M / SELECTIONS FROM CANADIAN POETS; WITH OCCASIONAL CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES, AND AN liitwkdorj issaj oir Caitabiait "gatiq. BY EDWARD HARTLEY DEWART. PRINTED BY JOHN LOVELL, ST. NICHOLAS STREET. 1864. yekj/^-^r, t H Entered according to the Act of the Provincial Parliament, in the year one thou- -sand eight hundred and sixty-four, by the Reverend Edward Habtlkv Dewaut, in the Office of the Registrar of the Province of Canada. T% J CONTENTS. PAQE. Preface. 7 1mtkodu'"tory Essay 9 3nmi\ Mil %dUti\m. 21 28 24 27 28 80 Dawn Troctkr , The Stara 8 a nosteb God McLachi AN , Short Days Abcheu Tho Dying Warrior Miss Johnson Seeking Miss Walkkb What do wo Live for? Miss Haight 31 To the Sea J. McCarroll 83 I am not Sad John Keadb 34 Old Hannah McLaciilan 36 Death of Captain Vicars H. A. Wilkins 37 Under tho Snow Miss Vininq 41 Spring riioCTOR 44 The Good Man's Grave F. Wright 46 The Arctic Indian's Faith McGee 47 Song of Mary Magdalene McLachlan 48 Voices of the Deatii-Chambor Mrs. J. L. Lbprohon. . 49 Emigrant's Funeral McGeorge My Soul is Heavy John Reade I come to the Well W. W. Smith 61 62 63 Go Dream no More Mies Vining I shall Depart Miss Johnson Ever with Thee Miss Walker . . . , Death of the Taupcr Child Mrs. Leprohon. . . Dreams of the Dead Procter Song of Confidence H. A. Wilkinb. . ., Infinite McLachlan Unutterable Thoughts John Readk The Coming Year J. F. McDonnell , Tho Second Advent .Miss Walker . . . , Voices of tho Past E. H. Dewart At Evening Time it shall be Light Miss Uaight The fine Old Woods Sangster Our Native Land Miss Johnson . Jacques Cartier McGke The Dying Summer Miss Walker , A Canadian Summer's Night Chapman , Tiger Square GfiORaB, Mabtin . 64 66 56 68 60 63 66 67 69 71 72 76 78 80 88 84 86 90 !▼ CONTENTS. FAOB. Tho Chaudi6re Falls Evan McColl 91 Britennia McLaohlam 92 Brook Sanqstkr 93 In Memoriam of October 25, 1854 John Ukaob 95 The Highland Kmigraiit'8 last FarowoU .....Evan McUoll 97 HoiTve-sick Stanzas MoGek 98 Our own Broad Lake Thomas McQueen 99 Canada Miss Vinino 101 Song for Canada Sanoster 106 The Forest Chapman 108 Tho Kapid Sanostkr 110 Fall AscHKR Ill Tho Maplo Rev. H. F. Darnell... 112 Canada's Welcome Miaa Johnson 114 Indian Summer Mrs. Moodik 116 The Lake of the Thousand Isles Evan MoColl 118 The Thousand Islands. . , Sanostkr 119 Approach to Quebec Ki ruy 120 Tho Plains of Abraham Sanoster 122 Alma Miss Walker 124 The Two-fold Victory Sanuster 126 The Soldier of Auvergno 11. A. Wilkins 126 Thunderstorm in August Kirby 128 Frost on tlie Window-pane Mrs. Faulkner 130 Snow Miss IIaicjht 132 • Sunset Scene Miss Vininq 134 Autumn Ja.mes McCarroll 135 In the Woods Uev. John May 136 Tho Falls of Niagara E. H. Dewart 137 Sunset J. F. McDonnell 140 May McLachlan 141 November J. U. IIamsay 143 The Fisherman's Light Mrs. Moodib 145 To an Owl JohnMassie 146 Whip-poor-Will McLachlan 148 Haunts of a Demon • Charles Hea VTSsaB. . 148 Evening Scene on the Banks of the Detroit Kiver Sangster 150 The Watcher Miss Johnson 158 The Slcigh-Bell J. F. McDonnell 155 Oh can you Leave your Native Land Mrs. Moodie 158 Sonnet— Winter Night IIeavyseqk 157 Winter in Canada Mrs. Leprohon 158 Lake Erie W.W.Smith 160 St George's Flag Mrs. Faulknkb 161 Ontario J. G. Hodoinb 162 I've Wandered ia the Sunny South J. F. MoDohnbll 164 CONTENTS. ▼ FAoa The Emblems of our Homes R. 8. Patterson 166 How they Died at Thansi Misa Murray 167 Evening Miss Johnson 170 The Canadian Herd- Boy Mrs. Moodik 172 The Old Sugar Camp Miss Johnson 178 The Voyagcur's Song J. F. McDonnell 174 Address to the llivor Garnoclc Thomas McQueen 176 pi^rdlBJjtoiiiS gteiS. Heroes McLachlan 180 The Night Cometh Miss Walker 182 Colin Sang&ter 188 Unselfish Love Rev. J. A. Allen 186 A Voice for the Times Miss Haioht 186 The Student Chapman 188 The Apple Woman Georoe Martin 190 Memory iJells Miss Vininq 193 Oh for an Hour of Childhood S. P. Ford 1P5 Wliere'nr we may Wander McLachlan 197 Good Night Miss Johnson 199 Dreams Mrs. Faulkner 200 Weaving Ascher 208 Bind the Rose W. W. Smith 204 Toujours Fiddle R. Sweeny 206 Passage of the Bercsina John Breakenridoe. . 207 After Defeat Charles Hea vysege. . 209 Little Flora Harriett A. Wilkins. 210 A Fragment J. R. Ramsay 2l2 Ideal Land D. J. Wallace 213 Our Little Boy E. H. Dewart 215 " Omemee"— The Dove R. S.Paterson 217 Given and Taken Mrs. Leprohon 220 Conscious Madness Heavyseqe 222 Siscra John Reade 224 Twilight J. F. McDonnell 226 Weary J. H. Kino 226 The Shipwreck S. P. Ford 228 Rosa John Reade.. 230 Lay her down Silently Rev. H. F. Darnell. . . 231 The Light in the Window Pane Sanoster 232 Invocation W. F. Hawley 234 Glimpses of Highland Superstitions D. McIntosh 235 The Grey Linnet J. McCarroll 237 Words John Reade 238 vx CONTENTS. PAOB Why do you Envy Mo? W. W. Smith 289 To my Son W. W. Smith 240 Miiiniobol Mish Vininu 241 Impromptu on a Beautiful Butterfly T. McCauuoli^ 242 Dawn ^...j. McCauroll 243 Tanpookaa Sanohtku 248 Garibaldi McLachlan 247 Drink AscirKU 248 Tlio I'rodij^al'H Soliloquy S. P. FoiiD 260 Childhood TnocTKn 252 The Little Shoos Sancjstkr 264 The Child of l'romino Evan MctioLL 266 The Song of a (ilorified Spirit Gkoikjk Mautix 266 A Northern Uunc Charles Sanoster 268 Summer Evening Augusta Baldwin 259 Call mo by my Christian Name W. 1*. Lett 260 Oh the Days when 1 was Young J. \V. D. Moodib 262 Sing me the Songs I Love John Reade 266 My Cousin D. J. Wallace 266 Angels of the Blind J. McCaruoll 268 Little Willie S. P. Ford 269 Farewell Mrs. Faulksner 270 Hope in Sorrow Uev. T. Cleworth 271 The Beech-Nut Gatherer I'amelia S. Vimno 272 The Life-Forge Jennie E. IIaioht 274 Sea-Shoro Musings Mrs. Leprohon 276 The Englishman's Farewell John Scoble 277 The Night- Wind John F. M'Donnell. . . 279 Tne Pearl James M'Carroll 280 The Earth's Complaint Pamelia S. Vinino. ... 281 To my Sister Samuel Payne Fcrd. . 285 Saul struggling with Malzah C. Heavyseue 287 Across the Uiver Mus. II aney 287 Despondency Charles Sanoster. ... 289 The Falling Snow Isidore G. Ascher... . 290 The Bed Man— Sc unet Sanuster 291 On the Kiver E. H. Dewart 292 To a Dandelion Miss Johnson 294 Lullaby Miss Baldwin 298 Sing on, sad Bird James McIntosh 296 Twilight and its Companions D. J. Wallace 297 Old Friends George JIartin 299 Last Words of Saul Charles Heavyskgb. . 800 Broken Reeds Mrs. Faulkner 301 To my Lyre R- Sweeny 303 Best Miss Haight 808 PREFACE. My object in compiling this volume has been to rescue from oblivion some of the floating pieces of Canadian authorship worthy of preservation in a more permanent form ; and to direct the attention of my fellow-countrymen to the claims of Canadian poetry. The fact that I entered on an untrodden path, without any way-marks to guide me, necessarily caused me a vast amount of labor, and an extensive correspondence ; as, in many instances, both poets and poetry had to be dis- covered by special research. This will, I hope, be duly con- sidered by readers in judging of the work, should it be found less perfect than they had anticipated. As I do not wish to be judged by a wrong standard, I must remind my readers that this is not '• a work on the Poets and Poetry of Canada." Such a work may be highly desirable and necessary ; and there is valuable material, in the poetic eflfusions of the past fifty years, with which to enrich such a work. But this collection makez nr» pretension to such a character : it is simply " Selections from Cana- dian Poets." With the hope of enhancing the interest and usefulness of the work, I have subjoined occasional brief notes ; but the plan and scope of the work precluded any lengthy biographical sketches. It is easy for persons who Till PREFACE. have neither literary nor financial responsibility, to suggest changes in the plan of such a work. But the same persons might, in a different position, fail to act on their own sugges- tions. To those who may feel disappointed, because selec- tions are not made from their poetry, I have no apology to oflfer. An immense quantity of verso, much of it of high merit, has passed under my notice. Financial reasons com- pelled me to limit the size of the volume. I could not put in everything that I approved of. I have made a selection, according to the best of my judgment, without partiality, or sectional feeling of any kind. If any are dissatisfied with me, I am sorry ; but, conscious of the integrity of my mo- tives, I have nothing to regret. Nearly all the pieces in this volume are published by special permission of the authors; and many of them have never been published befoie. My warmest thanks are due to the authors for the courtesy and hberality with which, without exception, they placed their poems at my disposal ; and to editors of newspapers througliC/ut the country for their friendly notice of my project. They are also due to the subscribers — many of whom I recognize as personal friends — for . their confidence and patronage, by which I have been encouraged to place the work before the public. Should it secure their approbation, and be instrumental in awakening a more extensive interest in the Poets and Poetry of our beloved country, my humble labors will be amply rewarded. St. Johns, Canada East, Jan., 1864. INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. Only the illiterate and unreflecting adopt the sentiment, that, becauise more books have been already protluced than can possibly be road in the compass of the longest life, to increase the number of books or the quantity of literature, is undesirable and unnecessary. The literature of the world is the foot-prints of human progress ; and unless all progress should cease, and mental paralysis arrest all human activity, these way-marks shall continue to be erected along the pathway of the vanishing years. Whatever is discovered as new in the records of creation, in the capacities and relations of things, in the history of the mind's operations, or in the forms of thought and imagery by which in its higher moods soul speaks to soul, will always demand some suitable embodiment in literature. Equally shallow and reprehensible is the idea, very widely enter- tained, that, because we can procure euflicient quantities of mental aliment from other lands, it is superfluous to make any attempt to build up a literature of our own. A national literature is an essential element in the formation of national character. It is not merely the record of a country's mental progress : it is the expression of its intellectual life, the bond of national unity, and the guide of national energy. It may be fairly questioned, whether the whole range of history presents the spectacle of a people firmly united politically, without the subtle but powerful cement of a patriotic literature. On the other hand, it is easy to show, that, in the older countries of the world, the names of distinguished poets, enshrined in the national heart, are the watchwords of national union ; and it has become a part of the patriotism of the people to honor and' love their memory. To mention the names of Shakspere and Burns, alone justifies this X INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. assertion. It is to be regretted that the tendency to sectionahsm and disintegration, which is the poHtical weakness of Canada, meets no counterpoise in the literature of the country. Our French fellow- countrymen are much more firmly united than the English colonists ; though their literature is more French than Canadian, and their bond of union is more religious than literary or political. Beside.