

Tear« o'er some sad bereavement of the heart.

O come ! dear fogies in a strano-er's land,
Among a race ve cannot under.-tand.
Believe me almost sharei- in vour tears,
And glad to comfort your declining years.
No need to tell how much I leel like you,
My little maid feels all your soi-rows too.
Come, we shall watch around your dying bed,
And smooth your pillow, and atljust 3'our head :
And as the spirit leaves each honest breast,
Will lay a fogie with his sires at rest;
Raise o'er his grave a monumental stone.
To be remembered, if by v^ r'one !

'Twas thus we cared for, thus a fogie died ;

We closed his eyes, and laid his faults aside ;

Heard all his hopes, and witnessed all his jiain,

And knew we would not see his like again 1

(.)h ! brother, have vou ever seen the tears

Which mem'ry wrings from out the shroud of years i

THE AuK OF /'R()i;RESS.

Or li(.-anl tlic notes tliat vibrato o'er the strinLTs,
W'lieii second cliildliood to tiist cliildliooJ sinjjjs ?
They come so far o'er vanished time and space ;
Pass in such flashes o'ei* the aged face,
I You feel the world, where each lias but his day,
lias just one Spring, one single month of May ;
We rule to-day, to-morrow yield our place, —
Wo all are fogies, to the comino- race !

'(j)iiie bright improvement on the ear of Time ! "

So sunji the bard, and we improve the rhyme,

I'lnjoy the blessings his petition sought.

And more than love or mei'cy would hive brought.

IVngression's tide has to a deluge rose,

And from earth's bosom swept her di'eamy foes.

ilui'led priests and bigots to a comn^on grave,

And buried tvrants 'neath Oblivion's wave !

Hail bi'ight improvement 1 let the nations sing.

And some fair tribute to thine altar bring ;

Yes, let us sing, 'tis the progressive mood

To bow to everything not unde?stood ;

To live at ease, as always dreamers do ;

If others dream, let us lie dreaming too ;

(-'hange as they change, their systems all approve ;

'Slay what they hate, and worship what ihey love ;

Hail every Jehu who ascends the car.

Believe each Ignus Fatuus is a star ;

Declare this light is brighter than the ))ast.

And yield divinest honors to the last ;

Find each possessing some magician spell,

And wait on tiptoe for a miracle !

THE A(:E ()/■' PROCh'ESS.

Nor wait we long-^ nor over wait in vain,
Ten thousand rise our wondering gaze to gain.

To-day 'tis (iall, and unto Gail we cleave,
To-morrow (Jail and Spurzeini, too, we leave;
To-day we follow at the lieels of Combe,
Or after Fowler or O'Lerey roam !
Forever seeking what is strange and new,
Another name will make the same thing do.
' Pis all jirogression, yet 'tis passing strange,
That half our progress is hut love of change :
That words alone, if they be obsolete,
On placards ])osted ([uaintly I'ound the street,
Tinged with some glaring color; green or blue,
No matter what, if white Ite not the hue;
Will draw toiiother sinm^r, saint, and saire,
With all the wisdom of our boasted aw,
To list in awe, in silent reverie.
To spirit rap})ing and phrenology;
])isclose what nature would have done for man,
Had priestly something not opposed the plan ;
h\)v now his native impulses are thwarted
By Education, and by creeds distorted ;
Since still poor l)lindt'd, wonder-lovnng man,
Must W(nship sometluiig wliich he cannot scan,
And hide the beams of Nature's liofht beneath
A bigot's cowl, the sepulchi-e of tiuth,
Where Supei'stition rears her gloomy fane.
And countless, nameless, endless follies reign !

" Oh woman ! in our hour of eas(i or pain,"
Won't now apply ; sweet poet, try again —

THE AGE OE P ROC R ESS.

When pain and anguish gather round the brow.
I Revised edition, thus it readeth now ;
Oh lawless spirits, hither sent to tease !
Betimes to Hatter, spoil our hours of ease;
To make us dream a while of distant joy,
Then with a whisper all that bliss destroy.
Free from the rigid laws of right and wrong,
lln thought, in deed, in feeling and in tongue;
JFree to encompass with delusive art,
(Their latest victim, and ensnare the heart ;
And breathe on him their love and smiles together,
trhen leave their trusting dupe and seize another !

{^ncli were the rights to them by Nature left,
j\rh()ugh now by bigots of those rights bereft;
^ es, ])lundered foully of what Nature gave,
And made of man the drudge, the du})e, the slave ;
]>oomed to forego the lights once all their own,
^nd love and woi"ship but with one alijne.*

<oi' would less blessings be to man restored,
lie pride of earth. Creation's mighty lord ;
plough now degraded is that godlike form,
lud sunk, his majesty, beneath tlie worm.
et "twas not so by Nature's mild decree,
[an was created only to be free.
lien, wherefore, law, with marriage mockery bind
ihe free impulses of that master mind ^t

*It used to be a favorite maxim of the advocates of the Free Love doc-
hnn, that the marriage contract was binding only while it satisHed
Dth parlies.

" Washington, witli his high intellect and nohle moral character,
Pght. i() have been the father of a liundred sons," was taught by the
Ivoctttess of advanced Socialistn years ago.

THE AGE OF PROGRESS.

Should fanjjfled codes of any form control,
The inward promptings of that nohle soul t
'Twere weak to ask ; man was created free,
To reach the (^oal of moral destiny.

O ! glorious dreams of an enlightened age,

And glorious dreamers whom those dreams engage !

What high refinement must give birth to these,

What high refinement they come forth to please ;

How pure morality and common sense.

Must sit delighted 'neath such eloquence !

Nor e'en surmise beneath its genial flow,

The floods of dark iniquity below.

Is this the honored light from Science brought (
The golden gleanings from the fount of thought ?
Which promise peace and love, and bliss below,
And ought with age emit a brighter glow ;
Or is it but the course of folly run,
In madness endintj, visions so becjun ?
Launchinof the soul on doubt's unsettled wave,
And sinking Faith and Hope beneath the grave,
Leaving the bosom but a heartless void,
With all its secret happiness destroyed.
guard us angels ! grant us power to shun,
Those sin-born ravinj^s of deofeneiate man,
Who would the trammell'd soul's deliverer be.
From Superstition's night, and moral lethargy ;
Who would the spirit's wings of thought unfold,
And plume her pinions with undrossy gold,
Tb sink or soar, as passion rose or fell,
In sight of heaven, but never far from hell !

If 1
To XV.

Rest(
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Tin-: A(:e oi- i'R()uri:ss.

If licrc lies truth or li<j:ht, we ask no more ;
To us a*;ain our ignoiance restore,
Restore again our follies to our breast,
It" this l)e knovvlod((e, ignorance is liest !

Hush bats an<l vampires ! to your grottos crec}),
Your day is o'er, 'tis time ye were asleep ;
Your sway must end, your throne to earth be trod,
Xoi' vice, nor virtue, heed your drowsy nod ;
Cek'stiid messengers now cross death's tide,
And hack and forth, runs l)eaten pathway wide I

hail, bright spirits ! furtive glances cast.

To epochs o'er, to ages of the past,

Reveal how much to the decree we owe.

That leaves you now our sojourners below,

Clad in the brightness of your higher sphere,

And yielding all its heavenly i-adiance here.

Twas a oold thoui;ht, that <jather'd from the air,

The fiery current lawless flashing there ;

But bolder still the energies that laid

A cable down through Death's dark gloomy shade.

Now bearinii' here its messaws sublime,

From the far regions 'yond the bounds of 'I'ime ;

Disclosing' to us habitants Ixdow,

Some thintrs we don't and stjme we wish to know ;

Xoi' leave that mysteiy of all untold

Of unwed ladies, rap it out — how old '

Celestial visitants ! our gratitude

Should bless, at least, this universal good ;

Hail in each rap, a revelation sent,

And to each medium raise a monument I

<•>

taat

/y//i AUE 01' PROGRESS.

Ah ! when our sires wo ild lono-ingly look throii^'h
The veil that liid the death-land from their view,
Their fruitless efforts ended in despair,
And all their wishes in this hopeless prayer :
" Tell us ye dead, in pity let us see,
What 'tis ye are, and we must shortly l»o ;
But 'tis no matter, what the <,a'ave conceals,
An hour not distant to us all reveals."

Dear Jonathan, how much to thee we owe, *'

Debts long uncancelled on thy ledger show ;

Our endless catalogue of heavy bills,

For love-tales, anodynes, and [)atent pills ; —

For wise discoveries, whicli your forests yield.

And healin<j;: halms from lierbafie of the field,

Which meet Death's armies — Chilblains and Scrofula,

Proving Columbia, the land of Beulah,

Of which you happily retain the centre,

Where Death would be immortal should he enter.

Again, to remedy our special ills.

You are importers, well you know the pills

Whose claims to patronage the fair relate,

" And all but ladies in a certain state,"

That is, if married, otherwise the treasure

Is unrestrained, and all may act their pleasuiv.

O ! timely hint 1 how modest and discieet

Is Virtue worshipping at Mammon's feet, —

How pure her aims, how wise the counsel given,

How like her portals to the gates of Heaven I

Illustrious quacks! and newspaper physicians,
Half poets, conjurors, and politicians,

poc

Or, ever

The Gui

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THE ACE or PROGRESS.

