MOTLEY: 
 
 VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 BY 
 
 J. W. BENGOUGH 
 
 5llU5trate5. 
 
 TORONTO: 
 WILLIAM BRIGGS, WESLEY BUILDINGS. 
 W. COATES, Montreal, Que. S. F. HUESTIS, Halifax, N.S. 
 
 1895 
 
uo h, J J . Lu 
 
 Entered, according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one 
 thousand eight hundred and ninety-five, by William Briggs, in the Office of 
 the Minister of Agriculture, Ottawa. 
 
TO 
 
 Ubc CvitiCB, 
 
 WITH 
 
 ASSURANCES 
 OF 
 
 Zbc pvotonn^cet IReapcct 
 and BDmlratiom 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 " When at the first I took my pen in hand 
 Thus for to write, I did not understand 
 That I at all should make a little book 
 In such a mode," 
 
 Says quaint John Bunyan in the rhyming Preface to his 
 immortal Pilgrim; and I may truthfully adopt his lines, 
 although the present work may not quite achieve immor- 
 tality. With a few exceptions the verses herein printed 
 have appeared in the pages of Grip and other journals 
 of a more sedate description, but they were not written 
 with a view to subsequent "collection," excepting in my 
 privcte scrap-book. I have taken the somewhat venture- 
 some step of putting these selections in a more public book 
 by the advice of friends in whose judgment I have confi- 
 dence. My hope is that the Gentle Reader may be able 
 conscientiously to endorse that judgment also. 
 
 THE AUTHOR, 
 
 Toronto, April, 1895. 
 
THE VERSES. 
 
 FIUMOROUS. 
 
 The Late Mr. Columbus 
 Spring Poem by Fitzdudeson . 
 Eloped ...... 
 
 Bill Judson .... 
 
 The Crisis ..... 
 
 Before the Magistrate 
 
 The Season of Gush 
 
 The Rummy's Appeal to the Ladies 
 
 Studies in the Tender Passion 
 
 Hickory Jim .... 
 
 Morning ..... 
 
 Theological Incompatibility 
 
 Gems for Recitation 
 
 The Supersensitive Eye . 
 
 Justice for Ireland 
 
 A Pretty Wedding .... 
 
 Niagara Falls .... 
 
 ** Parliamentary Language" . 
 Delsarte ..... 
 The Grimsby Girl . 
 Farmer Jinks on Sunday Cars 
 After the Vote . 
 The Chestnut Tree 
 Epilogue . . ^ , 
 Serious and Pathetic. 
 Restitution 
 The War Cry . 
 The Doomed Ship . 
 
 Made Whole 
 
 The Loss of the Steamship City of Boston 
 The Rocky Mountains 
 The Old Church . . . . ' . 
 Killed at the Plough .... 
 The Open Gates of Hell . . . . 
 
 Page 
 
 9 
 
 23 
 
 . 36 
 
 40 
 
 49 
 
 55 
 61 
 
 72 
 
 78 
 
 85 
 
 91 
 
 100 
 
 no 
 
 "7 
 123 
 
 129 
 
 131 
 133 
 138 
 HS 
 151 
 
 157 
 
 160 
 
 172 
 
 18 
 
 19 
 25 
 32 
 37 
 39 
 43 
 47 
 S3 
 
• • • 
 
 VI 11 
 
 THE VERSES. 
 
 The Woodpile Test . 
 
 The London Disaster . 
 
 On the River's Edge 
 
 The Charge at Batoche 
 
 Gladstone 
 
 The Ideal Woman 
 
 Gladstone's Revenge 
 
 The Miracle 
 
 The Stranger . 
 
 The Norman Minster . 
 
 **Jimmie" . . . 
 
 Canada's Welcome to the Earl and Countess of Aberdeen 
 
 James Root, the Hero of the Minnesota Forest Fires 
 
 The Curse ......... 
 
 To the Snow, on New Year's Morning 
 Inverted Commas 
 On the Corner 
 The Higher Criticism . 
 The Dude 
 Elegaic. 
 
 George E. Gillespie 
 Sir John A. Macdonald 
 Archbishop Lynch . 
 William T. Croasdale . 
 Rev. E. A. Stafford, D.D. 
 The Death of Prince Albert Victor 
 Hon. George Brown 
 The Death of Horace Greeley 
 Alexander Mackenzie 
 Lieutenant Stairs 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes . 
 Father Michael Stafford 
 William H. Howland 
 William R. Climie 
 f Christopher Finlay Fraser 
 . Sir John Thompson 
 Alfred Tennyson 
 
 Page 
 
 57 
 64 
 
 . 69 
 
 74 
 . 80 
 
 89 
 . 92 
 
 93 
 . 98 
 
 105 
 
 • "5 
 120 
 
 . 125 
 
 128 
 
 . 135 
 149 
 
 . 163 
 
 167 
 
 46 
 
 • 51 
 56 
 
 ■ 63 
 
 67 
 
 . 77 
 82 
 
 . 102 
 
 103 
 
 . 114 
 
 124 
 
 ■ 130 
 132 
 
 . 134 
 
 143 
 . 148 
 
 161 
 
MOTLEY: 
 
 VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 THE LATE MR. COLUMBUS. 
 
 Lt In measure that is meant to be 
 
 heroic I'd extol 
 The doings of Columbus, that brave 
 
 and dauntless soul ! 
 I cannot stand in silence by while 
 
 everybody round 
 Is singing of his praises, and college 
 
 halls resound 
 With poems and orations and eulo- 
 gies and such — 
 Am I to be "not in it"?— Gee, 
 
 Christopher, not much I 
 And so, in bold, heroic verse — tho' 
 
 plain and unadorned — 
 Td tell his story, so that cranks who now are jeer'd and 
 scorned, 
 
 May yet take heart of grace, and never yield to black 
 
 despair, 
 For C. C. was a crank, and yet, my brethren, he got there ! 
 
10 
 
 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 'Twas in Genoa he was born, a little town near Spain ; 
 
 Genoa the fact, of course, and so I needn't 
 
 now detain 
 You with partic'lar mention of his birth and 
 
 early life, 
 Nor of his school-boy days, nor of the girl 
 
 he made his wife ; 
 Tho' I may pause to mention, what was just 
 
 a little queer, 
 The lady wan't the daughter of an American 
 millionaire. 
 
 Twas when he'd come to riper years his real career began. 
 When he'd become a settled, grave and swarthy sailor-man 
 (Or rather Navigator, which sounds some better, perhaps), 
 And quite a monomaniac on musty charts and maps. 
 For out of these pet studies there gradually arose 
 A theory in his noddle — and everybody knows 
 How such a plant is apt to grow ; begin. 
 
 ning very slim. 
 The man first gets the theorv, and then 
 
 the thing gets him ; 
 On instances of this you may in history 
 
 fairly gorge — 
 Or, if you want a modern case, just look 
 
 at Henry George ! 
 Columbus formed a theory, and thence- 
 forth couldn't rest 
 Until he'd given it a trial, to wit, that saiUng west 
 Would bring a Navigator to India's distant shore 
 Much quicker than the reg'lar route— he'd save six months 
 or more. 
 
THE LATE MR. COLUMBUS, 
 
 11 
 
 With sextant, chart, and compass he'd demonstrate the fact 
 To anyone who'd listen — until they thought him cracked ; 
 But when he asked for money to give the 
 
 thing a trial, 
 The neighbors only answered with an 
 
 aggravating smile. 
 And so at last, disgusted, discouraged and 
 
 cast down. 
 He packed up his belongings and left his 
 
 native town. 
 "I'll go," said he, *'to men of state, to 
 
 prelates and to kings ; 
 They have apprec4ation, they understand 
 these things !" 
 
 But the very first discovery this 
 
 great Discoverer made. 
 
 Was that men are very much 
 
 alike, whatever be their grade. 
 
 He tramped around from court 
 
 to court, just like a Chancery 
 
 client, 
 
 And lobbied in the palaces with 
 
 spinal column pliant. 
 But all in vain ! He found each 
 king and potentate a noodle ; 
 They wouldn't tumble to his scheme ; he couldn't raise the 
 
 boodle. 
 His talents as a canvasser were meagre, I'm afraid. 
 If he had had the gumption to enlist the Ladies' Aid 
 Connected with the parish church, and sent some spinsters 
 forth, 
 
12 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 To raise that money would have been the simplest thing 
 on earth. 
 
 And 'twas at last to Woman, and her 
 
 gentle influence, 
 Columbus owed his triumph after long 
 
 and sore suspense ; 
 For Isabella, Queen of Spain, she took 
 
 him by the hand 
 And introduced him to her royal partner, 
 
 Ferdinand. 
 Good Isabella, of Castile, whose name, 
 
 inspiring hope, 
 Gives an odor sweet to hist'ry, like the 
 smell of Castile soap ! 
 She took Columbus by the hand and interviewed the king. 
 Said she, *' My darling Ferdy, I have Ic jked into this thing, 
 
 And it's not, as everybody says, a silly, cranky dream ; 
 In fact, Fm quite convinced myself there's something in 
 the scheme ; 
 
THF LATE MR. COLUMBUS, 
 
 13 
 
 And if you'll take your wife's advice, as every man should 
 
 do, 
 You'll forthwith do the financing, and put this project 
 
 through. 
 
 Fm so sure it's a bonanza that — pray do not call me 
 
 rash — 
 My crown jewels I am willing to convert to ready cash ; 
 And rather than Columbus' plan should fizzle and fail 
 
 through, 
 I'll make another sacrifice, and give my back hair too !" 
 So spake the royal consort, and Ferdinand caught on. 
 Said he, '' Columbus, chappie, the thing's as good as done. 
 I'll act on Belle's suggestion — it's 
 
 better for my health — 
 And may the project bring us fame 
 
 in History — and wealth!" 
 Columbus in that moment — the 
 
 happiest of his life — 
 Ejaculated blessings on old 
 
 Ferdy and his wife, 
 And in ecstatic frenzy, right 
 
 there before the court. 
 He danced a minstrel breakdown 
 
 of an energetic sort. 
 Why stay to give particulars of 
 
 how the funds were raised. 
 Or how the ships were chartered, or how the king was 
 
 praised ; 
 Suffice it that upon a date in fourteen ninety-two 
 Columbus saw his scheme afloat, and with his motley 
 
 crew 
 
14 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 He went aboard his vessels, and the band struck up 
 
 an air 
 Composed in special honor of the great Chicago Fair. 
 
 
 ^/^^aT<5ia^^r-r 
 
 The royal party, in a hack, came down to see him off; 
 No longer did the know-it-alls presume to jeer and scoff. 
 By dignitaries of the Church the ships 
 were duly blessed. 
 
 And then the king 
 rose up and 
 said, **Go west, 
 young man, go 
 west." 
 While Isabella of 
 Castile took out 
 her handker- 
 chief, 
 And, in the most affecting style, in- 
 dulged in female grief. 
 Columbus, on the quarter deck, stood bowing to the crowd, 
 When cries, *'A song! a song!" arose in voices thunder-loud ; 
 So, tuning up his light guitar, in manner most refined he 
 Rendered the Spanish version of " The girl I left behind 
 
 me. 
 
 » 
 
THE LATE MR. COLUMBUS, 
 
 15 
 
 And then, by way of chorus, the crew came to his aid. 
 And sang that fine old ballad, "Farewell! the anchor's 
 
 wtighed." 
 Thus, 'mid the strains of music, and 
 
 cheers and shouts th?t day, 
 The ships were headed westward, 
 
 and Columbus sailed away. 
 
 Let's draw a sombre curtain o'er 
 
 the next ensuing weeks, 
 Of which in tones of sadness the 
 
 grave historian speaks ; 
 A time so full of sorrow and anxious, 
 
 carking care, 
 
 For Christopher Columbus, the dauntless mariner. 
 Surrounded by a shifty crew inclined to mutiny, 
 Who voted want of confidence, a wretched time had he. 
 They'd ask him silly questions, and kick against his rules, 
 
 And shiver all his 
 timbers for the 
 chief of cranks 
 and fools ; 
 And then they'd 
 weep and wail 
 and cry, *'0h, 
 take us home 
 again ; 
 We want to see 
 our mothers in 
 the lovely land 
 of Spain I" 
 
16 
 
 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 Columbus then would stand up straight and stiff and 
 
 answer, "Never!" 
 "What, never?" then the crew would ask, and he'd say, 
 
 ** Hardly ever ! 
 We're going to visit India first — belay and heave the log ; 
 If I hear any more of this I'll — I'll — I'll stop your grog !" 
 And then they'd swear. This little glimpse I give you by 
 
 the way. 
 So things went on, until affairs came to a head one day. 
 That crew rose up and called a halt, and told Columbus plain. 
 This foolishness must stop right here — the ships must head 
 
 for Spain ! 
 Columbus argued out the point, dissenting from that view ; 
 But he was one against a crowd, and what could one man do ? 
 And so he had to bow to fate, resign his cherished dream, 
 
 And — but at this grave crisis Colum- 
 bus heard a scream, 
 And swiftly looking up aloft, whence 
 
 the alarm had come, 
 He saw a sight that rivetted his eyes 
 
 and struck him dumb. 
 Upon the mizzen topmast yard a 
 
 bird had just alighted, 
 And all that crew fell on their knees 
 
 astonished and affrighted. 
 Columbus struck an attitude — a 
 
 pose like this, you know — 
 And in a voice of triumph cried, 
 *'Aha! I told you so!! 
 The fact that it's a bird," said he, -'proves we are close 
 to land." 
 
THE LATE MR. COLUMBUS. 
 
 17 
 
 And then he looked up through the glass that trembled in 
 his hand ; 
 
 **The further fact that this here l«ird is of the eagle kin, 
 
 And wears a shield of stars 
 and stripes tied on be- 
 low its chin, 
 
 With arrows in its talons, 
 and a ribbon from its 
 beak 
 
 Which says E pluribus 
 unum in a patriotic 
 shriek — 
 
 This proves beyond a 
 doubt, and I will bet 
 a cart-wheel dollar 
 
 This land upon our star- 
 board bow — excuse 
 me if I holler 
 
 Eureka ! We have found it. Hurray ! hurray ! hurray ! — 
 
 Behold the Land of Freedom ! — this is x\mericay !" 
 
18 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE ATD GAY. 
 
 RESTITUTION. 
 
 Enough ! the lie is ended. God v^nly owns the land ; 
 No parchment deed hath virtue unsigned by His own hand; 
 Out on the bold blasphemers who would eject the Lord, 
 And pauperize His children, and trample on His word ! 
 
 Behold this glorious temple, with dome of starry sky. 
 And floor of greensward scented, and trees for pillars high ; 
 And song of birds for music, and bleat of lambs for prayer. 
 And incense of sweet vapors uprising everywhere. 
 
 Behold His table bounteous spread over land and sea, 
 The sure reward of labor, to every mortal free ; 
 And hark ! through Nature's anthem there rises the refrain, 
 *'God owns the world, but giveth it unto the sons of men." 
 
 But see, within the temple, as in Solomon's of ol^. 
 The money-changers haggle, and souls are bought and sold ; 
 And that is called an oivner's which can only be the Lord's, 
 And Christ is not remembered — nor His whip of knotted 
 cords. 
 
 But Christ has not forgotten, and wolfish human greed 
 
 Shall be driven from our heritage ; God's bounties shall be 
 freed ; 
 
 And from out our hoary statutes shall be torn the crime- 
 stained leaves, 
 
 Which have turned the world, God's temple, into a den of 
 thieves ! 
 
THE ''WAR CRVr 
 
 19 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 i IJ. 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 THE **WAR CRY." 
 
 In the elegant rotunda of the fine up-town hotel 
 
 (The favorite lounge of tourist, commercial man and swell), 
 
 In little knots and circles, in coteries and sets, 
 
 The idlers chatted gaily and enjoyed their cigarettes. 
 
 The drummer from Kentucky (in the wine and liquor trade) 
 His stock of bran new stories to a genial group displayed, 
 And bursts of merry laughter acclaimed each happy hit, 
 Like thunder-peals responding to the lightning flash of 
 
 wit. 
 
20 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 Within the vaulted entry and across the poh'shed tiles 
 
 To'rds the group of flippant gossips, under fire of rakish 
 smiles, 
 
 Came a pair of mild-faced maidens, clad in modest navy 
 blue, 
 
 With scoop-bonnets of the Army and the badge of crim- 
 son hue ; 
 
 And with gentle step approaching, as the loungers stood at 
 
 ease, 
 Spake in accents low and winning, " Will you buy a War 
 
 Cry, please ?'' 
 Offering a sample paper from the bundle that each bore, 
 " Will you please to buy a copy ? — it will tell you of the 
 
 war." 
 
 "Bless my soul!" exclaimed the drummer, with an air of 
 
 mock alarm, 
 Putting on his gold-rimmed pince nez — "A War Cry, little 
 
 marm? 
 Why, I thought the war was over pnd ended long ere this — 
 Been another Indian slaughter? or what's the matter, miss ?" 
 
 A smile went round the circle at this clever, ready jest, 
 And the hand that held the paper trembled as it fell to rest; 
 But upon the jester's features the lass's eyes were set. 
 The sweetest yet the saddest eyes his glance had ever met. 
 
 " No," she said in earnest, quav'ring tones, and tears were 
 
 in her voice, 
 " The war is not yet ended, nor the time come to rejoice ; 
 
THE '' WAR CR K" 
 
 21 
 
 With dead and dying comrades the trenches yet are filled, 
 And the field is strewn with victims — but not by Indians 
 killed. 
 
 **Tis sinful human passion, the lust and greed of gold, 
 That slaughters these our brothers to-day in hosts untold — 
 That slays them, not with bullets, but with ardent spirits 
 
 fell, 
 With wine, and beer, and whiskey, the artillery of hell. 
 
 "Oh, sir ! diXQ you a helper in this awful work of woe? 
 Do eyes of murdered babies glare icily at you ? 
 Do ghosts of famished mothers and wraiths of ruined sons 
 Cry from the tombs for vengeance on you, who man the 
 
 guns? 
 
 "May God forbid! but oh, sir! this 
 
 long and weary fight 
 Is raging all about us — nor ceases day 
 
 nor night — 
 And you, who praise the soldier who 
 
 faces shot and shell, 
 Have you no manly honor for us who 
 
 fight as well ? 
 
 " Think you 'tis any pleasure that we, 
 two puny girls. 
 Should go where laughter greets us or the lip of scorner 
 
 curls ? 
 Nay ; but our Master's colors we dare to hold aloft, 
 And bear, as once He bore for us the taunts of those who 
 scoffed. 
 
 M 
 
22 
 
 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GA K 
 
 " Tis for your souls we labor ; we do not prize your gold ; 
 But oh, don't slight our Master, His love can ne'er be told. 
 You do not mean to be unkind, your hearts are not all bad, 
 But your thoughtless mirth makes sadder our souls already 
 sad ! '' 
 
 No man in all that circle now wore a leering smile, 
 But moistened eyes were fixed upon that face so free of 
 guile ; 
 
 And when the lass ceased speaking the jester, ill at ease, 
 Said huskily, ''God bless you! SeU me a War Cry, please." 
 
S/'AVAV POEM H Y FITZDUDESOX. 
 
 23 
 
 Sl'RINd POEM BY I rrZDUDESON. 
 
 l\ 
 
 "^r^HE spwing has come again 
 
 \ \ ^V'ith its gentle showahs of wain, 
 
 And the wobin's sweet wefwain, 
 
 Deah boy, deah boy — 
 \nd I wish it would wemain, 
 Deah boy ! 
 
 I do adaw the spwing, 
 When the bi'ds begin to sing, 
 I think it just the thing, 
 
 Deah boy, deah boy- 
 New life it seems to bwing, 
 
 Deah boy ! 
 
 In the wintah, doncher know, 
 Theah's a lot of beastly snow, 
 And the mercury's down low, 
 
 Deah boy, deah boy — 
 And your baggy twowsers blow, 
 
 Deah boy ! 
 
 And in summeh-time it's hot, 
 "Seaside bweezes "? simply wot ; 
 You cawn't find a decent spot, 
 
 Deah boy, deah boy — 
 And your collahs go to pot, 
 
 Deah boy ! 
 
24 
 
 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 Autumn tints are well enough, 
 
 But the weathaw's sometimes wough, 
 
 And the leaves are dwopping off, 
 
 Deah boy, deah boy— 
 Awftah all, the spwing's the stuff, 
 
 Deah boy ! 
 
THE DOOMED SHIP. 
 
 25 
 
 Drawn by J. D. Kelly. 
 
 THE DOOMED SHIP.* 
 
 Westward, on the sparkling sea, 
 With vine-embowered Italy 
 Faint astern, and growing fainter — 
 Land of poet and of painter — 
 And to these her sons and daughters, 
 Tossing on the strange blue waters,* 
 Dimmer yet she doth appear 
 Through th' unbidden trembling tear, 
 
 * Some years ago cholera broke out on board an emigrant ship from Italj', 
 bound to a Brazilian port. On arriving at their destination, the emigrants were 
 not permitted to land, but were told to go down the coast, a hundred miles or so, 
 to another port. Here again the wretched sufferers were warned off, and the 
 ship put aimlessly to sea with her cargo of dead and dying. She has never since 
 been heard of. A full account of the event was printed at the time in Once a 
 Week, a New York journal. 
 
20 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 As they crowd the good ship's deck. 
 
 Westward ! Home land now a speck 
 
 In the far uncertain East — 
 
 Land of poet and of priest. 
 
 Vanished now from every eye ; 
 
 And they turn with heart-born sigh 
 
 To the bow that's westward steering, 
 
 To Gibraltar's rock appearing — 
 
 To Gibraltar's fortress passed, 
 
 To the wider sea at last ; 
 
 Westward, westward through the gate — 
 
 Westward — and to such a fate ! 
 
 • ••••••• 
 
 Days have dawned, and dragged, and passed, 
 
 Each one longer than the last, 
 
 Each one taking as it went 
 
 Some morsel of the brave content 
 
 That buoyed these hearts upon the sea. 
 
 So far from beauteous Italy^ 
 
 As swooping gulls might snatch away 
 
 His baubles from a child at play 
 
 And vanish swiftly from his sight — 
 
 So thieving days swept into night ; 
 
 And in the crowded space below, 
 
 A weariness began to grow. 
 
 And wives waxed faint, and children cried. 
 
 And men sat silent side by side. 
 