^, if the conditions of human existence and progress are changed, by the lapse of time, the advances of physical and mental science, ditlerence of social and political institutions, and geographical situation, it would be absurd to suppose that such changes demanded no corresponding modifications in the teachings of literature. There is probably no country in the world, making equal preten- sions to intelligence and progress, where the claims of native litera- ture are so little felt, and where every effort in poetry has been met with so much coldness and indifference, as in Canada. And what is more to be deprecated than neglect of our most meritorious authors, is the almost universal absence of interest and faith in all indigenous literary productions, and the undisturbed satisfaction with a state of things, that, rightly viewed, should be regarded as a national reproach. The common method of accounting for this by the fact tliat almost the whole community is engaged in the pursuit of the necessaries and comforts of life, and that comparatively few possess wealth and leisure, to enable them to give much time or thought to the study of poetry and kindred subjects, is by no means satisfactory. This state of things is doubtless unfavorable to the growth of poetry ; but there are other causes less palpable, which exert a more subtle and power- ful antagoniym. Nothing so seriously militates against the growth and extension of our poetic literature, as the low and false conceptions whicli exten- sively prevail respecting the nature and influence of poetry itself. Many regard it as a tissue of misleading fancies, appealing chiefly to superstitious credulity, a silly and trifling thing, the product of the imagination when loosed from the control and direction of reason. These misconceptions may have arisen from a natural incapacity for appreciating the truths which find their highest embodiment in poetry, INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XI from familiarity with low styles, or from the frequency with which verse has been degraded to be the vehicle of low and debasing thought. But whatever be their origin, they are false and misleading. They ignore the essential unity of the mind.. Poetry is not the pro- duct of any one faculty of the mind : it is the offspring of the whole mind, in the full exercise of all its faculties, and in its highest moods of sympathy, with the truths of the worlds of mind and matter. It is not some artificial distortion of thought and language by a capri- cious fancy : it has its foundation in the mental constitution which our Creator has given us. As fragrance to the sense of smell, music to the ear, or beauty to the eye, so is poetry to the sensibilities of the heart. It ministers to a want of our intellectual nature. This is the secret of its power, and the pledge of its perpetuity. An able Ameri- can writer observes with great truth and beauty : " It was spontaneous in its growth, and native in its origin. It arose from those immutable principles of harmony, established originally by Him who strung tliat invisible harp in the nature of man, and tuned accordant the mightier instruments of the universe around him. It is not therefore depen- dent on the mutations of human caprice and fashion ; nor is it super- seded by tlie discoveries and improvements in society." Poetry is the medium by which the emotions of beauty, joy, admiration, reverence, harmony, or tenderness kindled in the poet-soul, in communion with Nature and God, is conveved to the souls of others. As there are rhymesters who have no true poetic feeling, so there are many who are not gifted with the power of giving expression to the emotions which throb for utterance at the heart. The influence of beauty or grandeur, moral and physical, " they feel, but cannot speak." To this feeling, which exists in a stronger or weaker degree in all minds, Poetry appeals. Wliere 'this tongueless poetry of the heart has no existence, or exists in a very feeble degree, the conditions for appre- ciating poetic excellence are wanting. As well might the blind judge of beauty, or the deaf of music, as such to judge of poetry. Let no one therefore speak of their disregard for poetry as if it indicated a superiority to ordinary weakness : it is an imperfection, that may be endured as a misfortune, but should never be Haunted as a virtue. 4 XU INTRODUCTORY ESSAT. Persons of this class often assume, that because poetry has not a ^ low tangible utility, capable of being comprehended by sordid minds, it is vain and useless. But there are many things in nature to | which God has given the power of increasing human happiness and ■'^ well-being, though they do not impart what may be called tangible v: benefits or gross enjoyment. Of this character is the pleasure § received from the beauty and fragrance of a flower-garden ; the mur- ^ mur and sparkle of a pebbly stream | a mountain-lake sleeping among the hills; a tranquil evening, when the sunset-flush of departing day gilds every object with golden lustre; or the soul-soothing strains of '^ melodious music. It is not without design that God has spread ;j these sources of pleasure so thickly around us. To persons of sensi- bility, they yield a deep and speechless joy, vastly purer and more | elevating than any form of sordid or sensual gratification. Now, $ poetry may be regarded as occupying in the world of mind, a place I and a purpose analogous to scenes of beauty or grandeur *in the | material world. The useful and the beautiful are both from God. ^ Each has its appropriate sphere. They are not antagonistic : the f one is the complement of the other. And although poetry may not be | the vehicle of hard jagged facts, it may convey truths of greater depth | and power than are embodied in granite syllogisms or definitions. The greatest truths are not those that are most readily and flippantly | expressed in words. In the language of an eminent English divine, I "what is gained in clearness is lost in breadth." When we fancy we | have compressed a truth into some very clear and definite form of '| words, some of its deeper n)eanings have escaped : like pressed grapes, ,f the substance may be there, but the wine is gone. |^ If the indefiniteness of poetic language and thought be urged as an >l objection, it is easy to show that this indefiniteness belongs essentially to :t the subjects with which it converses. Beauty, truth, the human soul, the works of God, the mystery of life, — are not themes whose significance can be easily compressed into rigid and superficial forms of speech. Let it not therefore be supposed, that because poetry is not fruitful in direct and palpable results, that its influence is small or its mission unimportant. It soothes human sorrow. It ministers to human J. INTRODTTCTORT ESSAY. XUl happiness. It fires the soul with noble and holy purpose. It expands and quickens. It refines the taste. It opens to us the treasures of the universe, and brings us into closer sympathy with all that is beautiful, and grand, and true. It sheds a new charm around com- mon objects ; because it unveils their spiritual relations, and higher and deeper typical meanings. And it educates the mind to a quicker perception of the harmony, grandeur, and truth disclosed in the works of the Creator. Tlie history of poetry is a sufliicien't rebuke to those who speak slightingly of its influence. We know of no period in the world's history where it was not a power either for g-^od or evil. It has exerted a mighty influence on some of the leading minds of every age; to say nothing of the "hymns of faith and hope," that have, in every period and sphere in the history of the church, proved, in life and in death, a source of strength and consolation to its mem. bers. If, in many instances, this sacred gift has been linked with folly, scepticism, and licentiousness, this did not arise from any native tendency of poetry itself. In such instances. Poetry is false to her mission; and gifted men are wicked in spite of their gifts. But this is not her native sphere. It is the beloved son, far from his true home, feeding swine. And even in those melancholy cases where poetic gifts are perverted and degraded, there are seen, like grains of gold amid the dross, outbursts of indignation against wrong, gleams of admiration for virtue, and gushes of tender sympathy for human suffering, that seem like the protest of Poesie, in her thraldom, against a forced and unnatural divorcement from beauty, purity, and truth. These views respecting the dignity of poetry will enable us to take higher and truer views of the work and mission of him to whom God has given this " vision and faculty divine." How low and unworthy are the popular conceptions of the Poet's work and character 1 The many have thought of him as a mere rhymer of idle and foolish fancies, deserving censure because not better employed. Of course those who cherished false and degrading views of poetry, had equally false and unworthy views of the character of a Poet. But the Poet's work is a lofty and sacred work. It is not merely to wreath garlands around the brow of Beauty, to cover Vice with graceful drapery, or to X,1V INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. sing the praise of Bacchus and Venus in Anacreontic ditties : but to refine and elevate the spiritual in our nature ; to sing of earth's woes and suft'ering.^, and pour the balm of a tender sympatiiy into sorrow- stricken hearts ; to unveil, in its true deformity, the selfish cruelty of man to his fellow-man ; and to portray the loveliness of unselfish benevolence, piety, and tr.ith. The true Poet does for us what the eagle is said to do for her young, bears us aloft, and teaches us to fly. On the wings of his soaring spirit, we are borne into higher and more ethereal regions of thought, than our own unaided pinions could attain ; where the silent forms of inanimate Nature awake to life, and pour their melodious eloquence upon the soul. He stands as a priest at Nature's high altars to expound her symbolic language, to unveil her hidden beauty, to dij^pense her sacred lessons, and to lead the mind up from the tokens of his presence on earth to the Great Father of all in heaven. Our colonial position, whatever may be its political advantages, is not favorable to the growth of an indigenous literature. Not only are our mental wants supplied by the brain of the Mother Country, under circumstances that utterly preclude competition ; but the majority of persons of taste and education in Canada are emigrants from the Old Country, whose tenderest affections cling around the land they have left. The memory of the associations of youth, and of the honored names that have won distinction in every department of human activity, throws a charm around everything that comes from their native land, to which the productions of our young and unro- mantic country can put forth no claim. When the poets of other countries sing of the birds and flowers, the mountains and streams, of those lands, whose history is starred with deathless names, and rich with the mellow and hazy light of romance, every reference to those immortal types of beauty or gran- deur commands sympathy and admiration. But let any Canadian bard presume to think that the wild-fiowers which formed the gar- lands of his sunny childhood, the sweet song-birds that sang him to sleep in infancy, or the magnificent lakes, forests, and rivers of hifl native land, are as worthy of being eashriued in lyric numbers,.. and INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XT capable of awaking memories of days as bright, associations as tender, and scenery as beautiful, as ever was sung by hoary harper of the olden time, and he is more likely to secure contempt than sympathy or admiration. Things that are hoary with age, and dim in their dis- tance, from us, are more likely to win veneration and approval, while whatever is near and familiar loses in interest and attraction. There is a large class of persons who could scarcely conceive it possible that a Canadian lyric might have as deep and true feeling as those they have most admired ; or that a Canadian Poet might be as highly gifted as some of the favourite names who are crowned with the wreaths of unfading fame. And yet such things are not altogether inconceivable. But if a Milton or a Shakspere, was to arise among us, it is far from certain that his merit would be recognized. The mass of readers find it easier and safer to re-echo the approbation of others, — to praise those whom all praise, — than to form an intelligent and independent judgment of their own. Other antagonistic influences have not been wanting. Religious intolerance is always unjust to talent that does not belong to its party, and pronounce its watchwords. There are many who take great credit for liberality, so blinded by bigotry, that with them it would be enough to condemn the most meritorious work, that it sprung from any quarter, from wliich it was not in accordance with their canonized prejudices to believe anything good could come. The indiscriminate praise, by the press, of some writers, in which, whatever their merit, the dross was largely mixed with the pure ore, has tended to mislead the public, and to give the authors false notions of their talents and achievements. Booksellers, too, because they make surer sales and large profits on British and American works, which have already obtained popularity, seldom take the trouble to judge of a Canadian book on its merits, or use their influence to promote its sale. The chances are, that, whatever its merit, the author will be left to send his work around to the bookstores at his own expense, and leave it to be sold at his own risk, paying a liberal percentage fur any copies that may be sold. In pronouncing judgment ou the character of our native poetry, th« XVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. most partial critic must confess that it is extensively marked by crudity and imperfection. This is to some extent accounted for by the