Whose IVi^Midlv coimsi^ls iili dcli'.'^lit to meet.

Beiioatli ynui- poitniit on each vilhvi,^o street;

WhtMc • iinken eyes, dry phiz, and ]H)lh)\v checks,

Meet j'listic notions of old tliiidvini,^ (Jreoks.

O : liaj)py thvy for you and for the peo})le,

Which makes your wares as public jis tiu^ sttM'[)h' :

Vet soMie wcMi- \viinkh.'s, nu)se an }u-hi!i<j^ tootli, —

TIh'v it'ar youi- founts of everhastinue voutli :

Tht'v fcai' youi' jiovver nii^lit in;d«:e your proniisi' true,

Ami <dve the woild anothei* Wanderinix Jew !

And latlier take their chance throu'jli Hades' poitals,

Thau face the thouLjht of joininij^ the iuiniortals !

Ail, well ! you liave your dupes, — the prt»-^s is pnid,

A'id 'tis elysiuni for a love-sick maid,

< >!• ymith, to fall upon your bright effusions,

And tind liope revel even in delusions :

While the mistaken sutferer (h'eams he sees

A l»rio-hter morn in promises like these:

Ihi ! lead atHieted ! anew wondrous hook.

As medical adviser, or a cook ;

The pocket Esculapius for man;

Or, every one his own physician.

The Guide to Marriap^e ; gentlemen, take heed,

Think not of matrimony till you read !

Vliich of the ills and woes of married life

' inne from vour ionoi-ance about a wife !

A hook for ladies, sneeiallv desi<''ned,

Wherein the nursery duties are defined

hi a fauiiliar, interesting style,

With colored illustrations in profile.

THE ACE OF /'A'OfrA'ESS.

And WDudt'Uts, sliowiriL;' to the latusl date,
New swaddlitijr bands adopt(Ml by tlio gftiat,
Meant to improve tlie Hguie, liealth and stature,
And all accoidini,' to the laws of Nature.

() ! stupid ai^v, In uliicli our fathers fh^urished,

Kow could they thrive Mniid such <larkess nourislied '

flow did they find a mistress, or a trade,

And know so little of the heart and head '

How did they e\er eome alive to earth.

Or e'en survive a moment after birth ?

When nouL-ht lemains, not e'en their doctoi's bills,

To show the world what genius made their pills !

Dear Brother Jonathan, 'tis not so now ;

A marked improvement meets us, you allow.

See Radway, with his pestle and his bowl,

And Ayei- dis|)lay his s^^rpent on a i)ole,

The latter waiting to dispel our grief,

'i'he former always ready with relief.

See others, only spaiely clad in skins,

With miser noses reaching for their chins :

Not vainly pictured so, though gin and toddy

Have done what we ascribe to lengtlien'd study;

That during thirty years of meditation

Upon the troubles which infest the nation,

The\^ have forgotten fashion, so we take it.

And, in their innocence, that they aje naked.

These are the hosts who thwart the Kino: of Terrors,

Revive our joys, in spite of youtliful errors,*

* I believe the suggestiveness of such advertisements ofteu creates
the very evils they profess to cure.

Ill creates

/•///•; .^(;e of I'NiHiNFss. 70

Ami t'oruiir diinus — all, tluT*' tlic niai^ic! power is —
lu'vivo our dreams of Paradise and Hoiuies!

'Tis, .loJiJitlian, the ord(M' of tlie day
To ;i<ivertisc, and even devils may
Disjday their wares l)et'ore the puhlic <*ViAi^,
For who would advocate a muz/led press?
Ill tills hiii^dit age when present to our vii;w,
Aiv ocoan «'al)les, Spiritual, too ;
And o'lcat Harmoni(^as, which tell how souls
Klt'ect their exits through a vault's key holes.
Well we may now hy some progressive beadle,
Kind out it' angels perch upon a needle,
And in what nundjers, — little, if the sages
Should solve tlie mysteries of darker ages!

hear Jonathan, great thoughts take greatest flights.

And miijfhty bonfires dim the lesser liijfhts ;

We know the wisdom of our fathers' days,

Must all be hidden in our noontide blaze ;

Ours are Ingh themes, and bearino; sheaves along.

Ten thousand pilgi'ims swell the savant throng,

Which, if divided in pretence or name,

Is one in spirit, in effect the same ;

Now entertaining visits from above.

Explaining now the art of mnking love 1*

U, our poor sires ! how did you ever know
How to succeed, and not to Rondout go ?

* One .Tared Lake, of New York, wrote a book : " The Art of Mak-
ing Lovo," which was popular a (|uarter of a century ago.

mmoM

T///: /}(;/■: ni' I'RocRr.ss.

Hovv many stupid Uluiiders di<l you make,

Avoided now t)y reading Jared Lake ?

How many liarndess pleasantries, whose uses

And lialf-told hints from Venus and th<' nmses,

VVhicli mifj^ht have saved you many a wakeful iijojit ?

We now enjoy a national hi ith right,

But then your courtships little liad of love,

Perhaps your drawing-room was but n grove ;

Your carpet may have only been the sod,

Your statues ti'ees, and not the winfjed sfod.

Perhaps a grassy batdv your seat at noon,

Youi' l;unp at night not Luna, but the moon ;

Perhaps your hoidens romjied about the hills,

And lived m cottages and drank from rills ;

While wild tlowers only graced their lawless hair,

And home-spun skii'ts showed feet and ankles bare.

With these, wliose fancies free and lawless rove.

What need to leain the art of in^dcing love ?

No, sweet coy sliepherdess, who lead'st thy ilocks

By the loud tonent from thy native locks,

He who would woo thee, needs no ooher art

Than love's sweet theme, and language of the heart.

No sliai'|iened arrows brought fi'om Greece or Troy,

Go burn his bow, and hang the winged boy !

Dear envied belles, whose sentimental faces.
Are made to please when set in gilded cases ;
Whose fairv forms adorned in jifolden fleeces,
Must move just so, or else they go to pieces ;
Whose fancies keep you in a reign of terror,
Whose lives are sighs and curtsies to the mii'ror ;

THE jUn-: OI- PROCRFSS.

9>\

Whose tiny teet in silken .^iippers })ent,
Aiv not to walk, but just for ornament ;
Whose faithful lovers' coveted rewards,
Speak modestly from co?iversation cards,
'lit ? 1 i L'tdestial nymphs who only live and bloom,
Within tlie desert of the drawing-room.
What pi'iceless boons to you the ujods have broui^ht,
On wjiicli vour mothers never s])ent a thotiirht ?
What wealth of beauty could the heart desire,
Not now bestowed })y Boswell's Beautifier ?
("((uld Venus' iL;'irdle have im|)arted more,
Tluiii you possess in Roland's Kalydor ?
To make you )»oth a phantasy and dream,
Love's new compound of strawberries and cream.
()ii which lorn heaits in silent rapture gaze,
With love fast chano-innr from a smoke to bla/.i' !
O'er which fast knave both well and wisely nurses
His love for you, but always plus your pui'ses !
Alas ! fair nymphs, 'tis pity your i<leal,
Should Idse itself, and in so tame a i-eal.

SDear Jonathan, our theme is somewhat sa<l,
jAnd somewhat laughable by folly made ;
|Y()ur sanguine iio])es predict that wrong shall cease,
I" Men's virtue.^ with their kninvledge will increase'."
j-'Vlniost n axiom, Jonathan, I know,
But often doubt if time will prove it do.
Mail's a strange animal, and wliat he would be,
In other state, and even what he could be,
We cannot tell. Bv love attracted liei-e,
fViid driven there by hate, despair, and fear.
[' lie vibrates still between a snnle an<l tear."

.S2

Tin-: AC,]-: oi' rROi;Ri-:ss.

IJslierM lit3 is iiit<j a woi Id of tiouMc,

And cuuutless woes wliicli di>C()ntent must double,

Witli all life'.s dread reality of sorrow,

Insatiate still, and ever prone to borrow;

His jxriefs on hand are seldom found enouijli,

He adds thereto imaginary stutt".

His lighter ills may flee a d.rauL;ht of tansy,

FJut how dislodo-e the devils of his ffuicv ;

And those by heird(>m with his being blende(l,

As spleen oi' gout, from hundred Karls descended.

Tliey leave him not for Brunn or l*>aden waters,

Nor forest wines nor everlasting hitters,

They follow, follow like unlucky games,

Wldcli find a lethe in the Seine or Thames,

Or haunt him still, till life's last moment flies,

A life-long i)ilgrim on the bridge of sighs.

Well, Jonathan, I iind the houj- is late.

And iiow to thee, this strain I dedicate.

Perhaps 'tis tame, but yet upon reflection.

May point some matters tliat recpiire correction,

Before we start mpon our final trip,

From Sandy Hook, on the millennial ship.

I sav this all, with feelings of a brother,

And tell thee much, I would not tell another.

For I do love thee. Though John Bull, a donkey,

Can never see how Adain was a Yankee ;

Yet ere we part, permit one short (juotation,

We both admit you are a mighty nation,

And that your eagle is a might}^ creature,

The greatest l)odot*v<^r found in nature;

THE Ai;/-: ()/■' /'A'()(;a'/':ss.

