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y" 
 
VOICES FROM ABEGWEET ; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE HOME ON THE WAVE. 
 
 BY 
 
 MAURICE SWABEY, M.A., 
 
 VICAR OF ST THOMAS, EXETER. 
 
 LONDON : 
 JAMES NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET. 
 
 187 8. 
 
-45 8-3 f*^'**^ ^^ '^^ 
 
 EDINBURGH : n<INT£U BY JOHNvGKEIG AND SON. 
 
TO 
 
 MAURICE CHARLES MERTTINS 8WABEY, Esq., D.C.L, 
 
 OF LANGLEY MAllISH, BUCKS, 
 
 LATE STUDENT OP CHRIST CHURCH (' "*^0N), 
 CHANCELLOR OF THE DIOCESES OP OXPORD iNT) RTPON, 
 
 THESE STRAY NOTES, 
 
 SOUNDED CHIEFLY IN THE PAUSES OF MISSIONARY LABOUR 
 
 ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 BY 
 
 M. S. 
 
 January 1878. 
 
 

 PREFACE. 
 
 OME of the fugitive pieces strung together in 
 the following pages have already appeared in 
 Stewart's Quarterly (St John, New Bruns- 
 wick), and other transatlantic periodicals. " Abegweet" 
 (or " The Home on the Wave ") is the poetical name 
 by which Prince Edward Island is known amongst th© 
 " Micmac " Indians, who inhabit the shores of the Gulf 
 of St Lawrence, and is prefixed by the writer to his 
 little book, because he first ventured to touch the lyre 
 in that " Garden of Canada." 
 
 If, as he hardly dares to hope, these " Voices " shall 
 be heard beyond the circle of old friends, he trusts they 
 may arouse a deeper interest in the wellbeing of our 
 colonists, and likewise in the spiritual and temporal 
 welfare of the " children of the forest," now fast fading 
 away before the advancing tide of civilisation. Tlie verses 
 
VI 
 
 Preface, 
 
 which bear the signature " W. S." are from the pen of the 
 writer's lamented father (formerly a captain in the 
 Royal Horse Artillery), who, having served his country 
 on various hard-fought fields in the Peninsula, and taken 
 part in the crowning fight at Waterloo, emigrated to 
 Prince Edward Island, where, for nearly twenty-two 
 years, he earnestly laboured (whether as a Legislative 
 Councillor, or Member of the Government) to promote 
 the best interests of his adopted home. The lines signed 
 *' L. C. J." (on an " Indian Summer's Day'') were com- 
 posed by the writer's revered friend and former pastor, 
 the Rev. Dr Jenkins, late Rector of Charlottetown, and 
 Ecclesiastical Commissary of Prince Edward Island, 
 which (with its population of nearly 100,000) still forms 
 a part of the diocese of Nova Scotia. 
 
 The Vicarage, St Thomas, 
 Exeter, 1878. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE MICMACS ..... 
 
 ON THE BREAKING UP OF THE ICE IN " PORT LA JOIE 
 
 THE MICMACS OF THE " NEW DOMINION " 
 
 A SILVER THAW IN " ABEGWEET " 
 
 AN INDIAN summer's DAY IN " ABEGWEET " 
 
 THE "man of THE BOOK " AND HIS WOUNDED MILICETE 
 INTERPRETER .... 
 
 ON THE ACCIDENTAL DEATH OF LADY MARY FITZROY 
 A GLIMPSE FROM CARLETON TOWER 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON THE BURIAL DAY OF PRESIDENT 
 LINCOLN, U.S.A. .... 
 
 FOR AN ALBUM ..... 
 
 THE FUNERAL KNELL OF A ST MARK's SUNDAY-SCHOOL 
 SCHOLAR ..... 
 
 A RETROSPECT ..... 
 
 IMPROMPTU WELCOME .... 
 
 EXCELSIOR ..... 
 
 ON HEARING THE OLD SCHOOL BELL 
 
 AURI SACRA FAMES .... 
 
 FAME ...... 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF ADELAIDE, THE QUEEN-DOWAGER 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 4 
 
 6 
 
 8 
 
 11 
 
 13 
 
 16 
 
 18 
 
 20 
 21 
 
 22 
 24 
 
 27 
 28 
 30 
 32 
 34 
 36 
 
:-.: -,t.i»L.a :i—l 
 
 VIU 
 
 Contents. 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE . . • • • 
 
 REPLY OF LEONIDAS TO THE HERALD OF XERXES AT 
 
 THERMOPYLJE 
 HOME AT LAST . 
 THE ORACLE AT DELPHI 
 THE TOMB OF BYRON 
 THE TEES AT ROKEBY 
 THE LEGEND OF WHITBY ABBEY 
 WHITBY ABBEY . 
 HOLY STREET MILL 
 
 THE EXECUTION OF CHARLOTTE CORDAY 
 " SHE THAT LIVETH IN PLEASURE IS DEAD WHILE SHE 
 
 LIVETIl" 
 THE MARTYR BISHOP 
 EPISTLE TO AN OLD COLLEGE FRIEND 
 A YOUNG BRITISH OFFICER'S FIRST IMPRESSIONS 01? 
 
 SPAIN AND HER PEOPLE 
 SONG OF A VIVANDIERE 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY 
 THE MAGNET 
 
 APPEAL FOR THE COLONIAL AND CONTINENTAL CHURCH 
 SOCIETY ...... 
 
 THE PASSING KNELL OF THE DEPARTING YEAR . 
 
 PAOB 
 
 37 
 
 38 
 
 40 
 42 
 43 
 
 45 
 46 
 
 47 
 48 
 50 
 
 62 
 54 
 56 
 
 59 
 62 
 64 
 65 
 
 68 
 
 69 
 
 70 
 
 1 1 
 
I 
 
 THE MICMACS. 
 
 A DiROE FOR 1970 A.D. 
 
 Where is the spirit of the Micmac race ? 
 
 That martial glory hath not pass'd from earth ? 
 01 Nature's children lives there not a trace ? 
 
 Where are the sylvan homes that gave them birth ? 
 
 Where is the chieftain with his eagle plume, 
 The grey moose tracking in the morning bright, 
 
 The conic wigwam, 'mid the forests' gloom 
 Breathing a welcome in the evening's light ? 
 
 Where is the quiver from the shoulder slung, 
 The death-fraught arrow, the unerring bow. 
 
 The reeking scalplock from the wampum strung, 
 Enduring trophy of the vanquish'd foe ? 
 
2 
 
 The Mit^macs. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Where the flint hatchet, and the ruthless Made 
 That mars the slain, and terminates the strife ; 
 
 The tomahawk, — that from the captive's head 
 Hath reft his honour dearer than his life ? 
 
 Where the swart visage, the dark piercing eye. 
 Quick as the falcon's on the foeman's trail, 
 
 The tawny bosom's terrifying dye, 
 
 The stoic firmness never known to quail ? 
 
 Where are the torchlights wit!i their fitful glow, 
 Like meteors flitting o'er the shadow'd deep ? 
 
 The wily savage in his bark canoe, 
 
 Th' uplifted spear, the noiseless paddle's sweep ? 
 
 Where the wild mirth that on a festal day, 
 Komantic " Lennox," * marked thy fairy scene. 
 
 Thy gathered maidens in their bright array. 
 The mimic grandeur of thy virgin queen ? 
 
 ; ! ' 
 
 \ » ' 
 
 i I 
 
 M' 
 
 Where are the warriors round the council fire. 
 Smoking the peace-stalk, where the pointless spear, 
 
 The squaws carousing in their wild attire. 
 Where is the venison for the evening's cheer ? 
 
The Micmacs. 
 
 I 
 
 Where the rude birchen shroud, the moss-clad bier, 
 The proud traditions of the honoured dead ? 
 
 The maple groves re-echo sadly — " Where ?" 
 Manitto called — the tribe for ever fled ! 
 
 * A beautiful island in Bichmond Bay, Prince Edward Island, the 
 headquarters of the Micmacs of that province (to whom it is known 
 as " El-nooy-mon-figo "). Once every year, on St Anne's day, the 
 Indians, who are Boman Catholics, and have a neat chapel of their 
 own, assemble there from all parts for religious observances and 
 festivities, and the island then presents a most animated appearance. 
 When the writer last visited this romantic spot, '' Sally Francis," 
 an unmarried squaw, was hereditary princ jss of the tribe. The Rev. 
 S. T. Band, of Hantsport, Nova Scotia, is the only Protestant mis- 
 sionary labouring among the Micmacs and Milicetes, and, (with the 
 aid of the British and Foreign Bible Society), striving to give them 
 the Word of God in their own tongue. He has been very successful 
 in reducing the different dialects to writing, and his work merits the 
 support of all true friends of the Bed man. (See pp. 7, 15.) 
 