 Or sadly asked, '* How long before 
 
 We'll see the far Brazilian shore ? " 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 On, on the ship crept like a snail, 
 Spreading the ineffectual sail ; 
 
THE DOOMED SHIP, 2^7 
 
 A lonely centre on the deep 
 For that vast, empty circle sweep 
 That bounded with a darkling sky 
 The waste of waters far and nigh. 
 So fared they on, when o'er that waste 
 There came a Presence — not love-faced, 
 As to the fishe*"^ ix\ came He 
 Who walked the waves of Galilee, 
 But gaunt and cruel — of horrid mien, 
 If mortal eye could but have seen 
 His ghostly form, as o'er the surge 
 He strode —the Spirit of the Scourge ! 
 
 Now, in the fetid hole below the decks, 
 
 'Mid heat and stenches, comes this Scourge to rule 
 
 A wretched kingdom, and before his throne 
 
 Soon they fall prostrate — fathers, mothers, babes, 
 
 Dying in agonies surpassing words. 
 
 And making what was erst a pit of hell 
 
 Now something that made hell seem heavenly — 
 
 The black, fell court of Cholera ! 
 
 But here is port, thank God, and here at last 
 
 Is help and human brotherhood 1 
 
 See how they swarm the deck and bring the sick 
 
 Up from the hold to breathe the wholesome air ; 
 
 And mark in each deep-sunken eye the gleam 
 
 Of laughter and delight at this relief — 
 
 A swelling joy they are too weak to voice, 
 
 Yet which, unvoiced, threatens to break their hearts ! 
 
 'Tis quarantine, and for some days, mayhap, 
 
 The law will hold the ship off from the port, 
 
28 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 But what of that ? Near by are fellow-men 
 
 To succour and relieve their dire distress ; 
 
 And in advance they bless the unknown hand 
 
 Of hospitality. . . . Too soon, too soon — 
 
 They bless it all too soon ! 
 
 " Weigh anchor ! Leave at once ! Go down the coast 
 
 A hundred miles or so, and there, perhaps, 
 
 You'll find a landing-place. Your ship of death 
 
 Must not and shall not here pollute our port 
 
 With its contagion ! Hoist your sail, be off ! '^ 
 
 This was the voice of brotherhood they heard— 
 
 The brotherhood of Cain — and all our hearts 
 
 Rise in hot anger at the thought. Yet stay, — 
 
 Would you have spoken other words ? Would I ? 
 
 Would we have had less prudent care than they 
 
 For our dear wives and children in the town, 
 
 Menaced like this with deadly visitation ? 
 
 We do not know these emigrants ; they come 
 
 From distant foreign shore, and at their best 
 
 Are such as we avoid, and their distress, 
 
 Though it arose from no fault of theirown, 
 
 Was still less caused by ours. Nature demands 
 
 That our first thought be given to ourselves, 
 
 And not to strangers — let them put to sea ! 
 
 What say your hearts ? Are they enough like Cain's 
 
 To give these words an echo secretly ? 
 
 Then take your place among the emigrants 
 
 Upon that ship, as sadly, silently 
 
 She stands to sea again, her sails half-set, 
 
 Her shape unseamanlike, because her crew 
 
 Are weak and sick, and have but faltering hands. 
 
 Can you not find some argument of weight 
 
THE DOOMED SHIP. 29 
 
 Upon the other side ? 
 
 Has not a man some claim on fellow-men ? 
 
 Why should we thus be sent to certain death ? 
 
 Can any care for self make just the act 
 
 That gives us banishment instead of help ; 
 
 That makes us outlaws in our sorest need ? 
 
 Here are our wives and children ; they must die; 
 
 We all must perish wretchedly, because 
 
 To rescue us would be a risky thing ! 
 
 "Go down the coast," they say, *'a hundred miles"; 
 
 And staggering out to the unpitying deep, 
 
 From these our fellows not more piteous, 
 
 We must obey ! Yet Hope still lives. 
 
 Though Death is in command. Perchance if God 
 
 Shall spare our ghastly ship to see the port 
 
 For which we now are making, it may be 
 
 We shall find human beating hearts, not stones ! 
 
 And so the barque, like a black tossing hearse, 
 
 Moves through the \vaves, while in her wake 
 
 Follow the ghoulish sharks, that fight and feast, 
 
 And feast and fight again ; while overhead, 
 
 Above the topmasts, wheel the birds of prey 
 
 With gloating eyes, scenting the tainted air. 
 • • • • • • • • 
 
 At last ! at last ! the haven is in sight ! 
 
 Come up from Tophet ; ye, who live, come up ! 
 
 Take heart, O frenzied ones, and thank your God 
 
 That He vouchsafes another chance for life ! 
 
 Here is the port — and here's the messenger 
 
 To bid ye welcome, poor afflicted souls ! 
 
 ** Go back ! go back ! or yonder fortress guns 
 
 Will blow yourship to pieces ! " Such the words 
 
30 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 That voice the greeting from the port of Hope. 
 
 But even this cruel mercy is denied — 
 
 The guns are silent as the fated ship 
 
 Turns in her tracks ; no kindly hand 
 
 Trains them upon her, and with fatal touch 
 
 Sends her relief in swift oblivion ; 
 
 This were, indeed, too mild a punishment 
 
 For such a crime as human helplessness ! 
 
 And so with gaunt Despair holding her wheel, 
 
 And Hope stark dead, she drifts away — away 
 
 To the far, dark horizon, o'er the wave 
 
 Whose briny deep, if all its drops were tears, 
 
 Would not proclaim that at this spectacle 
 
 Pity had over-wept. 
 
 • ••••••• 
 
 Westward ! westward o'er the sea. 
 
 From vine-embowered Italy 
 
 Came the ship. Where is she now ? 
 
 Cain-Brazil, upon thy brow 
 
 Glares the ugly mark of guilt. 
 
 Wash it, hide it as thou wilt ! 
 
 Thou art not thy brother's keeper ? 
 
 At that answer, deeper, deeper 
 
 Glows the mark — thou know'st thou art, 
 
 And the lie burns in thy heart ! 
 
 Where are these thy brothers, Cain, 
 
 Who appealed to thee in vain. 
 
 Whom, unhelped, thou turned away — 
 
 Where ? God thunders, where are they ? 
 
 Where ? But God alone doth know ! 
 Somewhere, helmless, to and fro, 
 
THE DOOMED SHH\ 
 
 Haunting, perhaps, the Southern sea 
 
 Where no human life can be, 
 
 Drifts a weird, unearthly wraith 
 
 Like a phantom ship of death, 
 
 With her groaning, swinging sail. 
 
 Telling out her tragic tale 
 
 Of man's inhumanity 
 
 To the icebergs cold and high ; 
 
 While the trembling polar star 
 
 Looks down tearful from afar, 
 
 On the frost- encrusted deck 
 
 Of the lone and battered wreck ; 
 
 Where the meditative gulls 
 
 Brood upon the whitened skulls ! 
 
 So, somewhere, the doomed ship rolls, 
 
 So she'll ever haunt our souls 1 
 
 31 
 
32 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 MADE WHOLE. 
 
 In his study, on a Monday, sat the pastor good and grave, 
 Meditating on the Gospel, and the world Christ came to save, 
 When his reverie was broken by the door-bell's sudden din, 
 And his wife, a gentle matron, with a nervous step came in — 
 And said, **A man to see you ; he wouldn't give his name; 
 
 Suspicious-looking person, with a furtive air 
 
 of shame. 
 Do you think you'd better see him ? " 
 ^2r<^ " Why, of course, my timid dear," 
 
 Cried the pastor, quickly rising — " there* is 
 
 surely naught to fear" — 
 And a moment later found him in the par- 
 lor down below, 
 In the presence of the stranger, all his 
 genial face aglow 
 With a sympathetic interest, as in frank, unstudied way 
 He said, ** You wished to see me? Very good. Be seated, 
 
 pray." 
 Like a glint of summer sunshine seemed the pastor's cheery 
 
 style, 
 And upon the stranger's features came a faint and ghost- 
 like smile ; 
 But it vanished in a moment from that hard, unhappy face, 
 Like a conscious thing that felt itself absurdly out of place. 
 "Yes," he said, '* I wished to see you, as a sort of last 
 recourse — 
 
MADE WHOLE. 
 
 33 
 
 But I thought rd betiiir do it ere I — well, do something 
 
 worse. 
 I'm a wretched man — a convict^ fresh from prison — ah, you 
 
 start ; 
 And the brand upon my forehead marks me as a thing 
 
 apart. 
 God knows, sir, I would fain redeem the dark and guilty 
 
 past, 
 And I've tried to get a foothold, but I've given it up at last — 
 Or I will when you have told me, like all other honest men. 
 That a wretch once mark'd a convict must a 
 
 convict still remain ; 
 That the world of upright people cannot bear 
 
 his leper touch, 
 And the marts of honest business have no use 
 
 at all for such ! 
 That is what you'll maybe tell me — and I do 
 
 not call you hard, 
 You must bow to iron custom, and you're 
 
 bound, sir, to regard 
 The criminal an outcast ; yet, last night I 
 
 heard you say, 
 In your sermon — I was present — I just happened up that 
 
 way — 
 I heard you say that Jesus held out a helping hand 
 To save the lowest sinner and the vilest in the land ; 
 And so I thought I'd come, sir, and ask if that is true. 
 For it's not like what I meet with — it's not what most folks do. 
 It may be I was dreaming -my head is often light — 
 And perhaps it's just a fancy I heard all this last night ; 
 So I thought I'd call and ask you if it is really so, 
 3 
 
34 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 Before I — but, no matter— that is, before I go." 
 " Before you do self-murder, and end it all, you'd say ? 
 Nay, nay, my hapless brother, put that black thought away ! 
 
 'Tis true — but any words of mine are 
 
 weak to say Jiow true — 
 That Jesus, the compassionate, holds 
 
 out His hand \.o you ; 
 And at this very moment He's whis- 
 'ji^^^^l \ \ \ \\ \ pered in my ear " 
 
 And here the pastor grasped the 
 stranger's hand with hearty 
 cheer — 
 " Where I can get you steady work, 
 
 which I'll be glad to do — ■ 
 So- put yourself at ease, my man, 
 and do not look so blue. 
 See, here's my little wifey — ah, wife, I'm glad you've come, 
 Shake hands witii — never mind the name — he's welcome 
 
 to our home;" 
 At which the timid matron did as she was 
 
 bid and smiled, 
 And then into the room there burst a golden- 
 headed child. 
 " Our Dolly," said the pastor, as the little, 
 
 romping miss 
 Stood all abashed — " Come, darling, won't 
 
 you give my friend a kiss?" 
 And to that friend's embarrassment, in inno- 
 cent embrace, 
 She hugged him round the neck and kissed his pale and 
 haggard face ; 
 
MADE WHOLE, 
 
 35 
 
 And nestled in his bosom and, as his head bent o'er, 
 She whispered to him gently, "What is oo cwying for?" 
 And when he rose his cheeks were wet, and sobbing shook 
 
 his frame, 
 But from his eyes there seemed to glow a new and holy 
 
 flame ; 
 And in a broken voice he said, " Brother, you've saved my 
 
 soul ; 
 I've touched Christ's garment through your love, and it 
 
 has made me whole." 
 
36 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAV, 
 
 ELOPED. 
 
 First a kind, inquiring glance 
 From papa at breakfr«=t, 
 
 Telegraphed across the board — 
 Just a stare, asking where 1 
 Apropos an empty chair. 
 
 Hinting looks, but not a word. 
 
 Next, a dainty little note 
 Found upon her table, 
 
 Neatly sealed, with bold address- 
 Giving news, raising "stews"; 
 No one ever did peruse 
 
 Such consummate sauciness ! 
 
 Then the window queerly raised. 
 In the darling's bedroom, 
 
 Lets in light upon the case ; 
 Pater's hope made to droop 
 At the vision of a rope. 
 
 In so very strange a place. 
 
 Ah ! those speaking prints of feet 
 Underneath the lattice — 
 
 Shapely '' sixes " and prunellas — 
 Tell a tale, somewhat stale. 
 How sweet home may seem a jail. 
 
 Through those curious things— the /^//^//^. 
 
LOSS OF THE ''CITY OF BOSTON}' 37 
 
 THE LOSS OF THE STEAMSHIP "CITY OF 
 
 BOSTON."* 
 
 Down in the street, where whisperers meet, 
 Pallor and gloom had struck every lip ; 
 
 Strong men weak in fears and fond women in tears 
 Told the story again — the tale of the ship ; 
 
 How she sailed all in splendor and joy from the shore, 
 
 How she passed the horizon — but no one knew more ! 
 
 Then the moon from her wane to her circle again 
 Found the city in grief as the days lingered on, 
 
 And the grief, like a pall made to shadow us all, 
 
 Broadened over the lands where the message had gone- 
 
 Till the sound in each ear was the sound of the surge, 
 
 With its strange muffled music — a hymn or a dirge ! 
 
 Still the waves roar on the grief-stricken shore, 
 Bringing no joy in their turbulent wrath ; 
 
 Still the wild gull has no story to tell, 
 
 From the barren afar, from the hurricane's path ; 
 
 Hoping 'gainst hope — dreading to dread — 
 
 Shall they pray for the living or mourn for the dead ? 
 'Tis the echo of Fate — '* Mourn for the dead ! " 
 
 * In the year 1870, the steamship City of Boston sailed from New York for 
 Liverpool, on one of her regular trips. In due time she was reported missing, 
 and great public excitement ensued. A subsequent message announcing her 
 safety turned out to be untrue. She has never s^nce been seen or heard of. 
 
38 MOTLE Y: VERSES GRA VE AND GA Y. 
 
 Sudden, athwart the black clouds of dismay 
 The lightnings in wondrous characters play, 
 Flashing a message of heavenly cheer 
 To vanquish the gathering gloom of our fear. 
 
 The city is gay and the bells ring out, 
 Fearing takes flight at the marvellous shout ! 
 Tears are gone for the rapture of joy, 
 Te Deums go up for the peril gone by ! 
 Heard all through night the electrical word — 
 ** The Boston is safe, and the souls on board ! " 
 
 But the cold tide of morn 
 
 Brings back all our pain ; 
 The music is hushed ; 
 
 .Heaven darkens ag;ain. 
 
 'Twas a mirage that mocked us and melted away 
 From the sky of our hope, now sullen and grey 
 
 And with doom overcast ; 
 We search the wide sea, but no ught is agleam. 
 
 No promise is there ; 
 The winds creep and whisper, and ghostly they seem ; 
 The vision is past- 
 All is draped in despair ! 
 
THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 39 
 
 THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 
 
 On, on we speed, as once the eagle sped. 
 
 In wild, free flight tl rough these vast soUtudes ; 
 
 But not like her, on \ ary pinion borne. 
 
 Here, lounging in a Persian luxury. 
 
 We need but cast an eager, ravished eye 
 
 Upon the ample window, whose square frame 
 
 Encloses scene on scene of wonderland — 
 
 An endless panors.ma of such views 
 
 Ay mortal brush can never hope to match : 
 
 Torrent and forest, rock and cataract 
 
 Sweep grandly by, as now the early sun 
 
 Lifts up the fairy veil of morning mist 
 
 That drapes the white-capp'd mountains, which 
 
 Like Titan matrons silent sit aloft. 
 
 Nursing the baby clouds upon their giant breasts. 
 
40 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND 
 
 GAY, 
 
 BILL JUDSON. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE OIL REGION. 
 
 "Stranger, d'ye see that derrick, away off thar' on the 
 bluff? ^ 
 
 Well, jest beneath it it's running a hundred bar'ls of the stuff; 
 
 'Course, that's be'n known afore, 
 
 sir, I don't intend to blow. 
 But then thar's ci'cumstances— sort 
 of a story, you know. 
 
 " Thank y', sir— foreign tobaccer ?— 
 
 off here we git nothin' but cut. 
 An' it gits played out when you wet 
 
 it, an' it's dear as thunder— but 
 Excuse my wanderin' this way, from 
 
 old things into new — 
 Forgettin' that you don't live here, 
 
 and that ain't nothin' to you. 
 
 ** Well, Judson, as lies here sleepin', 
 was a native of the soil, 
 ^'^"* An' owned the hull region mostly, 
 ,_ afore they found the oil : 
 
 Twas a mighty big plantation, but it wasn't wo'th a red 
 Cause folks don't build no houses whar' they can't make 
 dailv bread. 
 
 ^., , ^ - 
 
BILL JUDSON. 41 
 
 " By'm-bye he got an offer, and he sold the hull consarn 
 For mighty nigh to nothin' — so I have heerd the yarn. 
 He thought it a high old bargain, an' was cuttin' quite a 
 
 swell, 
 But h*:? froth went down some, stranger, when the fellers 
 
 sunk a well. 
 
 That well, she fairly spouted a hundred bar'ls a day — 
 An' the fellers heaped up money in a powerful sort of 
 
 way ; 
 While Judson, he got sober, an' began to grow quite old ; 
 An' looked just like a man that's made a bargain — an' got 
 
 sold. 
 
 " If Judson wa'n't lucky, sir, leastwise he was a brick, 
 
 It wa'n't in his natur' fur to give it up an' stick ; 
 
 So he scraped around a year or so, with a wrinkle in his 
 
 face, 
 An' fin'lly picked upon a site, an' went an' bought the place. 
 
 " He raised a derrick — that's it thar' — an' he got his rig 
 
 complete. 
 An' bored, I've heerd 'em mention, about two thousand 
 
 feet ; 
 When he couldn't git no furder, of course he had to stop ; 
 But luck wit dead agin him — he didn't get a drop ! 
 
 " Poor feller ! he was dead broke then, his last red cent was 
 
 gone. 
 An' they say 'twas hard to see him, the way he took it on ; 
 
42 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 But he didn't wait to grieve to death— he wa'n't of that 
 
 kind- 
 He went an' got a pistol, an' blowed it out of mind. 
 
 "So that's the end of Judson— that's why he's lyin' here; 
 He wa'n't a pet of Fortune's, that's true, sir, as you're 
 thar'— 
 
 The well? why, 'course it's runnin'— it flows a perfect 
 tide, 
 
 An' jest begun an hour or so after Bill Judson died ! " 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 43 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH * 
 
 Farewell, old Zion ! Hark ! the sacred walls 
 
 In solemn echo whisper back, Farewell ! 
 
 And in that whisper, tremulous and low, 
 
 Another dying Jacob seems to speak 
 
 A benediction ere he pass away ; 
 
 And if it were in very truth a life 
 
 That thus were ebbing out. 
 
 The children standing bowed around the couch 
 
 Could feel but little more the parting pain 
 
 Than we feel now. 
 
 Thus bricks and mortar, wood and sombre paint, 
 
 Dead, pulseless aisles, and pillars tall and dumb, 
 
 By the weird witchery of memory^s spell 
 
 Assume a personality ; 
 
 And round that phantom form love's arms would cling 
 
 As round a patriarch whom impatient death 
 
 Waited to snatch away. 
 
 What is old Zion ? 
 
 To the curious eye of antiquarian stranger 
 
 But a church — a quaint, old-fashioned church — 
 
 Upon whose spire the summer sun has played 
 
 * Read on the occasion of the last meeting held in Zion Congregational Church. 
 It was one of the oldest churches in Toronto, and stood on the corner of Bay and 
 Adelaide Streets. 
 
44 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 And winter storm has dashed 
 
 For half a century ! 
 
 One time a haven of calm Sabbath rest, 
 
 Peaceful beyond the busy city's din, — 
 
 Now such a haven, but no more apart ; 
 
 A Sabbath island now amidst the roar 
 
 Of Trade's wild billows. 
 
 So, with a glance, the stranger passes on. 
 
 Knowing no more of Zion — caring less. 
 
 What is old Zion ? 
 
 Ask yonder grey- haired man if he can tell 
 
 All that is treasured in that simple name. 
 
 For him it holds a thousand sacred thoughts 
 
 Which language is too poor to fitly speak ; 
 
 For he has known it as a Sabbath home 
 
 From eager youth to slow-paced, silvery age ; 
 
 To him its homely air, its modest pews, 
 
 Its pulpit smiling welcome down the aisle. 
 
 Have all a beauty that could not be matched 
 
 In any marble dream of Angelo's 
 
 Or miracle of Wren's. 
 
 Upon those walls, seve.-e and unadorned, 
 
 His quickened soul has pictured glorious things 
 
 The while his ears drank in the sacred word 
 
 Of promise and of hope. 
 
 From out those pews he's watched bright youth arise 
 
 And mount the shining road of earthly fame ; 
 
 Anon he's bowed his head with those who wept 
 
 For dear ones ta'en away. 
 
 Before his memory there passes now 
 
 A line of saintly forms, once known and loved, 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 
 
 Who spoke the words of life from yonder desk- 
 Words full of power, because words Spirit-taught ; 
 Words, too, of liberty and human rights 
 Against oppression when the State had need. 
 A thousand varying pictures float and glow, 
 Like water on the wall of Recollection ; 
 A thousand memories that will ever cHng 
 To this old church as once the ivy clung 
 With fond embrace. 
 
 Farewell, old Zion ! Hark ! the sacred walls 
 In solemn echo whisper back, Farewell ! 
 And silence broods o'er all. 
 
 45 
 
46 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 GEORGE E. GILLESPIE.* 
 
 The drooping flags half-masted flow, 
 Prefiguring no feigned grief, 
 No formal sorrow, hollow, brief^ 
 
 But honest, heartfelt, widespread woe. 
 
 No brilliant wit has passed away, 
 No tongue of eloquence is stilled, 
 Brt manly honor, iron-willed — 
 
 Gillespie ! Our sore need to-day ! 
 
 Stern? headstrong? stubborn? Even so, 
 Where to surrender and give way 
 Were public interests to betray ; 
 
 Alone with Truth, he'd thunder, ^'No !" 
 
 But where was ever kindlier heart 
 Than beat within Gillespie's breast ? 
 Aye, thousands whom his hand has blest 
 
 Drop secret tears to-day apart. 
 
 Death sought to take him unaware ; 
 But, in the Christian's hope and faith. 
 His dauntless spirit smiled at Death, 
 
 Nor needed space for anguished prayer. 
 
 No more his earnest mind may plan 
 Our city's glory to secure — 
 He sleeps, yet will hi . fame endure 
 
 In golden words — An Honest Man ! 
 
 * Alderman for St. George's Ward, Toronto, died April 11th, 1891. 
 