A -lorioiis liird ; in fact, a seventh wonder ;

From tip to tip expansive as a condor ;

Ami thus enahled with a swoop ^•iL!:antie,

To I'cach from tiie Pacific to Atlajiti^^,

When on the Rocky Mountains set, its Iteak,

Set north or nearly, (fiv/uii^ from Pike's Peak,

It ivaches up to the Mackenzie River,

And preys upon tlie straij-glers I'roni Vancouver!

While, spreadino' out its leui^th the other way,

hs tail sweeps graceful o'er the MexitjUe I'av ;

And there it sits, youi- joys ;uid hojK's to nourish,

And hatch your niggers, bid your fVecMlom tlonrish;

Ind uuard vour virtues with a jealous eve,

Kxtending everything that ends in V.

Kence Jonathan, your libert ij , and (jlory,

Vn<i all such things as moiiey, territonj.

This last has made our heroes think if whether

Tliev should not U'et their old Hint locks toLcetbei' ;

And rusty swords, which liave not seen a iight,

Since last they tlourished them at Queenston ll«dght.

Ah wel] I Dear Jonathan, that tight is o'er,

And pray we God, tiiat we shall tight no more ,

But it* the future finds vour thiii; unfurh,'d,

We hope to stand with you against the world ;

The Union Jack, the Stars anil Stripes, an<l we

Shall join our little ensign, making three.

\\ ho reasons ask, shall find to axle i^rease,

riiat we are ready, be it war or peace.

Tis nudnight bells. The moon has veiled lu-r litrbt,

My sonix ii^ ^nnir. Dear Jonathan, tfood nii>ht !

.VOAV; /-OR THE SAD.

SONG F(VR THE SAD.

Written after the siege of Luc;kiiu\v.

Wftex the loud trump of waidneaks tlieslumbi.'i- of n{ition«,
And wrosts fi-om the peasMut tlic peace )ie enjoys,
How liarsli arr the jjhiudits, how ]>oof tlie obhitions.
Which (Jlory hestows for tln^ hliss slic desti'oys ?

'^rii()Ui;'h joy iiii^lit arise from tlie sliout yond the oceait,

I^roehiiiiiin}/ success to tlie arm of the V)i"ave,

The rapture is lost in the li<h* of emotion

'I'liat wakes for tiie tliousarnls wlio find but a L;i'ave.

Wlien ])rinces exult o'er tlie daring oT luuoes,
And kings condescend tlieir successes to praise,
'Tweie joy could the heralds of victory spare us
'J'lie low, saildened murmur that springs from the vale.

From the vale where ihe victims of war had (hdigliteil
Tiie pleasures of love and of fri'-ndsliip to share ;
Alas I when they sleep and their home>; are benicrhted,
Will glory bi-ing joy to the heart-stricken thei-e '.

Will olorv eidiven the jirot bv the fountain

Where Mary would fain meet her lover again —

Would hope tliat ere spiing has s])i-ead tlowers o'er thf

mountain,
His arms may embrace her, — would hope, but in vain '

Forfar from his kindred, unknown and neglected,
His corse uninterred must be left oii the jdain ;
While only the fame of the triumph effected,
Shall e'er reach his home oi' his Marv airain.

L O VI-: IX A COT TA GE. 85

Can f^lory, on her who is lonely lamentinf^
The sire of her children, co?itentnient Itestow ?
Will i,a'ief for the tinsel of gold he relenting ?
[Or P^ame luring a balm tor the torture of woe I

Ah, no ! with her home seeming cold, lone and dreary,

She lingers awhile to bereavement a prey ;
lAii'l silently weeps, like poor heart-broken Mary,
ITill called fi'om the scenes of her sadness away.

;!Yet onward, ye brave ! seize e'en passing glory I
It' all but the phantom the price should destroy,
Tlie winds shall waft- home to old Scothind your story,
'Ti.s all yc can leave the bereft to enjoy.

'Tis all, when invasion or tyranny gathers
KYouf sons to oppose, or their rights to maintain,
|<'au wake in their bosoms a soul like their fathers,
To act o'er the deeds ve have acted again !

LOVE IN A roTTAdK.

M li(tVi<: built a c(>ttagc, when tlie hea»"t was young,
Ht'side a hill, not distant from die shore,
No cumbrous trappings round the dwelling hung,
No superfluities of wealth it bore.
Not tliere had Art her boasted labors spent
t)n M'uiptured capitals or nuirbir walls.
Ami scarce but Nature any beauty lent
T" tile chaste bt.au ty of its snowy halls

'■^ *.

86 lA)\'h: L\A COT I ACE.

Wlieieiii no Raphael nor Rubens liuno",
Yet to supply tlie want (if sucli it were),
Aroun<l its poitals waiin May bhjssonis clung,
As if thev l(>ve<l and lived to Uourish there.
And clingini;' vines, by careful culture made
To furnish all that taste or fancy loves,
And fruit and flower around profusely shed
The pleasin^( fragrance of Italian <j;roves.

Not downy couches, teniptin,i,^ to lepose

A wakeful conscience, foi-nied its inmates' bed,

Whose weariness was not from wants or vvoes

By vice, jimbition oi- indulgence made,

But from glad hours in healthful labor spenc,

Which ready opiate seals the peasants' eyes,

Who, blessed with vigor, innocence, content.

To meet the morn refreshed and happy rise.

Not there had Fashion spread her subtle wiles,
But bla- ' Contentment, from her ampler store,
BestowVl 'ler favors with a thousand smiles,
Nor left a longing, nor created more.
And yet, unfailing as the seasons' i-ound,
W^ere countless Joys and | Measures evci' new.
Among the numbei- of her favois found,
Pj'ofusely lavisli d on a faitld'id b^w.

Who, "ft unknown in eircles of the ureat,
Partake unmeasured of tliat purer joy,
Which, inid the didl satiety of state,
Not long <'an tjouiisli or is ever coy.

I.ni'F r.V .1 CO'ITACF

Though Heaven, iiiipai-tial. every ^ifl be.sLow,
^^X sehlom meeting neatli the loi'clly dome,
Sueli peace and happiness untainted flow
As knew the inmates of this eottacie homo.

Het'ore whose |)()rtals, pleased, the noonday sun,
Half linLcering, waits his hrii-htest smiles to she<l;
And morn's fii'.st musie of the grove begun,
Calls flow'ry spring her liehest gems to spread,
ilei't', less for magnitude than heauty known,
A spi-ending vale where Ceres' bounties o-revv
In all the [»romise of the season shone.
Inspiring hope and yielding pleasure too.

And near in vi(3W the valley gently rose,.

And formed itito a niddly sloping hill,

Where evening zephyrs latest sought repose,

And from its bosom tiowed a o-entle I'ill.

Where earth's first fruits, to life and beauty sprung,

And summer's berries grew, invitinof, cool,

Where fruitfid autumn on the hazel hunjr

Hoards for the vagrants of a neighb'ring school.

And, brook-encircled, out in richness spread
A verdant holm where herds were left to stray,
Which Edwirj's labors through the winter fed,
Vy\\i Nature feasted <a'li leturninu- Mav.
When Emma s toils — tou welcome to be care —
Amid her flocks at early dawn begun,
Pleased of the grove the waking song to share,
And join the iat<»st to the setting sun.

SH /.Ul 'A /.V A C '( ) T7\l ( /A".

Here Edwin dwelt from fancied .sorrows free,
Unknown to avarice or want's alarms,
Blest in possessing health and liberty,
And happy monarch of youni^ Emma's charms.
Whose artless beauty, to herself unknown,
A warmth and sweetness to its mai^ic lent,
Which now, from faith and love diviner grown,
Dirt'ijsed a grace o'er every lineament.

.\
A

And here, to strengthen all that love endears,
Approving Heaven the choicest blessings sent,
When happy Emma, mingling hopes and fears,
Knew a' theraptui'es to glad mothers lent.
And Edwin, too, with unatiected joy.
Few moments knew like those when left to trace
In kindling features of their infant bov
The radiant beauty of his Emma's face.

Oh, happy Emma ! hap))y, happy pair !
Unknown to all the vanities of life,
Unknown to pangs of self-created care,
And sordid Mannnon's never-endini; strife.
Remote from cities in your liumble hall,
All-bounteous Nature every want supplies,
Nor heed what ismpiie may arise or fall,
What sage may ilourish or what monarch dies.

Yet not to hopeless ignorance consigned,
For Edwin mystic science has a charm,
Ri( h in th(5 native enerofies of mind.
Chaste in desire, although in leeling warm.

I. oil'. i\ A cor/'/i;/:.

Some patriot V)ar<l to claim his evening hours
AiiKjH'i' the treasures of his homo remains,
A hite, from which the sweetest music pours
When Emma's voice can minjjfle with its strains.

Kl>

Oh sacred happiness ! too little known,

Too oft unvalued, for a bauble lost ;

For gold, ambition, or an empty name,

For gilded greatness, worthlessness at most,

Which ever fails to yield the promised joys,

Or fancied pleasure, impotent to bless :

Familiarity the glare destroys,

And leaves their value by possession less.