ON THE BREAKING UP OF THE ICE IN 
 "PORT LA JOIE." 
 
 h 
 
 ( Charlottetown Harbour— Prince Edward Island ) 
 
 April 1846. 
 
 The rushing Hillsboro' chafed beneath the yoke 
 That iron winter him compelled to bear, 
 
 Arousing all his energy he broke 
 
 The tie which bound him from his native air. 
 
 It 
 
 The sparkling waves enraptured at the sight, 
 Pursue each other o'er the smiling bay ; 
 
 Whilst all combining urge their captor's flight, 
 And waft him far from Edward's Isle away. 
 
 'I 
 
 !|1 
 i 
 
 Again the cattle revel in his streams, 
 Or wanton gambol on his pebbly side. 
 
 Nor dashing sleigh, nor peasant's laboring teams, 
 Shall cross awhile his sullen fetter'd tide. 
 
\ 
 
 IS, 
 
 On the Breaking up of the Ice in '^ Port la Joie." 5 
 
 Again the sighing swain goes forth to bring 
 The vernal flowers from the laughing groves, 
 
 Again the wild goose, harbinger of spring, 
 Athwart the sky in long procession moves. 
 
 Again the soil the precious seed receives. 
 And silent glens to melody awake ; 
 
 Again the silv'ry trout the ocean leaves. 
 To taste the pleasures of the crystal lake. 
 
 All nature round the Hillsbro' seems intent. 
 Rejoicing o*er the fall of winter's sway ; 
 
 Employing ev'ry means she can invent 
 To blot from view the signs of tyranny. 
 
 Man, too, exults at the return of Spring, 
 For love of liberty with life is given ; 
 
 And life itself were but a vapid thing, 
 
 Without this priceless privilege from Heaven ! 
 
6 
 
 THE MICMACS OF THE "NEW DOMINION." 
 
 1868 A.D. 
 
 Oh ! the children of the forest, 
 I can scarce suppress a sigh, 
 
 As along the crowded pavement 
 They pass unheeded by, 
 
 »; 
 
 And mark the stately buildings 
 Where the willow used to wave, 
 
 And the busy mart of commerce ^ 
 O'er the honoured chieftain's grave ! 
 
 The golden sun is shining. 
 As in former days he shone, 
 
 And the river to the ocean 
 Still is wildly rushing on ; 
 
The Micmacs of the " New Dominion^ 
 
 But the spirit of the Micmac 
 
 Is sullen and subdued ; 
 For had he not " Dominion " 
 
 Where now his steps intrude ? 
 
 What though in fair " Abegweet " 
 (The home upon the sea), 
 
 To rear his conic wigwam 
 The Indian is free ? 
 
 What though a sylvan Princess 
 Still rules o'er " Lennox Isle," * 
 
 And savage men and maidens 
 May revel in her smile ? 
 
 The noisy mill has banish'd 
 The salmon from the stream, 
 
 The cariboo has vanish'd, 
 For ever — like a dream ! 
 
 * See note, p. 3. 
 
8 
 
 A SILVER THAW IN "ABEGWEET," 
 ( Trince Edward Island. ) 
 
 Dwelt ever eye on fairer scene than this, 
 Since Adam fell, and that eventful mom, 
 To mmi eventful, when in Eden's bowers 
 He shrank abash'd before Omniscience? 
 
 Ye murm'ring souls that with impatient eye 
 
 Behold fair Winter as she passes by, 
 
 And when she sits enthron'd upon the sea, 
 
 Kefuse your homage to her majesty, 
 
 And long to hear the vernal breezes blow, 
 
 That sap her strength, and lay her sceptre low — 
 
 Look forth to-day ! and in your ravish'd breast, 
 
 Be all her claims to loveliness confess'd ! 
 
 Look forth to-day ! the " silver age," again, 
 
 Hath surely dawned upon the haunts of men. 
 
A Silver Thaw in " Abcgiveet*' 
 
 9 
 
 \ 
 
 Or, we have pass'd since evening's shadows fell 
 
 To fabled isles where fairies only dwell ! 
 
 The stately trees, as by magician's wand, 
 
 To chandeliers all metamorphos'd stand. 
 
 Crystalline lamps from ev'ry branch depend, 
 
 And to the scene enchantment's colours lend ! 
 
 The sombre earth, in icy mantle veil'd, 
 
 Gleams like the surface of a silver shield ; 
 
 Ten thousand jewels in the vallies glow, 
 
 And fancy revels in the burnish'd snow. 
 
 What graceful forms embellish ev'ry slope ! 
 
 Say, is the world a vast Kaleidiscope ? 
 
 Or, has the sun disclos'c* at length to view, 
 
 Some El-Dorado buried hitherto ? 
 
 Soft fleecy vapours fill the azure sky, 
 
 Entrance the bosom, and deceive the eye. 
 
 "Sol" seems to shine with Phoebe's mellow'd light, 
 
 And Day to linger in the car of Night ; 
 
 Illusive glories lend the mirror 'd plain 
 
 The smiling features of the placid main ; 
 
 Each blazon'd roof and Heaven-pointing spire 
 
 Seems sheath'd with gold, or wrapp'd in living fire ; 
 
 Whilst all below — lake, city, forest, sea. 
 
 In common own the spell of mystery ! 
 
 Creator ! Lord ! how manifold the ways 
 
 Employed by Thee to win the creature's praise ! 
 
10 
 
 A Silver Thaw in "Abcgweet." 
 
 ! 
 
 What varied charms the seasons, as they roll, 
 
 In turn present to captivate the soul ! 
 
 At Thy command, from ocean's angry breast 
 
 The storied iceberg lifts its silver crest, 
 
 Smiles down in triumph on the puny barque, 
 
 Or looms portentous through the tempest dark ! 
 
 Impell'd by Thee, Aurora's arrows fly 
 
 In paths of light athwart the shadow'd sky ; 
 
 They seem to lend a momentary vi'^w 
 
 Of glories past yon canopy of blue. 
 
 Or else, to write on Heaven's walls, afar, 
 
 Thy coming doom — apostate Lucifer ! 
 
 Thy spirit breathes ! — but why my God prolong 
 
 A strain more fitted for a seraph's tongue, 
 
 Or strive to tell, when goes Thy fiat forth. 
 
 What marvels gild the chambers of the North ? 
 
 Their balmy gales let other regions boast, 
 
 Pellucid streams unfettered by the frost. 
 
 Unclouded skies, and groves that never know 
 
 A fading leaf or coverlet of snow ; 
 
 We would not change these spectacles sublime 
 
 For all the splendours of a southern clime ! 
 
 Blanch'd though her cheek by Winter's chilly breath 
 
 Yet Nature still is beautiful, in death ; 
 
 Nor praise Thee lesSy hyperborean snows. 
 
 Than Spring's fair blossoms, or the Summer's rose. 
 
11 
 
 AN INDIAN SUMMER'S DAY IN " Ar^EGVTET.' 
 
 ( Prince Edward Isle. ) 
 
 Fair Hillsborough's flood pursues its silent way 
 By gloomy woods, rich fields, and meadows gay, 
 Slow o'er its breast the stately vessels glide, 
 Their drooping sails reflected in the tide. 
 A roseate blush the spreading haze pervades. 
 And jets of amber light the sylvan shades ; 
 The with'riug leaves of faded green and gold. 
 Drop from the spreading beeches grey and old, 
 The maple's scarlet liv'ry blends with these. 
 And silver birches tremble in the breeze ; 
 Whilst swelling hills, red cliffs, and sheltered farms, 
 Lend to the glowing landscape added charms. — 
 But ah ! how fleeting is the scene I view, 
 How like the sum of man's existence, too ! 
 Socm will the dark and rolling clouds arise. 
 And howling storms obscure the sunny skies. 
 
 If 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 12 Ah Indian Summer's Day in " Abcgwect." 
 