KILLED AT THE PLOUGH. 47 
 
 KILLED AT THE PLOUGH.* 
 
 'Tis noon ; the storm is over, the sun is riding clear, 
 
 And o'er the clouds triumphant, he smiles through the 
 
 vapory air ; 
 The farmer's wife in her kitchen is busy, and blithe, and 
 
 gay, 
 And the little prattling daughter is at her innocent play. 
 
 ** Ma, was 'oo 'fyaid of the lightning? was 'oo 'fyaid of the 
 
 big, big noise ? " 
 Asks the little maiden with wonder, as she leaves her dolls 
 
 and toys. 
 *' No, darling," says the mother, *' in God's good hands we 
 
 rest, 
 He is our heavenly Father, and our Father knoweth best. 
 
 " See, now the sky is clear again, the storm is over and 
 done. 
 
 And God is smiling u^^on us" — and she kisses the little one. 
 
 *' So now put on your big straw hat, and go, dear, as yes- 
 terday. 
 
 And tell pai)a dinner is ready, and tell him to come right 
 away." 
 
 * David Heilehy, of Bathiirst, Out., was kille«l by a stroke of li;:htriin<,' while 
 ploutfhiiij; on his farm. The horses Aere also killed. At dinner-time Mrs. Ilerlehy 
 sent a five-year-old child to brinj^ the father to the midday meal, but the little 
 one broM'^^ht back the news that her father was asleep on the ground and she 
 conld not awaken him, and that the hor-es were asleep, too. At this the poor 
 mother apprehended the fatal occurrence, and running to the field, saw her 
 husband lying dead in the midst of hiy honest xoM.—Lmil jiapet: 
 
48 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 Then the blue eyes dance with laughter and the baby hands 
 
 are quick, 
 And the bloom of the roses heightens with joy on the 
 
 girlie's cheek ; 
 And soon she is toddling nimbly adown the emerald lane, 
 And the mother there in the doorway feels a pleasure akin 
 
 to pain. 
 
 Once more the pattering footsteps are heard coming up the 
 
 way. 
 And the mother is in the threshold — **Well, dear, what did 
 
 papa say ? 
 Why didn't you come on his shoulders, for the hills are 
 
 long and steep ? " 
 *"Tause," says the innocent, panting,"! touldn't, 'tause 
 
 papa's aseep." 
 
 " Asleep ?" says the mother, smiling, *' why, darling " 
 
 *' Yes, yight on the gwound, 
 And Dobbin's aseep, and Jerry — all seeping, oh, so sound ! 
 
 I touldn't wake my papa, and I twied and twied again " 
 
 Then the wife's lips turn to ashes, and her heart-beats cease 
 
 ibr pain. 
 
 "'Twas the lightning flash!" she gasping cries, "he is dead ! 
 
 O God ! he's dead ! 
 In the midst of his honest toiling for our humble, daily 
 
 bread. 
 O husband ! Oh, my darling ! Oh, desolate, stricken breast ; 
 O God, Thou art the Father ! Father, Thou knowest 
 
 best ! " 
 
THE CRISIS. 49 
 
 THE CRISIS. 
 
 They stood at the gate 
 Very late, 
 And the moon seemed to smiie as she gazed from aloft, 
 For the anxious swain was decidedly " soft " 
 
 In the pate. 
 
 He stood there, half froze 
 I suppose ; 
 For a climax had come in his wooing of Ann, 
 And intent in his mind he was brewing a plan 
 
 To propose. 
 
 They talked of the stars 
 And the wars ; 
 Of the beautiful hues in the northern lights ; 
 Of gentlemen's collars and women's rights, 
 
 'Till all hours. 
 
 Time slipping by 
 
 Rather spry, 
 Put the lover in mind that he'd better make haste, 
 Lest this golden chance of his life he should waste, 
 
 Being shy. 
 
 So, tho' blushes would sneak 
 O'er his cheek, 
 He changed his feet in a resolute style, 
 And, clearing his throat, he, with disciplined smile — 
 
 Didn't speak. 
 4 
 
5Q MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 Half an hour, 
 
 Or more, 
 He struggled to muster up courage to vow, 
 But his words stuck fast every time, somehow. 
 
 As before. 
 
 The speech wouldn't come ; 
 
 He was dumb ; 
 He gazed on the girl with ineffable love, 
 Internally burning, he struggled and strove — 
 
 Then went home. 
 
 m 
 
SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD. 51 
 
 SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD.* 
 
 Dead ! Dead ! And now before 
 The threshold of bereaved Earnscliffe 
 
 stand, 
 In spirit, all who dwell within our land. 
 
 From shore to shore ! 
 
 Before that black-draped gate. 
 Men, women, children mourn the Premier gone. 
 For many loved and worshipped old Sir John, 
 
 And none could hate. 
 
 And he is dead, they say ! 
 The words confuse and mock the general ear — 
 What ! can there yet be House and members here. 
 
 And no John A.? 
 
 So long all hearts he swayed, 
 Like merry monarch of some olden line, 
 Whose subjects questioned not his right divine, 
 
 But just obeyed 
 
 His will's e'en faintest breath. 
 We had forgotten, 'midst affairs of State, 
 'Midst Hansard, Second Readings and Debate, 
 
 Such thin^^ . as death ! 
 
 * Born at Glasgow January Uth, 1816 ; died at Earnscliffe, Ottawa, June 6th, 1891, 
 
52 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 Swift came the dread eclipse 
 Of faculty, and limb and life at last, 
 Ere to the Judge of all the earth he passed, 
 
 With silent lips, 
 
 But not insensate heart ! 
 He was no harsh, self-righteous Pharisee — 
 The tender Christ compassioned such as he, 
 
 And took their part. 
 
 As for his Statesman-fame, 
 Let History calm his wondrous record read. 
 And write the truth, and give him honest meed 
 
 Of praise or blame ! 
 
THE OPEN GA TES OF HELL. 53 
 
 THE OPEN GATES OF HELL.* 
 
 'Neath the sheltering pall of night, 
 
 'Neath the stars that shine like tears, 
 See this father hurrying on, 
 
 With his warring hopes and fears. 
 Swiftly — from his babies sleeping. 
 Swiftly — from his pnor wife weeping. 
 Speeds he on — oh, manly part. 
 Tempted, crushed, yet gallant heart ! 
 In God's strength he travels well, 
 Flying from the gates of hell. 
 
 Through the city's silent streets, 
 Past the haunts of sin and sorrow, 
 
 Hear his echoing, hunted steps, 
 Hastening to the glad to-morrow. 
 
 Thinking of his babies sleeping. 
 
 Praying for his good wife weeping ; 
 
 ♦ The New York Voice contained the story of a man who left his home and 
 family to start for a Prohibition State, to get away from the temptations of the 
 saloons. He had prayed over the matter, and discussed it with his wife, and 
 deliberately come to the conclusion that there was no other way of escape for 
 himself. He could not bear to bid his babies good-bye, for fear it might weaken 
 his resolution, but told his wife to tell them that he had gone to get another 
 home for them. He did not dare to wait till the morning to take the train, 
 as in that case he would have to pass by the optJi saloons, and so he walked 
 nine miles in the dark of night to begin his journey before the saloons should be 
 open. He told his wife that the saloons were like the open gates of hell to him, 
 and when hr was near them it seemed as though all the hosts of the devil were 
 after him to get him in. 
 
54 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 Past the churches tall and still, 
 Past the mansions on the hill — 
 On he flies — God speed him well, 
 Flying from the gates of hell ! 
 
 In his tossing, troubled thought 
 Church and mansion melt in one, 
 
 Shaping forth a blessed spot — 
 
 A home, a home I and that his own ! 
 
 Where in peace his babes are sleeping, 
 
 Where for joy his wife is weeping. 
 
 Where his noble heart may know 
 
 Safety from this demon foe ; 
 
 Where's God's blessing rich may dwell, 
 
 Far from open gates of hell ! 
 
 Christian man, with pitying thought. 
 
 Use that ballot in your hand ! 
 Here's the battle to be fought — 
 
 Church of Christ, arise and stand ! 
 Shield the million babies sleeping. 
 Succour all the poor wives weeping ; 
 Break these chains that bind our brothers, 
 Dry the tears of pale-faced mothers, 
 Rise and crush this demon fell, 
 Shut up all the gates of hell ! 
 
BEFORE THE MAGISTRATE. 
 
 55 
 
 u 
 
 (( 
 
 u 
 
 BEFORE THE MAGISTRATE. 
 
 Billy Rough, loq.: 
 
 Do I want to ax the witness any ques- 
 tions? Yes, I do — 
 
 If he'll kiss the book and look this way 
 I guess I'll ax a few. 
 
 Which the same '11 show Your Worship 
 what his story isn't true. 
 
 You say that you're a peeler, and was 
 
 on your beat las' night, 
 An' that you saw me stavin' drunk, or 
 
 leastwise beastly tight, 
 And also that, moreover, I had likewise 
 
 had a fight. 
 
 You're on your oath, remember — that's a Bible there, 
 
 you know — 
 You know it? Well, go on then, but mighty sure an' slow. 
 For my character's in jeopardy, an' I ought to get a show. 
 
 *' Don't never mind the time o' night — that 
 don't concern the case, 
 
 Nor 'bout them other fellers — say, jest 
 turn around your face — 
 
 I guess I've kind o' got you in a pretty 
 ticklish place ! 
 
 8:/ 
 
 l| I 
 
 *' Them's the facts you say, policeman, an' 
 
 you haven't twisted it ? 
 You're on your oath, an' swore it, that I 
 
 was drunk and fit ? 
 I don't know nothin' 'bout it — don't doubt 
 
 your w^ord a bit !" 
 
56 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 ARCHBISHOP LYNCH.* 
 
 With bowed, uncovered head, 
 
 Amid the throng of honest, tearful souls 
 We stand, as old St. Michael's bell out tolls, 
 
 To mourn the Prelate dead. 
 
 We mark the empty throne. 
 
 Sic transit gloria mundi^ sadly sigh. 
 
 Yet tears like these are for no office high, - 
 
 But for the man alone. 
 
 Honored and loved of Rome, 
 
 None wore her dignities with simpler grace, 
 Or, loved of people, held a warmer place 
 
 In every Catholic home. 
 
 And we, not of his fold. 
 
 We, too, have known his kindly Irish heart, 
 And in his people's sorrow claim a part. 
 
 As when his praise is told. 
 
 * Right Rev. John Joseph Lynch, Roman Catholic Archbishop of Toronto 
 Born 1816 ; died May 12th, 1888. 
 
THE WOODPILE TEST. 
 
 57 
 
 ' G^z. / 
 
 THE WOODPILE lEST.* 
 
 No; I don't like gettin' swindled, and 
 
 dead-beats do abound; 
 There's lots of lazy lubbers always a-hang- 
 
 in' round ; 
 The stories they tell sound truthful, an' 
 
 their tears seem genewine ; 
 But I know they're frauds an' humbugs 
 
 'bout seven times out o' nine. 
 
 Well, what'll you do about it? Give 'em a straight out 
 
 No! 
 When so frequent they come crawlin', tellin' their tale of 
 
 woe — 
 Askin' for food or money, or beggin' a job of work ? 
 Coin' to ignore their cases 'cause some of 'em might 
 
 shirk ? 
 
 /can't do that no longer — p'raps I'm not wise as you. 
 But I'll never deny 'em a job, if I've got any chores to 
 
 do ; 
 I keep a woodpile a-purpose, an' a bucksaw sharp an' 
 
 bright, 
 An' I've always kept 'em handy since a certain winter 
 
 night. 
 
 * Based on an incident which occurred at the house of a friend, who mentioned 
 it to the author. This gentleman subsecjuently wrote : *' After reading your piece 
 I felt twice as sorry for my wood-cutter as I had done at the time." 
 
58 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GA K 
 
 Twas a cold an' stormy evenin' when a chap came to my 
 place — 
 
 A pitiful-lookin' critter, with a pale an' haggard face ; 
 He asked for a job of some sort to earn a dime or two, 
 An' I thought for once I'd test him, an' see what he would 
 do. 
 
 **Come 'round to-morrer," I says to him, "an' saw a cord 
 
 of wood " — 
 The fellow kind o' started ; says he, '* You're very good. 
 But if you don't object, sir, I'd like to start in now. 
 Although it's kind of latish." I says to myself, '* I swow!" 
 
 "All right," says I, "go at it !" an' I took him 'round t' th' . 
 
 shed. 
 He tightened up his waist-strap, an' Q\ 
 
 nothin' more was said; <^'^|^ 
 
 I went in to my supper, an' while I set ^^-^i^> 
 
 an'et, ^ 
 
 I heerd that saw a-goin' in a way that r^^ 
 
 made me sweat. S:^ 
 
 " Poor chap, he must be hungry, he needs some food an' 
 drink ;" 
 
 " Yes, Samuel," says my better-half, " that's 'zactly what I 
 think." 
 
 So she fixed up some good sandwich, and a red-hot cup of 
 tea. 
 
 An' took it to the feller, an' "Thank you, ma'am," says 
 he. 
 
THE WOODPILE TEST, 
 
 59 
 
 " Would you believe it, Samuel/' says she, when she re- 
 turned, 
 
 " He's half way through that cord o' wood ; his money's 
 nearly earned ; " 
 
 An' when a little later I took a saunter out, 
 
 I'm blowed if he wa'n't through the job an' puttin' on his 
 coat ! 
 
 '* But what's the matter with the lunch," says I, "for here 
 
 it lays ? " 
 " Well, sir, I hope it's no 
 
 offence — it's just like 
 
 this," he says, 
 *' If you ain't no objection, 
 
 I'll take that home," 
 
 says he, 
 '* My missus an' the young 
 
 'uns, they needs it 
 
 more n me. 
 
 j> 
 
 I couldn't hardly speak at first, an' then I says, '' Come in !" 
 An' I made him sit right down an' eat, an' filled him to the 
 
 chin. 
 *'An' now," says I, "we'll settle up; jest mention what's 
 
 your charge." 
 " Well, sir," says he, " would fifty cents ? — er — if that 
 
 ain't too large." 
 
 "Git out!" says I. He trembled some. "Then say a 
 
 quarter, sir." 
 " Git out ag'in !" I fairly roared ; " what do you take me fur ? 
 
60 
 
 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 I won't do no such measly thing ! See, here's a dollar bill, 
 But don't you get so flustered ; go on an' eat yer fill ! " 
 
 An' if you ever see a chap 'at looked surprised an' glad 
 You'd seed one then ; an' off he went as spry as any lad. 
 Right through the black and stormy night, straight for his 
 
 little home. 
 An' maybe wife an babies wa'n't glad to see him come ! 
 
 That's why I've took the notion— p'raps I'm not over wise; 
 An' maybe I'll git played on by frauds who tell me lies ; 
 But I'm agoin' to trust 'em until I see the fraud, 
 For there's here an' there a hero 'mongst the poor ones of 
 our God ! 
 
 <r- 
 
THE SEASON OF GUSH. 
 
 61 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 f r:^' 
 
 -4. 
 
 THE SEASON OF GUSH. 
 
 The days of shaking hands have come- 
 
 The kindest of the year ; 
 The candidates go smiling round 
 
 With such profuse good cheer ! 
 
 The aspirants for civic seats, 
 The gents who would be mayor, 
 
 Or fill some other office high. 
 Confront you everywhere. 
 
 Each werrsJ a gracious, genial smile, 
 
 All day from door to door. 
 And such intense good-will to men 
 
 You never knew before. 
 
 Fine gentlemen, with soft white kids, 
 Have thrown away their caste, 
 
 And shake the horny hands of toil 
 With unexampled zest. 
 
62 
 
 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 And tho' they didn't seem to care 
 
 For you a week ago, 
 They ask about your family now 
 
 With interest all aglow. 
 
 Hath the millennium come at last, 
 
 That everything's so ga^ ? 
 Doth Christmas work this wondrous change 
 
 Or Nomination Day ? 
 
WILLIAM T. CROASDALE. 63 
 
 WILLIAM T. CROASDALE.* 
 
 Could the poor dumb, driven cattle— toiling millions, 
 
 blind, deceived — 
 Know their brother as we knew him, they would know 
 
 themselves bereaved ; 
 
 And the badge of manly sorrow all around the world would 
 show 
 
 For our Croasdale, hero-hearted, by the shaft of death laid 
 low. 
 
 His the hand that held the Standard, his the sword of 
 
 burnished steel 
 Flashing in the front of battle, pointing to the people's weal ; 
 His the heart that never faltered in the grim unequal fight, 
 His the soul that stood undaunted for the cause of God 
 
 and Right ! 
 
 By this handful of poor ashes— all that's left of him we 
 knew — 
 
 Let us swear the wrongs he fronted shall be turned to 
 ashes, too ! 
 
 See! before our stricken columns goes his spirit like a 
 flame, 
 
 Close the ranks, and forward ! forward ! in his talismanic 
 name ! 
 
 * Croasdale was the Editor of the New York Standard, the leading organ of 
 the Single Tax Reform. Born 1844 ; died 1891. His body was cremated. 
 
64 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 THE LONDON DISASTER.* 
 
 The river's bank, in its fair morning verdure, 
 
 Echoes the myriad voices of a throng 
 
 Of merry-makers, loos'd from thralls of work, 
 
 Free as the air, and thrilled with such a joy 
 
 As queens know nothing of; 
 
 For, though it be a royal holiday, 
 
 The monarch, bound in golden chains of state. 
 
 Must learn the art from the blest sons of toil, 
 
 If she would keep it royally. 
 
 • • • • • •• • • 
 
 The river's bank at eventide is grim, 
 And echoes cries of anguish, grief and woe ; 
 The grassy slope that nursed the morning beam 
 Now bears a ghastly burden of the dead ; 
 And torches, held in trembling hands of love, 
 Sullenly mirrored in the passive stream — 
 As black and cruel as human avarice — 
 Move to and fro, casting at once, alas ! 
 The light of hope and darkness of despair. 
 
 • •••••••• 
 
 Take up the dead ones ; give them solemn shrouds 
 Instead of these poor trappings of the park ; 
 Nor let us be unapt to lay to heart 
 The lesson taught at such an awful cost ! 
 
 ♦ Queen's Birthday, May 24th, 1881. The wreck of a pleasure-boat on the 
 Thames, at London, Ont., resulted in the death of many of the holiday-makers. 
 
ON THE RIVER'S EDGE, 65 
 
 ON THE RIVER'S EDGE.* 
 
 # 
 
 In the calm evening of my life, 
 As here in my bereaved home 
 I silent sit, my thoughts ne'er roam 
 
 From the sweet memory of my wife. 
 
 I do not think of her as gone. 
 
 For here she seems to bless me still, 
 And tokens of her glow and thrill 
 
 In everything I look upon. 
 
 The old clock ticking on the shelf, 
 
 Discourses to my heart of her, 
 
 The house plants, late her pride and care. 
 Breathe forth the spirit of herself. 
 
 Each keepsake on the mantel there, 
 Recalls her touch, so fond and neat ; 
 In everything I seem to meet 
 
 Her face, to me so ever fair. 
 
 And while with rapt and moisten'd eye 
 
 I see her form of yesterday, 
 
 So venerable, bent and grey, 
 The years unroll mysteriously. 
 
 • Lines inscribed to an aged man. who had recently lost his wife. He survived 
 his much-loved partner but a short time survives 
 
 5 
 
66 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 Age and its signals vanis^. slow ; 
 
 Her form is straight, her face is bright, 
 I greet her with a strange delight, 
 
 My bride of sixty years ago ! 
 
 And then once more we, hand in hand, 
 Start down Ufe's way of joy and grief. 
 And all that path, so long — so brief — 
 
 I walk, and live o'er all we planned. 
 
 The beauty of her youthful life 
 Evanished not, but constant grew; 
 More sweet to me, more kind, more true, 
 
 Each year made my beloved wife. 
 
 Till we had passed the grey fourscore. 
 And slowly walked beside the stream. 
 And then God called her unto Him, 
 
 And I am left upon the shore. 
 
 The old clock ticking or the shelf 
 Discourses to my heart of her. 
 And soon will mark the happy hour 
 
 When I shall cross the stream myself. 
 
 And Christ, her shepherd, standeth nigh 
 To comfort me, and in His faith 
 ril triumph in the hour of death, 
 
 And join my loved one in the sky. 
 
REV. E. A. STAFFORD, D.D. 67 
 
 REV. E. A. STAFFORD, D.D.* 
 
 A LITTLE span of half a hundred years 
 He walked the earth ; yet so benign that 
 walk, 
 
 He still will live when hal'^a hundred more 
 Have come and gone. 
 Not that his fame was known in many lands, 
 To be re-echoed from the trump of Time ' 
 But that within the sphere in which he moved 
 The narrower bounds of this, his native land, ' 
 We knew his worth, and will not let him die. 
 From sire to son that noble memory— 
 A Sabbath sunlight round the tall, lithe form, ' 
 Which shrined a soul wide as the human race 
 That looked abroad with sad and gentle eyes ' 
 Anon with humor kindling, yet which flashed' 
 The lightning of a righteous wrath at times • 
 And spoke, through lips that wore a genial smile, 
 The homely phrase that sent an old, old truth 
 Upon its errand looking almost new ; 
 And hid itself beneath the unschooled pose 
 The nervous attitude, the quaint, slow voice,' 
 That seldom rose to real eloquence. 
 Unless real eloquence is simple speech. 
 That holds the mind and captivates the heart— 
 
 bor*„ fn 'issf !!;i T^ *.fi "(.-"i'hed ,„ini,,er of th. Methodist Church. He wm 
 born .„ 1839, and died wh.le ,K«tor of the Centenar, Chui^h. Hamilton, in im 
 
68 MOTLEY' : VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 That noble memory from sire to son 
 
 Will surely pass, to bless and to inspire. 
 
 Bereaved Methodism kneels and weeps 
 
 At Stafford's tomb, but not in solitude : 
 
 Beside her all the sister Churches bend ; 
 
 Creeds count for nought ; this plain dead preacher here 
 
 Was great enough to love and reverence each, 
 
 And so is mourned by all. 
 
THE CHARGE AT B A TO CHE. 
 