But gold, like other dust, in Edwin's eyes,
Ambition too, had little but the name,
Unless from Emma, often ling'ring nigh,
To gain approval, happly waked the liame.
Nor could he learn wherein the greatness lies.
Whose highest merit springs from bii-th alone,
Or bought perchance for sycophantic pi'aise,
Bestowed or barter'd round a monarch's throne, —

Where Edwin's thoujjfhts had never sought to rove,

Nor Emma's fancy e'er excursions made,

Mich in the joys of undivided love,

Not purer found than in their cottage shade ;

Where not to monarchs were they forced to bow,

Who, of a titled majesty bereft,

And the vain trappings of a gaudv show.

May have but little to commend them left.

! »' • /.Ol '!•: IN A CO T TA C.E.

r.iil Holder far, uiilo tlif \\\\vi nC Kiiiiis.

III _i^''la<l alloLrianco t/1u.'y sultmissiNc Ix'tkI,

'I'd lliiii tlicii- »'}U"liest mornino- aiulieiu spriiii^x.

A-inl t'VL'uiTio's latest sf)n<jjs of praise ascend.

On wliicli tlieir s())j1s in lilr^sM conininnion ri-e ;

And, tor a season leaving- eartli behind,

Kaitli to tlie home of many liiaTisions ili(>s,

Whore faith and hope their full iVuition lind.

W'^here all their hi^hei- jovs convei'ti'inii; meet,
\Vher(^ eveiy carci is banished from the breast.
Where lo\a^ aspires to happiness complete,
Within the city of eternal rest.

Where strife, and pain, and earth-born troubK-s eeast>
And Mammon's all absorbinir swav is o'er,
Where reij^^ns the once I'ejected Prince of Peace,
Where earthly monaichs stndy war no more.

Siicli were the hopes that lighted EduMii's breast,
In wliich his Kmma equal transports knew;
H(^pes left by years untarnished to the last,
Wldcli brirliter Ihnnislied as thev older yrew.
Sucli was the wealth the changing seasons brou:;^U,
As on thev floated down the stream of time ;
Such weie the joys with highest promise fraught,
Which Faith had treasured in a l)etter clime.

To mete with these the lauded joys how vain,
Or envied pleasures of the worldly great,
Whose short-lived revelry oft ends in pain,
Whoso stoi-es of wealth, but cares accumulate.

LOIE L\ A COTTAGh:.

Aii'l f"i' iln! vanritf'tl ;^noatii»'Ss tlifv Ih-Ikw,
( )r t'livied glittt'i' tliey avvliilo control,
Impose perchance an equal vveiglit of woe,
Or lilastthe nobler feelings of the soul I

Tlu'ii wiiatis all that I'lchcs ever i)rouu;ht?
The ^^i'hly joy, the llowery wreath of fame ?
The dark creations of niisofuided thouofht ?
Ambition's pri/e, the magic of a name I
llut visions, baseless, cold, that cannot yield
To tlieii- possessors happiness supretne,
When " vanity of vanities'" revealed,
Leave but the phantoms of life's fitful dream,

That lure along the power-enamoured tiaiii
Ot'monarchs, heroes, conquei'ors and Icings;
Who reap their harvest in the guilt and pain.
At the last goal, which disappointment brings ;
W^here dark despair counts o'er the seasons lost,
With dire compunction gnawing at the breast.
Or broods in silence o'er the troubled past,
O'ei- pander'd innocence, and vanished rest.

Then hail, sweet peace! and flourish, humble cot,
Where Edwin early waked to meet the morn ;
Long may contentment please him with his lot,
Louij may his breast remain by care untorn.
And. long may Emma know unsullied joy,
Through all the changes of life's shifting scen<.»;
May no rude blast the happiness destroy,
<H' joyous Edwin's graceful cottage queen.

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Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

33 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

)

C/j

92 THE HArrV DA YS OF OLD.

And hail, mild joys ! that ;^Iad life's lowly tniiri,
Long, long, may Spring her verdant beauty spread
Around their dwellings, Summer's sun and rain
Enlarge their stores, and Autumn yield them bread.
And as they journey towards life's setting sun,
As one by one time's passing beauties fade ;
Be still their bosoms as when life begun,
Like flowers still fragrant when the bloom's decay 'd.

And hand in hand may they together go
Up o'er the summit, down life's sunset hill.
When, travel- wasted, weary, worn and slow.
May faith, and love, and hope, grow brighter still.

fair, fair cottage by the woodland set.

With grateful shade, sweet peace, and azure sky,
Long may love flourish in thy mild retreat, —

1 say, farewell! but leave thee with a sigh !

THE HAPPY DAYS OF OLD.

Dear Wifie, back o'er thirty years,
I trace Time's rapid onward flow,
Still would I, with its pains and tears,
Live o'er again our long ago :
For I have gather'd by the way,
Perhaps some glitter, but some gold,
And still would have my treasure stay.
From those bright, happy days of old.

THE HArrV DA YS OF OLD,

Dear little wifie by my side,
1 often look when you don't know,
An<l think you still my joy and pride,
As in the days of long ago.
( >, Love is ever, ever vouui; !
His willing worship never cold ;
Devotion flows from heart and tongue,
As in the happy days of old.

Dear witie, seasons change and shift,
The old depart, the younger grow.
With here and there a relic left.
As you and I, from long ago.
Time writes his record o'er the face ;
But though by cheek and eye 'tis told,
The heart is still love's dwelling place.
As in the happy days of old.

Dear wifie, we have fashions met,

And cross'd, each seventh year or so ;

But true hearts are in fashion yet,

As we had found them lonjx ajjo.

And through our toils Hope lightens care

No change in this the years unfold,

Hope is in season everywhere,

As in the happy days of old.

Dear wifie. bang nor ))ustle yet,
Nor tresses frizz'd, had you to show ;
Back from your pure, brave biow they set,
As in the days of long ago.

THE HAPPY DAYS OF OLD.

If through those tresses winters' chill
Have woven silver in oheir fold,
Love holds within his mirror still,
The tresses of the days of old !

Dear little witie, youth has tied,

And that means much, so mucli you know,

When mem'ry feeds upon the dead

But happy days of long ago !

Yet though 'tis pleasure dull'd with pain,

Our joys are often still retold ;

We taste the hours of bliss again,

We knew in happy days of old.

We had not wealth of gold nor lands, —
Just love, with little else to show ;
But then, brave hearts and willing hands
Were counted something long ago.
We waited not for wealth to come,
Till hearts grew faint and love grew cold.
But built in faith an<l ho{»e our home
In those bright, hapj)y days of (jM.

We wore the cloths onr mothers spun.
The cut or fashion^ Not for show.
But they were in the fashion then,
When we were lovers, long ago.
We gather'd at the rustic ball,
N*>ne lieeded iiistancc, storm, nor cold,
For youth could change to suiiuner al)
The winter storms of long ago!

77//-; HArrv days of old. 06

We wander'd home beneath the stars,
Across the pure, untrodden snow ;
If time has left us wounds and scars,
They cann'>t hide that long ago.
Your hand lay trustingly in mine —
The glove unneeded, may be told,
For heart or hand has not been thine
Since that bright, happy night of old.

Those Heaven has planted round our hearth,

In love and joy. we've seen them grow;

And watch 'd with pride their truth and worth,

And bless the days of long ago !

And though we have affliction tried,

The fire that purifies the gold

Has left our hearts e'en more allied

Than in the happy days of old.

Our tears have mingled o'er our dead,
That silent lie beneath the snow.
We death's pale flowers of anguish spread
Above their graves, long, long ago I
And now we only stand and wait
Till life's last solemn hour is tolled,
But cherish to the latest date.
The happy, happy days of old I

li'A VrARKRS.

WAYFARERS.

Darling, sitting by my side,
While the shadows longer grow, —
Fearing, waiting, hy the tide ;
Shrinking from the hour to go.

Hither, up from love's bright morn.
We have travelled hand in hand ;
One alone must cross the bourn,
One stand weeping on the strand.

Like the millions gone before,
Each must pass into the night ;
Outward to the silent shore,
Only hoping for the light !

In the future yet to be.
Darkness, death and doubting o'er,
Shall you, darling, wake with me,
Earth's sad longings felt no more.

Or shall we there, as here, enquire ? —
Find there still a vast unknown ?
Tlas that world, though purer, higher,
Still some mystery of its own ?

SUNSET OX LAKE MANJTOU.

ft]

SUNSET ON LAKE MANITOU.

Come some wizanl power,
Bid the cloudlets rest,
Bind tlie sun an hour,
In the <T^olden west.

Stay tlio dyincf day,
Catch the eveniui' sonsf ;
While the zephyrs play,
Bear the notes along.

Drive the shuttles pale,
That from beams of light,
Weave a silver veil
O'er the waters bright.

By the margin still,
Where the ripples meet.
Catch with painter's skill,
Children lave their feet.

Calm the thoughts that rise
From a soul's despair;
Voice the hope that sighs
Through a maiden's prayer.

If she idly rove.
If the heart be sear,
If she dream of love,
Mav it not be here <

SU\S/ir ox LAKE MAXJTOC

Amy by my side,
Dry those tears I see ;
When this world so wide,
Hohls but you and nie !

Gazing in thy face,
In tliose eyes so blue,
This is not tlie place,
For a si^h from you.