want of educational advantages incident to a new country. Many writers of undoubted genius have been deficient in that thorough literary culture essential to high artistic excellence. But in many instances this want of finish may be traced to want of application, resulting from a low estimate of poetry as an art. The adage, that "whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well," has a special application here. There is no such dearth of poetry, as to warrant every unfledged bantling being thrust upon the public as a bird of Paradise. It would be well, if all who have contracted the habit of turning commonplace puerilities into rhyme " for their own amuse- ment," would sacredly devote them to that purpose. Poesie, like Truth, will unveil her beauty and dispense her honors, only to those who love her with deep and reverential affection. Because no rules nor study can make a man a poet without genius, it does not follow that the most gifted may not be profited by a study of those principlea that are illustrated m ; ae works of the great masters of lyric harmony. Every true conception of p;)etrv must regard it both as a sentiment and an art. The essence of poetry lies in the character of the thought. No dexterity of art can galvanize into poetry, low, puerile thought, destitute of pathos, beauty, and grandeur. But it is an error to infer from this that the character of the thought is everything, and the form in which it is expressed of little consequence. The ditference between prose and poetry consists more in the form than in the essential nature of the thought. Every reader knows that noble and good sentiments may be po tamely expressed, as to produce aversion rather than pleasure. Much "religious poetry" and "hymns" painfully illustrate this. Themes which require the most masterly genius, are most frequently travestied by feeble incompetence. The careful selection of unhackneyed, elegant, and expressive wjrds, and their arrangement in such forjns as will produce musical harmony, are elements of success with which no genius can dispense. If, as we have seen, the object of poetry is to convey to others the emotions and conceptions which thrill the poet's own soul; in his ? INTEODUCTORY £SSAT. Jtyjj highest mjenUl moods, it follows ihat thie perfection of the ipe^iuiq Ui which these thoughts are committed, is a matter of essential impor- tance. Poetry bears a close analogy to music, and appeals to the sense of harmony, as well as to the understanding. No really gopid poetry is deficient in metrical harmony. Hence we see the folly pf ^he objection, sometimes urged against poetry, "that generally on being translated into prose it does not seem to contain much." Th^e is assuming that the object of poetry is to convey knowledge of posi- tive facts, and consequently judging it by a wrong standard. As wiell might we deny the beauty of a sparkling dew-drop, because on exami- nation it is found to consist of common water ; or the merit of ^ beautiful painting, because the colors to which it owes its fine e^T*^ might be so mixed or arranged as to possess no charm or beauty. To those who are best acquainted with the poetry of Canada, thfe wcmder is, not that so little has been achieved, but that so much tni^ poetry has been written, in spite of such unpropitious circumstanCfBi. For poetic fire, like its earthly type, requires vent in order to burja brightly. Some of our most gifted poets, after ineffectual efforts jip gun the attention and approval of the public, have despairingly turned to more hopeful, though less congenial labors, £eeling that th^ choicest strains fell on listless ears, and unsympathetic hearts. Among those who have most courageously appealed to the reading public, and most largely enriched the poetic literature of Canada, thfi first place is due to Charles Sanosteb. The richness and extent ,of his contributions, the originality and descriptive power he displayi^ the yariety of Canadian themes on which he has written with tbric^ and elegance, his passionate sympathy with the beautiful in N^ur/e, ai\d the chivalrous and manly patriotism which finds an utterance i^ his poen>s, fully vindicate his claim to a higher place in the regard of his countrymen, than he has yet obtained. Alexai^der McLachla;n has also evinced that he possesses in a high degree the gift of soqig. In the opinion of many, he is the sweetest and most intensely h\im4M'^ of all our Caoadian bards. As Sangster and McLachlfin ^re qui^ unlike, jfuid c^h possesses a strongly marked individuality p^ his own, B ,'• I xviii INTRODUCTORY E88AT. any comparison belween them is inappropriate, and might be unfair to both. In elaborate elegance and wealth of descriptive, power, in the success with which he has treated Canadian themes, and in some- thing of Miltonic stateliness and originality of style, Sangster has certainly no equal in this country. But in strong human sympathy, in subtle appreciation of character, in deep natural pathos, and in those gushes of noble and manly feeling which awaken the responsive echoes of every true heart, McLachlan is equally peerless. That they should both be so little known to the reading public of Canada, is a matter of sincere regret. Taking into consideration the subtle delicacy of thought and elevation of style which distinguishes much of his poetry, it is not so difficult to understand why Sangstw should be comparatively unappreciated by the great mass of readers ; but that the sentiments of sympathy with humanity in all conditions, and the protests against every form of injustice and pretension, so simply and earnestly expressed in McLachlan' s poetry, should secure so few ad- mirers, is a fact that, in spite of all possible explanations, is by no means creditable to the taste or intelligence of Canada. Enough however has already been achieved, to be an earnest of better things for the future. The philosophic subtlety and creative imagination of Heavysege, — the profound sensibility and exquisite musical harmony of Miss Vining, — the lofty aspirations and ringing energy of Miss Haight, — the delicate perception of beauty which breathes forth in the lyrics of Aschbr, — the ardent human sympathy and tenderness of Mks. Leprohon, — the calm beauty and attractive grace of Prof. Chapman, — the simple and graphic truthfulness of Mrs. Moodie,— -the intense communion with Nature in her moods of quiet loveliness, which soothes and charms, in the musical strains of J. F. McDonnell, — the simple melodies of Miss Johnson, full of earnestness and deep religious feeling, — and many other names worthy of honorable men- tion, give a pledge to futurity that it will not always be Winter with Canadian poetry. Should the soft Spring breath of kindly ap- preciation warm the chilly atmosphere, flowers of greater luxuriance and beauty would soon blossom forth, to beautify and enrich our literaturs. INTRODUOTOBT ESSAT. lb If these anticipations are not realized, it is not because there is anything in the country itself uncongenial to poetry. If we are de- prived of many of the advantages of older countries, we have ample compensation in more unshackled freedom of thought, and broader spheres of action. Though poor in historic interest, our psist is not altogether devoid of events capable of poetic treatment. But if Memory cannot draw rich materials for poetry from treasures conse- crated to fame, Hope unfolds the loftier inspiration of a future bright with promise. If we cannot point to a past rich with historic names, we have the inspiring spectacle of a great country, in her youthful might, girding herself for a race for an honorable place among the nations of the world. In our grand and gloomy forests — in our brilliant skies and varied seasons — in our magniticent lakes and rivers — in our hoary mountains and fruitful valleys, external Nature unveils her most majestic forms to exalt and inspire the truly poetic soul ; while human nature — especially human nature in its relation to the spiritual and divine — still presents an exhaustless mine of richest ore, worthy of the most exalted genius, and of the deepest humao and spiritual knowledge. '<< 1 . I tl /■ ) k • III .s. SELECTIONS FROM CANADIAN POETS. DAWN. r. *. PBoovim. Break o'er the sea t Break on the night I Ever blessed and holy light ; Shed bnt Into the ears of the dull hard rock ; Whisper it low to the far-oflF strand Where the ripplets lazily laugh on the sand, Till earth shall echo from flower to tree. Break o'er the sea ! Break o'er the sea ! type of the Everlasting Day I Gome from the East land far away; The land whence once came a holy voice Bidding all mourning hearts rejoice ; Gome and recall its echoes now, Flash on the darkened and sullen brow, Bid all doubts and all sorrows flee. Break o'er the sea ! Break o'er the sea I il CANADIAN POETS. 28 sun, rise up from thy watery bed I Rise till the shades of night have fled ! > , Sweep on, on thy mission, and linger not, With rays of love, on each sacred spot Where He, the Pure One, for sinners bled, Where earth once covered her Maker's head — He that made thee is calling to thee, ' Break o'er the sea I break o'er the sea f THE STARS. OBARLK8 BANOSTKB. From Hesperus. The Stars are heaven's ministers ; Right royally they teach God's glory and omnipotence, In wondrous lowly speech. All eloquent with music, as The tremblings of a lyre. To him that hath an ear to hear They speak in words of fire. Not to learned sag^ only Their whisperings come down ; The monarch is not glorified Because he wears a crown. The humblest soldier in the camp Can win the smile of Mars, And 'tis the lowliest spirits hold Communion with the stars. 34 Thoughts too refined for utterance, Etherial as the air, Crowd through the brain'p dim labyrinths, And leate their impress there ; As far along the gleaming void Man's searching glances roll, Wonder usurps the throne of speelch, But vivifiea the soul. heaven-cradled mysteries, What sacred paths ye've trod — Bright, jewelled scintillations from The chariot-wheels of God ! When in the spirit He rode forth, With vast creative aim, These were His footprints left behind, To magnify His name t GOD; Ai&Z. M'LAOHLAk. Hail, Thou great mysterious being t Thou the unseen yet all-seeing, To Thee we call. How can a mortal sing thy praise, Or speak of all thy wondrous ways, God over all ! CANADIAN POETS. ||| God of the great old solemn wdods, God of the desett solitudes, ' And trackless sea ; God of the crowded city vast, God of the present and the past, Can man know Thee ? God of the blue vault overhead, Of the green earth on which we tread, Of time and space. God of the worlds which time conceals, God of the worlds which death reveals. To all our race. God of the glorioua realms of thought. From which some simple hearts have caught [ A ray divine : And the songs which rouse the nations. And the terrible orations, Lord God are thine. And all the forms of beauty rare. Which toiling genius moulds with care,- Yea the sublime, The sculptured forms of joy and woe. By Thee were fashioned long ago. In that far clime. Far above earth and space and time. Thou dwellest in thy heights sublime. 26 SELECTIONS FROM Beneath thy feet The rolling worlds, the heavens, are spread Glory infinite round Thee shed Where angels meet. From out thy wrath the earthquakes leap, And shake the world's foundations deep, Till Nature groans. In agony the mountains call, And ocean bellows throughout all Her frightened zones. But where thy smile its glory sheds. The lilies lift their lovely heads. And the primrose rare ; And the daisy, deck'd with pearls, Kicher than the proudest earls On their mantles wear. •i>S These thy preachers of the wild-wood Keep they not the heart of childhood Fresh within us still ? Spite of all our life's sad story. There are gleams of Thee and glory In the daffodil. And old Nature's heart rejoices. And the rivers lift their voices. And the sounding sea ; And the mountains old and hoary, With their diadems of glory, Shout, Lord, to thee. CANADIAN POETS. But though Thou art high and holy, Thou dost love the poor and lowly, With a love divine. Love infinite, love supernal. Love undying, love eternal, Lord God are thine I 27 SHORT DAYS.