 69 
 
 Drawn by W. D. Blatchley, 
 
 THE CHARGE AT BATOCHE.* 
 
 Who says that British blood grows tame, 
 
 And that the olden fire is gone 
 That swept the fields of deathless fame 
 
 When heroes led our soldiers on ? 
 Let tyrant Czars, grown great on wrong, 
 
 Believe that fable if they will, 
 While I rehearse in martial song 
 
 A story of Canadian skill — 
 
 And Canada is British still ! 
 
 ♦These lines were written for a baritone song composed by Mr. Barton 
 Browne. The battle of Batoche ended the Metis Rebellion in the North- West 
 Territories in 1885. 
 
70 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 In Duty's name we lay before the pits 
 
 All day, like targets for the rebel lead, 
 Wasting our bullets on the sullen hill, 
 
 In whose grim side the enemy was hid. 
 In Duty's name we choked our anger down, 
 
 And clenched our rifles in impatient grasp, 
 Blazing at random — waiting for the word — 
 
 While comrades round us gave their dying gasp. 
 
 Out rang the signal shrill, 
 
 Each soldier's heart to thrill. 
 Along the line the inspiring signal — Charge ! 
 All eager sprang the gallant Ninetieth then. 
 Up flashed the scarlet of each Royal Gren, 
 Forth thundered Boulton's scouts and French's men, 
 On dashed brave Howard's gatling in the van — 
 
 'Twas Charge ! Charge ! Charge ! 
 
 With rousing British cheers, 
 The loyal volunteers 
 
 Swept grandly on ! 
 Blenched at the whirlwind dread, 
 The shattered rebels fled — 
 
 Batoche was won ! 
 Batoche was bravely won ! 
 
THE CHARGE AT BATOCHE, 7l 
 
 Won ! but ah, dearly won those steeps, 
 
 For on the field, in manhood's pride, 
 Lay heroes whom our country weeps — 
 
 It was for Canada they died ; 
 For Canada, fair Canada, 
 
 Our gallant heroes fought and died. 
 
 Who says that British blood growls tame. 
 Or that the olden fire is gone. 
 
 Must first forget Batoche's name. 
 
 And how that day was fought and won ! 
 
72 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 THE RUMMY'S APPEAL TO THE LADIES.* 
 
 Let up on this thing, ladies; we ain't doin' no great harm— 
 We've got a legal license for to keep the public warm ; 
 And we do our biz respectable as any other shop, 
 Then, why this female raidin' for to try and bust us up ? 
 
 We ain't the only evil — social canker, and all that — 
 There's life insurance agents all around you, gettin' fat ; 
 And there's depots for new sewin' machines up-springin' 
 
 everywhere, 
 A sort of pesky nuisances the public has to bear ! 
 
 While we — of course we're publicans, but that don't make 
 
 us sinners ; 
 And bein' only mortal, we can't go without our dinners — 
 But we've been marked for vengeance and come in for all 
 
 the scorn. 
 Because we do a business in — liquidated corn ! 
 
 If we were whiskey merchants in the wholesale line of trade. 
 Or owners of the 'stablishments where the liquid stuff is 
 
 made, 
 You'd never band together our evil work to stay, 
 By preying on our custom till you prayed it all away. 
 
 * Apropos of the movement in Ohio, in which saloons were invaded by bands 
 of women who held prayer meetings in the bar-rooms. Out of this movement 
 •prang the now world-wide W. C. T. U. organization. 
 
THE RUMMY'S APPEAL TO THE LADIES, 73 
 
 We ain't the only sort of chaps that nurses guilt and grief, 
 That makes the ragged wanton, the murderer and the thief; 
 You ought to rip the whole thing up— maker, seller, buyer, 
 And the man that tipples moderate — he's the cove that stirs 
 the fire. 
 
 Then draw it mild on our saloons— it's nothin' more than 
 
 fair 
 That bosses of distilleries should get a decent share ; 
 And in your kind petitions, that knock us out of time, 
 Remember genteel people, our helpers in the crime ! 
 
74 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 GLADSTONE. 
 
 The sunlight glorifies the English fields ; 
 
 The bees seem drugged with summer happiness ; 
 
 The butterflies, ecstatic, flirt and dance 
 
 To the sweet rhythm of the Sabbath chimes, 
 
 And larks unseen assail the listening clouds 
 
 With morning melody. 
 
 The village gentry and the rustic folk. 
 
 Old men in smock-frocks, maidens fresh abloom, 
 
 Lads bright of eye, constrained in Sunday dress, 
 
GLADSTONE. 75 
 
 Staid matrons, portly squires, 
 The rich, the poor, the humble and the proud, 
 Now gather in the quaint old Hawarden church. 
 And on their heads, just and unjust alike, 
 The mellow light, through multicolored panes, 
 Falls like a benediction. 
 
 And now a man has risen in the midst, 
 Who reads the gospel lesson for the day, 
 Then reverently bows in silent prayer ; 
 And not the ploughman in yon farthest pew 
 Is more unconscious than this worshipper : 
 A venerable man, whose frosted locks 
 Are scant with more than eighty strenuous years, 
 Yet whose eye glances with the joy of life ; 
 Whose form is straight and lithe as happy youth's. 
 Whose voice has none of age's broken notes. 
 But in its wond'rous utterance gives new grace 
 To the divine evangel. 
 
 A layman this, wearing no churchly garb, 
 And consecrated by no priestly hands. 
 But Priest withal, in truer, wider sense — 
 Archbishop of all English-speaking men. 
 
 The voice, but now so gentle in this task. 
 Is that which with a lightning eloquence 
 Struck dead the tyranny of Turkish rule, 
 And woke Italian freedom ; 
 The form, now in devotion bent, the same 
 
76 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GA V. 
 
 That stands erect betokening Ireland's hope ; 
 That grey head resting o'er the open book 
 Tops the great world, 
 Like snowy summit of some master peak 
 Which soars above its fellows of the Alps 
 And stands alone in grandeur. 
 Distant yet near, for this imperial man 
 Towers not above us in the pride of caste, 
 But of ourselves — the people's champion — 
 He's throned supreme in eminence of love ; 
 Ennobled by no title but his name, 
 We hail him, Gladstone, homespun gentleman, 
 The Peer of all our hearts ! 
 
THE DEATH OF PRINCE ALBERT VICTOR. 77 
 
 THE DEATH OF PRINCE ALBERT VICTOR. 
 
 England in tears, and all the world in gloom ; 
 
 Betrothal bliss to funeral weeping turned, 
 The royal purple changed to black of doom — 
 
 Our young Prince mourned ! 
 
 The **old, old fashion. Death," that doth 
 not change, 
 And doth not know our niceties of caste, 
 But to this stark estate, so ever strange, 
 Brings all at last ! 
 
 Tears for the Prince who, in his manhood's pride, 
 Sinks from the clinging arms of plighted faith, 
 
 Claimed by a ghostly and imperious Bride — 
 Pale, envious Death. 
 
 Tears for the Prince whose father-heart is torn. 
 And for the Princess fair and sweet, his wife ; 
 
 Deep with our Queen and Royal House we mourn 
 This riven life. 
 
 Tears, tender tears, for stricken Princess May, 
 Who ere the nuptial wine tastes widow's woe ; 
 
 The touch of nature makes us kin to-day — 
 Tears world-wide flow. 
 
 Our common Race doth mark her grief apart. 
 And its divine compassion would attest ; 
 
 'T would fain enfold that sorrow-bursting heart 
 On its great mother-breast. 
 
78 
 
 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AXD GAY. 
 
 STUDIES IN THE TENDER PASSION. 
 
 Of how the tender passion wakes 
 In human hearts, and how it makes 
 
 Its presence seen; 
 Of Love and all Love's pretty ways, 
 Poets have sung a million lays — 
 
 Nay, more, I ween ! 
 
 And all the signs are much the same, 
 As touching Cupid and his flame, 
 
 No matter where ; 
 In highest rank or low estate. 
 Gentle or savage, small or great — 
 
 With every pair. 
 
 ^ife^ 
 
 First, sidelong glances of 
 
 the eye. 
 Then little acts, constrained 
 and shy, 
 
 The feelings veil ; 
 At length, a touch that 
 
 thrills with bliss, 
 Then finally a mutual kiss — 
 So runs the tale. 
 
 But has no poet ever gone — 
 An interested looker-on — 
 
 Once in a way, 
 When picnic hoodlums on a lark 
 Swoop down upon some quiet park 
 To spend the day ? 
 
STUDIES IN THE TENDER PASSION, 
 
 There, when love wakes within Jack's breast, 
 He chases Sue Hke all possessed, 
 
 And runs her down ; 
 Then, with the tender touch of bear. 
 He throttles her and spoils her hair, 
 
 In horse-play fun. 
 
 Then Sue, to coyly intimate 
 His love she does reciprocate, 
 
 Runs after Jack, 
 And, having caught that prince of chumps, 
 Gives him some most terrific thumps. 
 
 Upon the back ! 
 
 79 
 
 :.n^^^' 
 
80 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 THE IDEAL WOMAN. 
 
 Come, Artist, with pencil and color reveal 
 On the easel thy dream of the Woman ideal. 
 See, o'er the pale canvas there mantles a blush 
 At the whispering low of the magical brush, 
 And out from the multo-tint cloud grows a face — 
 The fairest, the sweetest of all the fair race. 
 
 Romancer, is this thy ideal as well ? 
 " No ; beauty and passion together must dwell 
 In the perfect conception. That forehead so fair 
 Is meaningless ; give it a shade of despair ; 
 Let a tragedy lurk in the depths of those eyes, 
 Now tranquil and blue as the fair summer skies." 
 
 Oh, Poet, rapt gazing, speak ! What sayest thou ? 
 ** The woman I worship has marble-white brow. 
 As there ; she has beauty as perfect I ween, 
 But no dimples, no laughter, no blushes are seen ; 
 'Tis the soul of the woman illumines the face, 
 And gives my ideal unmatchable grace." 
 
 Man — Man universal, Humanity's voice — 
 Here, render decision ; come, utter thy choice. 
 " Nay ; cover the picture— no marvel of art 
 Call rival the picture I hold in my heart. 
 Of the being most near to the Father above. 
 In purity, gentleness, pity and love. 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 81 
 
 A ^T ^^^^' ^^°' ^" '"'■'■"'^'ed' 's radiant with truth 
 And has an expression more lovely than youth • 
 Her form, tho' 'tis bent, has a beauty more real 
 Than Romancer's, or Poet's or Painter's ideal ; 
 1 IS the beauty of goodness— a halo divine, 
 The ideal Woman— your mother and mine'" 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 HON. GEORGE BROWN.* 
 
 The varying noises cease ; 
 And pitying men, jaded or jubilant before, 
 Pall 'neath the common grief. 
 The cortege passes now in princely cir- 
 cumstance 
 'Mid quiet thousands in the city's streets, 
 Whose hearts, personifying Canada, 
 
 Throb with the pain of widowhood. 
 
 Ah ! he was rjoble who lay coffined there — 
 
 A peer in nature's aristocracy, 
 
 Bearing the unction of that generous grace 
 
 Which in the life wins love from toiling men. 
 
 And, dying, summons them like children round the 
 tomb ; 
 
 So pass away, great spirit ! 
 
 Bu' thy work, so well and truly done. 
 
 Shall stand a witness to thy goodness and thy gifts. 
 
 On that enduring pile a superscription. 
 
 Written in letters that shall ever glow, 
 
 May tell the rugged grandeur of his life 
 
 In simple narrative : 
 
 *Hon. Geoi^'e Brown, founder of the Gii^'^e newspaper, and an eminent States- 
 man of Canada. Born at Edinburj?h, Scotland, November 29th, 1818 ; died (from 
 the efTects of a pistol shot, fired by one Betmet, an employee in the Qhthe office, 
 who had an mia^finary grievance), May, 1880. 
 
HON. GEORGE BROWN. 88 
 
 How homespun worth and royal honesty 
 
 Braved the distempers of Ambition's path, 
 
 From youth of filial love and lofty thought, 
 
 To sterling manhood and vice-regal place ; 
 
 How on that height he bore a manly front, 
 
 Lending his pen to freedom's sacred cause, 
 
 Counselling wisely for the nation's weal. 
 
 And smiting dow^n the ills that menaced her ; 
 
 Then, how at eventide his life was quenched 
 
 By base assassination, and his star 
 
 Went down 'mid clouds of pain and weariness, 
 
 While in its fading rays, ere yet 'twas gone, 
 
 Sad visaged friends, drawn by the bonds of love, 
 
 And generous foes, who knew and prized his worth, 
 
 Paid, side by side, the tribute of their tears. 
 
 His faithful fight is o'er ; his work is done. 
 
 He lived sublimely, and his footsteps mark 
 
 A noble course upon the sands of time. 
 
 " He was a man, take him for all in all " — 
 
 But only man, and therefore \ cA his faults : 
 
 Not weaknesses that rose from recreant heart, 
 
 But such as mark and mar the best of lives. 
 
 He hated falsehood with a burning scorn, 
 
 But may have erred, mistaking true for false ; 
 
 His nature was a rushing mountain stream, 
 
 His faults but eddies which its swiftness bred. 
 
 Yes, carve his name on marble monume "t ; 
 
 Twill mark his resting-place to reverent eyes 
 
 Perchance of generations, until Time, 
 
 The tireless sculptor, with relentless hand 
 
 Has written an inscription over it 
 
84 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 In weird, grim characters of mildewed moss — 
 A grander line upon life's fitful dream. 
 Yet is his name deep graven in our hearts, 
 A more abiding record, that will pass 
 From sire to son, a proudly guarded prize, 
 As long as Canada shall have true men 
 Who love the memory of the great and good. 
 And shall that ever cease ? Shall ages come 
 When man's frail memory is clouded o'er. 
 And History's page is shrivelled into dust ? 
 Comes there a day when all the lives of earth, 
 The thoughts and actions, yea, and earth itself. 
 Shall vanish in eternal nothingness ? 
 So be it ; yet our Statesman's name shall live ! 
 There's an eternal tablet in the skies 
 Where names are written that shall never fade. 
 Perish, then, record on ephemeral stone ; 
 Fade, trivial ink, on human history's page ; 
 For, with the blood of God's anointed Son, 
 His name is written in the Book of Life ! 
 
HICKORY JIM, 
 
 85 
 
 " HICKORY JIM/' 
 
 What ! Hickory Jim ? The same old ZT/V/^— here, Hank, 
 
 take a look at this, 
 And tell me \iyou make it Hickory Jim ^ or if / haven't read 
 
 it amiss ? 
 You make it the same ? It's a dead sure fact ? Well, I'll 
 
 be essentially blowed 
 If that don't beat all the fairy tales that ever IVe heard on 
 
 the road ! 
 
 And he's down to start in the one-mile dash — that's whar 
 
 the cold type says — 
 What ? Know the horse ? Well, I reckon I've known him 
 
 all my days, 
 
86 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 And ril be right there when he toes the mark and responds 
 
 to the starter's bell — 
 Old Hickory Jim — good gracious — the same old Hick — 
 
 v . ! well ! 
 
 But say, is he owned by Davis — just glance at the print 
 
 again — 
 Yes ! D. D. Davis ? I knew it — the fact is straight and 
 
 plain. 
 Well, boys, if I was betting I'd bet on old Hickory Jim ; 
 But meantime, perhaps you'd like to hear some facts 
 
 concerning him ? 
 
 Old Davis — he's an ancient chap, with grizzled locks of 
 
 grey, 
 And a raw-boned sort of figure, who's been through many a 
 
 fray ; 
 He's owned this tough old racer for more than twenty 
 
 years. 
 And he bought him as a full-grown hoss, just as he now 
 
 appears. 
 
 He must be pretty aged, for when I was but a kid 
 
 I used to hear them telling of the wond'rous things he did ; 
 
 How out in Arizona, and in all the south and west. 
 
 He raced with Indian flyers and always came off best. 
 
 He cleaned out every greaser's ranch and every mining camp 
 Of every sort of wagers, in goods or current stamp, 
 Until at length they all owned up they couldn't tackle him— 
 So in the western region they barred out Hickory Jim. 
 
HICKORY JIM. 87 
 
 That's why old Davis brought him east — and that's how it 
 
 occurred 
 That there was sport at Texington quite lately — as youVe 
 
 heard ; 
 Or, if you haven't heard of it, I'll give you here ^he facts 
 Of how old Hickory got away with the swell Kentucky cracks. 
 
 When time was called a dandy string of thoroughbreds 
 
 came out, 
 And in the usual stylish way went capering about — 
 A-flouncing round like ball-room belles whose dads are 
 
 millionaires, 
 And whose blue-blood entitles them to put on extra airs. 
 
 And last of all, with clumsy gait, with flopping, weary ears, 
 And draggled tail and mournful eyes, exciting shouts and 
 
 jeers. 
 Came forth a nag, whose drooping head and general low- 
 bred style 
 
 Caused men to roar with laughter, and ladies fme to smile. 
 
 « 
 
 ** What is this apparition?" " What mangy plug is that ?" 
 **0h, cut his hair!" "He's sound asleep!" "Give him 
 
 some anti-fat !" 
 So flew the chaff, while Davis, unsophisticated child, 
 Went round and took up heavy bets at longish odds — ^and 
 
 smiled. 
 
 Clang goes the bell ! They've got away — old rag-tag in the 
 
 rear. 
 The favorite is in the lead, — a wild tumultuous cheer 
 
88 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 Greets numbers two and three and four, as now they spurt 
 
 and gain, 
 And no one thinks oi Hickory ^ who lumbers in their train. 
 
 They've passed the quarter gallantly — they're nenring now 
 
 the half— 
 And sly old Davis' child-like smile is growing to a laugh, 
 ¥ ox Jim is sorter waking up — he's overhauled the crowd, 
 And the backers of those horses don't seem to shout so loud. 
 
 Zip ! Just a long and limbered leap — as simple as you 
 
 please, 
 And done with every symptom of mere routine-business 
 
 ease — 
 And Hickory Jim goes to the front and makes the pace for 
 
 home, 
 And Davis stands there smiling, but the knowing ones are 
 
 dumb. 
 
 He's won the race by seven lengths, which might have been 
 
 fourteen. 
 And Davis cashes in his bets and looks uncommon green ; 
 And as he leads his horse away, he sort of winks at him. 
 And says, " They'll know us after this, I guess, hey, won't 
 
 they, Jim V 
 
GLADSTONE'S REVENGE. 89 
 
 GLADSTONE'S REVENGE .♦ 
 
 The greatest moment in a great career ! 
 
 A crowded chamber, anxious and intent, 
 
 The focus of an anxious, listening world, 
 
 Awaited Gladstone's speech. 
 
 The Old Man rose, but seemed no longer old ; 
 
 Upon that mountain top of a good cause 
 
 He stood transfigured ; like a cloak 
 
 His years dropped from his shoulders. 
 
 And his form, erect, alert, in glorious second youth, 
 
 Astounded all who looked ; and youthful power 
 
 Shone in his eyes aid sounded in his voice, 
 
 As, deep and rich, it bore the rapid words 
 
 From his full soul — his matchless plea 
 
 For Justice, Union, Peace ! 
 
 Not many hearts were proof against that plea ; 
 
 But there was one, reflected in a face 
 
 Of cynic aspect, surly, grim and hard. 
 
 That no word touched — the heart of Chamberlain. 
 
 * '* Nobody has ever devoted more facile malig^nity to the task of enraging and 
 affronting his opponent than Chamberlain, whose latter speeches, indeed, have 
 been almost sava'^e in their revelation of personal bitterness against his former 
 leader. Last night Gladstone travelled quite out of his way to speak kindly of 
 the maiden speech of Chamberlain's son, which, he remarked, in deep, full tones, 
 with a gracious bow, was one that must have been dear and refreshing to a 
 father's heart. Chamberlain, at the first mention of his son, lifted his head and 
 turned his surly, cynical gaze upon the speaker. When these courteous, flattenng 
 words came, he stared for an instant in Vjlank surprise, then flushe<J, made a low 
 obeisance, and covered his face with his hands for fully five minutes. Those near 
 him said there were palpable tears in his eyee."— Cable item in thepreas. 
 
90 MOTLEY: VERSES CRAVE AND GAY, - . 
 
 This man, once Gladstone's friend and follower, 
 
 Had now become the champion of his foes. 
 
 Outstripping every natural enemy 
 
 In fierce, malignant hate. 
 
 And now, indifferent to the orator, 
 
 He sat conversing with his stripling son, 
 
 Whose maiden speech as member of the House 
 
 Had just been made. And as the grand old man 
 
 Poured forth his heart, no word seemed like to pierce 
 
 That grim indifference. 
 
 Then, suddenly he raised his head and glared 
 
 Upon the speaker, from whose lips there fell 
 
 The young man's name. What would this critic say ? 
 
 What scorching phrase was coming ? What keen thrust 
 
 Would this past- master of invective deal 
 
 To wound the father's feelings through the son ? 
 
 All's fair in war and politics, and he 
 
 Who never spared the old grey head his scorn 
 
 Now braced himself to bear retaliation. 
 
 Hark ! In an earnest, deep-toned voice. 
 
 With gracious bow, the speaker simply said 
 
 "The young man's speech was one that must have been 
 
 Dear and refreshing to a father's heart." 
 
 The listener was crushed ! 
 
 He stared an instant in confused amaze, 
 
 Then flushed and bowed, and covered up his face 
 
 To hide remorseful tears ! 
 
 Airs fair in war and politics ; but ah ! 
 
 The bitterest taunt, the keenest stroke of wit. 
 
 Could not have broken an opponent's heart 
 
 As did that Christ-like blow ! 
 
MORNING. 
 
 91 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 AFTER LAMPMAN. 
 
 The streets are shaded 'neath night's dusky wing, 
 And all is still, but for my lonely feet 
 That on the frosty sidewalk monstrous beat, 
 Making exaggerated echoes ring 
 
 Around the gloomy corners. Flickering lights 
 From ghastly globes that hang on ghostly poles 
 Hiss and burn low. A black tre3-shado>v rolls 
 
 Before my feet and somehow me affrights ; 
 Then on the keen and silent a'r there falls 
 The tinkle of a distant street-car bell, 
 And in an attic near, a servant gal 
 Lights an untimely lamp. I hear faint calls 
 
 That come from hardy newsboys on their rounds ; 
 Anon the whirring trolley nearer sounds, 
 And from an alley-way a milk-cart crawls 
 
 And lumbers down the street. And now I halt 
 Upon the corner for the coming car. 
 