 The short-lived honours of these faded trees 
 Must soon be scatter'd by the wintry breeze, 
 The placid flood by tempests wildly tost, 
 Wail o'er its transient beauties marr'd and lost ! 
 'Tis thus with MAN, his glories pass away 
 Like the short triumph of a summer's day ; 
 The autumn of his life, serene yet brief, 
 Recals the image of the fading leaf, 
 The wintry clouds involve him in the gloom 
 That shrouds his entrance to the lonely tomb ; — 
 Yet faith in Christ shall triumph o'er decay. 
 And radiant Hope point out a brighter day. 
 When death's dread power by the Lord o'erthrown, 
 The " Sun of Righteousness " shall reign alone. 
 And risen saints their hallelujahs sing. 
 Amid the sweetness of perpetual Spring ! 
 
 L. C. J. 
 
IS 
 
 THE "MAN OF THE BOOK" AND HIS WOUNDED 
 MILICETE INTERPRETER.* 
 
 Drooping 'neath the wigwam's shadow, 
 Lay the forest's crippled child, 
 
 Seldom on a picture sadder 
 Hath the rosy morning smiled. 
 
 By the margin of the river, 
 Idly floats the bark canoe, 
 
 Leaps the silver trout for ever, 
 He must all the sport forego. 
 
 n. 
 
 I 
 
 Through the russet maple cover 
 Swift the grey moose crashes by. 
 
 From his pendant rifle, " Brother," 
 Glances at his shatter'd thigh. 
 
 * The " Milicete" (or " feeble-speaking") tribe inhabit the shores 
 of the rivers of New Brunswick. The Micmaca dwell chiefly on the 
 sea-coasts of New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, and Nova Scotia. 
 
 
 I -l 
 
 Hi: 
 
 I 
 
 m 
 
14 The ''Man of the Bookr 
 
 Who his little ones shall pity, 
 Shield from hunger's cruel law ? 
 
 Toiling to the distant city, 
 See his basket-laden squaw. 
 
 Woman, when the trial's sorest. 
 Nobly rising to the need, — 
 
 In the palace or the forest. 
 Oft a heroine indeed ! 
 
 Blending with the curling vapour, 
 Sighing through the darkened grove, 
 
 Novel sounds cannot escape her, 
 Bringing back the spoils of love. 
 
 Through the thicket softly creeping 
 
 Peers she anxiously within, 
 Not the hound his vigil keeping. 
 
 Hears her cautious mocassin. 
 
 \ ished now her sense of danger, 
 Happy is her chieftain's look ; 
 
 By his side reclines a stranger, 
 Talking slowly from a book. 
 
The " Man of the Book, 
 
 M 
 
 15 
 
 Eapt she listens — words how tender 
 Through the wigwam steal along, — 
 
 Words her Noel speaks to render 
 Sweeter in her mother tongue. 
 
 'Tis the tale of one that perish'd, 
 Pierced in His hands and feet ; 
 
 'Tis the love that Jesus cherish'd, 
 Whispered in the " Milicete." 
 
 Hark ! she hears — the Lord will never, 
 Never " break the bruised reed," 
 
 Satan ! vain thy worst endeavour, 
 Pid He not for sinners bleed ? 
 
 Daily in the " camp " of sorrow, 
 Weaves the consecrated scribe * 
 
 Holy words, — to ring to-morrow 
 Through the feeble-speaking tribe. 
 
 Let the hunter have his glory ! 
 
 Better maim'd than in the chase, 
 Who hath clothed salvation's story 
 
 In the language of his race ! 
 
 * Kev. S. T. Rand. (See note, p. 3.) 
 
16 
 
 ON THE ACCIDENTAL DEATH OF LADY MARY 
 
 FITZROY.* 
 
 Along the silent path of Sydney's street, 
 Of late a train of mourners slowly moved. 
 
 Scarce could you hear the echo of their feet. 
 
 They bear the mangled corpse of her they loved. 
 
 « 
 
 And who was she whom thousands thus deplore, 
 
 Snatch'd in a moment from this earthly scene ? 
 From ev'ry eye behold the tribute pour. 
 On ev'ry cheek the glistening tear is seen ! 
 
 Ah ! she was noble, Fitzroy's matchless wife, 
 Richmond's loved sister, of a lineage proud, 
 
 Yet, could they not retain so dear a life — 
 
 Witness the scene, witness the weeping crowd I 
 
 * Sister of the late Duke of Richmond, and wife of Sir Charles A. 
 Fitzroy, Governor of New South Wales (and fomxerly Lieutenant- 
 Governor of Prince Edward Island). 
 
 
On the Death of Lady Mary Fitzroy. 17 
 
 Yet something higher moulders on that bier 
 Than worldly rank or titled name bestows, 
 
 'Twas that cold hand that stayed the widow's tear, 
 'Twas that still heart that t^^robb'd for others' woes ! 
 
 Yon shiv'ring orphan, weeping as they go, 
 Lifts its thin hand, and seems to ask of Heaven 
 
 By whose kind care, for fain t' would love to know, 
 Its morrow's meal perchance may now be given. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! no moment could be spared 
 To sigh adieu to those she loved so well ; 
 
 She's gone ! — but let us hope not unprepared 
 To hear without dismay that parting knell. 
 
 W. S. 
 
 B 
 
18 
 
 A GLIMPSE FROM CARLETON TOWER. 
 
 I ( 
 
 ( St John, New Brunswick, 1870. ) 
 
 
 Would you with ravished eye behold 
 Fair Nature's ample stores unroU'd, 
 And feel beneath her magic spell 
 Your heart with adoration swell, 
 To Him who stamped on sea and sky 
 The impress of His majesty ? 
 Go ! take your stand some leisure hour 
 On Carleton's grey embattled tower, 
 That casts its lengthened shadow down 
 O'er ragged rock and silent town. 
 And seaward shows '<s frowning form 
 Through half a century of storm. 
 There, as you gaze with throbbing breast 
 From proud Ben-Lomond's wooded crest, 
 (Once proud, but now in Autumn's prime, 
 Flushed with the memory of crime !)* 
 
 * Near the scene of the Munro murder, 1869. 
 
A Glimpse from Carleton Toiver. 
 
 To where the dying sunbeams kiss 
 The mountains of Annapolis ; 
 Or mark the faithless billows smile 
 Round philanthropic "Partridge Isle ; " 
 (That lifts above the southern wave 
 Her torch, the mariner to save), 
 Or catch the torrent's mutter'd tone 
 As 'neath "the bridge" it rushes on 
 To lave the busy city's feet, 
 And " Ouangondy's " waters meet : 
 Methinks your soul will drop her care 
 On yonder turret's winding stair, 
 And whimper, "What can grander be, 
 New Brunswick, than thy scenery !" 
 
 19 
 
20 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON THE BURIAL DAY OF 
 PRESIDENT LINCOLN, U.S.A. 
 
 Columbia weeps ! her frantic bosom burns 
 
 With sorrow, wrath, astonishment, by turns, 
 
 As o'er the body of her murdered chief 
 
 She pours the tribute of a nation's grief ! 
 
 The light of joy has vanish'd from her eye. 
 
 And from her lip the song of victory ; 
 
 The laurel wreath that clasped her gladden'd brow 
 
 Beneath her feet lies little heeded now, 
 
 For all forgotten other deeds to her. 
 
 In that dread scene and gory sepulchre ! 
 
 Low sigh the leaves in Shenandoah's vale, 
 
 Potomac's waves repeat the bloody tale, 
 
 The hollow winds pronounce th' assassin's name, 
 
 Rings ev'ry cavern with the cry of shame ! 
 
 And from her heart, America, to thee 
 
 A startled world rolls in her sympathy i 
 
21 
 
 FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 ( Opposite a Photograph of St Mark's Parish Church, St John, 
 
 New Brunswick. ) 
 
 Oft as on yonder page you bend your eye, 
 
 And muse on Sabbaths in the years gone by, 
 
 When in those hallow'd courts you bowed the knee, 
 
 Or swell'd the strain of sacred melody, 
 
 And heard the herald of the cross proclaim 
 
 A free salvation in his Master's name — 
 
 Think more of Him, " the Way, the Life, the Truth," 
 
 Than vanished friends and vanished days of youth ; 
 
 And ponder well what answer canst thou give 
 
 To this demand — " Dost thou believe and live ? " 
 
 Thus may the word come back to thee with power 
 
 From yon still courts and Heaven-pointing tower, 
 
 And grace employ the photographic art 
 
 To stamp the preacher's message on thy heart. 
 
22 
 
 % 
 
 THE FUNERAL KNELL OF A ST MARK'S 
 SUNDAY-SCHOOL SCHOLAR. 
 