Sorrow near or fa\-,
Cannot reach us here ;
Neither peace nor wai',
Bjings us joy or fear.

Here we have no past ;
To-morrow's clouded brow
Here no shadows cast, —
There is onlv now I

Weep you since the Mowers
Only last a day ?
Tn this world of ours,
Nothinjij con\es to stay.

Altar touched with fire,
Kiom the torch of Heaven,
Flames not brighter, higher,
Than the moment given.

Shrines our souls may frame,
Where we incense burn,
Will not be the same,
Jf wo do return !

SUNSET OX LAKE MAMTOU.

Yet from deepest pain,
Purest joys we kiss ;
Througli what years rumain,
We shall turn to this.

E'en the evening grey
Of life's sinking powers
(yannot steal away
This bright day of ours !

List the tinkling bell
On the rocky height I
See ! adown the dell^
Creep the shades of night.

Spectre forms awake,
Move among the trees ;
O'er the sleeping lake,
Sighs the dying breeze.

Darkness deepens o'er.
Lamps of heaven are lit ;
On the farther shore,
Night-born phantoms flit.

Silent lips must take
Here our heart's adieu I
Out into the lake
(jlides my bark canoe !

100

H'AJTJA'G.

WAITINC;.

Hv the dark ocoan of the silent .shore,

Of which we know alonij^ the liither side,

hut one small inlet, where the stranded soul

Was drift ashore, to earth's captivity ;

To chafe throusj;hout tlie hours, and days, and years,

Of time's probation, it is left to fill,

In mute rebellion 'gainst its exiled state ;

Dashing itself against its prison bars,

Till torn and broken with the bootless strife.

It takes the hue and form of earthly things,

And sinks to dumb endurance of its fate :

As monarch eagle of his pinions shorn.

And vainly longing for his wastes of air,

Must feed on carrion he would else despise ;

Or like wrecked sailor on his barren isle.

Treading the sand with weary, noiseless step,

With longing glances cast across the tide,

To meet but phantoms, whence no answering call,

Or echo ever to the shore returns.

So, on life's narrow isthmus where we stand,

To all the spirit's longing that goes forth,

No voice from out the eternal darkness comes

To calm this busy seething scene of man.

Till the })oor famished soul must feed on husks

Of gold, or fame, or crude philosophy.

Or piety in party-colored vest,

That kills the spirit, wears its longing out,

And builds its heaven on this narrow shore ;

Till, looking upward to the silvery stars,

TOO I ATE.

The >.oiil's (Irovvii'd senses hear no voice that calls
A<Iowii the long and silent lanes of blue ;
Hut sinks in drowsy letliar^'y in deatli,
To rise reanimate no more in time !

101

TOO LATE.

Thky met, seemed by chance, in a <!freen shady by-way, —

A fragrant oasis where pilgrims might rest;

Remote one short stage, back from life's dusty highway,

Where day folds his wings, as he sinks in the west.

He was worn, for tlie travail of years liad gone o'ei- him.

His garments were faded, his sandals were torn ;

The desert stretch'd cheerless behind and before him,

And Hope gave no promise to brighten the morn !

She was young,and more fair than the vision that frightens
A saint at his prayer, when an angel comes down ;
And pure as the angel that gladdens and brightens.
The j)Oor homes of earth ere receiving her crown.
God made her the fairest and best ot His creatures.
Gave a heart for the temple of worship and love,
And moulded her form, and chiselled her features,
From model the seraphs might envy above !

Her eyes were the blue of the calm evening heaven,
When washed by a shower, and the sunlight breaks through.
And the Hght, and the calm, £ J the tear-drops are given.
To kindle, and brighten, and soften the blue.

102

TOO I. ATE.

< )ii luT lipH was a .smile, that, hnd iollowiMl from rliiMii()(».l;
The puro blush ofj^irlhoo*! ;^avy warmth to hor check.
From her lieart rose the soft, Ki^^hin^ notes of the v^ il«l woikI,
Ijike zephyrs and sun.whine in music tliat speak.

Thus slie stood in tlie (hiwn, 'twixt life's sprinutinu; \k\v\

sunnner,
ThecldM fast departin;,^ the woman in view.
With her jovs, and hei* cai'es, and her hopes come upon her
All waitini; in tears to hid fdrlhood adieu !
So they met all alone 'neath a palm in the desert,
To rest for the night, and to wait for the morn : —
lie old, with his lifes dream of love still in his heart,
She young, with its joy and its pain still unhorn.

Hers the face and the form for which his soul hunger'd,
His boyhood and manhood in visions had seen :
His heart's dream of joy, o'er which mem'ry linger'd
Through hope's .sad refrain, of what life might have heen.
And he gazed on the vision that God set before him, —
The pure, and the young, and the bright, and the fair ;
And a fear and a joy, and a silence came o'er him.
Love's last fateful striving 'twixt hope and despair I

Then his hair which was grey, Ha.shed the hue of the raven;
From his face pass'd the traces of age and of pain ;
And the locks on his forehead were jjlossv and wavcii, —
He just for a moment touched boyhood again.
Then his brain struck a chord on the border of madness,
His heart beat the pulses his manhood had known ;
And the red tide of life roU'd in torrents of gladness,
Along the worn channels, their youth had outgrown !

TOO I. A TK.

lo.'{

tiuu; HiKi

lit' aro*<o. froMi h»M' luow niist-.i tli»' soil, silkon tresst's,

On lur piiro iiiai<li>n lips prts^M a lover's warm kiss,

lint no blush on her cheek rose to meet his caresses,

No svj\\ from her heart for a rjipturo like this.

'Www he know only vontli can he matcMl with heiiutv,

Th.'it manhood an<l strenirth seize the vounf; und the fair

And he laid his thjad heart on the altjir of duty,

And ci'ushed thronj'h his teeth the low wail of despair I

Tlien the hlackness of darkness huni; nail-like hefoi-e him
Aii'l paradise closed while he stood at tlie Ljate,
And the death-sif^h of liojie like a spirit passed o'er hini^
And moane«l throufj^h the silence, "Too late! Ah, too

late : "
lit'ie, standinfj alone with his life's love unspoken,
O'er his face passed a shadow the t^ods weep to see,
When tlie ashes of death were in silence unbroken,
Shed deep o'er the grave of a love coidd not be.

Thus he drained his deep cup fiom the waters ot Mara,
And tierce o'er his soul drove despair's chilling blast,
On th<' cold winjjs of death from his life's bleak Sahara,
Where his cross had been borne and liis Calvaiy passed.
So lie laid himself down, but the Death-wave retumiriL;,
Passed o'er him, too weary and broken to weep,
Hut he slept, and the songs and the music of morning
Disturbed not his dreaming and broke not his sleep.

But she wandered awav to the latid of tlie summer,
To leather the flowers that were strewn in her way,
!And leck'd not the love amid life's glare and glam«;r,
Of the cold broken heart in the desert that lay.

(-1

I^^B

104

nUESTIONINGS.

Oh ! why hut the apples of Sodom that perish

We gather from life's long devotion and pain \

For the love and the faith which our hearts fomlly

cherish,
Why only the husks and the ashes remain ?

QUESTIONINaS.

Forty years" ago to-night,
Toss'd about like ocean spray ,
From the winos of time alight,
On the shore a bubble lay !

Bubble or immortal soul,
Reached the ecstacy of pain ; —
Touch'd at matter's highest goal,
To return to dust asrain.

Down the cycling ages come,
Whence the lines converging meet,
Lords from pale Ascidians dumb,
Or the oysters now they eat I

Souls are sublimated clay, —
Strange artinities of earth,
Mixed and mingled on their way
Upward to a spirit's birth.

In the transit, — clo<l to thought,
Conscience, Sin and Death are l»orn,
And their douhting chilh'en brouirht.
Firstlinirs of terrestrial morn.

r>'

105

'I'hen, tlie " elouds of glory," all
Leave some (jnestion t!uit abides,
Eternity is what ? A p.ill !
Time supplies the dead it hides.

P]arth, the origin and end,
Who would, being, thence, explore,
Finds the path through death extend
To a sea without a shore I

Finds to Seraph Choir sublime,
Through each note an echo calls, —
" Fate and Chaos, Space and Time,
Lie without the jasper walls ! "

Questions may in heaven arise, —
There may be some grief to bear ;
Actions neither just nor wise, —
Choice and motive even there : *

Some high purpose to fulfil,
Worn-out worlds to build anew, —
Power and wisdom brooding still,
O'er the wisest thiuir to do.

" And it repented the Lord that he had made man on the earth,
kd it grieved him at his heart." — Gen. vi. tj.

100

AT rilh: CLOSE OF THE />AY.

Earth-born souls still hi^'her, liii^lirr,
Fitjin th(/ir low estate to raise ;
Bmnisliod thiouf^^li atHiction's tiie,
Kiulini^'' ill celestial praise !

AT THE (/LOSE OF THE DAY.

Hail ! youth's joyous dreaiiiiui^^

With rainbow hues beaming;,
To light up the steeps along life's rugged way,

VVhere the tracery lingers

Of Hope's fairy fingers,
Among tlie bleak j)eaks till the close of the day !

'j'hough the schemes of and)ition

May fail of fruition,
And honest endeavor seem scarcely to pa}'' ;

Though poverty's canker,

And toil's pain and rancour,
Should darken our joys till the close of the day !