 Whose red light grows tcvard 
 
 me. It is here — 
 Th' electric wire hums down the 
 
 music scale. 
 The motor crank is turned — the 
 car is stopped. 
 And I am off to catch that 
 
 early train — 
 Much rather in my bed would 
 I remain ! 
 
92 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 THE MIRACLE. 
 
 Upon the mountain side with Christ we sit, 
 And listen to His w^ords of truth and life ; 
 Then, lifting up His eyes, misty with tears, 
 He looks upon the multitude beyond 
 And says : ** I have compassion on their souls ; 
 They faint with hunger, and they must be fed ; 
 How many loaves have ye?" We answer, "Lord, 
 Just seven loaves, and fishes but a few ; 
 Enough, perchance, for our own neediness — 
 We had not thought of all these strangers' wants." 
 "Strangers !" the Master echoes, and His tone 
 Smites our dull hearts with infinite rebuke. 
 " Nay, know ye not your brothers of the race ? 
 Bring me your loaves — your gifts of mind and heart- 
 That I may touch them with my spirit here ; 
 I would the whole world bless and save from sin, 
 But through my servants I must do the work ; 
 Now, take your loaves and fishes and go forth — 
 'Tjs yours to feed ; 'tis mine to give increase." 
 
 So we obey His word, and all around 
 Behold the discords of the world do cease, 
 And peace and beauty reign where late was woe. 
 And, marvellous thing ! the food we thus dispense 
 Grows ever with the giving, so that we. 
 Beginning poor, grow richer and rr "e rich — 
 From meagre store have vast abunudice left ! 
 Thus have we caught the meaning of that Life, 
 And thus made plain the heavenly paradox — 
 In blessing others we have blessed ourselves 
 And glorified our Lord. 
 
THE STRANGER. 
 
 93 
 
 Draivn by F. S. Challoner. 
 
 THE STRANGER.* 
 
 We'd have had a friendly greeting for the lonely-looking 
 
 tramp 
 When he came, sad-eyed and weary, that evening into 
 
 camp, 
 But we weren't feeling friendly, for our luck had not been 
 
 good. 
 And, on top of all our troubles, we were running short of 
 
 food. 
 So a scowl was all that met him, and we never asked his 
 
 name. 
 
 Poetic version of a story by C. B. Lewis (*' M. Quad "). 
 
94 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 Nor how we could assist him, nor even whence he canie ] 
 'Twas not our usual conduct, for miners, as you know, 
 Though sometimes rough, are genial chaps-he didn't find 
 
 us so. 
 And yet our brutish manners didn't seem to cause surprise 
 To the desolate new-comer, though within his sunken eyes 
 An expression as of hunger for a sympathetic word 
 Seemed to lurk, but nothing of the sort in all the camp he 
 
 heard. 
 He turned his lonely steps up what we called the Avenue, 
 Staked out a claim and settled down, and all our surly 
 
 crew 
 Stood off, and day by day went by without a kind regard. 
 Not even a sicjelong friendly glance, or a simple '"Mornmg, 
 
 pard." . 
 
 For the " Jedge" had poisoned all our minds with shakings 
 
 of his head. 
 And gestures of suspicion, and more than once he said : 
 *^ That chap's a thief, or something worse, if I don't guess a 
 
 lie— 
 I knoW it by his general style, especially his eye ; 
 And if some day a party of Vigilants don't come 
 To hang him up for something, jest call me deef and 
 
 dumb; . , 
 
 He's a bad egg, boys, I know it ; and while he's hangin 
 
 round, 
 I 'dvise you all to put your goods where they won't be easy 
 
 found." 
 The Judge was our Sir Oracle, and in camp his dictum 
 
 went^ 
 And we ratified his ruling by general consent, 
 
THE STRANGER, 95 
 
 Especially as the stranger, 'neath our glances keen and 
 shrewd, 
 
 Seemed to justify the verdict which had marked him down 
 
 " no good " ; 
 His shyness and his silence— we never heard him speak— 
 And his solitary working—all this proclaimed the sneak ; 
 His eyes, when we could see them, brought to mind the 
 
 hunted deer, 
 Or the refugee from justice— 'twas the look of guilty fear : 
 And thus in every move he'd make and everything he'd 
 
 do, 
 
 We saw corroboration of the Judge's snap-shot view 
 (We didn't pause to reason, or we might have had the 
 grace 
 
 To suppose our conduct to him had some bearing on the 
 case). 
 
 No, he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced in advance— 
 The one thing lacking was the crime ; he hadn't had a 
 chance. 
 
 But it came, as 'twould appear, within a fortnight, sure 
 enough, 
 
 A bag of gold was missing, and its owner cut up rough. 
 "Twas hidden in my cabin in a spot I knew alone. 
 But it's gone— my whole year's earnings "—and the strong 
 man gave a groan ; 
 
 And then ripped out a string of oaths, and pranced around, 
 and cried, 
 
 While the half-wit darkey cook turned pale and very nearly 
 died, 
 
 " I know the thief, by jingo ! " the Judge jumped up and 
 said, 
 
96 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 ** I saw him in a dream last night, it's running through my 
 
 head ; 
 That stranger is the party !" We waited for no more ; 
 Seizing our shooting-irons, we rushed out through the door. 
 And started in a frenzied mob straight down the Avenue, 
 Where near his tent the stranger sat ; and as we nearer 
 
 drew, 
 Like startled fawn he heard our savage shout and raised his 
 
 head, 
 And saw our black and vengeful looks, and trembled, 
 
 turned and- -fled ! 
 "Shoot him ! Down with him ! Kill the thief! " it was the 
 
 Judge's yell. 
 And half a dozen shots rang out ; the hunted creature fell, 
 And rolled upon the rocks, and gasped, just as we reached 
 
 his side, 
 *' You've killed me! God forgive you, boys! you didn't 
 
 know," and died. 
 **Now for my gold!" the miner roared. ** Here, Jedge, 
 
 you search his clothes." 
 **ril find it right enough, you bet," that worthy said — 
 
 " Here goes ! " 
 He tore the shirt-band loose — " Ha, ha ! What did I tell 
 
 you ? See ! " 
 A bag suspended by a string — the mob yelled joyfully. 
 But hold — the bag is opened now. What is there in it 
 
 —gold ? 
 The Judge's stubby fingers grow tremulous and cold. 
 Not gold, but some poor trinkets — a woman's brooch and 
 
 ring, 
 A lock of baby hair, and a little rubber thing. 
 
THE STRANGER, 07 
 
 And a piece of crumpled paper, with this faintly pencilled 
 line : 
 
 "Dear Mary died June twenty-one; Baby, June twenty- 
 nine." 
 
 And the Judge^s hands were palsied, and he shuddered, and 
 was still. 
 
 And we all stood round him silent, and gave our tears their 
 will ; 
 
 When, to break the stillness, came the cook to say the gold 
 was found, 
 
 In the cabin of the miner, safely hidden in the ground— 
 And the Judge still kneeling humbly, with his grey head 
 bending low. 
 
 Groaned-" God, O God, forgive us for this crime-We 
 didn't know ! " 
 
98 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 THE NORMAN MINSTER.* 
 
 Here let us pause uncovered, reverent, 
 Before the portal of this time-worn pile. 
 And In our chastened hearts commune awhile 
 
 On life, that seems a fitful evening spent. 
 
 Within this church, in some dark, silent spot, 
 A meagre dust-heap — just a trivial thing — 
 We'll look upon, and so we'll face a king. 
 
 Once the proud Norman, now how less than nought ! 
 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust again ! 
 The greatest of his race but yesterday. 
 He lived and reigned, and ruled, and passed away. 
 
 And this poor ash-heap doth alone remain ! 
 
 Gone? vanished? All but this unkingly dust 
 A little child could hold in one small palm ? 
 Nay ! Mark his spirit, living, radiant, calm. 
 
 Above the portal. Read ye there his trust ! 
 
 * "One of the noblest of the monuments which the Norman race has left in 
 Northern Europe is the minster reared by William, the greatest of the Norman 
 name, to be the sleeping-place of his dust. Over the central portal of that ancient 
 church, boldly carved within its arch, to meet the eye of every entering worship- 
 per, is a cross. Upon the four limbs of the cross you read four Latin words 
 reading inwards to the centre, and each of them tenninating in the letter which 
 forms a cross. The words are Lux, Pax, Lex and Rex."— iJeu. J. Oswald Dykes. 
 
THE NORMAN MINSTER. 99 
 
 See there the Cross, carved boldly in the stone, 
 To tell the faith of him who once was king ; 
 In this a royal defiance he doth fling 
 
 At death and dust— he sleeps, but is not gone. 
 
 The king will wake again ! Golgotha's cross 
 Will tower, he knows, unshaken and sublime, 
 When this poor planet, at the end of time, 
 
 Herself is ashes and her treasures dross ! 
 
 Z^/Jc— Christ is light— the minster holds no gloom ; 
 iRfz^— Christ hath said of old, '' I give thee Peace ;" 
 Lex — Christ hath kept the Law ; its terrors cease ; 
 
 Rex—(Z\xx\^\. is King, triumphant o'er the tomb. 
 
 Sleep on, O Norman, in thy sepulchre ; 
 
 We read the sculptured legend o'er the door, 
 And trust to sleep ourselves, when life is o'er. 
 
 Beneath the symbol thou hast graven there. 
 
100 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 THEOLOGICAL INCOMPATIBILITY. 
 
 Peter McPeters loved Janet McFee, 
 A pale and poetical sort of a lass, 
 
 But there was a bar to their union, you see — 
 Two barriers, in fact, that neither could 
 pass — 
 
 For Peter belonged to the old Scottish Kirk 
 And tenaciously clung to John Calvin's 
 philosophy ; 
 While Janet abode in the fantastic murk 
 
 Of that Asian mystery — Buddhistic Theosophy. 
 
 The courtship was hardly the regular thing, 
 Nor marked by the usual billing and cooing ; 
 
 It had a distinct theological ring, 
 
 With its arguing, explaining, combatting, reviewing. 
 
 Said Peter, " Dear Janet, 'twere foolish 
 to wed. 
 If the yoke is to be, as the Book says, 
 unequal ; 
 Take these works I have brought you ; 
 when these you have read, 
 ril look for a more satisfactory sequel." 
 
 "And Peter," said Janet, **you likewise 
 take these — 
 The works of Blavatsky, Olcott, and 
 Besant ; 
 
 
THEOLOGICAL LNCOMPATIBILITV, 101 
 
 Just study them calmly and thoughtfully, please, 
 
 And they'll make the thing clear, as I certainly can't." 
 
 So with mutual professions no labor to shirk, 
 To get at the truth, whate'er it might be, 
 
 Janet buried herself in the creed of the Kirk, 
 And Peter plunged into deep Theoso-phee. 
 
 • • •• • • • • 
 
 With joy on his features — the joy of new light — 
 
 Peter hastened at length to announce his decision — 
 
 And to tell how the teachings of Calvin took flight 
 When the truth of Theosophy burst on his vision. 
 
 Janet didn't enthuse when the statement he made — 
 But to hide her distress she did vainly endeavor — 
 
 " And I've been converted to Calvin," she said, 
 " So the yoke remains, Peter, unequal as ever ! " 
 
102 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 THE DEATH OF HORACE GREELEY.* 
 
 The nation dons sad vesture over gay, 
 And bows in shame at so severe rebuke ; 
 Her hot, quick-starting tear is caught 
 . Within the going wrinkle of the laugh 
 Whose sportive echoes were the knell 
 Of that unblest ambition. 
 The grinning jesters trooping in his track 
 Fall back and hush the gibes upon their lips, 
 Dumb at the shock of his fit vindication — 
 Dead Greeley's answer of eternal silence ; 
 For from those pallid lips and death-glazed eyes 
 There comes a power to smite ingratitude, 
 Which even he, by living word or look, 
 Could not have conjured to avenge his wrongs. 
 
 ♦ Horace Greeley was the democratic nominee for the Presidency of the United 
 States, against General Grant, in 1870. The campaign was unusually bitter, and 
 was particularly distinguished for personal abuse of Greeley himself. His death, 
 which occurred suddenly, is believed to have been hastened if not caused by the 
 venom of his adversaries, more especially the caricaturists of the opposition 
 journals. 
 
ALEXANDER MACKENZIE. 
 
 10^ 
 
 ALEXANDER MACKENZIE.* 
 
 Upon the shaft that marks his resting-place 
 Engrave these words : ** Here lies a Patriot." 
 And let it be a four-square, honest shaft 
 Of close-knit Scottish granite, 
 With no vain floriture of art adorned, 
 But sternly upright, fronting all the world, 
 To match the man we knew. 
 And when J:he silent-working tooth of Time 
 Has gnawed that pillar crumb by crumb away, 
 Let History bring her book and read aloud 
 His virtues and his services ; 
 A story writ in brief, straightforward phrase, 
 Telling of purpose high and duty done : 
 A simple story, in the plainest prose, 
 Yet which time-serving knaves in office high 
 Can never hjar without compunction's smart, 
 And self-contempt, and scarlet blush of shame! 
 
 No god-like gifts were his ; 
 
 His Scottish tongue could speak unvarnished truth. 
 
 But knew no charm of witching eloquence ; 
 
 His mind was not supreme in breadth and force, 
 
 But it was sound, and anchored to good sense ; 
 
 He was not over-rich in scholarship. 
 
 * Premier of Canada, 1873-1878. Born January 28th, 1822; died April 17th, 
 1892. 
 
104 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAV, 
 
 But more than peer of many richer men — 
 Better than Great, he stood for what was Right- 
 Just plain Mackenzie — nobly commonplace. 
 
 Tho' gold and silver of high power he'd none, 
 
 Such as he had he freely gave the land 
 
 In earnest service, anxious and exact. 
 
 In History's book perchance he may not have 
 
 A record of great deeds of statesmanship, 
 
 Nor any lustrous episode at all ; 
 
 But every line that deals with his career 
 
 As party Leader and First Minister 
 
 Has note of something useful — and no blots ! 
 
 He was a Christian of that old-time sort — 
 
 Unfashionable now and growing rare — 
 
 Who knew no sacred barr'd from secular. 
 
 But worshipped God by doing honest work, 
 
 Whether with mason's tools as artisan, 
 
 Or in high place of State. 
 
 His amplest service to the land was this : 
 
 'Beyond, above the toils he undertook, 
 
 And those he finished — be not one forgot ! — 
 
 He gave the world an answer in his life 
 
 To that smug lie of this degenerate age, 
 
 " An honest politician cannot be " — 
 
 A lie that has so much to feed upon 
 
 In scandal garbage of our public life 
 
 That it seems grown into a monstrous truth ! 
 
 But 'tis not truth — 'tis still a cynic I'e, 
 
 That for all time must cower away and hide 
 
 At mention of Mackenzie's stainles'i name. 
 
''JIMMIE. 
 
 \s 
 
 165 
 
 Drawn by F. S. Challoner. 
 
 ^'JIMMIE." 
 
 " HaU ! Who goes there ? " The sentry's voice, 
 Like sudden, splitting trumpet note. 
 
 Awakes the startled camp, and brings 
 His heart to every trooper's throat. 
 
 At midnight, in the prairie land — 
 'Mid darkness that was weirdly dumb, 
 
 And silence that seemed robed in black — 
 This challenge from the post had come. 
 
 What stealthy foe was on the plain 
 
 Save the coyote, on nightly prowl 
 With padded foot ? Nought else astir 
 
 But gopher, p'raps, or prairie-fowl ; 
 
106 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 Or the lone cricket in the grass, 
 
 Whose note, like measured tick of clock, 
 
 Beat time to stillness, so that Sleep, 
 The fairy, knew no sense of shock. 
 
 No foe but these — nought else astir 
 In all the prairie far or nigh — 
 ' And these were friends to break the gloom — 
 "Zr«//, or I fire I " The sentry's cry 
 
 Brings half the camp quick to their feet. 
 Each man with ready gun in hand, 
 
 And horses, clattering, scramble up. 
 
 And with pricked ears set forward stand. 
 
 'Tis whispered round a human form 
 Has crept up near the sentry's post. 
 
 And lurks there somewhere in the dark, 
 Mysterious, like a furtive ghost. 
 
 The listening troopers hold their breath — 
 ^^ Answer ! " again the sentry cries ; 
 
 No horse now stirs a hoof, but waits 
 With head erect and gl.' ^tening eyes. 
 
 '* Is Jimmie here ? My Jimmied lost, 
 And mother's lonesome. Is he here ? " 
 
 A woman's voice, that smites each heart, 
 In quavering tones of wild despair. 
 
''JIMMIES' 107 
 
 A woman's voice ! A broken wail 
 
 From some lost creature, doomed to roam 
 
 Demented, searching for her child 
 An hundred miles from any home ! 
 
 " Come.Jimmu, come!''' The captain turns, 
 With tender voice and moistening eyes, 
 
 And whispers to the troopers rough, 
 " Bring mother in — but, gently, boys." 
 
 And fifty men go groping out 
 
 From every side around the camp, 
 And the wee cricket, frightened, quits 
 
 His chirping 'mid the grasses damp. 
 
 But vain the quest as if they sought 
 
 That lurking cricket's self to find ; 
 From far away the cry is borne 
 
 Upon the ghostly midnight wind. 
 
 Then back to camp, but not to sleep, 
 
 For soon again, close by, they hear 
 The sorrow-laden voice that wails — 
 
 ^^ My Jimmie's lost ! My Jimmie dear ! " 
 
 ** Come in, poor soul ; come into camp ; 
 
 Your Jimmie's here ; don't be afraid ! " 
 The captain spoke the coaxing words, 
 
 Whose gendeness his heart betrayed. 
 
108 MOTLEY: VEI^SES GRAVE AND GAV, 
 
 But when at length the answer came 
 'Twas not within the sentry Hne, 
 
 But in the darkness, dim and far, 
 
 The tear-filled cry, ** O Jimmie^ mine I '^ 
 
 * 
 
 Sleep fled the camp ; that haunting cry 
 Still seemed to come, and never ceased 
 
 Till daw^n in tardy chariot broke 
 The portals of the purple east. 
 
 Then, with the first faint streak of light 
 An hundred troopers scoured the plain, 
 
 But for a sign of human Hfe 
 
 Their practised eyes searched all in vain. 
 
 No ! *' What's that yonder? — something strange 
 Upon the grass ! " cries Captain Ned, 
 
 And soon he holds aloft to view 
 A child's small stocking, faded red. 
 
 " Her poor hands clutched this little thing 
 Last night when she was here," said he ; 
 
 " We'll find her near yon willow copse 
 Down by the creek, boys. Come and see !'' 
 
 And Captain Ned was right. For there, 
 Beneath the willow trees she lay 
 
 Asleep in death — lone, weary soul, 
 Half-naked, famished, gaunt and grey. 
 
''JIMMIES 109 
 
 The wife of some poor emigrant 
 
 Who, with her little child had fled 
 From murd'rous Indian raid, perhaps. 
 
 Leaving her other dear ones dead. 
 
 And o'er the prairie's trackless waste 
 Had wandered, starving, night and day, 
 
 Till death had snatched her babe, and grief 
 Her reason next had stolen away. 
 
 See, to her shrunken breast she holds, 
 
 In frenzied yet in fond caress, 
 A little stocking, two wee shoes, 
 
 A tiny cap and cotton dress. 
 
 With pious care these trivial things 
 
 Are buried with her by the stream, 
 While the bronzed troopers bowing stand, 
 
 And weep a silent requiem. 
 
 Nor are these weak, unmanly tears, 
 
 For o'er that unknown mother's clay 
 Each soldier pays a tribute deep 
 
 To his own mother, far away. 
 
 And so they leave her silently. 
 
 She's found her Jimmie and is blest ; 
 
 For God has wiped her tears, and hushed 
 Her anguished cry upon His breast. 
 
110 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 GEMS FOR RECITATION. 
 
 I. — SIMPLE SIMON. 
 
 'TwAS summer time ; along the country road 
 Simon the Simple indolently strode ; 
 The gentle zephyrs played about his form, 
 And stirred his heart's blood into currents warm. 
 The little birds on every twig and fence 
 Sat carolling their songs of innocence ; 
 Still on he went — and on, and on, and on 
 With sweeping gait toward yon market town ; 
 Is robbery in his heart ? Is murder 
 
 there ? 
 No, Simple Simon's going to the fair ! 
 
 But see ! upon the brow of yonder hill 
 An apparition ! Still, my heart — sit 
 
 still ! 
 A figure comes — a towering, gloomy 
 
 form. 
 Whose scowling face betokens passion's 
 
 storm ; 
 Behold him — mark him ! Ah — our 
 
 terrors fade — 
 The Village Pieman, with his stock-in-trade. 
 
GEMS FOR REGIT A TION, 
 
 111 
 
 *' I'd taste your wares," said Simon. " Gi'me pie." 
 
 '' A penny," is the Pieman's gruff reply. 
 
 '* I haven't got one," says the simple 
 lad. 
 
 Then says the Pieman, looking stern 
 and mad, 
 
 " When starving creatures, famish- 
 ing and gaunt, /<' 
 
 Cry out for bread, to feed them is *^^ 
 my wont ; 
 
 But those I spurn and ruthlessly 
 pass by. 
 
 Who come in guise of Want, yet ask 
 for Pie I" 
 
 II.— JACK AND JILL. 
 
 {In easy narrative style.) , 
 
 The shades of eve were falling on the world, 
 While in the west a faint and flickering ray 
 From the descended sun shot feebly up. 
 And lighted two young hopeful, happy forms 
 That side by side walked through the grassy field. 
 Bearing between them, as a tie of love, 
 A patent-pail, which they swung to and fro ; 
 Jack handsome Jack, and merry-hearted Jill, 
 Tripping with laughter to'rd yon frowning hill. 
 
 {Thrillingly.) 
 
 Little they think, these lovers blithe and gay, 
 That Fate, a grinning form, invisible, 
 
112 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 Awaits them, envious of their happy ^ ~ ve, 
 And even now, with eager clutching hands, 
 Remorseless, feels for their unconscious lives ! 
 
 {More calmly.) 
 
 Now, up the mountain's rugged side they go. 
 Up to the spring that sparkles bright and cool, 
 And while Jill rests and looks admiring on, 
 Jack fills the pail with water to the brim. 
 With sturdy arm he lifts it, and adown 
 The hillside he prepares to go. 
 The laughing girl beside him, when — oh, oh ! 
 {Intense dramatic emotion.) 
 