 ( St John, N.B. ) 
 
 Ring out ! Ring out ! funereal bell, 
 The sainted maiden's triumph tell, 
 How faith prevail'd that hallow'd morn, 
 When she joined the ranks of the heaven-born. 
 
 Ring out ! Ring out ! in joyful strain, 
 And greet the sombre solemn train ; 
 Earth cannot keep its charge to-day, 
 And the ransom'd spirit's pass'd away ! 
 
 Ring out ! Ring out ! she welcomed death, 
 " Oh ! bring not back my parting breath ! " 
 E'en in that measur'd mournful knell 
 She seems to lisp, "It is well ! — 'tis well I" 
 
 \ 
 
 '^mmmmmmmminm 
 
The Funeral Knell. 
 
 Ring out ! Ring out ! toll not for her, 
 The tenant of yon silent bier. 
 Those eyes may lack their lustre now. 
 But the jewel's on her Saviour's brow ! 
 
 23 
 
 rn. 
 
 I. 
 
 \ 
 ^1 
 
 
24 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 ( Green Head, on St John River, near Carleton, New Brunswick. ) 
 
 :i!.^ ■ 
 
 
 m 
 
 ■\> 
 
 How often still, in memory, I tread 
 Thy sylvan slopes, magnificent Green Head I 
 And catch the scene which bursts upon my view, 
 When, passed at length the cedar avenue ; 
 I stand entranc'd upon the rocky brow. 
 Whose image glitters in the depths below ! 
 Here charms that only Canada can claim, 
 Transpierce the bosom and the soul inflame ; 
 Fair Nature revels in her wildest mood. 
 And pours her wealth of foliage and flood. 
 Neat rural villas nestle at my feet. 
 Beside the wigwam of the " Milicete." 
 Adown the stream, in swift succession, go 
 The gilded steamer and the bark canoe. 
 And fancy's wing, in sweet sequester'd coves. 
 Takes on the crimson of the maple groves ! 
 
 1 
 
A Retrospect. 
 
 25 
 
 Descending fast, St John's blue waters kiss 
 Thy verdant banks, enchanting Nerepis, 
 And snow-white sails upon the spreading Bay 
 Flash back the glories of the parting day ! 
 O'er yonder cape, so fitly named " the Boar " 
 (From rugged outline, and from savage shore). 
 These sadden'd eyes the noble river trace, 
 Where gallant "Renforth"* perished in the race, 
 And jealous Death rode o er the limpid tide 
 To snatch the laurels from aquatic pride ! 
 No noxious drug dissolved the " silver cord " 
 (Be such a crime by Canada abhorr'd !). 
 At God's decree the British champion falls — 
 His sudden fate the stoutest heart appals ; 
 And ringing cheers to frantic sorrow turn, 
 Along thy banks, romantic " Torryburn." 
 
 ?' 
 
 5 
 
 E'en Tiny seems with more than canine glee 
 To wag her tail, and caper at my knee. 
 As though it were dogmatically clear 
 That even brutes should be inspired Aere / 
 Ah ! "little bridge," ah! fair "Mosquito cove," 
 Ah ! " Zoe valley," and the paths I love, 
 
 * Death of Kenforth in the contest with the Paris crew of St 
 John, N.B., on the Kennebecasis river, near Torryburn, 1871. 
 
26 
 
 A Retrospect. 
 
 Say, bear ye yet the print of little feet ? 
 Resound ye still with voices soft and sweet ? 
 From "Sutton's Mill" there comes a mellow'd tone- 
 " To other lands the children's feet have flown V* 
 
 
 
27 
 
 IMPROMPTU WELCOME.* 
 
 Hail ! Oarsmen of New Brunswick, 
 
 Hail ! victors of the Seine, 
 Through coming years, untarnish'd, 
 
 Your honours shall remain ! 
 
 And, round the " New Dominion," 
 Shall ring your triumphs won. 
 
 Where wake the golden daybeams. 
 And sleeps the setting sun ! 
 
 * A welcome to the famous " Paris crew " of St John, New Bruns- 
 wick, Canada- viz., R. Fulton, R. Hutton, E. Ross, J. Price— who, 
 after defeating all-comers, including the best amateur crews of 
 Europe, in the two great /owr-oared races of the International Regatta 
 at the Paris Exposition in 1867, vanquished the celebrated "Ward 
 Brothers" (champion oarsmen of the United States of America), at 
 Springfield, Massachusetts, 1868. The "Ward Brothers" suite- 
 quently defeated the " Taylor-Winship" crew, and another famous 
 professional four of Newcastle-on-Tyne (which included H. Kelley 
 and R. Chambers, jun.), at Saratoga Lake, U.S.A., 1871, soon after 
 the lamented death of James Renforth (Champion Sculler of Eng- 
 land) in New Brunswick. (See p. 25.) 
 
28 
 
 EXCELSIOR, 
 
 Where giant " Mizpeh " overlooks the plain,* 
 And classic "Avon" stretches to the main, 
 And dimly seen dark " Blomidon " afar, 
 Hurls back defiance at the tempest's roar ; — 
 On some proud rock, that beetles o'er the sea, 
 And at its fury smiles in mockery, 
 Where Nature's impress lingers on the sod. 
 And man — the spoiler man — hath never trod : 
 There would I dwell, perchance forgotten die, 
 The heath my bed, my canopy the sky ! 
 Such is the prayer of him whose fever'd mind 
 Has sought in vain perfection in his kind, 
 Who fondly dreams he can himself elude, 
 In some sweet shade or lofty solitude. 
 But he, whose happy soul has learu'd to rest 
 Her aching head upon the Saviour's breast. 
 Disdains to fly, his hope's white banner furl'd, 
 From out the battle of the busy world. 
 
 * "Windsor, Nova Scotia. 
 
 
 .»i.i iili'iM 
 
Excelsior. 29 
 
 Athwart the clouds of sorrow, sin, and death, 
 His eye discerns, with telescope of faith, 
 A bow of promise, pledge of brighter things, 
 Within the palace of the King of kings. 
 Go ! Christian worker, perish at your post, 
 A useful life was never, never, lost : 
 It gilds the loom, the sickle, and the desk, 
 And makes the meanest cottage picturesque. 
 The wreaths that deck the valley and the field, 
 To duty's sons a double pleasure yield, 
 And giace shall weave for him a fairer crown 
 Who seeks a moral beauty of his own. 
 
30 
 
 ON HEARING THE OLD SCHOOL BELL. 
 
 ( Central Academy of Chariot tetown, Prince Edward Island. ) 
 
 ■ 
 
 i 
 
 Ah I summons oft my boyish pastime stayed, 
 What feelings rise at thy remember'd peal ; 
 Whisp'ring afar like echo from the dead, 
 O'er all my soul thine undulations steal ! 
 Once more, submission, prompt at thy command, 
 Mounts in my bosom at the well-known sound ; 
 Again, to grasp the tomes my wonted hand 
 Extends, as though from magic spell unbound. 
 Once more, in juUen haste, by choice unmov'd, 
 In fancy's dream, my boyish footsteps tread 
 The woodland path, ah ! path but little loved, 
 Save when retraced, with freedom's chaplets spread- 
 Anon arrived, amidst the motley band, 
 Each unforgotten face I seem to see, 
 Whilst furtive glances seek the sluggish hand 
 That marks the term of mimic slavery. 
 
 ■dJU K H i 
 
On Hearing the Old School Bell. 
 
 Ring out, old bell ! whilst in thy hallow'd tone 
 There seems to breathe a melancholy lay, 
 O'er phantom youth, and friends for ever gone, 
 I hear thee lisp, "5e diligent to-day T 
 
 31 
 
 ' 
 
 ^#^ 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
32 
 
 AURI SACRA FAMES. 
 
 
 With fickle step man climbs the road to wealth, 
 Now losing ground, now gaining more by stealth 
 At last, attained the height he first desired, 
 He looks above with greater zeal inspired. 
 Ah ! could I reach yon lofty peak, he cries, 
 What envy should I gain from mortal eyes ; 
 There would I pause, and rest declining age. 
 And dying, be embalmed in bounty's page. 
 Vain fool ! conceive his utmost wish complete. 
 The world and all its pleasures at his feet, 
 The reins of power in his eager hand. 
 Unbounded riches at his least command : 
 Of what avails it, whilst before his eyes, 
 Yet unattained, some gilded summit lies ! 
 No, no ; he cannot rest : the mystic power 
 That urged him first increases every hour ; 
 Innate, impelled him erst the mount to climb. 
 Continues with him to his latest time ; 
 
Auri Sacra Fames. 
 