* IBIDORB O. ABOHBR. Over the pale crust of the ermine snow The wind is roaming, chilled with winter's breath, And the dim waning days seem touched with woe For autumn's lingering death. They gather varied hours in their train, And lay them in the stillness of the past. And o'er the fitful visions of the brain Their broken shadows cast. The evenings lengthen as the days subside, Deepening and broadening to the peaceful night, Like tender shadows, tempering as they hide The noonday's garish light. * This beautiful lyric, as well as the other pieces by the same author In this volume, is from "VoiOBBFROM tbbHkarth," published in 1863, by Isidore G.Abcheb, a young Jewish lawyer, of Monlreal, Though not without occasional defects, which seem more the result of <)[forelessness than of inability to do better, this yolnme reveals a subtle and delicate imagination, earnest and tender aspirations after the beautifbl and the true, and, in several pieces, a rich musical harmony, which is fhll of promise of higher achievement in future, should Mr. Ascher continue to work the vein he has so auspiciously opened. r«Y^i\m) //^•V • ?'ve^n<come to see their love's sweet fruit appear Ever, or in the still of summer noons, Or when the sun is smiling his adieu. Or when the night-harp breathes its solemn tunes, Or when the birds begin their mates to woo, Ever, their hallowed presence lingers near, Unseen but by my spirit's sleepless eye. And gentle words fall on my soul's quick ear. Loving and low as mother's luUaby : I am not sad. CANADIAN POETS. II. 36 I am not sad ; though sorrows not a few Have left their darksome trace upon my brow, Still hopeful, I can life's rough way pursue, And 'neath theJoad of duty meekly bow. For sorrows are but ministers of God, Sent to remind us of the home we seek ; The path of sorrow He before us trod. Who taught the blind to see, the dumb to speak. When storm-clouds gather o'er the placid sky, The dull, foreboding drapery of gloom, God's bow of beauty tells the anxious eye, Man shall not perish by a watery doom. So through the eye of faith afar I read Bright promises amid the clouds of woe. When God has promised, should I be afraid ? Should I be sad and weak and doubtful ? No ; I am not sad. III. I am not sad ; " man was not made to mourn," To drown in dreary wretchedness his years. Though hate and wrong, and penury and scorn Oft make this world indeed a " vale of tears." Still Eden-flowers in earthly gardens grow, Still man does deeds of mercy and of love, And the dread curse that 's written on his brow Is half-effaced by blessings from above. Have I to toil ? God sends me cheerful light ; Have I to suffer ? He can make me brave ; Am I sore tempted ? He can keep me right ; Am I in danger ? He can surely save ; 3(i SELECTIONS FROM Am I a wanderer ? He has sent His Son, To bring nie weary, heavy-laden, home. To worship there with angels round the throne, And never from His presence more to roam : I am not satl. OLD HANNAH. ALKXANDEU M'LACirLAIT. 'Tis Sabbath morn, and a holy balm Drops down on the heart like dew, And the sunbeams gleam, Like a blessed dream, Afkr on the mountains blue. Old Harinah 's by her cottage door In her faded widow's cap ; She is sitting alone On the old grey stone. With the Bible in her lap. An oak is hanging o'er her head. And the burn is wimpling by, The primroses peep Trom their sylvan keep. And the lark is in the sky. Beneath that shade her children played ; But they 're all away with death I And dhe sits alone On the old grey stone. To hear what the Spirit saith. CANADIAN POETB. Her years are o'er three score and ten, And her eyes are waxing dim, But the page is bright With a living light. And her heart leaps up to Him Who pours the mystic harmony Which the soul can only hear ; She is not alone On the old grey stone, Though no earthly friend is near. There 's no one left to love her now ; But the eye that never sleeps Looks on her in love From the heavens above. And with quiet joy she weeps. She feels the balm of bliss is poured In her worn heart's deepest rut ; And the widow lone On the old grey stone. Has a peace the world knows not. n DEATH OF CAPTAIN VICAKJS. HARRIETT A. WILKINS. There were sound of armies gathering Unto the cannon's roll ; There were sounds of martial melody Before Sebastopol. !ii III ! 38 SELECTIONS FROM Courage was mantling in the breast, And fire in many an eye, As Britain's gallant hosts moved on To conquer or to die. There were noble veterans in that traio Who boasted many a scar ; There was one who led his gallant band, Young in those scenes of war ; Young, but how loved ! — ah, many an eye That saw him arming there Was raised to bless him, as his voice Broke through the misty air, " This way, 97th ! " By the flags that o'er us wave. All that makes the brave heart brave ; By the ties of home's sweet band, Sheltered on our native land ; By the ashes of our sires — By the light of Britain's fires — This way, J^tth 1 " By the burning vows that rest Deep within the patriot's breast ; By the bayonets that gleam In the young moon's flickering beam ; Though we stand on danger's marge, God will help us — up and charge I This way, 97th I " He will arm us for this fight, On this strange, this fearful night. CANADIAN POETS. 39 Ere we route the treach'rous foe Some of us may slumber low ; See that each is ready — then, Fight and die like Christian men. " This way, 97th ! " Forward ! victory is ours, Though we fall beneath yon towers ; England's glory is our crest — England's colors wrap our breast Let the trenches witness bear That the dauntless brave fell there ; This way, 97th 1" Fierce was the battle— wild the strife— The ground beneath them rang ; Iledan and Malakoff that night Echoed the musket's clang ; Two thousand of the treach'rous host Advanced 'neath that dark sky ; Two hundred of Victoria's men Had met them at the cry, " This way, 97th !" They fought and conquered, but the voice That led them bravely on. The tone that cheered their lion-hearts For evermore was gone. Yet as the life-blood flowed apace, He saw his victory won. And once more shouted as he fell " Brethren, the foemen run ! This way, 97th!" 40 SELECTIONS FROM He died as many have gone down, Who bear the warrior's crest, With a treasured name upon his lips, And a locket on his breast. Oh, would ye learn how brave men fight ; Go where the bravest lie ( And would ye learn how fond hearts love, And how true Christians die — " This way, 97th !" Ye who beside him fought and won. Still may ye hear the sound That from the watch, the camp, the war. Hath gone to holier ground ; The voice that failed on Russia's plain Awoke to sweeter song. And still he whispers by your side, While beckoning on your throng, " This way, 97th !" Oh, ye throughout our land, who gird The sword upon your side. And stand prepared in danger's hour To rush in battle's tide. Scorn not to seek the light he sought — Scorn not the path he trod, Through woes to victory on earth, Then glory with his God. CANADIAN POETS. 41 UNDER THE SNOW* FAUBLIA e. VllflNO^. Over the mountains, under the snow Lieth a valley cold and low, 'Neath a white immovable pall, Desolate, dreary, soulless all, And soundless, save when the wintry blast Sweeps with funeral music past. Yet was that valley not always so, For I trod its summer-paths long ago. And I gathered flowers of fairest dyes Where now the snow-drift heaviest lies, And I drank from rills that with murmurous song Wandered in golden light along Through bowers, whose ever-fragrant air Was heavy with perfume of flowrets fair — * There is no Canadian poet whose poetry we have read, and re-read, with greater interest and delight than Miss Vining's. This piece is no ordinary production. It contains beautiful imagery ; a sound and elevated philosophy of s .ing ; great depth and tenderness of feeling ; and a "ioh exquisite rhythmic musi.;, that lingers in "the chambers of the brain," like the memory of a speechless joy. The snow, that silently and sadly buries all the glory of summer beneath its icy shroud, is here taken, as the suggestive type of that wintry blight that sooner or later falls on every hfe, witheringits brightest blossoms in hopeless decay. Shallow and thought- less hearts, bhuded by the glare of frothy pleasures and sordid pursuits, may see no special beauty in such poetry ; but readers of more delicate sensibility, whoso bygone years are shaded by the memory of deep sorrow, will feel the influence of its uncommon beauty, tenderness, and truth. Miss Vinino is a teacher in the Canadian Institute at Woodstock. We understand that she intends shortly pub- lishing a volume of original poetry. We bespeak for it a favorable reception from the Canadian public. I! n Ir 42 SELECTIONS PROM Through cool green meadows, where all day long The wild-bee droned his voluptuous song, While over all shone the eye of Love In the violet-tinted heavens above. And through that valley ran veins of gold, And the rivers o'er beds of amber rolled ; — There were pearls in the white sands thickly sown, And rocks that diamond-crusted shone ; — All richest fruitage — all rarest flowers — All sweetest music of summer bowers — All sounds the softest — all sights most fair, Made earth a Paradise everywhere. * * * * Over the mountains, under the snow Lieth that valley cold and low, — There came no slowly consuming blight. But the snow swept silently down at night, And when the morning looked forth again The seal of silence was on the plain ; And fount and forest, and bower and stream Were hidden all from his pallid beam. And there, deep-hidden under the snow, Is buried the wealth of the long ago — Pearls and diamonds — veins of gold. Priceless treasures of worth untold. Harps of wonderful sweetness stilled While yet the air was with music filled — Hands that stirred the resounding string To melodies such as the angels sing — CANADIAN POETS. 43 Faces radiant with smile and tear That bent enraptured the strains to hear — And high calm foreheads, and earnest eyes, That came and went beneath sunset skies. There they are lying under the snow, And the winds moan over them sad and low. Pale still faces that smile no more. Calm closed eyelids whose light is o'er, Silent lips that will never again Move to music's entrancing strain. White hands folded o'er marble breasts, — Each under the mantling snow-drift rests. And the wind their requiem sounds o'er and o'er. In the oft repeated * no more — no more.^ * iVb more — no more /' — I shall ever hear That funeral dirge in its mr^anings dre^r ; But I may not linger with faltering tread Anear my treasures — anear my dead. On through many a thorny maze. Up slippery rocks, and through tangled ways, Lieth my cloud-mantled path, afar From that buried vale where my treasures are. But there bursts a light through the heavy gloom. From the sun-bright towers of my distant home; fainter the wail of the sad ' no more ' Is heard as slowly I near that shore ; And sweet home-voices come soft and low, Half-drowning that requiem's dirge-like flow. 44 SELECTIONS PBOM I know it is Sorrow's baptism stern That has given me thus for my home to yeara — That has quickened my ear to the tender call Which down from the jasper heights doth fall — And lifted my soul from the songs of earth To music of higher and holier birth, Turning the tide of a yearning love To the beautiful things that are found above ; — And I bless my Father, through blinding tears, For the chastening love of departed years, — For hiding my idols so low — so low- — Over the mountains, — under the snow. SPRING. J. J, PROOTEB. Light upon the wild-flowers dawning from on high ! Light upon the white clouds floating in the sky 1 Light upon the green fields, light upon the rill ! Happy morn is breaking o'er each lofty hill. Music in the rustling of the summer trees 1 Music in the many tones that sweep along the breeze ! Music in the little birds that haunt the budding spray ! Winter's snows are melting — Spring is on its way. Gladness in the mountains ! gladness in the plains ! Gladness in all nature, bursting from her chains ! Gladness in the waters, rippling down their streams ! Heaven and earth rejoicing in the sun's bright beams. f| CANADIAN POETS. 