 Horror of horrors ! Suddenly he slips, 
 And sprawling helpless, rolling o'er and o'er, 
 Down, down he falls, and downward rolls the 
 
 pail ! 
 Speechless stands Jill, poor maiden, para- 
 lyzed, 
 And staring with protruding, startled eyes, 
 To see her lover rolling swiftly down 
 From knoll to knoll, while in his frantic hand 
 Is clutched the handle, and a hoop and stave 
 Of that ill-fated pail — the rest of it. 
 Dismembered, shattered, rolling downward, 
 
 too, 
 A dozen different ways ! 
 At last — it sejems an age — with one vast 
 
 bound 
 Jack strikes the plain upon his cranium. 
 And one soul-thrilling sound, one awful crash, 
 Tells that his crown is cracked ! 
 
GEMS FOR REGIT A TION. 
 
 113 
 
 ( With redoubled inienstty.) 
 
 But scarcely has its echo died away 
 
 Than underneath Jill's feet the boulder moves, 
 
 And in ^iie twinkling of an eye she falls, 
 
 And rolls and sprawls and hurtles down 
 
 The mountain's side, and lands beside poor Jack — 
 
 While Fate, whose ill design has been achieved, 
 
 Chuckles and says, "Aha, I told you so !" 
 
 8 
 
114 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 LIEUTENANT STAIRS.* 
 
 Let not this gallant spirit, still in death, 
 
 Go to his grave on yon dark, friendless strand, 
 
 Until upon his breast we've laid our wreath, 
 And proudly claim him son of this our land. 
 
 Oh, cruel Death ! could'st thou have found a time 
 Less fitting for thy summons than this hour, 
 
 In which, with glow of manhood's happy prime. 
 He faced to'rds home and love and honor's dower ? 
 
 Yet having spoken out thy dread command, 
 
 This soldier parleyed not nor blenched, we know. 
 But breathed farewell to kin and native land, 
 ^ And calmly answered, " 'Tis God's will ; I go." 
 
 * A native of Halifax, N.S. The companion of Stanley in his last African 
 journey, and one of the bravest officers of the British army. He died at Zanzibar 
 on his way home. 
 
EARL AND COUNTESS OF ABERDEEN 115 
 
 CANADA'S WELCOME TO THE EARL AND 
 COUNTESS OF ABERDEEN. 
 
 Something special you have noted 
 
 In our hand-grasp, Aberdeen ? 
 Something more than custom-coated, 
 
 Formal welcome might have been ? 
 True, we are a folk of vigor 
 
 In this bracing, ample West, 
 But our climate's healthful rigor 
 
 Was not all that grasp expressed. 
 
 True, you bear a name of glory— 
 
 You are of the Gordon bloc d - 
 And we know the gallant story 
 
 Of your clansmen brave and good ; 
 Still, in thus their scion meeting 
 
 With a touch of extra grace, 
 We are not your lineage greeting— 
 
 Tis not homage to your race. 
 
 True, you are a Peer of Britain, 
 
 Earl and Lord of high degree, 
 And, perchance, we're not unsmitten 
 
 With heraldic witchery. 
 Still, 'tis not your rank we honor 
 
 In that grasp, transcending words— 
 We'd a Duke as your forerunner, 
 
 And weVe often welcomed Lords'! 
 
116 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 Shall I tell you frankly, plainly, 
 
 What it means, this subtle thrill 
 In our voices, which you vainly 
 
 Seek to understand ? — I will. 
 'Tis that in your Ufe and spirit 
 
 We have marked the Christ-like plan ; 
 'Tis that you yourself have merit — 
 
 We are welcoming the Man ! 
 
 True, we greet an Earl high-seated, 
 
 And a Countess nobly born. 
 Who, in heart and mind well-mated, 
 
 Do their high estate adorn ; 
 Yet, more high, as Man and Woman, 
 
 Nobler still by noble life, 
 We give greeting full and human 
 
 To John Gordon and his Wife ! 
 
THE SUPERSENSITIVE EYE. 117 
 
 THE SUPERSENSITIVE EYE. 
 
 A WELL-TRAINED eve and a critical taste 
 Are very good things, no doubt, - 
 
 But they sometimes turn into curses, too, 
 As poor M. Dash found out. 
 
 M. Dash was a fellow who read the proofs 
 
 For a printing shop in town, 
 A serious, sober, steady man. 
 
 As all who knew him will own 
 
 All day he sat with watchful eye 
 
 As his pen o'er the proof-sheets crawled, 
 
 And marked each error, however small. 
 While the copy-holder drawled. 
 
 In course of time his critical eye 
 
 So very critical grew, 
 That ne'er a proof-sheet left his desk 
 
 Until it was perfectly true. 
 
 But, tho' he liked this irksome job, 
 It began to wear on his nerves, 
 
 And his eye was constantly pained by slips. 
 That no other eye observes. 
 
118 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 If he picked up a book to pass an hour 
 'Mid fiction's joys and terrors, 
 
 He forgot the tale in his eager search 
 For typographical errors. 
 
 When he walked down street his optic 
 sharp 
 
 Each bill and sign detected, 
 And if an error it chanced to mark 
 
 He longed to have it corrected. 
 
 If on a grocer's window sign 
 
 A blunder he beheld, 
 He'd step in and inform the man . 
 
 1 he thing was wrongly spelled. 
 
 And if the shopman wouldn't go 
 
 And fix it right away, 
 M. Dash would lose his appetite 
 
 And mope about all day. 
 
 He read the papers carefully, 
 Tho' news ne'er met his eyes. 
 
 He did it as a painful task — 
 A final proof revise. 
 
 In short, he grew to be a crank 
 Upon this wretched fad, 
 
 And in an erring world he lived 
 A life extremely sad. 
 
THE SUPERSENSITIVE EYE. 
 
 Like Bamlet, in his frenzied way, 
 He'd cry, " Oh, wretched spite. 
 
 That ever I was born to set 
 These endless blunders right ! " 
 
 119 
 
 At last, that typographic flaws 
 No more his soul should vex, 
 
 He took to wearing ultra-blue. 
 Dark, double-opaque specs. 
 
120 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 JAMES ROOT. 
 
 THE HERO OF THE MINNESOTA FOREST FIRES. 
 
 Folks 'at thinks thar' ain't no heroes 
 
 Livin' 'round here nowadays, 
 But you've got to go to find 'em 
 
 Back in Hist'ry quite a ways ; 
 Or to story books and picters, 
 
 Or else to theaj'ter plays ; 
 Let such folks step up an' listen 
 
 While my little horn I toot 
 'Bout a real livin' hero — 
 
 Engine-driver Jimmy Root. 
 
 That's his name, and don't forgit it, 
 
 Jimmy Root, the engineer ; 
 His address is White Bear Village — 
 
 Yes, sir, he's a-livin' thar' 
 Ef his burns an' wounds ain't killed him 
 
 (Which, please God, we need not fear), 
 He's the chap 'at backed that engine 
 
 And its train from Hinckley town. 
 While the fire fiends roared around 'em 
 
 Mowin' home and forest down. 
 
 'Twas lik(j this : Says Jack McGowan 
 (He 'vas engine-mate with Jim), 
 
 " Pard, I'm goin' to set the headlight," 
 " Good idee," says Root to him ; 
 
JAMES ROOT. 121 
 
 '*This here afternoon's so smoky 
 That my sight is mighty dim," 
 So 'twas done, and then they started 
 South from Carleton through the smoke, 
 , Due at 4 p.m. at Hinckley, 
 
 And they made it on the stroke ! 
 
 There Jim seed the platform swarmin' 
 
 With a frantic, struggHn' crowd, 
 And the cars was packed with people 
 
 Tore the train stopped, Jim allowed ; 
 And they cried, and prayed and hollered, 
 
 Hidden in the smoky cloud 
 Black and hot; the fire was near 'em^ 
 
 Mighty near— Jim felt its breath, 
 And he knowed another minute 
 
 Meant a sure an' awful death. 
 
 So he jumped to pull the throttle 
 
 Meanin' for to go ahead, 
 When a sheet of flame and fury, 
 
 Yeller, blue, an' green an' red, 
 Rose up like a wall afore him. 
 
 An' his senses nearly fled ; 
 Quickly he reversed the engine— 
 
 " Six miles north's a marshy place, 
 Tis our only hope," he whispered, 
 
 "Jack, we've got to make the pace ! " 
 
 .Back she moved, and faster, faster 
 Grew the speed with every turn 
 
122 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 Of the drivin' wheels, and Jimmy, 
 
 With a face so set an' stern, 
 Stood right up and held her to it, 
 
 Knowin' it was beat or burn, 
 While the flames like hell-hounds follered 
 
 Leapin', roarin' for their prey, 
 Paintin' Jim infernal colors 
 
 As the engine backed away. 
 
 One mile !— two ! Jim wraps his jacket 
 
 Round his head, and fireman Jack 
 From the manhole, where he's sheltered. 
 
 Douses water on his back ; 
 Three miles— four ! God help the hero 
 
 Standin' firm an' roastin' black ; 
 Five miles— six ! The race is ended— 
 
 Stop her ! In a trice 'tis done ; 
 Here's the shallow Skunk Lake marshes. 
 
 Save your lives 1 plunge, everyone ! 
 
 Now the baffled flames roar madly 
 
 Round about the scanty lake, 
 In whose waters, wallowing gladly, 
 
 All a speedy refuge take. 
 Saved, because this homespun hero 
 
 Did his duty for Christ's sake. 
 And they bless him ; Oh, they'll hold him 
 
 In their souls forever dear. 
 And we all shall love and honor 
 
 Jimmy Root, the engineer 1 
 
JUSTICE FOR IRELAND, 123 
 
 JUSTICE FOR IRELAND. 
 
 Go 'long wid Yankee impidince, 
 
 An' blowin' an' pretintions, 
 An' how they bate the world an' all 
 
 Wid makin' av invintions; 
 
 An' how that janius Edison 
 
 Eclipses all creation, '(^^ ^ 
 An' knocks the spots aff\?'^^ 
 ivery man 
 
 Av ivery other nation. 
 
 An' also let the Englishman, 
 
 Who's purty fond av braggin', 
 Come aff the roof an' hoide his head, 
 
 An' shtop his tongue from waggin' ; 
 
 An' likewise Germans, Frinch an' Dutch, 
 
 An' ivery other party — 
 There's none can howld a candle to 
 
 The land av Moriarty. 
 
 Invintive janius shows itself 
 
 Supramely in the Irish, 
 An' but for thim the patent laws 
 
 Moight miserably perish. 
 
 For— here's me proof— on ivery new 
 
 Conthrivance that's invinted, 
 A countryman av mine, named ** Pat," 
 
 Has his name plainly printed ! 
 
124 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.* 
 
 At midday, when the sun was zenith-high, 
 
 Came the clear call for him 
 Whose sweet renown had reached meridian, 
 
 Whose eye was not yet dim, 
 Though it had sparkled in its kindly mood 
 For more than eighty years of ill and good. 
 
 Twas fitting that the gentle "Autocrat " 
 
 Who ruled the willing heart 
 Of his own time, should thus, Elijah-like, 
 
 From earthly triumphs part. 
 Not dying, as it seemed, but caught away- 
 Translated in the fulness of the day. 
 
 His learning won our honor, and his wit 
 
 Our ready laughter moved ; 
 But most of all we prized the man himself. 
 
 For while we laughed we loved. 
 And loving well, the common grief we share 
 Each Breakfast Table has an empty chair. 
 
 • Died October 8th, 1894. 
 
THE CURSE, 125 
 
 THE CURSE. 
 
 The village was enfete^ flags and bunting proudly flying, 
 
 Crowds of visitors arriving by the trains from far and near, 
 Steamers decked in gorgeous colois up and down the river 
 
 plying, 
 Whose shrill, triumphant whistles with the bands ashore 
 were vieing — 
 Twas a gala day, eclipsing any other in the year. 
 
 Splendid arches spanned the streets and beneath them, gaily 
 prancing, 
 Moved the gentry's polished horses with a noble, high- 
 strung gait, 
 To the strains of lively music with a conscious beauty 
 
 dancing. 
 Their round and fiery eyes with the gay excitement glancing, 
 Their spirits, like the spirits of the multitude, elate. 
 
 What means this splendid fete — this general celebration ? 
 
 Some extra civic function ? Some hero's natal day ? 
 Some noble deed achieved by a leader of the nation ? 
 Some triumph of the Church, or the cause of education ? 
 
 Some national deliverance from threatened danger? Nay ! 
 
 The millionaire distiller of the town is celebrating 
 
 The enlargement of his business by a new and costly block; 
 
126 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 All this glittering display, all this public jubilating, 
 He has planned and carried out as a method of creating 
 A boom for his " Fine Whiskey '' — it will make the 
 country talk. 
 
 See ! the new palatial office, a very dream of splendor, 
 
 Is now "ablaze with light and breathing with perfume " 
 From the flowers that sweetly blush 'neath the ferns so tall 
 
 and slender. 
 In the stately banquet hall, where the guests now throng to 
 tender 
 Their warm felicitations to the hero of the room. 
 
 The giver of the banquet has played a princely part 
 
 (For are not ^^f/and waiters from a city far away ?), 
 Each course, each dish, a marvel of the culinary art, 
 And wine and spirits to delight the epicurean heart. 
 While anon amid the foliage orchestral artists play. 
 
 Good judges of such matters declare, with glowing unction 
 
 (They are all select bon vivants invited from afar), 
 That for a well-appointed, stylish and recherche function. 
 For beauty, grace and richness in elegant conjunction, 
 They have never seen a banquet that with it would 
 compare. 
 
 The Press is represented — the press that wins our praises — 
 " Unawed by wealth and influence ; unbribed by sordid 
 gain," 
 And the skilled reporters lavish all their most luxurious 
 phrases 
 
THE CURSE. 127 
 
 In describing the occasion in all its splendid phases, 
 
 Though they own to do it justice language is, of course, 
 in vain. 
 
 Now the hero is alone 'midst the rows of empty benches ; 
 
 The guests have gone ; the flowers now are drooping as 
 in sleep ; 
 The lights are burning low, and in the perfumed trenches 
 Of the banquet hall he stands— then suddenly he blenches, 
 
 Affrighted by a wailing cry — a groan prolonged and deep. 
 
 He trembles and turns pale, horror all his senses seizing, 
 He stands as one transfixed — he can neither look nor 
 hnger — 
 Again he hears the cry, wild and long and agonizing, 
 As of some lost human soul from the deep foundations rising, 
 While from out the shadows seems to point a grim and 
 ghastly finger. ^ 
 
 He knows it is the curse of heaven that rests forever 
 Upon the w^hiskey trade, in palace or in slum. 
 
 And the groans that smite him now will be silenced 
 never, never, 
 
 In that temple he has built, for by no polite endeavor 
 Can the perfume of fair lilies subdue the stench of rum ! 
 
128 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 TO THE SNOW, ON NEW-YEAR'S MORNING. 
 
 Welcome thee, heaven-born snow, to the earth again ! 
 Welcome thy face, and the joys that follow thy train ! 
 Hail to thee, pale and beautiful bride of the plain ! 
 
 Coming on fairy-like wings in fastidious flight, 
 Silently eddying down through the listening night, 
 Coming to mantle us all in a garment of white. 
 
 Kissing the city, and forest, and mountain, and moor. 
 Broad over castle and cottage, for rich man and poor, 
 Hiding the dross of the earth under vesture so pure. 
 
 Welcome thee, crystalline, boundless and pallid and 
 
 drear. 
 The winding-sheet last night for the dead one's bier, 
 The swaddling-clothes this morn for the new-born year ! 
 
A PRETTY WEDDING. 
 
 129 
 
 A PRETTY WEDDING. 
 
 "TwAS a very pretty wedding,'* the fashion journal said 
 (Tis one of Mr. Jenkins' common phrases — 
 A sort of social chestnut that is getting somewhat played 
 In the list of his discriminating praises). 
 
 Yes, it was a "pretty" wedding, 
 there is not the slightest doubt, 
 Tho' everything was very plain, 
 we're told ; 
 For the groom was pretty rakish, /r^^' 
 and pretty big and stout, 
 And the bride was pretty rich 
 and pretty old. 
 
 #, 
 
 9 
 
130 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 FATHER MICHAEL STAFFORD.* 
 
 Father ! Most sacred name, 
 And never worn more sacredly by man 
 Than by this gent' priest, 
 Who held a widening parish in his love, 
 And still had heart for more ! 
 
 Not by the majesty of princely Rome, 
 The pomp of ceremony, mystic rites. 
 Authority's swift fiat or fear's spell 
 He held his place, and won men to his will ; 
 But by the holier force of blameless walk, 
 And tender pity, he made captive all. 
 
 A priest most pure, a man, a patriot true, 
 A Christian soldier fighting as he fell, 
 See, at his tomb the mourners weeping kneel — 
 Learning and Temperance, widows sore bereaved — 
 Twere impious now to ask them of his creed : 
 Leave that to God — we know He loves the good. 
 
 Raise no vain shaft to mark his resting-place, 
 None graven by cunning art or man's device ; 
 His life-work rises grandly o'er his grave, 
 And from its front, in gentle, steady flame. 
 Shines forth a name revered by rich and poor. 
 And loved by every creed, and honest men of none 
 
 * Parish priest of Lindsay, Ont., and widely distinguished as an advocate of 
 Temperance. 
 
NIAGARA FALLS. 131 
 
 NIAGARA FALLS. 
 
 Oh, roaring, rushing rapids, 
 Oh, swiftly swirling stream, 
 
 Thou frothing, foaming vision. 
 Thou crazy poet's dream ! 
 
 From Erie's placid waters 
 Thy mute beginnings flow, 
 
 And onward to thy horrid verge 
 Wilder and wilder grow. 
 
 But Oh, that plunge thou givest, 
 
 In mazy, misty mass ! 
 It beggaret4i description — 
 
 I gaze, and say, *' I pass." 
 
 Poets have tried before me 
 
 To find the fitting word. 
 But thou dost roar with laughter, 
 
 The thing is so absurd. 
 
 Adown in power and splendor, 
 
 Before our ravished eyes. 
 Thou plungest ; yet, thou could'st not 
 
 Could'st thou ? — do otherwise ! 
 
132 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 WILLIAM H. ROWLAND.* 
 
 As, in the joy and pride of buoyant youth, 
 Honored and courted, flattered and 
 
 caressed, 
 He sat in Pleasure's perfumed banquet- 
 hall. 
 Some touch of sanity divinely given 
 Illum'd his eyes, and he beheld the Truth. 
 Not that his spirit instant shrank and soured, 
 Or that the smile died sadly on his lips — 
 A new and higher happiness indeed 
 Beamed in his face, for now he truly saw 
 And truly measured unreal things of time 
 'Gainst the eternal verities beyond. 
 Then sprang the Man within his soul to life — 
 Immediately, conferring not with flesh and blood, 
 He cried, " My life from this day forth for Christ ; 
 My hand, my heart, my labor for His poor ! " 
 And so he lived and died — and so to-day 
 While church and city, trade and public guild, 
 Whose several cause he served right earnestly, 
 In sad procession bear him to the tomb, 
 The anguished sob of Poverty and Want 
 Moves all our hearts — his dearest requiem i 
 
 * Born 1844 ; died December 12th, 1893. A notable Mayor of the city of 
 Toronto, and an earnest worker in religious and philanthropic circles. 
 
Parliamentary language. 133 
 
 ** PARLIAMENTARY LANGUAGE." 
 
 " The honorable gent is a liar and sneak, 
 
 And a trickster of lowest degree; 
 He's a dickering shyster of adamant cheek— 
 
 A truculent --^scal is he ! " 
 
 " Order !" the House all horrified cried ; 
 
 **Take that back ! Take it back ! Take it back ! " 
 Mr. Speaker then said, *' Yes, so I decide, 
 
 The member will have to retract." 
 
 ** I will," said the member; " I meant to say he 
 
 Is devoid of all sense of veracity. 
 And is gifted beyond Machiavelian degree 
 
 With a serpent-like, foxy sagacity." 
 
134 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 WILLIAM R. CLIMIE.* 
 
 Our country, that has need of sterling 
 men 
 
 And journals of high faith, 
 Is poorer for the passing of this pen, 
 
 And well may mourn this death. 
 
 Silent may be the brazen trump of Fame 
 
 And tongue of eulogy ; 
 The teeming world knows httle of the name 
 
 Or work of such as he. 
 
 Yet 'tis by such as he the world is bless'd, 
 
 More than by heroes great — 
 Men of the people, simple, and undrest 
 
 In dignities of State. 
 
 These, like the dew, in every humble sphere 
 
 Perform their silent task, 
 Not widely known, but known to be held dear, 
 
 The sweeter fame they ask. 
 
 And when, as morning dew, they pass away, 
 
 They leave no mark behind. 
 But for their living all the after-day 
 
 Is purer and more kind. 
 
 •Editor of the Bowmanville Sun, and for many years Secretary of the 
 Canadian Press Association. Died June 7th, 1894. 
 
INVERTED COMMAS, 
 
 135 
 
 INVERTED COMMAS. 
 
 The proof-reader came to the 
 editor's desk, 
 His face ** sicklied o'er with 
 the pale cast of thought," 
 As is common with men of his 
 calling, somehow — 
 The editorial decision he 
 sought. 
 
 "In this Salvation Army meet- 
 ing report, 
 With the names of the officers 
 little and great, 
 Will you have the titles in * quote marks,'" asked he, 
 " As is usually done, or put 'em in straight ? 
 
 " Should the name of the chieftain, for instance, appear 
 As * General ' Booth — in quotation marks framed— 
 
 Or would you prefer to let it go plain, 
 
 As any real General's rank would be named ? " 
 
 The editor settled back into his chair 
 
 nd put on his eye-glass, and, looking serene, 
 He gazed at his reader a moment or so, 
 And slowly said, " What do quotation marks mean ? 
 
136 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 " They wouldn't be thought of, as you have just said, 
 
 In the case of any real General — so 
 They plainly imply that Booth is not that, 
 
 But a merely mock General, to which I say, no ! 
 
 "* Inverted commas,' in his case, at least, 
 Are meant to convey a species of sneer — 
 
 A mark of contempt for the man and his work, 
 A small-witted, paltry and cheap sort of jeer. 
 
 " They seem to imply that Reality lies 
 
 In the literal sword and the physical scar — 
 
 That the shedding of blood is the genuine thing, 
 While the Salvation Army is * playing at war.' 
 