 33 
 
 Raised in his bosom hopes that still attend, 
 
 And but inflame the higher he ascend ; 
 
 Hopes which, though fortune haply stay her frown, 
 
 And God in mercy should not hurl him down, 
 
 Leave him at death for ever undeceived. 
 
 His soul a wreck, his purpose unachieved ! 
 
34 
 
 FAME. 
 
 Spurring madly > 'he. fight, 
 See th' enthusiastic j jht, 
 Lo ! his batter'd helm and shield, 
 Prone upon the battle-field — 
 Stoop and scan the heroic name, 
 " Dauntless devotee of fame ! " 
 
 Bending o'er the classic page, 
 Mark the solitary sage ! 
 See his animated eye 
 Beaming with philosophy ; 
 Him may critic's pen proclaim, 
 "Ardent votary of fame !" 
 
 Tossed upon the troubled main. 
 See the voyager again, 
 
Fame. 
 
 View bis tatterM flag unroll 
 Proudly from the starry pole, 
 Truth shall designate his aim, 
 " Blind idolatry of fame !" 
 
 Soaring to the azure sky, 
 Now the aeronaut survey ; 
 See his liberated car 
 Range the thunder-cloud afar ! 
 Son of Daedalus ! the same 
 Syren fascinates thee— Fame ! 
 
 35 
 
T 
 
 "^ 
 
 36 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF ADELAIDE THE QUEEN- 
 DOWAGER. 
 
 I ! 
 
 Britannia weeps ! unstain'd the classic scroll 
 
 Of proud renown, loved Adelaide, for thee, 
 
 This maxim ruled thine unambitious soul, 
 
 " Virtue alone is true nobility/' 
 
 Yes ! thou wast noble, but the lordly crest, 
 
 And fair escutcheon, which thy birth reveal'd, 
 
 Were but the gauze that flutter'd on thy breast. 
 
 Thy nobler nature earn'd a better shield ! 
 
 Christian ! fond wife ! the nation's mother ! friend 
 
 The sailor's refuge ! leader in the bands 
 
 Of mercy's sisters ! thine it was to lend 
 
 The lamp of truth to sin-benighted lands ! 
 
 Alas ! ^thy sun of charity hath set. 
 
 Yet orphan England through her tears can see, 
 
 With eye of faith, celestial spirits greet 
 
 Its endless dawn on immortality ! 
 
 vV 
 
 n 
 
37 
 
 N- 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 i! 
 
 Bright was the garb, wept poet of a day ! 
 Fame threw arouud thee, but in brighter far, 
 Hope sees thee now imperishably clad 
 Beyond the tomb ! for in thy manhood's morn, 
 Thou learnd'st betimes no Aganippe's fount 
 Could cleanse thy soul, or satisfy its thirst ! 
 Grace taught Ihee this, then in that crimson stream 
 Which flowed, (ere yet Omnipotence unveil'd 
 Dark ocean's face), from Pity's riven side, 
 Immers'd thy robes !— enough ! for ever stand. 
 And strike thy harp before the Father's throne ! 
 
38 
 
 REPLY OF LEONIDAS TO THE HERALD OF 
 XERXES AT THERMOPYLAE. 
 
 I! 
 
 II :> 
 
 
 Proud son of the Persian ! I know not the word, 
 Lacedaemon is dumb when she renders the sword, 
 Untaught are her legions to number the foe, 
 They sleep on the plain, or to victory flow ; 
 Unstain'd are her banners, yon darkling flood 
 Shall shew to the Spartan no recreant blood I 
 Far, far o'er the waters shall echo the cry, 
 " Laconians ! Stand ! for your country die I" 
 The shade of Achilles shall start from the tomb,' 
 Revived shall his valorous Myrmidons come. 
 Forth, down from his seat in yon heavenly sphere, 
 Patroclus shall leap, with his death-giving spear, 
 
 Atrides ! but hark I from the Pythian brow, 
 
 Tis the voice of the prophetess muttering slow — 
 " Discomfited monarch ! go fetter the sea I 
 Leonidas sleeps, but Achaia is free !" 
 
 v' 
 
4' 
 
 Reply of Leonidas to the Herald of Xerxes. 39 
 
 Sequel. 
 
 The strife is o'er— red sinks the sun, 
 ThermopylaB is fought and won, 
 Dark treachery hath drank the tide 
 Of life-blood from the Spartan's side, 
 And he is now the vulture's prey 
 Who scorned submission — yesterday ! 
 The Persian vaunts, but let him smile ! 
 Though vengeance slumbereth awhile, 
 Though nought but ashes live to tell 
 The sage where Pallas loved to dwell — 
 A day shall dawn, a redder day^ 
 Than thine— deplored Thermopylae ! 
 
 * Salamis. 
 
40 
 
 HOME AT LAST. 
 
 ( The Kerry Maiden's Return to Erin from America. ) 
 
 A Fact. 
 
 Carry her gently over the tide, 
 For her spirit has scarcely fled ; 
 
 She might not die by her mother's side, 
 But her mother must see her dead. 
 
 >•) !l 
 
 The livelong day she has heard the wave 
 
 As it broke on her native shore ; 
 And her heart has yearned for a quiet grave 
 
 By her childhood's home of yore. 
 
 The flush has passed from her wasted cheek, 
 And the light from her beaming eye ; 
 
 But she kTiew that her voiceless lip would speak 
 To her mother by-and-by ! 
 
Ho7ne at Last. 41 
 
 The Sabbath bell she shall never hear 
 
 From her village church again ; 
 But its solemn music shall linger near, 
 
 When the daylight gilds the main. 
 
 Then gently your precious burden bear, 
 
 Ye seamen wild and rude ! 
 Where her dust may be wet with a mother s tear, 
 
 But a billow ne'er intrude. 
 
42 
 
 THE ORACLE AT DELPHI. 
 
 When erst Apollo, sage prophetic god, 
 Encouraged strife, or with propitious nod, 
 Predicted peace ; to ken the immortal will. 
 And then convey, betide it good or ill, 
 The dread response ; a superhuman task 
 The priests affirmed ; who said it but to mask 
 Their subtle plans, and temper such replies 
 As seemed to them most politic or wise 
 For Delphic ends ! — with artifices base 
 They rear a tripod in the sacred place 
 Above a pile, and on its summit high 
 The maiden set, they seek to mystify. 
 Now curls the smoke, the vapour dense ascends, 
 Within the mist the wily priest pretends 
 Great Phoebus with the metamorphos'd speaks 
 And hastes to note th' intelligible shrieks^ 
 Which he to dupes will speedily unfold, 
 When they have paid the Deity in gold ! 
 
 
48 
 
 THE TOMB OF BYRON. 
 
 1872 A.D. 
 
 If ever fame seemed lighter than the air, 
 
 A thing of naught, more empty than a dream, 
 
 A silver gloss on earthen vessels laid, 
 
 That fades away before the touch of death ; 
 
 'Tis surely here, where moulders 'neath my feet, 
 
 The hand that wrote " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage." 
 
 Oh, what a " Poet's Corner " this, to hide 
 
 The feet that press'd the highest mount of song, 
 
 The tongue that hymn'd the threnodies of Greece, 
 
 The arm that laid the muse's garland by, 
 
 To wield the sword, and strike for liberty ! 
 
 St Paul's proud dome, the Abbey's stately aisles. 
 
 So rich in stores of consecrated dust. 
 
 Half rob the " king of terrors of his gloom. 
 
 And keep the ashes of the great alive ; " 
 
 But desolation here reigns all supreme, 
 
 i'.i 
 
44 
 
 The Tomb of Byron. 
 
 
 III 
 
 And fancy shrinks from dread mortality. 
 
 Yon dreary nave, that grim and ghastly tower, 
 
 (^That peers so coldly o'er the village street, 
 
 Where rustic wit, to delicacy dead. 
 
 Has dubb'd the noisy * public ' — " Byron's Rest ;" 
 
 And seems to fix its melancholy gaze 
 
 On Newstead, nestled in the vale below 
 
 Where — lord of all the bard's ancestral lands — 
 
 The stranger sits), say do they not proclaim 
 
 With stony lips a lesson to the world ? 
 
 'Tis Heaven's decree that honour, length of days, 
 
 Domestic bliss, the love that never dies. 
 