45 I Happy, happy spring-time ! Happy age of youth ! I Rich in aspirations, rich in love and truth ! I Use it well, lest summer scorch ye with its sun, I And your budding beauties droop, ere yet begun. THE GGOB MAN'S GRAVE, I'BEDEBICK WBIO-RT. E'en such is man — a shadow flies Athwart the trembling moonlit skieSy Man heaves a breath, and lo 1 he dies ; But not For aye ! His soul may yet triumphant rise, A brighter day I Though like a flower 6f loveliest bloom, That yields at morn its rich perfume, And e'er the nigLt hath met its doom The good man dies ; Yet sweetly from the loathsome tomb His actions rise I The blessings of his kindly heart, The balm his soothing words impart, His life's examjde for a chart By which to steer. From memory's eye cannot depart, Or disappear^ 46 SELECTIONS FROM Most when we feel the aching void Made by our blissful hopes destroyed, And all our enei^ies are cloyed With gloom and care, Could we more fitly be employed Than musing there ? Beneath this resting-place we find A fitting theme for musing mind That is not to its errors blind ; But seeks to mend. And leaving earthly cares behind, See where they end. The highest aim we self-impose. The noblest height ambition knows, The loftiest wing that ever rose In flight sublime, May end in disappointment's throes, Perhaps in crime ! Not so, the even, steady race Of him who, yielding wisdom place, Adorned by humble pilgrim grace, Keeps on the road. And walks erect, with fearless pace, To meet his God. Though carking cares his path surround. And sin should raise her rampant mound, He bravely stands on battle ground, Nor shrinks with fear : Faith is the balm for every wound, And refuge near. CANADIAN POETS. His trust in God is firmly stayed ; God's love, his ready shield, displayed, And strong in mercy, undismayed He bids them come I Nor dreads the countless hosts arrayed 'Twixt him and home I 47 THE ARCTIC INDIAN'S FAITH. ^»,A^v V^/'C-'*^ HOW. T. D. M'OEB. We worship the Spirit that walks unseen Through our land of ice and snow : We know not His face, we know not His place, But His presence and power we know. Does the BuflFalo need the Pale-face word To find his pathway far ? What guide has he to the hidden ford, Or where the green pastures are ? Who teacheth the Moose that the hunter's gun Is peering out of the shade ? Who teacheth the doe and the fawn to run In the track the Moose has made ? Him do we follow, Him do we fear, The Spirit of earth and sky; Who hears with the Wapiti's eager ear His poor red children's cry ; 48 SELECTIONS FROM Whose whisper we note in every breeze That Btirs the birch canoe ; Who hangs the reindeer-moss on the trees For the food of the Caribou. That Spirit we worship who walks unseen Through our land of ice and snow : We know not His face, we know not His place, But His presence and power we know. SONG OF MARY MAGDALENE. ALBXANDBR M'LACHLAN. Weep not, though the Saviour Has gone with the dead. For the light and the glory Still halo his head ; The sighs and the sorrows. The stigmas, the stains : The anguish is over. The glory remains. Weep not for the Saviour: His sorrows are o'er. And his love shall encircle Our hearts evermore ; The rainbow of promise! The star ever bright ! The compass to guide through The perilous night ! CANADIAN POETS. The light of tho temple I The eye of the blind! The food of the hungry ! The friend ever kind I The well in the desert! The shield from the blast I The staflF of the weary 1 Tho refuge at last ! The sun of our glory I The light of our eyes ! Weep not for the Saviour, For he shall arise. 49 B VOICES OF THE DEATH-CHAMBER. Kits. J. L. LBPROHOW. The night-lamp faintly gleameth Within my chamber still, And the heavy shades of midnight Each gloomy angle fill ; And my worn and wearied watchers Scarce dare to move or weep, For they think that I am buried In deep and quiet sleep. But hush 1 what are those voices Rising on the midnight air ; Full of strange, celestial sweetness, Breathing love and hope and prayer ! SELECTIONS PROM Nearer still they grow and clearer ; . Ah I I hear now what they say — To the kingdom of God's glory . They are calling mo away. See I my gentle mother softly To my couch approaches now — What can be the change she readeth Upon my pale, damp brow, That she clasps her hands in anguish, Whose wild depths no words might say ? Perchance she has heard the voices That are calling me away. The fond father of my children. The first sole love of my youth ; He the loving, gentle-hearted, So full of manly truth. Is kneeling now beside me, Wildly praying me to stay : 'Tis hard, oh ! hard to tell him, " They are calling me away I" Oh I if earthly love could conquer The mighty power of death. His love would stay the current Of my failing strength and breath; And that voice whose loving fondness Has been e'er my earthly stay, Gould half tempt me from the voices That are calling me away. CANADIAN POETS. Now, they bring my children to me, That loved and lovely band, And with wistful awe-struck-facea Around my couch they stand. And I strain each gentle darling To my heart with wailing cry, And for the first time murmur, '' Oh, my God, 'tis hard to die!" But hark ! those strains of heaven Sound louder in mine ear, Wliispcring, " He, thy God, thy Father, Will guard those children dear " — Louder yet they grow, now drownmg All sounds of mortal birth; In their wild triumphant sweetness Luring, bearing me from earth. SI THE EMIGRANT'S FUNERAL. KEV. B. J. M'SEOBOB. Strange earth we sprinkle on the exile's clay. Mingled with flowers his childhood never knew ; Far sleeps he from that mountain-top so blue. Shadowing the scene of his young boyhood's play. But o'er his lonely trans-atlantic bed The ancient words of hopeful love are spoken; The solitude of these old pines is broken With the same prayers once o'er his father said. I tL~ Cck-^^^AX XLa^ ^^^lA^ii^ 9^it^y\A^ •" (W;y-. P*h.c«^ ^ utvK-J**^* e/^Kff^-^ f'^^-j'y- ^ '^'^^ ''* ^-J^M IvaA/. ZtxJiti^<^ rlcf^ZtO-" -Unt^^^ tSii-l' M- kC9. 52 SELECTIONS FROM precious Liturgy ! that thus canst bring ^ Such sweet associations to the soul, That though between us and our homes seas roll, We oft in thee forget our wanderings. And in a holy day-dream tread once more, The fresh greer valleys of our native shore. «MY SOUL IS HEAVY." JOHN READK. My soul is heavy with the chain That drags me down to earth ; in vain I tey to free me from its pain. And yet I ask not wealth or fame, I ask not power nor titled name, — Only my Saviour's love I claim. I fain would fix my wandering eye Upon my treasure in the sky. Bought by His death on Calvary. But I am weak ; my soul's best prayer To Heaven, falls earth ward,, as it were Afraid of gaining access there. Earthward, where my soul's hopes are not ; Where I have but a pilgrim's lot: Why is my Father's home forgot ? m,j' CANADIAN POETS. 53 Earth's fairest scenes must pass away, Man's mightiest monuments decay, And the poor traveller may not stay. Comforter Divine, appear, Impart the love that knows not fear, And let me feel Thee ever near. Then shall my soul, from earthly things Set free, soar up on tireless wings, To where God's choir for ever sings. P I COME TO THE WELL. WILLIAM WYE SMITH. I come to the well, but its water Never quenches the thirsting within, — I bathe in the sunlight of morning, When the hymns of creation begin, — And still there is something of sorrow, Because there is something of sin. There is rapture and gladness and glory Around me in Nature I see. And my heart whispers sadly the story That the darkness and doubt is in me ; That God and his works are all holy. And the sadness and sin is in me ! M SELECTIONS FROM But I know that above there are blossoms As fair aa were Edon's at first ; And the tree with the sweet leaves of healing, And waters for quenching of thirst ; And grief i-. forgot in the glory, And murmuring never rehearsed ! GO, DREAM NO MORE. PAMBLIA S. VINING. Go, dream no more of a sun-bright sky With never a cloud to dim ! Thou hast seen the storm in its robes of night, Thou hast felt the rush of the whirlwind's might. Thou hast shrunk from the lightning's arrowy flight. When the Spirit of Storms went by I Go, dream no more of a crystal sea Where never a tempest sweeps ! For thy riven bark on a surf-beat shore. Where the wild winds shriek and the billows roar, A shattered wreck to be launched no more, Will mock at thy dream and thee I Go, dream no more of a fadeless flower With never a cankering blight ! For the queenliest rose in thy garden-bed, The pride of the mom, ere the noon is fled. With the worm at its heart, withers cold and dead In the Spoiler's fearful power ! CANADIAN POETS. Go, dream no more ! for the cloud will rise, And the tempest will sweep the sea; Yet grieve not thou, for beyond the strife, The storm, and the gloom with which earth is rife, Gleam out the light of immortal life, And the glow of unchangmg skies I fift I SHALL DEPART. HBLBN M. JOHNSON. When the flowers of Summer die, When the birds of Summer fly, When the winds of Autumn sigh, I shall depart! When the mourning earth receives Last of all the faded leaves. When the wailing forest grieves, I shall depart I When are garnered grain and fruit. When all insect life is mute, I shall drop my broken lute, I shall depart I When the fields are brown and bare. Nothing left that 's good or fair, And the hoar-frost gathers there, I shall depart I '! I 56 SELECTIONS FROM Not with you, oh ! songsters, no I To no Southern clime I go, By a way none living know I shall depart I Many aching hearts may yearn, Many lamps till midnight burn, But I never shall return When I depart ! Trembling, fearing, sorely tried, Waiting for the ebbing tide, Who, oh 1 who will be my guide. When I depart ? Once the river cold and black Rolled its waves affrighted back — I shall see a shining track, When I depart! There my God and Saviour passed, He will guide me to the last; Clinging to his merits fast, I shall depart I EVER WITH THEE. ANNIE L. WALKER. No more in darkness, trials, and temptations, No more a waif on trouble's billowy sea. How sweet will be the day of my abiding Ever with Thee I r.nh CiftjADIAN POETS. 67 T> Bright after darkness shines the summer morning, Bright is the sunshine when the tempests flee ; But brighter far the home where dwell thy chosen Ever with Thee. Dear are the hours when those we love are near us; Dear, but how transient must their brightness be! That one glad day will know no sadder morrow Ever with Thee. Love will be there : methinks all other glories Nothing to those enraptured souls will be, Filled with the transport of that one assurance, Ever with Thee. But long jnay be the way that we must travel, And many a dark'ning storm we yet may see, Dread sorrows may o'erwhelm us ere we're sheltered Ever with Thee. Not so : thy hand, extended through the darkness, Leadeth us on the way we cannot see And, clasping that, e'en here we walk in safety Ever with Thee. 58 SELECTIONS FR(JM DEATH OF THE PAUPER CHILD * HB8. J. L. LEPHOHON. Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale ! No sobs, no grieving now : No burning tears must thou let fall Upon that cold, still brow ; No look of anguish cast above, Nor smite thine aching breast, But clasp thine hands, and thank thy God Thy darling is at rest. Close down those dark-fringed snowy lids Over the violet eyes, Nor heed their liquid light was clear As that of summer skies. Is it not bliss to know whate'er Thy future griefs and fears, They will be never dimmed like thine By sorrow's scalding tears ! * We remember Mrs. Lkpuohon (R. E. M.), as an interesting contributor to tlie " Literary Garland " of former days, She lias been for many years a favourite con- tributor in prose and verse to Canadian and American periodicals. Her poetry is marked by simplicity and gracefulness of style, strong domestic and human sym- pathies, and high moral sentiment. The pieces in this volume, " The Death of the Pauper Child," and " Given and Taken," unveil deep womanly tenderness and truth. Her achievements in prose-fiction have won her higher distinction, and made her still more extensively known than her poetry. Her poems have never, we believe, been published in book form. Several of her friends think it is due to herself and to the public, to collect her fugitive pieces, and present them in a form suitable for permanent preservation. '0^i^^■, <, fiU^ , , <^ >'1 ." i^.-/-4r^Uy.4A.(^ -.L^.^.^il /TTi. >^ 21^. CANADIAN POETS. Enfold the tiny fingers fair, From which life's warmth has fled, Forever freed from wearing toil — The strife for daily bread : Compose the softly moulded limbs, The little waxen feet, Spared way-side journeys long and rough, Spared many a weary beat. Draw close around the lifeless form, The shreds of raiment torn, Her only birth-right — ^just such rags As thou for years hast worn ; Her earthly dower the bitter crust. She might from pity crave. Moistened by tears — then, final gift, A pauper's lowly grave. Now raise thy spirit's gaze above I Seest thou yon angel fair, With flowing robes, and starry crown Gemming her golden hair ? Changed, glorified in every trait. Still in that beauty mild, ! mourning mother, thou dost know Thine own, thy late lost child. 59 Wrapped in heaven's entrancing bliss. Veiled in its golden glow. Still thinks she of the lonely heart Left on this earth below. 60 SELECTIONS FROM Courage ! — not long thy weary steps O'er barren wastes shall roam ; Thy darling prays the Father now To quickly call thee home. DREAMS OF THE DEAD.* J. J. PUOCTKB. I. Oh let me dream for awhile Under the winter sky ; Dream of the light of a vanished smile, And the hope of a day gone by ; Dream of a lovely face, And the grace of a lovely head, And the form that I clasped in a fond embrace — Let me dream for awhile of the dead. Dead ! can it be I am here Whispering this to my heart? Dead ! and I have not one welcome tear To soften the inward smart ! Dead ! and I cannot pray, For I think of my love that is gone, And the hope that was withered in one short day, Has blasted my h.