 " My judgment may possibly be out of gear. 
 But to me it seems plainly the other way on — 
 
 The higher the object, the more real the thing. 
 The nobler the purpose the truer the man. 
 
 ** And the truer and nobler and greater the man, 
 
 The truer the title that fixes his rank ; 
 The leader of spirits a General indeed, 
 
 And "real" Generals, play-boys — but perhaps Fm a 
 crank. 
 
 " You talk of Reality — ^here are two names. 
 General Napoleon and General Booth — 
 
 A laugh of derision goes up from the world. 
 At the juxtaposition. Well, what is the truth ? 
 
INVERTED COMMAS, 137 
 
 "Napoleon (whose title no paper would 
 * quote '), 
 Was a very great General— his thousands 
 he slew — 
 But wasn't he also a very small man ? 
 He Hved a great life— but what did he do ? 
 
 " If the shallow and flippant to laughter are moved 
 That Booth should be named with Napoleon the Great, 
 
 True souls may well smile that the scourge of his age 
 Should meet such an honored and undeserved fate. 
 
 " The ' General ' (whose title is quoted in scorn) 
 Has fought not for power, nor honors, nor fame, 
 
 Nor struggled for * glory '—and desolate homes 
 Shall never abhor him, nor hiss at his name. 
 
 " That name, like Napoleon's, is known o'er the world, 
 But is known to be reverenced— not to be loathed ; 
 
 It stands for Salvation, not carnage and woe. 
 For the fallen uplifted, the destitute clothed. 
 
 " If it's higher and greater to save than destroy — 
 If man is immortal, and not a mere thing. 
 
 And if titles have meaning in marking degree. 
 Then Napoleon's an insect, and Booth is a king ! 
 
 **So, Mr. Proof-reader, print officers' names 
 Of the Salvation Army with unquoted rank. 
 
 Keep such sneers for the * captains' who glory in blood— 
 That's how I regard it— but perhaps I'm a crank 1 " 
 
138 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 DELSARTE. 
 
 I AM paying my addresses to a girl with 
 classic tresses, 
 Who is gone upon that famous French 
 philosopher, Delsarte ; 
 But Fm frequently surmising that her 
 attitudinizing 
 And her waves and genuflexions will 
 break this faithful heart. 
 
 When I first set eyes upon her, I assure you, 
 on my honor. 
 That I loved her with a passion my tongue 
 can never tell ; 
 The facts I do not garble when I say she 
 looked like marble, — 
 She really seemed to Challenge me to 
 break her witching spell. 
 
 I secured an introduction and soon felt love's 
 whirlpool suction, — 
 Beneath her smile my being seemed with 
 gladness to expand ; 
 On Delsarte I grew quite cranky, and I said, 
 *< My dear Miss Yankee, 
 Believe me to remain yours ever truly to 
 Command f^ 
 
DELS ARTE. 
 
 139 
 
 When I met her shortly after, 
 
 she indulged in scornful 
 
 laughter ; 
 When I took her hand and 
 
 kissed it, and muttered 
 
 **By your leave!" 
 Yes! she laughed a laugh so 
 
 hollow that my heart I 
 
 had to swallow, 
 My Horror and Astonishment 
 
 you never could conceive ! 
 
 Being plainly snubbed and slighted, I of course 
 
 felt somewhat blighted, 
 But my love was far too strong to wilt before 
 
 this adverse breath ; 
 In fact, her heartless snicker only made my pulse 
 
 beat quicker. 
 
 "Fll win this maiden yet!" I cried— "this is 
 my steadfast Faith /" 
 
 Next day I saw her walking and affectionately 
 talking 
 
 With a simpering summer Dudelet, who wore 
 a blazer coat. 
 And at once a surging passion 'gainst this paltry 
 sprig of fashion — 
 A passion known as Jealousy— m^ heaving 
 bosom smote. 
 
140 MOTLEY: VERSES GRA VE AND GA V. 
 
 I came very nearly swooning, but so deep were 
 they in spooning 
 That they never even saw me, though I boldly 
 crossed their path ; 
 There I stood, ignored — not in it ! and I posed 
 one awful minute 
 In an attitude of Anguish, which was not un- 
 mixed with Wrath, 
 
 " This couple I will sever,'* I hissed out, " now 
 or never ! 
 I'll bring this to a head at once, my fate 
 this girl must seal ! " 
 So that evening I waited on the lady and so 
 stated — 
 In accordance with Delsartian rules I made 
 her my Appeal. 
 
 There I pleaded, and she listened, and her 
 starry eyes they glistened, 
 As she stood like Grecian statue until I had 
 got quite through ; 
 When her arms (to mine unnerving) began mys- 
 terious curving, 
 And she said, **You make me Weary, very 
 Weary — so you do !" 
 
DELSARTE, 
 
 141 
 
 ** Do you mean ?" I gasped out, choking — " oh, 
 no, no ! you must be joking, — 
 Do you mean I make you Tired 1 Say I 
 have misunderstood?" 
 But to this appeal so craving, she did some 
 more arm -waving. 
 And finished with Rejection in Delsartian 
 attitude. 
 
 "Tis this Dude you love!" I thundered, "and 
 from him you shall be sundered, 
 If I have to slay the creature — which I 
 certainly shall do !" 
 In reply she made a gesture, throwing back 
 her classic vesture, 
 And struck the pose Defiance^ and merely 
 said "Pooh-pooh !" 
 
 Then I strode out full of fury, waiting 
 neither judge nor jury. 
 And I went and slew that Dudelet with 
 a poisoned cigarette ; 
 While his hated prostrate body, with its 
 blazer coat of shoddy, 
 I pounded with a racket as I roared 
 ''''Revenge is sweet !" 
 
142 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 She came up just as I ended, and looked as tho' 
 offended, 
 Then she beautifully posed as Grief, and 
 dropped a pearly tear. 
 While I, devoid of pity, just hummed a little 
 ditty. 
 And, exulting in my work, I cried, " Sic 
 semper dudelets here !" 
 
 At this she seemed quite fluttered ; though 
 no word at all she uttered, 
 I could see a conflict raging in her palpi- 
 tating heart ; 
 I could scarcely comprehend her, till she 
 said, "Yes — I Surrender !^^ 
 And she took the pose accordingly in- 
 vented by Delsarte. 
 
 "'Tis not that I really love you, for I think 
 myself above you," 
 She said; "I just surrender to get rid of 
 you for good." 
 This was just a trifle chilling, but I cried, 
 "All right, I'm willing!" 
 And thus I won my Triumph, and I struck 
 that attitude ! 
 
CHRISTOPHER FINLA Y ERASER, 143 
 
 (( ' 
 
 CHRISTOPHER FINLAY FRASER.* 
 
 All dark and gloomy the great building 
 
 stood, 
 wSave where in one far window shone a ray, 
 In the weird hour 'twixt midnight and the 
 
 morn. 
 The lonely watchman noted it and said, 
 Tis Fraser's lamp ; some business of the State 
 Keeps him astir, unmindful of himself — 
 He should have rest/' 
 
 Sir, peace ; he is at rest. 
 In yon high chamber, 'neath the watchful light 
 That falls upon his form and touches it 
 With glory, so to symbolize our love, 
 Prone oh the floor beside his untouched couch. 
 Alone, alone and dead, he lies in state. 
 
 With morning's dawn the news is fast afoot. 
 And men are saying, as they shake their heads, 
 " And yet 'twas like him thus to pass away ; 
 He did his noble service to the land 
 Without parade and almost secretly ; 
 And had the choice been his, we may believe 
 
 ' Bom at Brockville in 1839. For many years Minister of Public Works in the 
 Ontario Grovernment. Mr. Fraser was found dead on the floor of his apartment in 
 the new Parliament Buildings, Toronto, August 24, 1894. 
 
144 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 He rather would have gone thus unobserved 
 Than to have heard, around a stately bed, 
 Through weeks or months our whisperings of praise. 
 
 • 
 
 We mourn him truly, deeply, all — nay, hold ! 
 
 There^s one who mourns not, nor has any cause — 
 
 The cynic of the time, whose role it is 
 
 To say there are no honest public men, 
 
 No single-minded patriots, alive ; 
 
 He mourns not Eraser's death, because he knows 
 
 There's one Man less between his lie and truth. 
 
 Take a last look, Ontario, on thy son ! 
 
 Now say farewell, for here in solemn state 
 
 Come consecrated priests of Papal Rome 
 
 To claim the sacred clay. 
 
 Yes ; he was theirs, this statesman pure and true — 
 
 He worshipped at Rome's altar, and he'll sleep, 
 
 Until the judgment, in Rome's holy ground. 
 
 .Yet bid them stay till Bigotry has'come. 
 
 With faltering step and shame-flushed brow, and looked 
 
 Upon the dead, and marked the general grief, 
 
 And caught the perfume of the flowers heaped 
 
 By Protestants upon this honored bier, 
 
 And realized that, had her will been law, 
 
 This man had been denied a right to show 
 
 He loved his country, and could serve her well ! 
 
THE GRIM SB Y GIRL. 
 
 145 
 
 V^; 
 
 ^4 
 
 
 THE GRIMSBY GIRL. 
 
 Delightful recollection ! 
 
 I think I see her now, 
 Reclining in a hammock, 
 
 With intellectual brow. 
 And pretty summer costume 
 
 That caught my roving eye, 
 As, conning o'er my lecture, 
 
 I wandered idly by. 
 
 10 
 
 Then later, in the Temple, 
 The night I was to speak 
 
 On the ^"'hetic Culture 
 
 Of the Kjman and the Greek, 
 
146 MOTLEY I V&RSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 ■k 
 
 I saw her posed to listen 
 In Delsartian attitude, 
 And I noted her approval 
 Of my every platitude. 
 
 I had come from Pennsylvania 
 
 To deliver this address — 
 I'm a rather noted preacher, 
 
 As you may shrewdly guess — 
 And I only wanted one thing 
 
 To make my life complete — 
 This lovely Grimsby maiden, 
 
 So learned, fresh and sweet ! 
 
 The glamor of her presence 
 
 Gave me inspiration rare. 
 And I quite surpassed all efforts 
 
 I had ever made elsewhere ; 
 When I spoke of Grecian beauty 
 
 As portrayed in marble pure, 
 I did it with emotion, 
 
 And I fixed my eyes on her ! 
 
 I determined I would win her 
 
 Ere I left that classic ground. 
 And next day a friend who knew her 
 
 I fortunately found. 
 " Please to introduce me, will you. 
 
 To that lady there ? " I said ; 
 ''*With the greatest pleasure, brother,'' 
 
 He replied, "come right ahead." 
 
TH^ GRtMSB V GlkL 
 
 14? 
 
 And so he led me over 
 
 To her pretty cottage door, 
 And I never felt so nervous 
 
 In all my life before ; 
 But my heart stopped short its beating, 
 
 And I felt extremely sick 
 When he said-r" Er — Brother Shouter, 
 
 " Make you 'quainted 'th Mrs. Slick." 
 
148 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 SIR JOHN THOMPSON.* 
 
 Height after height achieved, ♦ 
 And each new step well won, 
 
 Now by his sovereign royally received. 
 He stands before the throne. 
 
 And gazing from that height 
 Down the far slope to youth. 
 He sees with kindling eye a pathway bright, 
 Of honor and of truth. 
 
 A course of fifty years, 
 
 With many a scene of strife, 
 Yet through it all — its work, its hopes, its fears — 
 
 A good and worthy life. 
 
 Yonder's a trampled space 
 
 Where he has met his foes. 
 In politics' fierce war, but face to face 
 
 With no unmanly blows. 
 
 And yonder is the spot, 
 
 More sacred and more dear, 
 Where the stern battle of his soul he fought, 
 
 A warrior sincere. 
 
 A goodly record this — 
 
 And yet more good in store. 
 More work, more fame, more honor — Peace, 
 
 He's dead ; it's o'er, it's o'er. 
 
 * Born 1844 ; died at Windsor Castle, immediately after having been sworn in 
 aa a member of Her Majesty's Privy Council, December 12th, 1S94, 
 
ON THE CORNER. 
 
 149 
 
 ON THE CORNER. 
 
 ''MornirC World! Globe! Mail an' Empire ! 
 
 Get a paper — here y' are I " 
 Piped the urchins on the corner, 
 
 As they stormed the trolley car ; 
 Sturdy, eager, pushing merchants, 
 
 Each one with an anxious " phiz " 
 That bespoke the down-town maxim, 
 
 *' Self for self, and biz is biz ! " 
 
 '* Paper, sir ! " a dozen voices, 
 
 In a dozen different kevs, 
 Yelled the words, and I, surrounded, 
 
 Stood uneasily at ease. 
 
150 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 " Yes," said I, ** I guess I'll take one 
 From this boy — he asked me first," 
 
 And I motioned to c gamin 
 Who a heap of dailies nursed. 
 
 Dirty-faced and towzle-headed 
 
 Was the lad, with ragged clothes, 
 Used to Want's grim rough-and-tumble 
 
 And Misfortune's cruel blows ; 
 But he instantly grew handsome, 
 
 As his whispered order came — 
 ** Buy it from this boy here, mister, 
 
 He is little, and he's lame !" 
 
 And the brave, unselfish fellow 
 
 Pointed to a " Tiny Tim," 
 Hobbling on a pair of crutches — 
 
 " That's it, mister, buy from him ! " 
 Dirty-faced and towzle headed, 
 
 Clothing ragged, thin, and old. 
 Yes ! but in that little bosom 
 
 Christ-like Spirit, heart of gold ! 
 
FARMER JINKS ON SUNDA Y CARS, 151 
 
 FARMER JINKS ON SUNDAY CARS.*' 
 
 TvE ben down to T'ronty, where my married darter stays, 
 A-spending of a fortnight of some well-arned holidays ; 
 It's the intellectool centre — as I s'pose, of course, you know — 
 Full of 'varsities and colleges, that make a goodly show. 
 And it's only nater'l that the folks down there has extry 
 
 sense, 
 And when it comes to argyin', they're certainly immense. 
 
 For instance, as I stood one day a-listenin' to a tune 
 An organ man was grindin' out in front of a saloon, 
 A chap that had a breath as if he'd just ben at the bar, 
 Comes up to me an' hollers out, *' 'Rah for the Sunday car 1" 
 
 * Read at a mass meeting held in the Pavilion, Toronto, under the auspices of 
 the opponents of Sunday cars, in view of the vote to be taken on that question. 
 
152 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 He seemed a little tipsy, notwithstandin' which 'twas plain 
 He was a intellectool giant, an' had a powerful brain ; 
 He was spilin* for an argyment, as I could understand, 
 'Cause he had a mornin' paper clutched in his dirty hand. 
 
 He walks right up ag'in me, and he wouldn't let me pass, 
 Which, as we wasn't introduced, was what I reckoned 
 
 sass, 
 But I jest had to be resigned, bein' I couldn't run — 
 And the organ played a 'propriate tune, called "Johnny, git 
 
 your gun ! " 
 
 Says he, "We must have Sunday cars to take us to the 
 
 parks, 
 Where we can worship Natur', and have some quiet 
 
 larks ; 
 We want a livelier Sunday, with a little bit of fun," 
 And the organ-man came in ag'in with " Johnny, git your 
 
 gun I " 
 
 Says I, " The parks air close at hand ; you don't need cars 
 
 to go." 
 "But then," says he, "the workin'man " (and here he 
 
 made a show 
 Of wipin' of a tearful eye, while winkin' 'tother one). 
 And the organ seemed to say in words, *'0 Johnny, git 
 
 your gun 
 
 !" 
 
 "The workin'man," says I, "is not the fool you take him 
 
 for, 
 And he can git along first-rate without your Sunday car ; 
 
FARMER JINKS ON SUNDA V CARS, 153 
 
 He sees your little trap quite plain, to rob him of his day, 
 And make him do seven days of work for jest a six-days' 
 pay. 
 
 " Besides, he ain't so flush of funds that he must ride 
 
 around 
 On Sundays in a city where parks and squares abound, 
 And where nine workin'men in ten has got a nice back 
 
 yard, 
 Where they can lie around an' rest as happy as a lord." 
 
 The feller then got mad, and sez, "The city's full of 
 
 slums. 
 And these poor workin'men I mean ain't got no decent 
 
 hums, 
 And they need Sunday cars, and so the cars has got to 
 
 run," 
 And the organ-man struck in ag'in with '* Johnny, git your 
 
 gun ! " 
 
 Sez I, "Young man, you're lyin', if you'll excuse plain 
 
 talk; 
 T'ronty hasn't got no slums, whichever way you walk ; 
 And I'm ashamed to hear you a runnin' down your town," 
 And the organ yelled out wilder still, " O Johnny, git 
 
 your gun 
 
 !'' 
 
 And then the feller took a tack ; he seed he'd made a 
 
 break — 
 " We want the cars to go to church," says he, " and no 
 
 mistake ; 
 
154 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 And there's the cemeteries, where we want to take festoons 
 To decorate our dear ones' graves on Sunday afternoons." 
 
 "Well, go; why, certainly," sez I. ** You have my full 
 
 consent ; 
 The gates is freely open, there's no one to prevent, 
 If you feel such affection for your lost ones as you 
 
 talk " 
 
 **We love 'em right enough," sez he — "but not enough to 
 
 walk ! " 
 
 And then he took another twist ; says he, " Toronto's 
 
 grown. 
 And doesn't want to be behind no other near-by town ; 
 There's Buffalo and Rochester and Cleveland and Detroit, 
 They all have Sunday cars " — " Exactly so," sez I ; " you're 
 
 right ; 
 
 "And they likewise have beer gardens, and open shops and 
 
 shows. 
 And lots of other evils that from open Sundays flows ; " 
 But he stopped me in a jiffy, and said it wasn't right 
 To bring up other cities in any such a light ! 
 The organ had stopped playing, to hear what he would say. 
 And then it sung, sarcastic like, " Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay ! " 
 
 And then the feller bristled up, and made a reg'lar speech. 
 
 His voice a-growin' louder till it ended in a screech. 
 
 Says he: ^* Toronto's Sunday, that is praised so much 
 
 abroad. 
 Because it's kept a little 'cording to the law of God, 
 
FARMER JINKS ON SUNDA Y CARS. 165 
 
 Don't suit a certain section of the looser sort of fish, 
 And so it's got to be revised a^cordin' to their wish. 
 And first of all, the Sunday cars," sez he, *' has got to 
 come " 
 
 Just here the organ drowned his voice with ** Ta-ra-ra-ra- 
 boom ! " 
 
 '' Men don't require no day of rest ; I tell you that's all rot. 
 Though we don't care particular whether they do or not ; 
 And if it ends in seven days' work for only six days' pay, 
 That don't affect our feelin's — we're bound to have our 
 way. 
 
 We want to make Toronto a place that's * up to date,' 
 And have things run * wide open'; so let the parsons 
 
 prate. 
 It's not the city's interest we have in view, you know ; 
 It's our own selfish pleasure — we want the cars to go. 
 Nor do we really care a cent for the petted workin'man ; 
 Our gammon is intended just to help our little plan ; 
 And as to Bible argyment, we say the Sunday car 
 Is * necessity and mercy,' of course, so there you are, 
 Although we know it's nonsense ; for once again I say, 
 Our real, honest motive is — we want to have our way. 
 The Sabbath is a weariness, to tell the simple truth. 
 And far too dull and solemn for our animated youth. 
 And Toronto on a Sunday is too far behind the times ; 
 We want to hear the trolley gongs as well as churchly 
 
 chimes ; 
 And if, as trailers to the cars, in time we get saloons, 
 And Sunday morning papers, and bands with week-day 
 
 tunes, 
 
156 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 And theatres, and concert-halls, and open stores and shops 
 (Of course when you begin a thing you can't tell where it 
 
 stops) — 
 Why, we will grin and bear it (especially we'll grin), 
 For we don't look upon such things as what you call a sin. 
 So that's our real position ; that's really what we think, 
 And now I'm through my discourse, come in and have a 
 
 drink. 
 The bar-keep he is with us, and sound on Sunday cars, — 
 In fact, they're with us solid in all the city bars." 
 
 "Excuse me," I replied, " but if we never meet ag'in, 
 I want to say your argyment is sensible as — then 
 I paused for some comparison to fit it, in a way, 
 When the organ made the finish with ''Ta-ra-ra-boom- 
 de-ay ! " 
 
 m. 
 
AFTER THE VOTE. 157 
 
 AFTER THE VOTE. 
 
 FARMER JINKS HEARD FROM AGAIN. 
 
 I didn't s'pose I'd be in town so very soon ag'in, 
 
 But when 'twas "single fare return" I thought I'd take 
 
 it in; 
 An' so on Civic Holiday I jined in with the crowd, 
 An' went down to the city a-feelin' pretty proud. 
 I felt like seein' T'ronty after the cruel war 
 To shake her hand for knockin' out once more the Sunday 
 
 car; 
 An' maybe I might meet that chap I talked to 'tother day, 
 An' have the fun of hearin' what he had got to say. 
 
 Well, sure enough, as I was jest a-comin' up the road, 
 Right 'gin a corner tavern door that very party stood ; 
 He didn't have his hair combed, an' he needed shavin' 
 
 bad, 
 An' he wore the gen'ral aspect of a chap that's feelin' sad ; 
 He didn't see me comin' 'cause his head was sorter bent, 
 An' on a mornin' paper he seemed to be intent. 
 I stopped right there afore him (tho' I hate the smell of 
 
 bars). 
 An' says I quite sudden — "'Mornin', sir — and how is 
 
 Sunday cars ? " 
 He looked up quick, he knew me, an' I thought he'd cut 
 
 an' run— 
 
158 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAvE AND GAV. 
 