 Unfading wealth that dignifies the man,, 
 
 And makes him blessed, a blessing to his kind, 
 
 E*en in the tomb ; his heritage shall be, 
 
 Who cleaves to Christ, and walks in virtue's ways, 
 
 Who never stoops to prostitute his gifts 
 
 At passion's shrine, but honours God with all ! 
 
 
45 
 
 THE TEES AT ROKEBY. 
 
 How dead is he who uninspired sees 
 
 The rushing waters of the classic Tees, 
 
 Where, grim memento of the days gone by, 
 
 Proud Barnard lifts his turrets to the sky, 
 
 Or hears unmoved the river's pensive tone, 
 
 As past the walls of ruined Eglistone 
 
 He hastes to kiss the consecrated spot 
 
 Where Rokeby mourns the memory of Scott, 
 
 Till, clasped at length in Greta's soft embrace, 
 
 By Mortham's keep lie glides with quicker pace, 
 
 Lost to the view by Wycliffe's fane afar. 
 
 Where truth revived display'd her " morning star." 
 
i I 
 
 i] ; 
 
 46 
 
 THE LEGEND OF WHITBY ABBEY. 
 
 Before a drop of blood was spilt, 
 King Oswy leaned upon his hilt, 
 And breath'd this solemn vow : 
 " If I the victory should gain, 
 I'll rear a splendid Gothic fane 
 On Whitby's rocky brow ; 
 There, high above the billow's strife, 
 My little daughter's saintly life 
 Shall speak her father's praise !" 
 He said : (the southern bowmen yield), 
 A cry rings through the battle-field, 
 "Northumbria has won !" 
 The ruined abbey tells the rest, 
 Saint Hilda's parting spirit blest — 
 Here ruled the royal Nun, 
 iEiaeda ! 
 
47 
 
 WHITBY ABBEY. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 Here ruined grandeur waves her magic wand 
 Above the surf that beats upon the strand, 
 Here all the Present mingles with the Past, 
 And Time is proved the great iconoclast. 
 On fancy's wing I cross the gulf of years, 
 I see Saint Hilda with her veil'd compeers, 
 Adown the aisle they move in sable throng, 
 Whilst vaulted roof gives back the even )ng. 
 Here, half conceal'd in massive pillar's shade, 
 ^Ifleda kneels— the consecrated maid ; 
 And, as he hears her accents soft and mild, 
 King Oswy asks a blessing on his child. 
 
f rifpwfaR»eifi!.r<»^.T,;jiji iilji jiiiuin ^^ ji , ii_ i|i 
 
 I 
 
 48 
 
 i'i 
 
 |! 
 'ft 
 
 HOLY STREET MILL. 
 
 ( Chagpord, Dartmoop. ) 
 
 I LOVE that gnarl'd and twisted tree, 
 Of other days it speaks to me. 
 And hearts that now are stilJ. 
 
 Full many a blithe and sportive maid 
 Beneath its spreading boughs hath play'd, 
 And mused on joys to come. 
 
 Full many a stripling, bending now. 
 With hoary head and wrinkled brow, 
 Hath scal'd its leafy crest. 
 
 Full oft the music, soft and sweet, 
 
 Of yon old mill of " Holy Street," 
 
 Hath here entranc'd the soul. 
 
Holy Street Mill 
 
 And still the current flows and flows, 
 And jaded townsmen seek repose 
 In scenes that God hath made. 
 
 Here Nature lends to Fancy wings, 
 And breathes unutterable things 
 In Meditation's ear. 
 
 Each forest bird that flashes by, 
 Each bud that opens to the sky, 
 Has language of its own. 
 
 As yonder streamlet seeks the main. 
 So grace shall emulate the " Teign," 
 And blend with glory's sea ! 
 
 How much of Eden lingers still 
 On verdant plain and breezy hill 
 To win the creature's praise. 
 
 49 
 
 Lord, cause the sinner's heart to yield. 
 And make the beauties of the field 
 Thy telephone of love ! 
 
I! 
 
 I 
 
 f II 
 
 50 
 
 THE EXECUTION OF CHARLOTTE CORDAY. 
 
 i 
 
 ( 1 
 
 k' f 
 
 b' 1 
 
 Unmov'd upon the scaffold Charlotte stood, 
 Prepared to pay the penalty in blood ; 
 To Heaven she cast her patriotic glance, 
 And breathed a prayer for liberty and France. 
 Pale are her cheeks — yet her majestic mien 
 Betrays no terror of the guillotine, 
 The axe may fall, for she has reft away 
 From freedom's neck the yoke of tyranny ! 
 Calmly she views the surging crowd below. 
 Nor recks if jibes or tears of pity flow. 
 One mighty thought obliterates the rest, 
 " This hand has sheath'd a dagger in his breast, 
 Has sent a monster to th' eternal shore, 
 Who deluged France with cataracts of gore ! " 
 O child of vengeance ! can we bid thee live, 
 Who dared t' invade the Lord's prerogative, 
 Who caught the cry of innocence afar. 
 And quench'd the light of hideous Marat ? 
 
 1 i 
 
The Execution of Charlotte Corday. 51 
 
 Ju8t is thy doom ; though vice in virtue's dress 
 
 Disclaims the brand of common murderess ! 
 
 No marble bust hoar Rouen's streets display, 
 
 To tell the tale of " Citoyenne Oorday," 
 
 Yet Norman maidens in the days to come, 
 
 Shall point the pilgrim to her early home ; 
 
 And as he leaves the windings of the Seine, 
 
 To lose himself in reverie again 
 
 Beneath the pile (dark blot on Britain's fame), 
 
 Where Joan of Arc expired in the flame. 
 
 The thought shall come, that she who gamboll'd near, 
 
 First caught the spark of heroism here, 
 
 And burned to lay the land's oppressor low. 
 
 Though she herself should perish in the blow ! 
 
52 
 
 "SHE THAT LIVETH IN PLEASURE IS DEAD 
 WHILE SHE LIVETH." 
 
 Tell me not of flowers springiiig 
 Where the feet of beauty tread, 
 
 And of birds for ever singing 
 O'er the maiden's chisell'd head. 
 
 Tell me not of laughing waters, 
 And the sunlight's richer glow, 
 
 By the side of pleasure's daughters. 
 Where the buds of folly grow. 
 
 In the midst of fashion's glitter, 
 
 At the theatre or ball, 
 Oft the sweet is turned to bitter, 
 
 By the writing on the wall. 
 
€< 
 
 " She that liveth in pleasure." 
 
 With the music's lightest jingle 
 Blends a monitory strain, 
 Christ and Mammon cannot mingle, 
 One must o'er thy bosom reign ! " 
 
 Like the dark and troubled ocean, 
 Waverers can never rest ; 
 
 Happiness attends devotion, 
 
 They that "fully serve " are blest. 
 
 53 
 
 * 
 ' 
 
 % 
 
 m 
 
54 
 
 THE MARTYR BISHOP. 
 
 (Reprinted from the Church Observer, Montreal, J 872.) 
 
 The Southern Cross is veil'd in gloom 
 Above the latest martyr's tomb, 
 
 Pacific's rolling flood — 
 The sea-bird hovers on the wing, 
 And ocean's ebon arches ring, 
 
 As spills the righteous blood ! 
 
 Alas ! alas ! the cruel blow 
 That fell, intended for the foe, 
 
 On Melanesia's friend f 
 I see the unavailing tears, 
 I catch the sighs in coming years 
 
 That savage bosoms rend ! 
 
 No more through perils of the deep 
 Shall he, whose zeal could never sleep 
 In Selwyn's footsteps come ! 
 
The Martyr Bishop, 
 
 The tongue that heralded to each 
 Benighted nation — in its speech, 
 The love of Christ is dumb. 
 
 Shall we the note of grief prolong, 
 Or charge the Omniscient with wrong 
 
 In this obscure decree ? 
 No, Patteson ! the noble band 
 Who died on Erromanga's strand ' 
 
 For Jesus, needed thee. 
 
 The "seed of evil-doers "^ raise 
 
 The hymn of their Kedeemer's praise, 
 
 On Norfolk's verdant isle, 
 And He, who trained in holy fear 
 The scions of the mutineer. 
 
 Can bid the desert smile ! 
 
 0.) 
 
 Faith sees the stricken church's balm 
 In that fresh frond of knotted palm 
 
 That shades thy bleeding breast ; 
 What though revenge has placed it there ? 
 It bids us seek thy rest to share, 
 
 And tells us thou art blest I 
 
 See Notes, p. 71. 
 
06 
 
 EPISTLE. 
 