^art to stone. * " The Voices of the Night, and other poema," by J. J. Procter, was published by Mr. Lovell of Montreal, in 1861. Mr. Procter's poetry evinces a cultivated taste, and an alfluenco of fiincy that at times reminds one of Shelley or of Tennyson. There is, however, a monotony of both style and feeling, pervading a large portion of the book, which detracts something from its intere.st and merit. The poet'* soul ia steeped in sorrow; and, though never commonplace, this shadow of sorrow darkens all subjects with an intense and morbid melancholy, that becomes at length oppressive. But in spite of these defects, this volnmo displays unmistakable poetic feeling and power. We understand that, as yet, it has had a very limited circulation. CANADIAN POETS. What have T left but to dream Of my love that is laid in her rest, To live as I lived, for my life's years seem But an empty dream at the best 1 Everything round is still, And white as a new-made shroud, From the snow-clad lea to the pines on the hill, And the fleecy veil of the cloud. Here on the snow I lie Seeking a balm for care. Looking up to the blank of the sky. And the blue of the fathomless air. Hark I how the chill winds wail. And shiver and moan in their flight; What a depth of woe in the sorrowful tale They tell in the ear of night ! What is it that makes them sad ? Do they miss the grace of the flowers, And sigh for the time when their breath was glad With the sweets of the summer hours ? Ye do well, chill winds, to rave, For the day of your brides has fled, The earth lies heavy and cold on their grave. They are dead — and she too is dead I 61 II. Swoon into sleep, night, For the air is heavy and still, And the shimmering glance of the moonbeam's light Comes down like a deadly chill. 62 SELECTIONS FROM Oh sink, pale orb, in the west ; Sink down in the west till I see Her who lies long in her last long rest, Waiting alone for me. Last eve, in my dreams, the veil Of the frost-bound earth was gone, And I saw her lying all cold and pale Like an angel fashioned in stone. The glance that could give me life Was asleep in the downcast eye ; But the rose of thy lips, love, wife, Was bright with a smile from on high. How sweet was her calm repose And the smile that told of Heaven I No passion, no tear, no fears, no woes, But the bliss of sin forgiven. I heard the flakes of the snow Fall soft through the winter air, And the foul worm crawl from his couch below, But I knew that her God was there. There, in the silent grave. Whence everything else had fled. Was the presence of Him who had died to save, Watching the sleep of the dead. There was the Lord of Hosts Guarding the rest of my sweet, And Death, with his conqueror's pride and boasts, Crouched down at her Father's feet. CANADIAN POETS. Let me dream thus again Seeing her under the sward : What better relief for my heavy pain, Than to know her there with her Lord ? Farewell for a time, dear love : Methinks I have much to learn ; For a strange light moves in the heavens above, And a voice that bids me return. SONG OF CONFIDENCE.* HABBIBTT ANNIB WILKINS. " I Will trust, and not bo afraid."— Bible. My path is in the wilderness, My way is in the desert wild. And dreary wastes and loneliness Mingle with rocks, in terror piled ; Yet One has promised h6 will guide To lands whose treasures never rust ; I have upon his strength relied — Can He sustain me? "I will trust 1" My path is through the waters cold. And billows rise on every side ; I hear the noise where breakers rolled, I feel their overpowering tide : * From 'Jhb Aoacia, by Harriet Annib. A new and enlarged edition of this volume has been just issued from the press. Miss Wilkins of Hamilton has been fevourably known for many years as a contributor of verso to Canadian jour* nals. She is a spirited and vigorous writer, distinguished by strong patriotic and martial feeling; and by a deeply religious spirit, which constantly recognizes scrip- tural piety aa the true source of strength and consolation. ' Mn. o^t*aiC», ifbf. •■/tr- .. n ^'i-i. fif-^. ^ Um^. /fiJ-M^fP. 64 SELECTIONS PROM A hand is on the flowing mane Of ocean 'h chartijer — stay it must ; One liolds the breakers' bridle-rein, \nd can He curb them ? "I will trust !" The noon-tide sun is high in heaven, Its rays are bending o'er my brow ; No streamlet 'mid this sand is given, No green oasis near me now : Nearer it comes — the siroc storm, Scorching and burning is its dust; Yet I saw one in human form, The Good Physician—" I will trust !" The evening cometh ; I would rest, And in forgetfulness repose, But rain-drops stream upon my breast, Forbidding my worn eyes to close j Yet 'mid the tempest's hollow moan, The lightning's glare, the whirlwind's gust, I surely heard a soft low tone — I know its whisper — " I will trust 1" As on my weary way I passed, A bright star lit my midnight sky ; I prized its beauty — but a blast With heavy clouds went sweeping by : A voice came murmuring from above, '' Mourner, yield not to sad mistrust; Again shall gleam that star of love, Fond and for ever ;" " I will trust I" CANADIAN POETS. Oh] can it bo there wiiita on high A uiiinsion now pivptired for mo ? And can I boar each weary ^iigh Until those golden gates I see ? Can He who loves preserve from harm, Re-animate my mouid'ring dust, Fold me within his shelt'ring arms, Happy for ever? " I will trust 1" 65 INFINITE, ALSXANDEll M'LACHLAN. Unbar the gates of eye and ear — Lo ! what a wondrous world is here, Marvels, on marvels, still appear Infinite ! Crreat Mother from whose breast we're fed I With thy green mantle round thee spread, The blue vault hanging o'er thy head Infinite! Why wert thou into being brought ? How were thy forms of beauty wrought ? Thou great upheaving of a thought Infinite I Which scooped the vales where dew distils. Which led the courses of the rills, And fiixed the everlasting hills Infinite I B 66 SELECTIONS FROM Which called from darkness bright-ey'd day. Baptized it with a heavenly ray, And sent it on its endless way Infinite I Ye waves which lash the hoary steep, Ye mighty minds with boundless sweep, Great coursers of the trackless deep Infinite ! And you ye streamlets on your way, Though laughing all the summer's day Ye only sing, ye only say Infinite 1 Sweet linnet singing on the lea ! Wild lark in heaven's wide azure sea I The burden of your strain's to me Infinite ! Lov'd violets 'neath my feet that lie, Sweet harebells, can ye tell me why Your beauty only makes me sigh Infinite 1 Thou wild rose blushing on the tree, Ye daisies laughing on the lea. Sweet flowers, your message is to me . Infinite 1 This dust's to 'Spirit strangely wed, 'Tis haunted ground on which we tread, The living stranger than the dead Infinite I CANADIAN POETS. 67 A presence fills the earth and air, Hands help us when we're not aware, And eyes look on us everywhere Infinite I .' Earth, ocean, air, heaven's azure seal O ye liave always been to me A marvel and a mystery Infinite ! Who'll take the measure or the bound f No line of ours can ever sound The fathomless, the great profound ' Infinite f ! could I but from self get free. The spirit then might speak thro' me Of all this deep, unfathom'd sea Infinite ! UNUTTERABLE THOUGHTS.* JOHX KEADK. t Quis prodere tanta relatu possit r " — Claudian. There is a voice that never stirs the lips, — Felt, but not heard*} that vibrates through the soul, — A solemn music ; but no human speech Can gkv^e that music to the ambient air. N — . *Mr. Readb has been for several years a poetic contributor to the Montreal press. Uis poetry contains true poetic feeling, and is replete with promise. He at present resides at Mascouche, C.E.- _ ,. a *a // > 68 SELECTIONS FROM The noblest poem poot ever wrote ; The l:)riiilitr.st pieture artist over drew; The lol'tiest imiisie lyrist ever sunjj: ; The li'enlK'st aceents woman ever spoke, — Are ])ara|»lirases of a/vU oriyina/, That lip, or i)en, or pencil, cannot show Unto the sceinu' eye or lisleninjj,' ear. Tlij thonuhts we utter arc hut half themselves; Tiie poet knows this well. The artist knows His hands bear not the burden of iiis thoujihts UpiMi the canvas. The musician knows His soul must over perish on his lips. Oh, hast thou ever lovi'd ? Thou, too, canst tell How little of thy love the air can brinj^ Unto the ear of her thou lov'st so well. Nay, even the eye, — " the window of the soul," — Thouuh it may shed ti Huht a little way, Gives but a glimpse of that which burns within. The sweet, unconscious tenderness of flowers ; The boundless awe of star-encircled niuht ; Thj^ear that trickles down an old nnni's cheek ; Ocefh's l(md pulse, that makes our own beat high; The vocal throb of a ureat multitude ; The pause when you have heard and said, " Farewell!" And feel the pressure of a hand that's i> >c ; The thought that you have wronged your truest friend, When he is sleeping in the arms of Death ; The silent, fathomless anguish that engulfs Him that has found the precious power to love, And-ttees that all he loves is torn from him ; His dying moments who is void of hope ; CANADIAN"! POETS. Jczcbcl ; Nero ; Judas ; any one Of all tlu! hidoouH tliin^j^ that crawled through life In huniiin form ; — what mortal could express All that he feels in one or all of these, (tiving the very image of his thought ? Life, Death, Hell, Judgment, Resurrection, Gob ;- Who can express their meaning ? Who can bound Awe that is infinite in finite words ? Thus, much of us must ever be concealed — Spite of the high ambition to be born Of what is noblest in us — till His breath Who woke the morning-stars to sing their songs, Awakes our souls to fuller utterance. 69 THE COMING YEAR. JOHN F. M'DONNKLL. I do not svccp for the bygone days, Though they liaunt my brain with their thrilling lays ; I do n(jt y(!arn for the hours that are o'er, Though I treasure their sweets in Memory's store ; Their weird perfume, like tlie winds of Spring — Their hues as bright as a seraph's wing ; And their beams that play round each youthful thought, Like a, sunset glow by the mountains caught : But why slumld I welcome the coming year, When I. know not yet if it brings good cheer ? 70 8ELi:,CTI0NS FROM * The bygone year was a friend to me, With its hours of pleasure light and free ; Its summer days, and its autunm eves. And the spells that cling to its withered leaves ; Though its bloom soon fled, and its youth is lost, — 'Twas a dream of rest for the tempest-tossed ; Its fruits still cluster round 3Iemory's vine, And its wreaths through the dinmess of Age shall shine : Then why should I welcome the coming year. When I know not yet if it brings good cheer ? There were smiles and tears in the shadowy Past, But the gates of the Future are closed and fast. Though clouds may have frowned on my pathway of old, There were rainbow gleams on their sable fold ; The sunshine came when the waves were still, And the May-day smiled after winter's chill. I strive to gaze on the unknown shore, But the veil of the Mystic hangs before ! Then why should I welcome the coming year, When I know not yet if it brings good cheer ? There may be Peace in the unseen land, And bowers of palm on its golden sand. And flowers that blend with the morning breeze—. And isles of beauty on waveless seas ; Or it may be a region of death and gloom, With a cypress grove and a gaping tomb ; And a clime like the frozen Norland hills, Where the spirit sinks and the bosom chilli ; Then why should I welcome the coming year, When I know not yet if it brings good cheer ? CANADIAN POETS. The festal lights from the casements shine, And the goblets are filled with the choicest wine ; For Mirth is the queen of the joyous throng, With the laughter gay, and the ringing song ; The low fond whisper of Love and Truth, And the grasp of Friendship and manly Youth j But why do ye rush to the arras of the new. When the kind old friend was so good and true — Why welcome ye thus the coming year, When ye know not yet if it brings good cheer ? 