Still far down the valley.
The bright visions rally, —

Though Autumn belie all the promise of May,
Still come they intruding, —
On the weary heart brooding, —

Hope's oft broken vows, till the close of the day !

And all our sad yearning
O'er wisdom and learning,
And Fame, that still dallies in doubt antl delay,

AT THE CLOSE OE THE IKIV. 1(»7

Finds life's sun, it" sliininL:',
Too surely (IcclininL,',
111 the (lull, hazy West, at the close of the day.

And poor, waning beauty

Finds love chMnL,^'.(l to duty,
Hut not the devotion the hfait used to pay

At the shrine of affect ion,

Where jtale recoheetion
Uathers hrovvn wither'd leaves at the chjse of the dav !

And thus disenchanted,

The cheek is pi-esented —
To claim the sweet tribute the li[)s use<l to pay !

Oh! why should we ever

Awake to discover
hove vanish'd afar ere the close of the day !

Where x\ge thus has found us, —

'I'he desert around us,
And gods we had worshipped turned idols of clay ;

We build our new altars,

Where faith fails and falters,
TliDUgh Jrlope follows still till the close of the day.

Here the praises are chanted

Of Duty, and vaunted, —
Her pale Arctic light, and her cold frigid lay :

But oh ! to restore us

The light that shone o'er us
When youth took the path at the dawn of the day!

I OS

AT rill': CLOSE OF THE DAW

Our riches fill seeinini;

All Iji-iixlit, golden dreaniing ;
Still wealth all eiidiinni^, if youth would hut stay-

With past pain for[(otten,

And ills that might threaten,
All hanish'd afar till the close of the day.

Proud lord in his carriage,

Our lot might disparage ;
We heeded him not, as we trudged on our way.

Youth's flowers were all witlier'd,

Long, long, ere we gather'd, —
That death equals all at the close of the day !

Distinctions and stations,

We thougiit thu ohiations
Bestowed for the homage which fools had to pay ;

By us not regarded,

For virtue rewarded, —
Her meed would be ours at the close of the day !

Fair motives to guide us,

With youth still beside us ;
But wanting, with sorrow and sickness at bay, —

With age creeping o'er us,

And nothing before us
But toil, weaiy toil, till the close of the day !

A aA\-L\7Ks7A'/-S C//RISTMAS.

low

A GRANDSIRE'S CHRISTMAS.

II K dreaminnr sits in easy chair,
From wants and care's intrusion free,
Time's silvery frost-work through his Iwiir,
His children's children by his knee ;
Gold's trophies round him, wealth and art,
Bright treasnies of the head and heart,
But what awakes love's after glow,
Amid his sixty winters' snow ?

'Mid youth and mirch he sits alone,
'Tis distant music greets his ears ;
Long changed to softest monotone,
Through mellow ;.adence of the yeai.s.
'Tis other boys and other girls,
Touch auburn locks and golden cuils ; —
The faces now that round him glow,
Are faces long beneath the snow !

potent memory ! thine the power

That wakes the joys too sweet to last,

And centres in a single hour,

All the glad radiance of the ))ast ; —

That trembles on the grands! re's lips.

And reaches to his finger tips ;

And brings him loye's warm aftei-<dow,

Amid his sixty winters' snow.

While all forgotten is the pain
That spread itself athwart the years ;
Ah ! is he not a boy again ?
And knows his happiness in tears.

no .4 (7A\1.\7\'^/A\'-:S CffR/STM.lS.

Ife sees the little garden gate
Where he had liMgei'ed long and late,
And knows love's pure s\\\et after-glow,
Amid his sixty winters' snow.

Forgotten ! Yes, state, power, and ;^(»ld,
Anihition's guerdon — vain re^;ret, —
'Jail windows drapM in erinison l'<)ld,
And l^arian vase and statuette ;
For when, from o'er the silent tide,
Beside him stands his spirit bride,
Not all of wealth and art bestow
The warmth that melts his winters' snow.

Briglit clouds, distill'd from dews oi" moiii,
Returned to clothe the siid-:in!'- sun :
For us so weary travel-worn,
Ye gild the day so nearly done ;
And in y(»ur " clouds of glory " trail,
Hut;h orang*} ilowers and bridal veil,
To deck in love's warm aft( i-glow
The bleakness of our winters' snow.

Sweet, happy childhood! in youi' joys,

That biing to us the vanislied past,

We feel again like girls and b jys.

For one brief hour that cannot last.

Still let us for a moment dream.

And launch youth's bark on life's rough str(*ai;i,

And watch it gliding, swift or slow,

Down throuijh our sixtv winters' snow.

FA'ENlXi:.

Mow swiftly pass life's morning lionrs ?
How more than swiftly those of age ]
|[t)W soon the changinix suns and shower
Shall leave but one unwritten ])age ?
Ihit those who from their lal)orsrest,
With winter shroud above their breast,
Ah, do they see ns ? Will they know
We think of them beneath tin; snow?

EVENING.

S'lANDlXG by the broken vvali,
Where the evening shadow's tall.
And the drowsy night birds call,
Far, far away !

Wither'd flower v,dtli broken stem,
Suirnner morning's dewy gem,
Old and feeling, I like them
Have had my day !

Leafless grove and silent bower,
Beauty's charm and music's power,
<Jome to bless one HeetinLT hour,
Then dark decay !

Youtli would lau^h and maiden sinir
If 'twere always love and spring,
But they vanish, all take wing,
Youth, love and Mav 1

■ V

112

SHADOWS o\ Tin: jj.(U)h\

T)ear ones .sluinbor in tliu mould,
All tlio livin<( «^nii!i and cold,
Uonc togethe?", i^ilt and ;^'old,
Why should I stay !

Titiie brinLjs snimner to a close,
Aulutun into wniter ^rows,
C/oKi l)etU'atli lhf3 silent snows,
Death lioldshis sway !

One last tliouglit to valleys gfecn,
To sylvan lake in silver shctn,
The love an<] glory that have ht^en,
Then wlience away '.

SHADOWS ON THE FLOOil.

Sitting in the evenini,^ twilielit.
Watching phantoms at the door,
That, with spirit footsteps gliding,
Noisless pass athwart the floor.
P;iss with silent finfjers weavinfj —
Weavinfif, through the wanintj liiilit,
Webs of darker, deeper shadow,
Falling from the shroud of night.

Back and forth tlie f^hadows flutter ;
Mem'ry, through the deep'ning gloom,
Plies her swiftly flying shuttle,
Waking voices from the tomb, —

S//.1/)()U'S O.V THE FLOOR.

(Jalliiii,' back, in cliil'lho '.d's ti-cl)le,
'I'liiouLrh l)ereav('nu.'nt's lonolv years,
Min'flinir woman's wail of aniiMiish
With those hitter manhood's tears.

lin

VVeavini,' hoyliood's love, so tender,
Witli his <j;lo\vini( (h'eanis of hiiss,
And liis all-in-all of Eden,
>)hatter'd in a world like this !
Woavinix L;ii-lhood's sonij and sadness
With the woman's fnller joy, —
KeachinL; out to liope's hereaftei",
All life's paih can n(^t desti'oy.

WeaviniT thronirh the clianirin'^ seasons,
Spring, with bird, and soii;^-, and shower,
Summer, with its glow of ylory, —
Life, and liope, and faith, anc. ])ower.
WeavinL!' still throuLdi slow m-adatioris.
All the bri I'll tn ess Autunui sears ;
Throuii'h the lennthen'd ni'dits of sorro\'

o s o

J)own the Winter of our years.

Weaving childhood, youth and manhood,
In tlie light of mem'ry's page,
With the broken slirines that meet us,
Throiicfh the pilo'iimao:e of ajje.
Weaving, weaving, ever weaving,
From the writing on the wall,
Pictures which the comin<r morrov;
Finds, if pale, not vanished nil.

114

THE PUS I. INCH LAKE.

Weaviiif^, vveavinj,', ever \v 'aviiiuj,

All, those pliantoiiis by tlitj dooi*!

Wliicli tliroujrliout tlio tvviligliL waLches,

Pass ia silence o'er tlie floor.

Ood ! Oh God ! we cny, luivc iiieicy !

Must it thus for evermore ( —

Is not love, nor youth, nor Iti-auty,

Without shadows on the floor I

Lon<^, so long, the shadows liM;j;;('i',
Dark, so dark, the weaiy night,
While the stricken heart lies waiting, —
iro|niig for the morning light !
When the veil of darkness riven,
And the ghosts of memVy laid,
(Hide, in van((uislied pale battalions,
I Jack ward to the realms of .shad*'.

THE PUSLINCH LAKE.

'I'he following beautiful poem was written some ten yeats ago ))y Mi
Malcolm MaoC/'orniick, now Principal of the (ruelph liusiuess l!ollt';^e
My own etlbit in the same line was inspired by the memoiies whicli il
awoke. The two poems are, therefore, with Mr. MaGCormi(;k".s per-
mission, published together.