 ( Addressed to an old College Friend, by a wandering " Deputation" 
 from a Missionary Society. 187>i) 
 
 I 
 
 Friend of my youth ! how swiftly flew the hours, 
 
 When side by side we threaded Langton bowers, 
 
 And conjured up, beneath the spreading trees. 
 
 Those happy scenes we knew beyond the seas 
 
 When free from care, and full of boyish tire, 
 
 / little thought to be a " begging friar," 
 
 Nor you had dreamed, that, on my native shores, 
 
 A village pastor's life would e'er be yours ! — 
 
 Full twenty years and more had roll'd away, 
 
 Since that bright morning of life's fitful day ; 
 
 Yet as we walked, nor marked on either pow 
 
 A single flake of monitory snow. 
 
 It seem'd a breath since college pranks were played, 
 
 And Windsor held us in her classic shade ! 
 
 In vain tradition casts her spell around. 
 
 And tells us this is consecrated ground ; 
 
 That Johnson's self, the giant of his age, 
 
 Has cracked his jokes in yonder parsonage ; 
 
Epistle. 
 
 That Goldsmith oft has woo'd his willing muse 
 In these fair fields and shady avenues ; 
 That (minus coat) by Boswell uncontroil'd, 
 Down yonder hill the burly doctor roll'd ;* 
 Not one or all, sage, sycophant, or bard, 
 Can pinion fancy or her flight retard : 
 She shakes her foot and cries, •* Away ! Avaunt ! 
 'Tis Bowman, Hazen, Allison, we want ! " 
 Then spreads her wing across the western main, 
 And bears us back to Avon's shores again, 
 Where, wild with joy, we recognise by turns 
 Stuart, Pickman, Butler, Savary, and Sterns ! 
 
 57 
 
 Ah ! good "old ship," methinks I see thee noWy 
 
 " Youth at the helm, and pleasure at the prow," 
 
 In thought I tread each fellow-student's room 
 
 (Ambition's cradle, or ambition's tomb). 
 
 And, but that death has claim'd his two or three. 
 
 And sent his solemn messages to me, 
 
 I scarce could think, as Hensley^s form appears,^ 
 
 * A fact. (See Life of Dr Johnson.) 
 
 t The writer's beloved friend and College contemporary. Rev. John 
 Manuel Hensley, D.D., S.T.P., Canon of Nova Scotia Cathedral, and 
 Vice-President of King's College, Nova Scotia, who has passed away 
 honoured and lamented since the above lines were written. 
 
}\ 
 
 58 
 
 hi 
 
 J 
 { 
 
 1 
 
 Epistle, 
 
 ** The DoctoVy* too, so gently touched by years,* 
 
 That, iiigh a quarter century has flown 
 
 Since " Alma Mater " stamped us for her own. 
 
 Why, (den of dens !) your rooms - " Middle Bay," 
 
 They look as if you'd never been away, 
 
 And I and Hazen (chums as true as steel) 
 
 Were bounding in to join you in a meal ! 
 
 Your oval table trembles on its legs. 
 
 Your cap and gown are swinging from the pegs, 
 
 " Longinus " lies, half open, on the shelf. 
 
 The buckwheat pancakes frizzle on tlie delf, 
 
 Whilst " Pompey " views, with horror in his eye, f 
 
 Your awful boots, that cover hip and thigh ! 
 
 But hark ! the bell ! we hurry in a trice, 
 
 To " Chapel Bay " to hsten to " the Vice," + 
 
 Who little dreams that you and he'll obey 
 
 " Great Tom of Lincoln " at a future dav, 
 
 And I, the vagrant beggar of the cloth, 
 
 In English vales shall disinter you both ! 
 
 * The learned and venerable George MacCawley, D.D. (late Arch- 
 deacon of Nova Scotia), President of King's College, University of 
 Windsor, Nova Scotia, from 1336 to 1875. 
 
 + The negro *' gyp." 
 
 X The Rev. J. Baiubridge Smith, M.-A. (Cam.), Rector of Sotby 
 (Diocese of Lincoln), formerly Professor of Mathematics, and Vice- 
 President of King's College, Nova Scotia. 
 
59 
 
 A YOUNG BRITISH OFFICER'S FIRST IMPRESSIONS 
 OF SPAIN AND HER PEOPLE. 
 
 1811. 
 
 Strange land ! where all that bounteous Nature gives 
 
 Of fertile dale, or rich luxuriant mead, 
 
 Washed by a thousand grand historic streams, 
 
 O'erhung by mountains, noble in their pride, 
 
 Of savage nudity, and bordered gay 
 
 By the blithe flow'ret and the balmy shrub 
 
 Is various still, and captivates the soul ! 
 
 How oft transfixed, in wonder and in awe. 
 
 Does the rude pilgrim dwell upon the scene. 
 
 And revel in the never-ending change 
 
 Of crag and cliff, of mountain, shrub, and tree, 
 
 Of gushing torrent and of peaceful stream ! 
 
 The traveller sees th' adventurous goatherd's shed 
 
 Beside the convent's turret, rising proud 
 
 From the hoar summit of the mountain steep. 
 
 
w 
 
 ,ii. 
 
 f 
 
 60 
 
 Spain and her People. 
 
 a *i 
 
 That beetles o'er, in the expanse below, 
 
 A world of hamlets, girt by bleating flocks. 
 
 Proud Spain ! though homely is thy peasant's fare, 
 
 Yet mark his mien, his penetrating eye, 
 
 His tall athletic form, and port of pride, 
 
 Nor deem that luxury's unnerved sons 
 
 Can boast of souls as free, or hearts as brave, 
 
 Or blood more lavish in their country's cause I 
 
 Land of romance ! where ev'ry crag combines, 
 
 In its rude grandeur, to inspire the mind 
 
 To thoughts heroic and to deeds of fame. 
 
 To steel the arm to valour's daring strife, 
 
 And nerve the soul with all enduring pride ; 
 
 What pity ! that instruction's golden page 
 
 (Fond nurse, and guardian of the human race), 
 
 Has never led thy children's thoughts to glow 
 
 With useful lore, and bade the noble mind 
 
 Its thirst assuage at revelation's spring ! 
 
 What, without her, is valour's highest aim. 
 But vengeful cruelty and brutal rage ? 
 What is the love of freedom, but the scorn 
 Of beauteous order, and protecting law 
 What is ambition's son, but envy's slave ? 
 And what religion's fair and virtuous rule, 
 
Spain and her People. 61 
 
 But superstition's yoke ? the glance of love, 
 But jealousy's distrustful scowl of hate, 
 Hastening to plunge the foul assassin's knife 
 In kindred blood ? whilst honour's soul recoils 
 From deeds of stealth, and stab of treachery ! 
 
 W. S. 
 
 i 
 
 \m^ 
 
62 
 
 SONG OF A VIVANDI^RE, 
 
 { Before the Battle of Vittoria. ) 
 
 
 »•! I 
 
 Bid the shrilling trumpet rise, 
 Let the martial hautboy tell 
 
 Our triumph to the wondering skies, 
 Bid the notes of music swell ! 
 
 Let Europe's echoing kingdoms hear, 
 From cottage thatch to palace dome, 
 
 Sounds of dread and tones of fear; 
 
 'Tis Gallia's host, they come ! they come ! 
 
 Moscow stoops, and Prussia yields, 
 Lusitania crouches low, 
 
 Conquest wastes Italia's fields, , 
 Spain has rued the fatal blow. 
 
Song of a Vivandiere. 
 
 Britain trembles in her isles, 
 Trembles at the victor's name — 
 
 Vanquish'd nations wait his smiles, 
 Sing the hero's deeds of fame ! 
 
 63 
 
 Sequel. 
 
 Ill fared the day on Gallia's side, 
 Her eagle wept his fallen pride, 
 Ambition heard the fatal knell 
 That rang o'er her departing spell ; 
 'Twas then, where rose a gilded fane, 
 She saw but a deserted plain, 
 Her hand that grasped an empire's chair. 
 Held nothing but the yielding air. 
 The song that fluttered round the throne, 
 Was drowned in the Frenchman's groan, 
 And Spain, the crushed, discerned on high 
 Britannia's star of victory ! * 
 
 W. S. (1813.) 
 
 ♦ The writer of the foregoing lines (Captain Wm. Swabey, R.H.A.) 
 was present with his troop at the taking of Copenhagen in 1807, and 
 subsequently at the battles of Ciudad-Rodrigo, Salamanca, Vittoria 
 (where he received a bullet in the knee), Toulouse, and Waterloo. 
 He survived the final triumph of the British arms over Napoleon 
 Buonaparte nearly fifty-seven years, and died in England in his 
 eighty-third year, February 1872. 
 