71 THE SECOND ADVENT. ANNIE L. ■WALKEE. In the hush of the silent midnight Shall the cry of His coming be ? When the day of the Lord's appearing Shall flash over earth and sea ? Shall it be at the morning's awaking, And the beams of the golden sun Grow pale and be quenched for ever, When his journey is just begun ? We know not, we dream not, the hour ; But we know that the time must be When earth, with its clouds and shadows, Will shrink, and tremble, and flee ; *From "Leaves from the Backwoowds," published anonymously in 1861. This volume was favourably received by the press, and a second edition was issued, which, however, has had a very limited sale. It contains a number of pieces of much excellence, with some that are of a more feeble aud commonplace character. '?2 SELECTIONS FROM Will shrink to the deepest centre, And render before his throne, The Jewels the Lord will gather. The gems that He calls his own. Then, bright in heaven's noonday splendour, And robed like the dazzling snow, The saints to their many mansions, The chosen and blest, shall go. r And songs of angelic gladness Be borne on celestial air To welcome the mighty gathering. The throng, that shall enter there. And, oh ! in that awful parting, That day of unchanging doom, Wlien earth shall give tip her millions, And empty her every tomb, May we find in the Judge a Saviour, A Friend, whom we know and love. And be bidden by him to enter The courts of his house above. VOICES OF THE PAST. E. H. DEWART. The last faint deam of Evening's golden light Has softly died away : with noiseless hand The Autumn twilight-shades enshroud from sight Both sea and land. <**l»^ /j^M^^W^- C4iCt^cl a^ C&^Uytiiu^ i.^^U.a^ h-^'^fT(i?l^ /Tfi'- (SLiMiuii^'M .^s"*-/^- ^^-'e^-hi CANADIAN POETS. 13 In the hushed stillness of the darkened air, — Like lonely echoes of the surgine that steals So calmly o'er hill and dale. And the breezes range Weirdly strange, With a low, delicious wail ; This, too, is the hour To feel the power Of the silent, mild Old Woods ! Then, while dullards dream Of some fruitless theme. We will stroll With thankful soul. Through the depths of the mild Old Woods. 79 I 80 SELECTIONS PROM Oh ! conic, come away to the calm Old Woods, When the skies with stars arc bright, And the mild Moon moves in serenity, The eye of the solenm night. Not a sound is heard, Save the leaflet stirred By the zejihyr that passes by. And thought roams free In its majesty, And the soul seeks its kindred sky : This, this is the hour To tost the power Of the clo((iicnt, calm Old Wo;-^ds ! While the thouizhtlcss drean: Of some baseless theme. Here we can stroll, "With exalted soul, Through the eloquent, calm Old Woods. OUR NATIVE LAND.* HELEX M. J0HN80N. What land more beautiful than ours ? What other land more blest ? The South with all its wealth of flowers ? The prairies of tae West ? *Thi8 spirited ?yric is alike "cditablo to the talents, patriotism, and independence of its autlior. Its loyalty is an intelligent attacliment, free from blind prejudice and crouching adulation. Miss Joenson's poetry is characterized by unaffected simplicity, genuine sensibility, often tinged by sadness, a deep sense of the insuffi- ,rT^ . 4^-wv. ^ .^. //t*»t^K^^^A^ u-,^ Jt^^i^ t4>-u^ .cJUy . ''C*Mi^4iau. \rfi'i 'iU-u^^f," a, SJ-iMit^i^^^ U^ ^■•-'^^.t. U^:Ul S/* An/r^ t/n. lr-*-U.,m. ^A^-tH- fru/r-t ^ rfu. icU* >•/' *\ r; Beneath heaven's azure dome — i Where Peace holds Plenty by the hand, And Freedom finds a home. . .i : ciency of earthly good, and ardent aspirations after the things that are unseen and eternal. She was a native of I^ower Canada; and died at Magog, C. E., in March, 1863, after a long and painful illness, in the 29th year of her age. The love of poetry, which early developed itself, in spite of circnmstances tlie most unpropitioae, proved a perennial source of solace and joy, to a lilo distinguished by more than an ordinary share of pain and sufTcring. In 185^ a small volume of her poems was published in Boston, U.S., which, although the edition is now exhausted never circulated extensively in Canada. Though not free from the common fault« of youthful authorship, this volume presented unmistakable evidence of a genaino gitt of song. She continued from that time till the period of her death to contri- bute occasional pieces, for publication in the Slierbrooke Gazette, and other jour- nals. Her unpublished poems, from which most of the selections in this work are taken, exhibit a more cultivated taste, and finished style, than we find in her published volume. Many of the pieces, among her unpublished remains, were evidently written under the influence of suffering, with the shadow of death gra- dually darkening hor life. The pieces in this volume, " I sJuill depart," "To a Dandelion," and " Good Night," illustrate this. She died in triumphant hope of immortality. The following lines, written with a pencil in her French testament, a few davs before she died, give evidence of the clearness of her intellect, and the strength of her faith, as she approached " the river cold and black." They were the last she ever wrote. . . ,„ i . , i, • . t > Jesus, I know thou art the living Word ! Ep.ch blessed promise to myself I take ; I would not doubt, if I had only heard This— this alone—" I nkveb will foksakb! " I have no fear— the sting of de"^ rh is sin, And Clwist removed it when lie died for me: Washed in his blood, my robe without, within, lias not a staiu that God himself can see. Wrapped in the Saviour's arms I sweetly lie ; Far, far behind I hear the breakers roar;— I have been dying— but I cease to die, My rest begins— rejoice for evermore I 82 SELECTIONS FROM The slave who but her name hath heard, Repeats it day and night j — And envies every little bird That takes its northward flight I As to the Polar star they turn Who brave a pathless sea, — So the oppressed in secret yearn, Dear native land for thee I Ho " many loving memories throng Round Britain's stormy coast 1 Renowned in story and in song, Her glory is our boast 1 With loyal hearts we still abide Beneath her sheltering wing ; — "^Tiile with true patriot love and pride To Canada we cling I We wear no haughty tyrant's chain, — We bend no servile knee, Wlien to the mistress of the main We pledge our fealty 1 She binds us with the cords of love, — All others we disown ; The rights we owe to God above. We yield to him alone. May He our future course direct By his unerring hand ; Our laws and liberties protect. And bless our native land I CANADIAN POETS. 83 JACQUES CAETIER.* HON. T. D. M'QBB. In the sea-port of Saint Malo 'twas a smiling morn in May, When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed away ; In the crowded old Cathedral all the town were on their knees For the safe return of kinsmen from the undiscovered seas ; And every autumn blast that swept o'er pinnacle and pier Filled manly hearts with sorrow, and gentle hearts with fear. A year passed o'er Saint Malo — again came round the day When tlie Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed away ; But no tidings from the absent had come the way they went, And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent ; And manly hearts were filled with gloom, and gentle hearts with fear, When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year. But the earth is as the Future, it hath its hidden side, And the Captain of Saint Malo was rejoicing in his pride In the forests of the North — while his townsmen mourned his loss, He was rearing on Mount-Royal the fleur-de-Us and cross; And when two months were over and added to the year, Saint Malo hailed him home again, cheer answering to cheer. He told them of a region, hard, iron-bound and cold. Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold. •Mil. BIoGke is better known to the Canadian public as an orator, a historian, and a politiciiin, tlian us a poet. Thougli bis poetry as a wliole is scarcely equal to what his literary reputation in other departments might lead us to expect, yet many of the pieces iu the " Canadian Ballads" have Iho true ballad spirit and riug. 84 SELECTIONS FROM Where the wind from Thult^ freezes the word upon the lip, And the ice in spring comes sailing athwart the early ship ; He told them of the frozen scene until they thrill'd with fear, And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make them better cheer. But when he chang'd the strain — ^he told how soon is cast ' • ' In early Spring the fetters that hold the waters fast; i - How the Winter causeway broken is drifted out to sea. And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the free; ' How the magio wand of Summer clad the landscape to his eyes. Like the dry bones of the just, when they wake in Paradise. He told them of the Algonquin braves — the hunters of the wild, Of how the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child ; Of how, poor souls, they fancy in every living thing A spirit good or evil, that claims their worshipping; Of how they brought their sick and maim'd for him to breathe upon, And of the wonders wrought for them thro' the Gospel of St. John. 11 :l, He told them of the river, whose mighty current gave Its freshness for a hundred leagues to ocean's briny wave ; • ■■ <• He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight, What time he reared the cross and crown on Hochelaga's height, And of the fortress cliff that keeps of Canada the key. And they welcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils over sea. THE DYING SUMMER. ▲NNIB T.. WALKKK, Gently, sadly, the summer is dying-— Under the shivering, trembling boughs, With a low soft moan, the breeze is flying — CANADIAN POETS. 8^ The breeze, that was once so fresh and sweet, Is passing as swift as Time's hurrying feet, And where the withered roses are lying, The beautiful summer is surely dying. '• ' Gently, sadly, the waves are sighing. The leaves are mourning that they must fall; And the plaintive waters keep replying, They miss the light that has decked them long ; They have caught the last bird's farewell song ; And lowly they murmur, from day to day, " The beautiful summer is passing away." ■ ■ • ■ ' ' ' •■•.,•,':''; Oently, sadly, the moon reclining . ., ,, High on her throne of azure and gold, ;; ' With wan clear light, o'er the world is shining : Wherever she turns there are tear-drops shed. They will gleam, till the chilly morn is breaking. And the flowers with their last pale smiles are waking. ■ •'•'■' Wildly, sadly, the night wind swelling, , Chants a measure weird and strange, Hark ! of the coming storm he is telling, And the trembling life, that was almost gone, Flickers and shrinks at the dreaded tone, , . , ,. And scarcely lingers wherOj lowly lying, i; . ;• The tender and beautiful summer is dying, , ,; ' . !| .' •'3 86 SELECTIONS FROM A CANADIAN SUMMERS-NIGHT.* ( With special emeridatiojia, by the author, for the present work.) B. J. CHAPMAM. The purple shadows dreaminj^ly Upon the dreaming waters lie, And darken with the darkening sky. Calmly across the lake we float, I and thou, my little boat — The lake, with its grey mist-capote. We lost the moon an hour ago : We saw it dip, and downward go, Whilst all the west was still a-glow. But in those blue depths, moon-forsaken, A planet pale its place hath taken ; And one by one the stars awpken. * We feel assured that our readers will ar| CANADIAN POETS. 87 II. With noiseless paddle-dip we glide Along the bay's dark-fring(id side, Then out, amidst the waters wide I With us there floated here last night Wild threatening waves with foam-caps white, But these have now spent all their might. We knew they would not injure us, Those tossing waves, so boisterous — And where is now their fret and fuss ? Only a ripple wrinkleth now The summer lake — and plashes low Against the boat, in fitful flow. III. Still callest thou, thou Whip-poor-Will I When dropped the moon behind the hill I heard thee, and I hear thee still. But mingled with thy plaintive cry A wilder sound comes ebbing by, Out of the pine-woods, solemnly. It dies — and then from tree to tree Deep breathings pass, and seem to be The murmurs of a mighty sea. But hark ! The owl's cry comes anew- Piercing the dark pine-forest through, With its long too-hoo, too-hoo I S8 . SELECTIONS FROM ly. Swifter and swifter, on we go; • ' ' ' For though the breeze but feigns to blow, Its kisses greet us, soft and low. ' ■■■ ' But with us now, and side by side, ' • Striving awhile for place of pride, A silent, dusky form doth glide. Though swift and light the birch-canoe. It cannot take the palm from you. My little boat, so trim and true. "Indian! where away to-night ?" ' " Homewards I wend : yon beacon light Shines out for me — good night 1 " " Good night!" V. Shorewards again we glide — and go Wliere the sumach shadows flow Across the purple calm below. " •' ■ There, hidden voices all night long ■ Keep up, the sedgy creeks among, • The murmurs of their summer song — ■ A song most soft and musical — ■ ' Like the dulled voice of distant fall, Or winds that through the pine-tops call. And where the dusky swamp lies dreaming. Shines the fire-flies' fitful gleaming — Through the cedars — dancing, streaming! CANADIAN POETS. 8^ VI. Who hides in yonder dusky tree, Where but the bats awake should be, And with his whistling mocketh mo ? 'o Such quaint, quick pipings — two-and-two : Half a whistle, half a coo : Ah, Master Tree-Frog, gare-ill-Yous 1 The owls on noiseless wing gloom by Beware, lest one a glimpse espy Of your grey coat and jewelled eye — And so, good night ! — We glide anew Where shows the lake its softest blue, With mirrored star-points sparkling through. •- VII. ■ ■ ■ . 