 An' ril bet that tune came back to him — "O Johnnie, 
 
 git your gun." 
 But he didn't run; he stopped right there, resumin' his 
 
 cigar, 
 An' slappin' of the Worlds says he : ** We'll get that Sunday 
 
 car ! 
 Don't you make no mistake, my friend, it's shortly goin' to 
 
 come ; 
 We, the Progressive Party, is goin' to make things hum ; 
 An' as to this here vote we had on Saturday," says he, 
 ** We're mighty well contented ; 'twas a moral victory." 
 " I 'gree to that — you're right," says I, " 'cause the Sunday 
 
 cars got beat ! " 
 " No, not at all," says he ; " 'twas just a masterly retreat ; 
 But look at how we knocked to bits last year's majority — 
 One thousand's all your side can show, an' last year it was 
 
 three ; 
 * We're goin' to have another round,' to quote the Sporting 
 
 World, 
 An' Toronto's * crown of glory' will from her head be 
 
 hurled — 
 If it's a crown of glory to make the poor man walk 
 When he goe^ c-^t on Sunday — I call that boshy talk." 
 "Another vote?" says I. "Indeed? Well, mister, look 
 
 a-here. 
 If you git up another vote within a couple o' year. 
 The people of T'ronty will rise up in their might 
 An' wipe your entire outfit completely out o' sight !" 
 "Oh, not at all," says he; "in fact, 'twill be the other 
 
 way, 
 For things was all one-sided with that vote on Saturday. 
 
Afteh the VOTA. 
 
 1S9 
 
 For instance, lots of law-abidin' folks was out of town 
 
 Who would ha' voted with us ; and then youVe got to own 
 
 The antis personated to a horrible extent, 
 
 And street-car cash an' tickets most lavishly was spent 
 
 To help defeat our efforts, an' all the sports in town 
 
 Joinpd with the young Endeavorers to keep our party down. 
 
 All these things were ag'in us, considerin' which, methinks, 
 
 It was a moral victory — come in an' buy the drinks 1 " 
 
 Says I, ** I'm a teetot'ler, but mister, look a-here, 
 
 I vum if I won't set 'em up, with whiskey, gin or beer " 
 
 (The feller's eye was sparklin')— " Ah, you're the stuff," 
 
 says he — 
 ** Hold on," says I, ** a minute, you're interruptin' me — 
 An' throw in some champagne as well, and likewise some 
 
 cigars — 
 But not to-day, exactly — when you git them Sunday cars !" 
 
160 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 THE CHESTNUT TREE. 
 
 Under the spreading chestnut tree 
 
 The city urchin stands, 
 A vandal and a scamp is he, 
 
 With most mischievous hands ; 
 And sticks and stones he throws aloft 
 
 And many a chestnut lands. 
 
 What cares he though he breaks the boughs 
 And knocks off leaves and twigs, 
 
 And makes the sidewalk look as if 
 'Twere overrun with pigs ? 
 
 He's not afraid of cops — if one 
 Should come along, he " digs." 
 
 What does the city urchin do 
 
 With the fruit of all this toil ; 
 This annual ruin of the trees 
 
 Which cops don't seem to foil ? 
 He "don't do nothin' with 'em, see ?" — 
 
 Just leaves 'em there to spoil ; 
 
 Or else, perchance, he gathers them 
 All round, and hard, and green, 
 
 And stores them in some safe retreat 
 Awaiting Hallowe'en, 
 
 When they are used for "pegging doors" 
 And raising people's spleen. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 161 
 
 r-iir^yr^ , 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 *' Sunset and evening star, 
 And one clear call for me ! 
 And may there be no moaning of the bar 
 When I put out to sea. 
 
 " But such a tide as, moving, seems asleep, 
 Too full for sound or foam, 
 When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
 Turns again home. 
 
 " Twilight and evening bell. 
 And after that the dark ! 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell 
 When I embark. 
 
 " For tho' from out our bourne of time and place 
 The flood may bear me far, 
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
 When I have crost the h^x"— Tennyson. 
 
 And so it was, O singer rare, 
 Upon a soundless, foamless tide 
 Thy bark from out this bourne did ride, 
 
 And Nature heard her lover's prayer ! 
 
 'Twas when all strifes of earth were spent 
 Out to'rd the Vast she turned the prow, 
 And a pale moonbeam kissed thy brow, 
 Placid in death's sublime content. 
 U 
 
162 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 There was no moaning of the bar, 
 
 'Twas not an hour for pangs and fears ; 
 But that full tide was human tears, 
 
 Reflecting back the evening star. 
 
 And then ihou crost the bar in peace. 
 And passed away and gave no sign — 
 Yet we believe that Christ divine. 
 
 Thy Pilot, met thee, full of grace. 
 
THE HIGHER CRITICISM, 163 
 
 THE HIGHER CRITICISM. 
 
 1 SAW a Higher Critic, looking scholarly and cool, 
 
 As he stood beside the portals of the new Negation 
 
 School ; 
 And as I passed he stopped me by a motion of his hand, 
 Saying, " Pray don't look so much at ease — you do not 
 
 understand." 
 
 Then he drew me gently near him, and with a pitying look 
 He placed his slender finger on the cover of the Book 
 Which I carried on my way to church. *' I greatly fear," 
 
 said he, 
 '^ You have a comfortable faith in Christianity. 
 
 "You quite believe that Moses wrote the Jewish Penta- 
 teuch, 
 
 And you find no great discrepancies in Matthew, Mark, or 
 Luke ; 
 
 Hebrews you deem the work of Paul ; nay, you are so far 
 gone 
 
 You do not even doubt the authenticity of John 1 
 
 "Such simple faith is touching, yet 'tis also very sad. 
 When modern doubts and theories are so cheaply to be 
 
 had ; 
 And I feel a sense of duty impelling me to state 
 That Genesis is clearly of a post-exilic date. 
 
164 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 " The story of Creation, of the Flood, and of the Fall, 
 Are obviously poems, as is also Abram's call. 
 Indeed, as to the latter, he's not literally real — 
 Abram's but a noun of multitude — a Hebrew race-ideal. 
 
 '* You're in error if you think that David wrote the so-called 
 
 Psalms, 
 Or see a Messianic sense in the sacrifice of lambs ; 
 And your comforting assurance that the Canon is exact 
 Is in painful contradiction to the Higher Critic fact. 
 
 (( 
 
 In short, my simple brother, you must not feel so 
 
 sure; 
 
 The Book you think inspired is only Jewish literature. 
 Its authorships, chronologies and dates are quite astray ; 
 You must wait and hear what future excavations have to 
 say. 
 
 " The book of Job, for instance, is, we know, anonymous. 
 And the Patriarchs are heroes we may call eponymous ; 
 The law is post-Mosaic, which explains the question vext 
 Of the gross anachronism of the Middle-Hebrew text. 
 
 " In Exodus an Eloist and a Jehovist we see — 
 
 Two distinct and separate authors, as the critics all agree ; 
 
 While a third did the compiling — these three seem fairly 
 
 clear — 
 But there yet are several counties, so to speak, from which 
 
 to hear. 
 
THE HIGHER CRITICISM. 165 
 
 **■ I will not detain you longer, my friend, except to say 
 These are tentative suggestions, thrown out in casual way. 
 You are on your way to worship with your Book ; you may 
 
 be right. 
 For though not, of course, the Word of God, yet it affords 
 
 some light. 
 
 "Pray don't let me disturb your faith — that is not my 
 
 intent ; 
 To hint at some Hypotheses was really all I meant." 
 " Don't be afraid for me, good Higher Critic," I replied, 
 " My faith does not depend on what your grammars may 
 
 decide. 
 
 " My dear old mother, dead and gone, was a Higher Critic, 
 
 too; 
 This Book was hers — she loved it, and she knew it through 
 
 and through. 
 She told me 'twas from God direct, and she'd no doubt 
 
 at all 
 The Patriarchs had really lived, as well as John and Paul. 
 
 " She told me how the world was made, and all about the 
 
 Flood, 
 And how the Israelites were saved by the sprint; -ing of the 
 
 blood. 
 She wasn't very learnM, she didn't know much Greek, 
 And of * tentative suggestions ' I never heard her speak. 
 
166 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 " But she was a Higher Critic of the very highest kind — 
 She searched the Scriptures daily the pearl of price to tind ; 
 She caught their inner spirit — which some Higher Critics 
 
 miss — 
 And Christ was formed within her, and filled her soul with 
 
 bUss. 
 
 " I have no quarrel with learning — wise doctors have their 
 
 place — 
 But the scalpel of the scholar can not dissect God's grace. 
 Adieu, sir, I must hasten ; heaven bless all critics true. 
 But with the Rock on which I build their task has nought 
 
 to do." 
 
THE DUDE. 
 
 167 
 
 THE DUDE. 
 
 WAS a sultry day in August — 
 80 something in the shade, 
 Just the sort of afternoon to pass 
 in some dark, sheltered 
 glade; 
 But 'twas my ill-luck to be that day 
 in perhaps the stuffiest spot 
 That is known to human nature 
 when the weather's very 
 hot— 
 A frowsy, grimy railway car, with faulty ventilation. 
 That seemed to gather dust and flies and heat at every 
 station ; 
 
 Half-filled with weary-looking folk, who sat m 01 
 
 id 
 
 twos, 
 
 Too listless now to talk or read--too comfortless to snooze. 
 
 A lady in blue spectacles with her little pale-faced daughter; 
 A fat man down beside the tank that bore the words, ice 
 water 
 
 (Altho' its contents to the taste were innocent of ice, 
 And even to the thirstiest throat were very far from nice); 
 A travelling man with collar off, and in his stocking feet;' 
 A spinster with a busy fan, who fought the wooing heat ;' 
 
168 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY, 
 
 A done out looking woman, with despairing, sunken eyes, 
 With a poor, sick baby on her lap — and flies, and flies, and 
 . flies. 
 
 Now, it takes but very little under 
 such like circumstances 
 
 To awaken human interest in the 
 shape of lazy glances ; 
 
 And the thrill that ran throughout 
 that car may perhaps be under- 
 stood, 
 
 When there entered at a stopping 
 place a full-iledged, living Dude. 
 
 A tall and fair young man he was, with a very natty coat. 
 And a collar stiff and high enough to cut his dainty 
 
 throat ; 
 And cuffs down to his knuckles, and trowsers good and 
 
 wide. 
 And gaiters on his boot tops, and necktie neatly tied ; 
 An eyeglass in his ocular, and gloves and cane as well. 
 And the very latest style of hat — a regi^; r haw-haw swell. 
 
 With silken pocket handkerchief he dusted off the seat 
 In front of me, and then sat down, composed and cool and 
 
 neat; 
 And as he sat I sized him up, by way of mere diversion — 
 My thoughts went rambling off upon a trivial excursion. 
 But there was little* food for thought — he was an empty 
 
 noodle. 
 With nothing to commend him except, perhaps, his boodle — 
 
THE DUDE. 169 
 
 Though that was doubtful- certainly, he hadn't any brains ; 
 And as for heart and character, it needed little pains 
 To come to the conclusion he didnt know their meaning. 
 Thus ran my mental summary— ^ 
 
 Acm« fh« • , u ^''^" ^ observed him leaning 
 
 woman," " "' "" '"'' ^-P-'-g-'ooking 
 
 And then he gently rose and said, '• Madam, I see you're 
 weary, /v^uic 
 
 Let me take baby, won't you ?" His voice was sweet and 
 Cheery, 
 
 '^"^tssTn""^'''''' so winning that the woman looked her 
 
 As he took the sick child from her with a movement most 
 caressing. 
 
 "You have travelled quite a distance?" "Yes, from 
 Omaha," she said ; 
 
 " W"f ""^-" l^"' he stopped her, for the story he had 
 
 In the small pathetic bit of crape she fondled in her 
 nana, 
 
 And her voice so choked and husky. " Yes," he said " I 
 
 understand; • ' 
 
 And ^^j-ou^ can't afford to travel in the sleeper. Going 
 
 "I am going to Quebec, sir, where all my people are." 
 He heard with tender sympathy, then said, " Now, take a 
 rest; 
 
 " I'll nurse the baby for you, and I'll do my very best." 
 
170 MOTLEY: VERSES GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 The woman looked her thanks, and then, done out for want 
 
 of sleep, 
 She dropped into unconsciousness, while he with pity deep 
 Moved to his seat across the aisle and held the fevered 
 
 child. 
 While I — I felt rebuked, ashamed — and no onlooker 
 
 smiled. 
 But presently a lady rose and came and asked the Dude 
 To let her take the baby. " I feel," said she, '' I should 
 Have oJered long ago ; but now, pray let me share the duty. 
 Poor little thing ! she's fast asleep ; poor wasted little 
 
 beauty!" 
 And having given up his charge, the Dude addressed us 
 
 all— 
 " My friends,'' said he, " this is a 
 
 case that seems for help to » XS\ 
 
 call. )^^^\ \ 
 
 The sleeper is the place for this M [ \)S\ 
 
 poor woman — can you .^'^ySJl 
 
 doubt it? f'^Ylk 
 
 Then may I ask respectfully, 
 
 What'll you do about it?" 
 
 " Do !" cried the fat man, spring- 
 ing up; "we'll take up a z>^''' 
 collection ; 
 That is, I guess, the proper thing to do in this connection ; 
 And as I wear a good-sized hat I'll pass it round myself, 
 And give you everyone a chance to spare a little pelf." 
 So saying, up the aisle he rolled, turning to right and left, 
 And bringing to the Dude a hat of formidable heft, 
 
THE DUDE. 
 
 171 
 
 Half-full of silver dollars, halves and quarters, bills and 
 
 dimes 
 (Notwithstanding that the country was suffering from hard 
 
 times). 
 And when the woman woke, the Dude, to her tear-told 
 
 delight, 
 Made her the presentation, and then in form polite 
 Escorted her and baby to the sleeper in the rear, 
 While I and several others aboard that stuffy car 
 Sat and revised our verdict about that swell young man, 
 And this is how, I reckon, our final judgment ran : 
 'Tis never safe to judge alone by outward dress and style ; 
 A man may have a noble heart tho' his clothes are poor 
 
 and vile. 
 And, on the other hand, 'twould seem this incident made 
 
 good, 
 A man may be a Christian tho' he dresses like a Dude ! 
 
172 MOTLEY: VERSES CRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 ** Motley : Verses Grave and Gay." 
 Finis— ^ni the book away. 
 Nothing learned, nothing deep, 
 
 Perhaps you say ; 
 True— but you've not been asleep 
 
 Anyway ! 
 Sombre lines, and trifles, too ; 
 Verses light and verses blue. 
 
 Very true ; 
 And since you have red them through- 
 Verses of a motley hue — 
 
 Now can you. 
 Snug ensconced in easy chair, 
 Quote us, as your judgment fair . 
 
 In this regard, 
 
 From Avon's bard, 
 ** Motley is the only wear"? 
 
Tlje Dread Voyage 
 
 POkMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM- WILFRED CAMPBELL 
 
 Author of "LAKE LYRICS." 
 CLOTH, 190 PAGES, - • - $1.C0. 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS. 
 
 The Chicago Inter-Ocean paid the following tribute to Mr. Campbell's famous 
 poem, "The Mother," when it first appeared in print : **The nearest approach to 
 a great poem which has cropped out in current literature lor many a long day is 
 'The Mother,' in iJarper's Monthly for April. A subject inviting poetic treat- 
 ment, and rich in the pathos which gives to poetry its flavor an<i stamps it as 
 being the choicest vintage of literary expression, is so tre.ited in 'The Mother' 
 that one feels that it could never be improved upon. There are many such 
 poems. The bookshelves devoted lo such a collection would not need to be large, 
 but the catalogue would be a long one. It is no small thing to add another gem 
 to such a coUec^iion, and the addition deserves to attract some attention. 
 
 "This little poem has ^r its bass of fact the death of a bride n)other whose 
 infant soon follows her to the grave. How best to vitalize the thoughts natural 
 to such a phase of human experience, and make its depth of sentiment appreciable 
 by the du 1 clay of oidinary intellects, was ihe problem herein solved. It would 
 be impossible to give in common prose even the most remote idea of the beauty 
 and poetic sweetness of t' e potm. Nor dees the charm lie in quotable lines. 
 The picture as a whole needs to be seen in its unity to be felt in its personation 
 of a high and tender i leal." — Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 "Mr. Campbell's verses are characterized by an imaginative grasp of nature, 
 and especially of nature in her sadder or sterner moods, th it is oiten s ngularly 
 impressive. The approach of winter, the swee|» of the storm, and ihe majesty of 
 the ice-bound n irthern wastes are thanes to which the author freqiientl3' recurs, 
 and wh ch he cont nues to associate with the corresponding phases of human 
 emotion. The interpenetration of the soul of man and the soul of the phyt^ical 
 world may be taken as the predominant thought of Mr. Campbell's work"— The 
 Chicttffo Dial. 
 
 " IThe writer possesses descriptive powers of great strength. ' Dusk ' and * Out 
 of Pompeii ' are poems of great beauty and pronounced musical quality.'* — Phila- 
 delphia Ledger, 
 
 WILLIAM BRIG IS, Publisher. 
 
 29-33 Richmond St. West, Toronto. 
 Montreal : C. W. COATES. Halifax : S. F. HUESTIS. 
 
"MY LATTICE" 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT, 
 
 Author of "The Soul's Quest, and Other Poems," "Elton 
 
 Hazlewood," Etc. 
 
 Cloth, uncut edges, 75 cts. 
 Watered Silk Cloth, superior paper, $1.00. 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS. 
 
 "This i8 not our tirst meeting with Frederick George Scott and we shall hope 
 to spend pleasant hours with him in the future, if he can only give us fresh work 
 equal to the six best poems in ' My Lattice.' . . . This book is rugged in 
 merit, as most books must be ; but when Mr. Scott is at his best, he knows how to 
 turn out verses that charm." — Norman Gale, in Lor.don Academy. 
 
 . . . "Mr. Scott's work is in a higher strain, and in part remarkable. In ' Thor,' 
 'The Frenzy of Prometheus' and ' Dion,' although he interests in spite of perilous 
 , comparisons, his muse staggers somewhat It is in a short piece entitled 'Samson' 
 that one forgets to criticize. Here also there is, of >■ t' urse, a dangerous comparison 
 to be made ; but that, too, passes away before vei *e like this." ["Samson" here 
 quoted at length.] "These are splendid verses and this is probably the best 
 American poem for many jears. it rouses sneoc^ation that it should come out of 
 Canada from a poet called Scott." — London 8l?.ocer. 
 
 "These poems display a delicate fancy, a mastery of chaste language and a 
 literary culture that lift them out of the plane of commonplace rhymes. ' The 
 Everlasting Father' is the nime of a lit'le ]>oem that we admire very much. We 
 think it will be admitted by all readers of poetic feeling that here our author 
 touches the 'heavenly strings' of poetic melody."— Cwri-sYtan Guardian. 
 
 WILLIAM BRIGGS, Publisher, 
 
 29-33 Richmond St. West, Toronto. 
 Montreal : C W. COATES. Halifax : S. F. HUESTIS. 
 
Songs of the Common Day 
 
 AND 
 
 ■ ■ r\ V C • ■ ■ 
 
 An Ode for the Shelley Centenary. 
 
 By CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, 
 
 Author of "In Divers Tones," "Orion," dr.. 
 
 CLOTH, - - Price, »1.2 5. 
 
 "Ever since 'Ave I' came, saw and conquered Thf Literarn World we have 
 looked with anxiety for a volume of short pieces by Mr. Roberts. At last our 
 expectation is fulfilled, and we have an opportunity of testing: this young Can- 
 adian poet more searchingly and more severely He is delightfully 
 
 poetical, and is able to state'his observation in rich melodies."— /-o«</oh Literary 
 World. 
 
 •'Here the local color is much stronger and more artistically given. The 
 series of Sonnets, for instance, /)resentr cr.refully worked pictures, the difficulty 
 of the form having moved the writer, as is often the case, to successful effort. 
 .... It seems, indeed, that Canada is going to be a land of poets."— i>ondo/t 
 Spectator. 
 
 IN VARIOUS MOODS 
 
 PGEMS 
 
 By STUART LIVINGSTON. 
 
 CLOTH, Sl.OO. 
 
 "Many thanks for Stuart LivingHton's little book. Who is he ? Is he yntnig ? 
 If so, then I feel sure he will do something. There's the real stuff in some of 
 these verses— fine stuff ; and at times an inevitableness of phrase that can never 
 be got bv imitation or effort. I like some of the poems much— foe instance, 
 * Music ' 1vnd ' Her Kyes are Shaded Deep with Prayer,' and several others as 
 good."— Charles G. D. Roberts. 
 
 " These poems, though mostly brief and fragmentary, have the true lyrical 
 rinir r :id descriptive power, and are as significant in what they promise as in what 
 they achieve. In several of them true poetic feeling is blended with delicate 
 fsLUcy "—Christian (iuardian. 
 
 WILLIAM BRIGGS, Publisher, 
 
 29-33 Richmond St. West, Toronto. 
 Montreal : C W. COATES. Halifax : S. F. HUESTIS. 
 
CANADIAN POETS. 
 
 In addition to the poems of Campbell, Scott, Roberts 
 and Livingston, noticed in the preceding pages, we have 
 published the following : 
 
 This Canada of Ours. J. D. Edgar, M.P $0 75 
 
 Recreations. Rev. E. A. Stafford, LL.D o 35 
 
 Wayside Echoes. Sophia V. Gilbkrt 75 
 
 The Ministry of Flowers. Mrs. Norton o 65 
 
 Jubilee, Patriotic and Other Poems. Robfrt Awde 35 
 
 Lorenzo, and Other Poems. J. E. Pollock, B.A. o 75 
 
 The Dream of Columbus. Rev. R. W. Wright, B.D. 25 
 
 Motley : Verses Grave and Gay 
 
 —(Illustrated.) J. \V. Bengough i go 
 
 
 BY OTHER PUBLISHERS. 
 
 Among the Millet. Archibald Lampman $1 00 
 
 Lake Lyrics, and Other Poems. W. W. Campbkll i 00 
 
 In Divers Tones. Ciias. G. D. Rop-rr ts i 25 
 
 The Magic House. Duncan Campbell Scott i 00 
 
 Low Tide on Grand Pre. Bliss Carman i 25 
 
 Pine, Rose and Fleur de Lis. ^^rs. Harrison ("Seranus") i 25 
 
 T.^ura Secord : a Drama, and Other Poems. Mrs. Curzon i 50 
 
 Songs of the Great Dom'nion 
 
 —Compiled by \V. D. Ligiithall 70 
 
 Songs of the Human. Wm. P. McKenzie i 25 
 
 Voices and Undertones. Wm. P. McKenzie i 25 
 
 Songs and Miscellaneous Poems. John Lmrie i 50 
 
 Rhymes Afloat ?nd Afield. Wm. T. James i CO 
 
 WILLIAM BRIGGS. 
 
 Wesley Buildings, TORONTO. 
 C. W. COATES, MoDtreal. S. F. HLESTIS, Halifax.