Aye once again ! O, silent, sylvan lake,
I sta!ul upon thy verdant wave-plashed shore ;
And eheiished memories within me wake.
As I recall the halcyon days of yore.

rill-: PL'S/. IXC// i.AKi:

oft liave my willing,' fo()t.stc']).s hitlici- sUnyi!"!,
Eio vet tlui ''low of Ixtvliotxl's VLMis li}i<l (it'll ;
Kre yet the divauis ot'yonlli wok; niilrly I'laytMl,
Or loved coinpanions minibeied with tlic dead.

How fair the inori\ wlien from yon eastern lull
Thy waters greeied first my woiidctJ!!;^' sii;ht ;
Thy radiant beauty mad(^ my hosom thiiil
VV^ith the pulsations of a new delight.

The western ureezo upon ihe ripples p]ay*'d,
That gaily sparkhul o!i thy hosom fair ;
Thy island woods their L'raceful Itranehes - waycil,
And scattered fraiirance on the HKjrnin^' air.

With eager hands we pushed the hoat from shv^re,
That waiting lay upon the pebhl}' hcaeh ;
My comrades twain took each a willing oai-,
And forth we sped the island .shades to reatrlj.

In merry converse sped the happy hours.

No voice save Nature's mingled with our i wn ;

A joy that knew no touch of care was ours- -

All ! why have boyhood's h'ours so (juickly llown :*

But now the scene is eluinge<l, () sylvan lake !
And stately mansions sentinel thy shoie;
Amid thy >vood.s the slumbering echoes \v;d<e,
Responsive to the steiuner's sullen roar.

'Tis evening, and o'er yon same ea>terii hill.
The rounded moon comes slowly into vie'.v ;
Her mellow splendor faliiii'^- cdm and stiil,
Bedecks with varied <rems tlie wafers blue

I ^

lir, I'i) I HE PVSI.IXCll LAKE roET.

Dear are the .scenes of cliiMliood t«> ilu* heart,
Deep their iinpresHions .stamped upon the mind;
Tiiouudi eiU'tli's wi(h5 orl) their presence from us part,
Fond meui'ry paints them still witli pencil kind.

'lO TIIK PUSL1N(MI LAKK i'OET.

Dkar Poet of the Puslincli Lake,

You rove throu^di youtli's brii;]it <;lades and dells

And gather from eacli siiady brake

Life's rare, sweet flovvers — Heart Innnortelles.

Ihit as you biick in meni'ry .stray
O'er silent years, like moments tied,
Y(ni find her album leaves are grey
With ashes of her buried dead !

My memory, too, lias held her wake
O'er empty shrouds of morning lia/e,
And, donbtinij, stands, what path to take
Alon-'' life's dim, for*]fotten W((jr\('')

For it is now so lonfj afjo

Since 1 youth's thoughtless paths have trod —

That I must up the current row,

Than you, a longer, rougher road.

(ii)Aii ;i\i' iiiiuk oil trees, l)\ wliii'li tia. oilers found their vvay llirougli tlie forests in
pioneer tlays,

the furcsl^ ill

TO rill-: ri'si.ixcii i.aki: roirr,

T Hcarco dare vvrito, " Wlicn wo wore 1)ovh,'
Wlii'ii fato j^avo sun with slwulow inix'd,
Afi<l liii(lu'st liopos and pmost joys
Si'oni now old <;(>ld witli drah betwixt.

P»nt vet I know there was a time
Wlien I l»a<l dieanis, survived the? ni^dit !
Ih'ard eclioes from a fairer clime,
Saw rays of juire thou^di distant light !

VW write it, yes — " When wo wore hoys,"
Football and cricket, school days, these
Not heard of. Mo, our early joys
Were ax-e-dcnfs m felling trees.

Toil's vassals have so ^mnll a rangr
In vouth, or aije in clmnL;'' of tovs,
But still has come to nie n. e}\ange.
At least in pounds avoirdupois.

Well, I have se(m your " sylvan lake,"
Where caught I gudgeons not a few,
Jjut found, alas ! tlie (innv take.
Like other friends were spiny, too !

I've paddled by your buUrush shore,
That ne'er beyond its calfhood grew ;
'Twas only ]iaddle then, n(jt oar,
A dug-out navy all ive knew :

Till rose a pious Teuton, who
Resolved to build a boat, and took
The model for his big canoe
From somewhere in the Pentateuch.

117

'Tsmm^

JIH VO TIIK rUSlJM'lI I.AKI-: POET.

Wax l)L'aiiiaL;'o, — broad as ancient barn,
She tliereunto of e(jiial height;
And soniewliat longer tlian mv yarn, —
'Tvva.s said, — about a coacli and eigdit.

She was, indeed, a wondrous craft,
And uauiically rated tlnis : —
i!er i<li was/o/'c, her /br« way ajt^
Her tonnage tninvM, leakage ^^'ii.s'.

She liad a |)unip witli deck to show,
Between the waters tirndy fixed,
And, just a little space below,
The lake and hohl were badly mix'd

Siie tried one voyage, ran aground,
With dire misfortune in lu^r wake :
The junnp was taxM, but soon 'twas found
'Twere wiser lirst to pump the lake.

So thus the Teuton's venture bore

That sad, sad fruit, " wliat niiglit have been : "-

One voyage only, and no more,

'i'hen left to rot in quarantine !

Yes, I have seen you)- " sylvan lake," —
With Nimrod soul have hunted there,
And hoped the tinud deer to take,
But often fear'd 'twould be a bear.

" Your sylvan lake," — yes, let nie di-eam,
And 'mid its shades the past recall, —
'J'he red man's whoop, the eagle's scream,
The gi'ey wolf's bark, the Dutchman's yawl.

TO 71//.: />(S/./M7/ /../A/.; />^)/,y

And let me see again let loose

TliRt essence strong, of soot and wliey, -■

The spirit of potato jiiice :—

Pure A(iiiavita, Uisoebetba !

Tliat fl&w around in tuns and butts,
The heralds of a stormy nirdit
AiHi played Old Hariy with our guts,
The suie pre-carse-ors of a fight. '

The soul of evcxV lo'Tfino- hoe
The monarch of an ancient fair,
That never knew the great N.P.,
Jjut levell'd freelv evei'vwhere '

That watched around our natal bed,
And followed through our youthful .hiy,
To see us christen'd, woo'd and wed,
And shrouded too, and packed auay.

All this around your sylv;in lake
Has had its day and passed, but why
Should mem'ry the dark scenes awake ?
Sweet poet of the lake, good-bye !

J!>

120

MINK AM) THINK.

MINE AND THINE.

You and yours, and I and mine,
This is how we must divirle;
It was always so, in fine,
Each nnist for himself decide.

We are pilgrims by the way.
Picking up the crumbs that fall ;
Strive or struggle as we may,
Fate or fortune rules it all !

Spite of reason, brainless fools
Strut in purple, gather gold ;
Wisdom, treasured from the schools,
Coatless, shivers in the cold !

You have equipages and state.
Wealth, an<l lands, and marble hall ;
I a cottage at your gate,
Coldly pitch'd without the wall.

You have fountain, park and bower-
All you wish, and all you will ;
I have just the summer shower
That comes down the pools to fill.

You may wander, stray or roam
Over land and over sea ;
I must guard my little home,
It is all in all to me.

MIXE AND THINK,

121

Yours are mountains high and cliill,
Where but eagles only soar;
Sunshine, o'er a gentle hill,
Falls around my cottage door.

Yours are rivers, deep and wide,
i bearing treasures to the sea ;
Just a rill from mountain side
Sings its evening song to me !

You have someone that you love,
She has diamonds in hor hair;
Slie may frail or iiekle prove —
Take her, keep her, I don't care.

I have just a little maid,
Silken tresses, eyes ot" blue ;
She can love, I, not afraid.
Love me always, she is true !

Yours has pedigree and pride,
Quite a tall and stately dame ;
Tins, and beauty, much, beside ;
Vain and heartless, all the same.

Mine has wealth of lineage small,
Wevside flower, a blessinnr sent ;
Scarce ambition to be tall —
But I love her, she's content !

I must sweat, and I must toil,
Earn the bread my loved ones eat ;
What I owe but to the soil,
Makes partaking twice as sweet !

122

TO SAXDY Mi-SNAOISEAAr.

You may dine on sumptuous fare —
Quaff the wine from vintage old ;
Still you only get your share,
If life, and hope, and blood, are cold !

Things are better than they seem —
Blessings not so blindly sent,
Joys we long for prove a dream,
Highest riches, just content.

Thus we journey by the way.
Care we how the die is cast ;
Mine and thine are for a day,
We must leave them all at last.

TO SANDY McSNAOISEAN.

{On tlte AyricnUuvdl Commission.)

Come Sandy, my man.

Spare an hour gin ye can,
Fi'a your silly bit haverin' stories ;

I'm just comin' back,

To hae a bit crack.
About thae auld reprobate Tories.

I hope ye're a' weel,

In storehouse and creel ;
Warm cled, neither hungry nor thirsty ;

Good paying returns

Frae ye're Scott Act concerns,
For yersel', the bairnies, and Chirsty,

TO SANDY McSNAOISEAN.

It's a .sennight or niair,

Sin' ye felt raither sair,
Fra the dandin ye're honor cam under;

I think ye fan faut,

Wi' the— what do ye ca'-'t,—
The style or the doMe en teiidre I

The crude arcliitect

V^'as far frae correct,
The Doric was only pretence ;

Weel, change we the rule,

Try some ither schulo,
Suppose we tak' Composite next.