64 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 When to one end the heart has given 
 
 Each hope, almost the hope of Heaven ; 
 
 What is there in this slighted earth. 
 
 Whence joy or grandeur spring to birth ? 
 
 What in ambition's grasp that lives, 
 
 Or what that soft retirement gives, 
 
 Can to one smile the soul surprise, 
 
 Save with that end it sympathize ? 
 
 But ! what light may pierce that gloom, 
 
 When hope has found its earthly tomb. 
 
 When sleeps in night the feeble ray, 
 
 Whose dimness we mistook for day ? 
 
 For such, the world in vain may strive 
 
 The drooping spirit to revive ; 
 
 'Tis like the mockery that is shed 
 
 O'er the cold mansion of the dead, 
 
 If, glittering round its marble cell 
 
 Awhile some dancing moonbeam dwell, 
 
 'T may tell where pleasure once did reign ; 
 
 But cannot bid it laugh again ! W, S. 
 
G5 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 (Who, without previous indisposition, expired suddenly whilst out 
 walking with her brother and sister.) 
 
 The smallest flow'ret that perfumes the mead, 
 Subject to Nature's order is decreed ; 
 The tender bud survives the wintry air, 
 Partakes at length the Spring's peculiar care, 
 Swells till its strength no longer dreads the blast ; 
 Summer is gone, its infant days are past, 
 Its balmy fragrance floats upon the morn, 
 Its hues unruffled, and its leaf untorn. 
 At length the autumnal wind sweeps o'er the hill. 
 Bleak is the morn, the evening damp and chill, 
 Beneath the frigid blast the flow'ret shakes, 
 Leaf after leaf the quivering stem forsakes, 
 Till on the ground its prostrate beauties lie. 
 Man views the wreck, and knows that Winter's nigh, 
 
 E 
 
^I! ' 
 
 !■ 
 
 r: 
 
 ff>' 5 
 
 i^i 
 
 66 
 
 On the Death oj a Young Lady. 
 
 Yet passes on, nor heeds he Nature's law ; 
 Or, if a moral from the scene he draw. 
 He reasons that when years have swept along, 
 He too, alas . must quit life's busy throng ; 
 Life's Autumn shall behold his youth decay. 
 And wintry age restore him to his clay. 
 Thou fool ! reflect, thy God is Nature's God, 
 And it has pleased Him from the heathy sod 
 To bid the tendril and the flow'ret rise ; 
 It is His air that wafts amid the skies 
 Their fragrant scents, His Summer that displays 
 Their varied hues, His sun their tints arrays ; 
 And it has pleased Him, too, to fix their fate. 
 Their length of days, unchang'd, determinate. 
 But thou, fond fool ! yon sun that gilds the sky, 
 Will thou behold it, will it glad thine eye, 
 When on to-morrow it shall leave its bed 
 Its Master's glories o'er the earth to shed ? 
 Death sleeps not ! haply on thy very couch 
 To-night may see the ruthless tyrant crouch. 
 Deem not health's pulse, or roseate hue can save 
 From the dark empire of the loathsome grave ! 
 She, who beneath this marble hearse is laid, 
 The morn beheld a youthful joyous maid, 
 Health on her cheeks its playful tints had placed. 
 Beauty and youth in every step were traced ; 
 
 
On the Death of a Young Lady. 
 
 67 
 
 Ardour and hope, companions that beguile, 
 Her way attended, and invoked her smile ; 
 /SVie haply formed, to fancy's secret sight, 
 Aerial schemes the future to deliffht ; 
 Around her those whom her fond bosom loved, 
 Brothers and sisters in affection moved ! 
 Heedless that o'er her death was hov'ring nigh, 
 Haply she laughed the laugh of gaiety ! 
 The unerring shaft well aim'd, had left the bow, 
 Quick in her heart was still'd the mirthful glow. 
 Vain were your tears, as by her corpse ye stood. 
 Vainly ye poured affection's dearest flood. 
 Never your ears again shall catch that strain, 
 So late your joy, but now your keenest pain ! 
 Be this your consolation! that she lives 
 In B.is blest presence, who all blessing gives, 
 Life is His boon, which, when He takes away. 
 Who shall prescribe to //im th' appointed day ? 
 To you, to all who dwell upon this talc. 
 Strive from its breath this lesson to inhale : 
 Call not the moment that's to come your own, 
 But watch and live, as though before the throne 
 Of Him thy Judge, the next was fix'd for thee, 
 To give account of thy past ministry. 
 
 W. S. 
 
68 
 
 THE MAGNET. 
 
 I 
 
 When, half mistrustful of the budding wing, 
 From leaf to bough the little warblers spring, 
 High o'er the nest the tender mother flies, 
 And lures her timid offspring to the skies. 
 
 U"'^ 
 
 H 
 
 So Christian, He, " from whom all blessings flow," 
 To wean thy soul from vanities below. 
 Folds to Himself some idol of its love, 
 And bids thee soar to happiness above ! 
 
 ■ ft" 
 
 *.- 
 
C9 
 
 APPEAL FOR THE COLONIAL AND CONTINENTAL 
 CHURCH SOCIETY. 
 
 ( Reprinted from the Greater Britain Mcssaif/er, 1870. ) 
 
 Rest not ! but hcod thy brother's cry of anguish 
 For " living bread '* across the stormy sea : 
 
 Shall famish'd souls in " Greater Britain" languish, 
 When God has sent His messengers to thee ? 
 
 Haste where as yet no heaven-pointing tower 
 Reminds the settler of a better world : 
 
 Go ! teach his sons the source of England's power — 
 The Spirit's sword, the Gospel flag unfnrl'd. 
 
 Go ! shield our youth from Superstition's darts 
 In sunny France, fair Italy, and Spain ; 
 
 Go ! press the claims of Christ upon their hearts, 
 And waft your Sabbath blessings o'er the main. 
 
 Go ! plead for Jesus with thy banish'd brother, 
 And cheer his cabin 'mid the forest wild ; 
 
 Seek first thine own, (like Andrew), then another, 
 And shew them each the Father's holy Child ! 
 

 70 
 
 THE PASSING KNELL OF THE DEPARTING 
 
 YEAR. 
 
 |lf 
 
 V 
 
 'Tis clone ! the curtain falls ! another year 
 Has played its part, and finish'd its career, 
 Has borne its record to th' eternal throne, 
 Of sins committed, and of duties done. 
 Its joys have vanished, and the silent dust 
 Has buried all its miseries, we trust ; 
 Elate with hope, we long to pierce the veil 
 That shrouds the future, but our efforts fail ; 
 'Tis "man's, to-day a life of faith to live, 
 To-morivtv's ken is God's prerogative ! 
 
 ! (■ 
 
 tmmm 
 
NOTES (p. 55). 
 
 1 Rev. John "Williams, of the London IMissionary Society, and tlu 
 Kev. Messrs Gordon and ]\Irs Gordon of the Nova Scotia (Presby- 
 terian) Mission to the New Hebrides, South Pacific. The Kev. 
 iVIessrs Gordon were natives of Cascumpeque, now Alberton, Prince 
 Edward Island (the writer's first sphere of niissionaiy labour). "When 
 the elder brother and his wife (who were well-knoAvn to I'dshops 
 Selwyn and I'atteson), met with a violent death about the year 186.3, 
 the younger brother, with heroic self-devotion, offered himself f(»r 
 the vacant post ! Alas ! he too fell a victim to the blind furj' of the 
 natives of Erromanga Island, 1874 ! 
 
 2 The pious descendants of the mutineers of H. M. S. Bonntii, 
 transfeiTed from ritc.airn's Island, some years ago, to Norfolk Island, 
 which was latterly the head-quarters of the Melanesian Mission, 
 presided over by the lamented Bishop Patteson. 
 
 3 A small branch of cocoa-nut palm, with five knots on it, was 
 found laid upon the breast of the murdered bishop (when his body 
 was discovered in the drifting canoe), indicating that his life had 
 been taken as "utu" (or payment) for the lives of five l^Ielanesians 
 who had no doubt been slain by the white kidnappers. This circum- 
 stance has been brought out by the sculptor with consummate skill 
 in the splendid stone-pulpit recently erected to the memory of the 
 martyr-bishop in the nave of Exeter Cathedral (where he was first 
 set apart to the work of the sacred ministry).