'i- The lights upon the distant shore That shone so redly, shine no more : The Indian-fisher's toil is o'er. And deepening in the eastern skies, Where up and up new stars arise, ' A pearly lustre softly lies. Thy witchery waneth. Fare-thee-well, Summer Night I Thy tender spell Within my dreams long time will dwell— ' And paint, in many a distant scene, The lake — the shore — the forfist green, " The marks of that which once hath been." 90 SELEOTIONS FHOM VIGER-SQUAllE. OEUHOK MARTIN. Here in this quiet garden shade, Whose blossoms spread their bloom before md^ The world's gay cheats, — Life's masquerade, Like evil ghosts from memory fade, And calm and holy thoughts come o'er me. Ambrosial haunt ; the orient light Falls golden on thy soft seclusion ; And like the lone and shadowy night. Grim care, abashed, has taken flight, And joys gleam forth in rich profusion. •* These odorous flowers that feast the bee, Those mimic fountains sunward leaping, And yon red rowans on the tree, That bring my childhood back to me. With hallowed scenes of Memory's keeping. All these, and more, with beauty clad. Invite the City's weary mortals — The pale-faced maid, the widow sad, And sinking merchant, growing mad, To muse within these peaceful portals. Here is the stone that sages sought, Here the famed lamp of blest AlLadden ; Objects that tell ambitious thought, " All that thy greed hath ever caught Cannot like us, console and gladden." cu^ c«-*-/C(tf»? .;«. /*o t/lu/ / i.^u.0 f[ Great mother of the mighty dead I Sir Walter sang, and Nelson bled, To weave a garland for thy head, ; .'■',! Britannia! , ," And Watt, the great magician, wrought, i? And Shakespeare ranged the realms of thought, And Newton soared, and Cromwell fought, Britannia ! CANADIAN POETS. And Milton's high seraphic art, And Bacon's head and Burns' heart, Are glories that shall ne'er depart, • ■' Britannia 1 ' ' These are the soul of thy renown ; The gems immortal in thy crown ; The suns that never shall go down — ""'' ' -•'' "■"• Britannia! Still lie thy path in truth divine, Held sacred by thy seal and sign; i And power and glory shall be thine, . Britannia I 93 • BROCK. CHARLES BANoeTBB. '"' ' (Oct. 13th, 1869.*) One voice, one people, — one in heart And soul, and feeling, and desire ! Re-light the smouldering martial fire, Sound the mute trumpet, strike the lyre. The hero deed cannot expire, The dead still play their part. Raise high the monumental stone! A nation's fealty is theirs. And we are the rejoicing heirs. The honored sons of sires whose cares We take upon us unawares. As freely as our own. * The day of the inauguration of the new Monument on QueenBton Ueighta. ) 94 SELECTIONS FBOM We boast not of the victory, But render homage, deep and just, To his — to their — immortal dust, Who proved so worthy of their trust No lofty pile nor sculptured bust Can herald their degree. No tonr need blazon forth their fame — Tiiv cheers that stir the sacred hill Arc but mere promptings of the will That conquered then, that conquers still ; And generations yet shall thrill At Brock's remembered name. Some souls are the Hesperides Hciiven sends to guard the golden age, Illuiuing the historic page With records of their pilgrimage ; True Miirtyr, Hero, Poet, Sage : And he was one of these. Each in his lofty sphere sublime Sits crowned above the common throng, Wrestling with some Pythonic wrong, lu prayer, in thunder, thought, or song ; Briarcus-limbed, they sweep along, The Typhous of the time. CANADIAN POETS. 95 11^ MEMORIAM OF OCTOBER 26, 1854. Written on the occasion of the Balaklava Festival, I " JOHN BBADB. OL ! say not that the chivalry, That our brave fathers led To noble deeds of bravery, In us their sons is dead I For the same blood that leaped of yore, Upon the battle plains Of Crescy and of Agincourt, Still leaps within our veins. The times are changed ; the arts of peace Are cherished more than then, But until wars for ever cease, Our country shall have men To draw the sword for country's good. To battle for the right, To shed their heart's best drop of blood In many a hard fought fight. All honour to the gppd and brave Who fought in davs of old, And shame upon the sordid knave Whose heart 's so dull and cold. As not to feel an honest glow Of patriotic pride. When he is told that long ago Such heroes lived and died. 96 SELECTIONS PROM But here, to-night, we meet to tell, Around the festal board, < > i ; i • ■ ' Of those, who, to oppression quell, As bravely drew the sword. Who blenched not at the thought of death, But at their country's cull. Were willing to resign their breath ■'■'-■'' Unto the Lord of all. ' /->••••.-' '■■■■ .'.■,■■■■ ••■ii;! / ; And some are here with us to-night, ' Who, on that glorious day, ; ^' For God's and for a nation's right, Fought in that bloody fray ; Who, fearless, mid the cannon's din, Charged with that hero-band. That with their own heart's-blood did "win Fame for their native land. But some beneath the Eastern sun Have found a warrior's rest ; The land on which their fame was won, Has clasped them to her breast. And many a heart has sorrowed long For those that never come ; , , , , But God, the God of battles, strong, Will give their souls a home. ■ '' Then let us to their memory give, A grateful, manly thought. And, if we prize them, let us live As nobly as they fought ; ^ CANADIAN POETS. 97 Each life is but a battle field, The Wrong against the Eight, Then think, when Right to Wrong would yield,. Of Balaklava's fight. THE HIGHLAND EMIGRANT'S LAST FAREWELL.* (For Music.) BVAir M'( DLL. Adieu my native land — adieu The banks of fair Lochfyne, Where the first breath of life I drew, And would my last resign ! Swift sails the bark that wafteth me This night from thy loved strand : must it be my last of thee, My dear, dear Fatherland 1 Scotland ! o'er the Atlanticiroar, Though fitted to depart, Nor time nor space can e'er efface Thine image from my heart. •This piece has the truo lyrical ring. The deep sensibility, condensed thought, «nd soul-stirring patriotism of this short ode, would alone vindicate Mr. McCoU's right to the title of a true bard. The " Mountain Minstrel," as lie is called in his nati\re land, is much more eytonsively known as a poet in Scotland, than in Canada. Ho ha? the peculiar fortune of having won distinction by his lyrics, both in Gaelic and English. A prominent place has been assigned him in MacKenzie's " Beauties of Gaelic Poetri/, ani Lioes of the IFighland Bards." And his poetry luu been spoken of in term? of warm admiration by several eminent British critioa. Ke was born in Scotland in 1303, but has resided in Kingston or many years put. 98 BELEOTIONS FBOM Come weal, come woe — till life's last throe, My Highland Home shall seem An Eden bright in Fancy's light, A Heaven in Memory's dream 1 Land of the maids of matchless grace, The bards of matchless song. Land of the bold heroic race That never brook'd a wrong ! Long in the front of nations free May Scotland proudly stand : Farewell to thee — farewell to thee. My dear, deax Fatherland 1 HOME-SICK STANZAS. HON. T. D. H'aSB. Twice had I sailed the Atlantic o'er, Twice dwelt an exile in the west ; Twice did kind nature's skill restore The quiet of my troubled breast — As moss upon a rifted tr«^e, So time its gentle cloaking did. But though the wound no eye could see, Deep in my heart the barb was hid. I felt a weight where'er I went — I felt a void within my brain ; My day-hopes and my dreams were blent With sable threads of mental pain j il CANADIAN POETS. My eye delighted not to look On forest old or rapids grand ; The stranger's pride I scarce could brook, My heart was in my own dear land. Where'er I turned, some emblem still Roused consciousness upon my track ; Some hill was like an Irish hill, * Some wild bird's whistle called me back ; A sea-bound ship bore off my peace, Between its white, cold wings of woe ; Oh, if I had but wings like these. Where my peace went, I too would go. OUR OWN BROAD LAKE.* THOMAS M'QUKVN. We cannot boast of high green hills, Of proud bold cliffs, where eagles gather- Of moorland glen and mountain rills. That echo to the red-bell'd heather. ♦Mr. McQueen was extensively known through Canada West both as a poet and an editor. He died in July, 1861. The following is extracted flrom a tribute to his memory, written by W. W. Smith, Esq., editor of the Owen Sound Times, and published in that paper at the time of his death. " Mr. McQueen, before his emigration to Canada, was somewhat known in Scot^ land as a Poet. Three little volumes, published between 1886 and 1850, were to well received, that they have run thro' three editions each. While finding much to commend in his poetry, we cannot help regretting it took so political a turn ; and that Nature, the inexhaustible field of the rural poet, was only courted at inter- vals. Some twelve years ago, Mr. McQueen commenced the publication of the Signal newspaper at Goderich. Afterwards, he removed to Hamilton, and 100 SELECTIONS FROM We cannot boast of mouldering towers, Where ivy clasps the hoary turret — Of chivalry in ladies' bowers — Of warlike fame, and knights who won it — But had we Minstrel's Harp to wake, We well might boast our own broad lake I And we have streams that run as clear, O'er shelvy rocks and pebbles rushing — And meads as green, and nymphs as dear, In rosy beauty sweetly blushing — And wo have trees as tall as towers, And older than the feudal mansion — And banks besprent with gorgeous flowers. And glens and woods with fire-flies glancing,— But prouder, loftier boast we make. The beauties of our own broad lake. The lochs and lakes of other lands. Like gems, may grace a landscape painting ; Or where the lordly castle stands, May lend a charm, when charms are wanting ; But ours is deep, and broad, and wide, With steamships through its waves careering; •tkrted a Reform journal, the Canadian. Not apparently succeeding bo well in Hamilton aa at Goderich, ho recommenced the Signal at the latter place. Mr, McQueen was a vigorous writer, and a forcible tliough not a polished speaker Some of his Canadian pieces in verse, which are not numerous, are very beautiful Of these, we remember " Our own broad Lake," and others. He entered heartily though too late in life to effect much with his own pen, into the plans of those who were and are seeking to established and build up a native literature among lu Some years ago, he ended an editorial on the subject, with the earnest appeal, '< Will nobody write a few songs for Canada?"—" Owen Sound Tlmoa," July, 1861 CANADIAN POETS. And far upon its ample tide, The barque its devious course is steering; While hoarse and loud the billows brake On islands of our own broad lake I Immense, bright lake ! I trace in thee An emblem of tlie mighty ocean ; And in thy restless waves I see Nature's eternal law of motion ; And fancy sees the Huron Chief Of the dim past, kneel to implore thee — With Indian awe he seeks relief. In pouring homage out before thee ; And I, too, feel my reverence wake. As gazing on our own broad lake 1 I cannot feel as I have felt. When life with hope and fire was teeming ; Nor kneel as I have often knelt At beauty's shrine, devoutly dreaming. Some younger hand must strike the string, To tell of Huron's awful grandeur : Her smooth and moonlight slumbering, Her tempest voices loud as thunder ; Some loftier lyre than mine must wake, To sing our own broad gleaming lake 1 101 CANADA, t- *■ PAMELIA 8, VINING. Pair land of peace ! to Britain's rule and throne Adherent still, yet happier than alone, And free as happy, and as brave as free. Proud are thy children, — justly proud, of thee : — 102 SELECTIONS FROM Thou hast no streams renowned in classic lore, No vales where fabled heroes moved of yore, No hills where Poesy enraptured stood, iio mythic fountains, no enchanted wood ; But unadorned, rough, cold, and often stem. The careless eye to other lands might turn. And seek, where nature's bloom is more intense, Softer delights to charm the eye of sense. m But we who know thee, proudly point the hand Where thy broad rivers roll serenely grand — Where, in still beauty 'neath our northern sky, Thy lordly lakes in solemn grandeur lie — Where old Niagara's awful voice has given The floods' deep anthem to the ear of heaven- Through the long ages of the vanished past ; Through Summer's bloom and Winter's angry blast,— Nature's proud utterance of unwearied song, Now, as at first, majestic, solemn, strong, And ne'er to fail, till the archangel's cry Shall still the million tones of earth and sky^ And send the shout to ocean's farthest shore : — y, P-i^i^^^C-r-^" /i^Chv-u'^- zrhl *4^ c^ t)U. f ;i^*<-**»^. fTit- %4^^^ -U^ C^>-...fc^»^l I ta C. « .(i« 6U