The pairt I thought true,

Ye thought ower blue,
But often the truth will offend;

Till the lamp cease to burn,

Ye still may return,
So just be admonished and mend.

In your reformation,

Ve'll ha'e this consolation,
Ve'll come to receive it in time,—

That truth, when in |)rose,

Is a gye bitter dose,
But easier swallow'd in rhyme.

1 2.']

Noo, if in my sang
I've din ye a wrang.
Ye needna tak refuge in cant ;

124

TO SANDY McSNAOISEAX.

For ye ken weel yersel',
What I needna tell, —
That nobody thinks yc a saunt.

So noo gin ye're ready,
My auld, snutfin' dad* lie,

Yell ablins be scrilje o' the pack ;
Our subject's Protection,
Maybe neest election,

It winna abide the attack.

Noo there's just one condition,

Afoie the Commission
Sits doon to its multiplex .scheme ; —

Ye're no constituted,

Not enough evoluted,
To grasp so expansive a theme.

But wi' some assistance.

Gin ye mak na resistance.
We'll ablins get over the work.

We'll tak it verbatim,

And then seriatim,
Frac yer sel to the schemes o' the kirk.

First, that long reproljation

Of endless duration,
That frightened us when we were boys

Frae the card we omit,

Till the fire nor the pit,
Can model nur limit our joys.

TO SA XDV .1 f^SNA 01 SEA N.

iJut leavin' our kiiks,

'I'hero's our stots and our siirks,
Oor liarlcy, cor bullocks, an' woo.

They a' need defendin',

Theio's nae use pretend in',
We'll soon hae' to fecht for it noo !

125

We're a' i>aun to ruin,

An' waur things are brooin',

Domestic disunion's in store ;
For burglars and tramps,
An' blacklegs an' scamps,

Still land, duty free, on oor shore.

There's our shops an' our smiddies,

Fill'd wi' thae foreign boddies,
k\\ oor sons sent adrift every one ;

To increase population,

Wi' oot immigration,
Is the favorite scheme o' Sir J — n.

But ther'll no be a movement,

Toward ony improvement,
Till t}]e Grit usurpation is o'er,

An' the countiy is waiting,

Wi' hope unabating,
To see them pack'd out at the dooJ".

Though there's aye some objection,
To a' our perfection,
Some failinii', some fleck, or some Haw,—

126

TO SANDY MrSXAOISEAW

The laddie the wisest,
The lassie tlie nicest,
IJae something were better awa'.

80 that auld dirty scaixhd,
Has no lost the handle,

It's no just so musty and stale ;

An' that fund that they })ill<et,
An' that coo that thev milket,

Has no lost the horns nor the talc.

An' yc ken weel the French

Were the head and the hench
O' John in his golden regime ;

An' our cry. Rep. by Pop.,

In the auld Union Shop,
Is no just forgot like a dream.

Sae we know very well

Ye wad barter an' sell
Our interests an' rights every one ;

For whato'er ye may say

In adversity's day.
Prosperity perjures your man !

For the pledges he makes,

His necessity breaks.
Be the pledges themselves right or wraiig;

They'll no stan' an hour.

If his place or his power,
'Gainst his troth in the balance sud hanij:.

TO SANDY MiSXAOISEAA.

There's tliae Maritime holes,
Wi' their codtish an' coals,

We ken baith their threats an' alarms ;
Gin they grin at protection,
We'll split the connection,

Oi- try the auld dose, — hettcr iermfi !

ThouMi a dutv oii coals,

A sma' circle consoles ;
Cauld noses it gies to the rest ;

An' a duty on Hour

Wud stir uj) a stour
On coals ! 'twinna do ii) the West.

Then there's thae Montrealers,
An' French lumber haulers,

They hao baith a stomach an' moii ;
l^erhaps on relloction.
They'll find in Protection,

Less promise for them tha:i for yon !

121

They're loyal enough,

An* a' that kin' o' stuff,
But they ken a' this bosh ver}- weel ;

So I doubt a' the mair

If their loyalty bear
Twa shillins a pock on their meal 1

Their subject in chief,
Is class, bannocks an' beef, —
Protection, — a farce they deri<le ;

\'2H

TO SAXnV MrSh'AOISI'.AW

lint your pig.s an' your stols,
They care na tvva i,qoat.s,
Wljcther you or tlic Yankees jjioviile.

Tlieii that souter body,

Wlia' deals aye in shoddy,
I hit vvarks I'oi' the j^ni<l o' our hoIcs ;

He wants leatlier free,

An' slioori ! no, not Ik;,
lie LTrunth^s an' cfrieves iCIie tholes.

Then the tanner wud rathci-

iJraw steel against leatliei-
Than hinder raw hides conun' in,

So the souter an' he,

Though they canna agree,
TlieyVe baith o' tlicni death again.'jt slioon.

But, San<ly, ye see,

It just suits you an' nie,
Gin the bairns hae tlieir taes in the snaw ;

So we'll no just agree,

O' the warl's broose an' brie.
That ane sud hae nane or hae a'.

Still, let one seize the l)ooty,
An' tlie mass pay the duty,

That's a' that is meant by your cry ;
Yet to say that free trade
Gies the poor claes an' bread.

Is treason o' deadliest dye!

j/(V;';\7.\(;.

MORNING.

I'jo

1 WOKE ill siinnv Eastern clhne,
Wliere, or liow distant, none can tell ;
Witli Lirds 'twas liappy niating time,
And life and joy in bower and dell.

O'er ln'ad, the April skies were blue,
And through the air the bieath of Sprin(; ;
And in a grove, where violets grew,
I know I heard a robin sing.

Rich fragrance floated on the breeze,
And bud and flower love whispering were ;
Low voices murniured through the trees,
That somehow tau^rht me God was there !

And songs returned of other lands,
Where I had wandered long ago,
Like sighing wavelets on the sands.
Or mem'ry's music, soft and low.

But syrens wooed my heart away,
Youth's days were o'er, and boyhood fled ;
Til all that tiowery vale of May,
I found not where to lay my head.

I w^andered forth at dawn of day.
To climb ambition's flowery hill ;
'Twas just a league or two away, —
At eveniiii: I was climbing still.

i;io

A/oA'mxr.

I soui'lit tlio suininit, hut tlio iii'^ht
O'ercast with clouds my ;j;ui<lin^ star,
And morn found other hills in si;,dit,
As fair with promise, hut as tar !

Wan pilgrims restinL? hy the way,
With hands uplifted to tlje hill,
Lured by the ])romise of life's May,
Pursued that paling pliantom still.

They knew that just that summit o'er,
Was ocean wide, with waters blue, —
That when their footsteps reached its shore,
No otlier hills would rise to view.

I passed the summit, reached the shore.
But onward moved the ffuidincf star,
And when I deemed the strun:<Tfle o'er.
Rose higher, fairer hills afar.

Then thought I : Mortal, wherefore toil ?
What gain in all this weary strife ?
Rest from ambition's drunken broil.
And gather in the sweets of life.

Then builded I a palace fair,

Tlie dream of many longing years ;

But when at eve I rested there,

I know ray eyes were dim with tears.

I planted garden, grove and bower,
And watched for sunshine, shower and dew ;
And longed for Autumn's crowning hour,
But not the flowers I planted grew.

FARi:\\El.l.. CEXTl.E MUSE.

Oh I l)lot luo f)iit all niern'ry's store,
Of strife an«i .stniyLjle, failure, puin,
And Ijring mo hoyliood's dreams once more,
Of faith and liope in life again!

131

FAKEVVELL, GENTLE MUSE.

I'A lit WELL, gentle Muse, 'tis the time we aliould server,
The (hirk shades of winter descend o'er th<3 plain ;
IJut O ! though we })art it sliall not be forever,
The first breath of spring sliall unite us again !
When May fills the grove with song and commotion.
Spreads flowers o'er the hill, and awakens the bee ;
When swallows return from their homes, 'yond the ocean.
Then shalt thou come back, gentle Muse, unto me.

Thougli far from thine own native liills thou must wander.

And here for a season self banishment bear ;

Though where thou must come boasts not greatness nor

grandeur,
And I who await thee unworthy thy care.
Vet come, though our song be but broken in measure.
Untuned to the eloquent cadence of art,
It still may awaken the warm glow of pleasure,
If love be our theme, and our lyre be the heart.

Long, long have you followed through sunshine and

shadow,
And gave to my longings a voice and a tongue, —
Changed the sigh of the pine, and the notes of the meadow,
The one into worship, the other to song.

FAREWELL, GENTLE MUSE.

Oh give me one hour of the glow and the glory,
The shimmer of" hrightnefj^s that hung on the hill,
When youth took the highway to learn life's sad story,
With hope the enchantiess deluding me still !

Then come, draw thy wild mountain garment about \X\w^
We journey together while life may remain ;
To me 'twere bereavement and daikness without thee.
And soon comes the morn when we meet not again.
But adieu ! hie thee hence ere the rude blast of winter
O'ertake thee too early and shrivel thy wing ; —
Lest haply, again thou mayest not venture
So fai o'er the ocean, e'en if it were spring !

II,

id storv,

-bout thue,

lit thee,

ain.

winter