POEMS. (continued 2)

Our land is flushed with love; through the wealth of her gay-hued tresses From his bright-red fingers the sun has been dropping his amorous fire, And her eyes are gladly oppressed with the weight of his lips’ caresses, And the zephyr-throbs of her bosom keep time with the voice of his lyre.

’Tis the noon of the sweet, strong summer, the king of the months of the year, And the king of the year is crowning our Land with his glory of love, And the King of all kings, in whose crown each gem is the light of a sphere, Looks smilingly down on our Land from the height of His heaven above.

For to-day she breathes what to her is the first of a nation’s breath, As she lies ’neath the gaze of the sun, as a bride, or a child new-born, Lies with fair motionless limbs in the beautiful semblance of death, Yet awake with the joy of a bird that awakes with the whisper of morn.

And her soul is drinking the music that flows through the golden lyre, From the deeps of the woods and waters and wonderful hearts of men, From the long-hushed songs of the forest, the wild, primeval choir, Till she feels the breath of the Spirit move over her face again.

Of the shadowy distant ages, (This is the song they sing), That scorn historic pages, When the Maple alone was king; When the bears were lords of creation, The beaver’s the only trade, And the greatest Confederation Was that which the wolves had made.

And then, long ages after, How the first of the forest men, With sounds of war and laughter, Invaded the wild beast’s den; They tell of the axe’s ringing, Of the camp-fire’s savage glee, Of the pipe of peace and the singing Under the maple tree.

And how strange birds of ocean Came from the dawn of day, And woke untold commotion, Where’er they winged their way; How pale-faced men and cruel Carried the sword and brand, In search of gold and jewel, Into the red man’s land.

How, with the warriors, others Of gentle manners came, Who called the red men brothers And told them of His Name, Who came from the Great Spirit, To bless mankind and save; And who, for man’s demerit, Suffered the cross and grave.

How still in spite of preaching Of brotherhood and peace, It seemed that war’s stern teaching Should never, never cease; How blood was shed like water, How treaties were despised, How massacre and slaughter Were night and day devised.

How, in the course of seasons, Other strange ocean birds Brought violence and treasons, And smooth, deceitful words; And how the first pale-faces Fought with the last who came, Until a war of races Set all the woods aflame.

How valiant deeds and noble Shone out amid the night, Illuming scenes of trouble, With Heaven’s blessed light; How oft, in human nature, Though wofully defaced, Was seen some god-like feature— A flower in a waste;

Till now, through God’s good guiding, Those who as foemen strove, With heart in heart confiding, As brothers join in love; Till, from lake, sea and ocean, Mountain and woody dell, Is heard, with glad emotion, Division’s passing-bell.

So she hears, not in words, but in spirit, the changeful tale of the past, As she leans to the sun with veins that are blue like the blue of the sky, Hears with a smile on her lips that the demon Division is cast Into the river of death, as a monster worthy to die.

And she hears many tongues of men, that are singing as one in her praise, Calling her, all, by one name, a name that is noble and old, Singing a pæan of joy for the light of the gladdest of days, Making a noise of thanksgiving for union more precious than gold.

Canada, Canada, land of the maple, Queen of the forest and river and lake, Open thy soul to the voice of thy people, Close not thy heart to the music they make. Bells, chime out merrily, Trumpets, call cheerily, Silence is vocal, and sleep is awake!

Canada, Canada, land of the beaver, Labour and skill have their triumph to-day; Oh! may the joy of it flow like a river, Wider and deeper as time flies away. Bells, chime out merrily, Trumpets, call cheerily, Science and industry laugh and are gay.

Canada, Canada, land of the snow-bird, Emblem of constancy change cannot kill, Faith, that no strange cup has ever unsobered, Drinketh, to-day, from love’s chalice her fill. Bells, chime out merrily, Trumpets, call cheerily, Loyalty singeth and treason is still!

Canada, Canada, land of the bravest, Sons of the war-path, and sons of the sea, Land of no slave-lash, to-day thou enslavest Millions of hearts with affection for thee. Bells, chime out merrily, Trumpets, call cheerily, Let the sky ring with the shout of the free.

Canada, Canada, land of the fairest, Daughters of snow that is kissed by the sun, Binding the charms of all lands that are rarest, Like the bright cestus of Venus in one! Bells, chime out merrily, Trumpets, call cheerily, A new reign of beauty on earth is begun!

The ocean has kissed her feet With cool, soft lips that smile, And his breath is wondrously sweet With the odours of many an isle.

He has many a grand old song Of his grand, old fearless kings; And the voice from his breast is strong, As he sings and laughs as he sings.

Though often his heart is sad With the weight of the gray-haired days That were once as light and as glad As the soul of a child that plays.

But to-day at Canada’s feet, He smiles, as when Venus was born, And the breath from his lips is as sweet As the breath of wet flowers at morn.

The mountains raise their faces Up to the face of God; They are fresh with balmy graces And with flowers their feet are shod.

In their soul is a noise of gladness, Their veins swell out with song,— With a feathery touch of sadness, Like a dream of forgotten wrong.

They have set their song to the metre Of the bright-eyed summer days, And our Land, to-day they greet her, With lips that are red with praise.

Lake is calling to lake With a ripply, musical sound, As though half afraid to awake The storm from his sleep profound.

The hem of their garments is gay With gardens that look to the south; And the smile of the dawn of to-day Has touched them on bosom and mouth.

The rivers have gladly embraced, And carry the joy of the lakes, Past mountain and island and waste, To where the sea’s laughter outbreaks.

And sea and lake and mountain, And man and beast and bird— Our happy Land’s life fountain— By one great voice are stirred. Bells chime out merrily, Trumpets call cheerily, Cannons boom lustily, Greet the glad day! Rose-wreath and fleur-de-lys, Shamrock and thistle be Joined to the maple tree Now and for aye!

Let the shout of our joy to-day be borne through the pulse of the sea, To the grand old lands of our fathers,—a token of loyalest love; And may the winds bring back sweet words, O our Land, to thee— As, in the far old time, the peace-leaf came with the dove.

And long, long ages hence, when the Land that we love so well Has clasped us all (as a mother clasps her babe) to her motherly bosom, Those who shall walk on the dust of us, with pride in their Land shall tell, Holding the fruit in their grateful hands, of the birth of to-day, the blossom.

In my heart are many chambers through which I wander free; Some are furnished, some are empty, some are sombre, some are light; Some are open to all comers, and of some I keep the key, And I enter in the stillness of the night.

But there’s one I never enter,—it is closed to even me! Only once its door was opened, and it shut for evermore; And though sounds of many voices gather round it, like the sea, It is silent, ever silent, as the shore.

In that chamber, long ago, my love’s casket was concealed, And the jewel that it sheltered I knew only one could win; And my soul foreboded sorrow, should that jewel be revealed, And I almost hoped that none might enter in.

Yet day and night I lingered by that fatal chamber door, Till—she came at last, my darling one, of all the earth my own; And she entered—and she vanished with my jewel, which she wore; And the door was closed—and I was left alone.

She gave me back no jewel, but the spirit of her eyes Shone with tenderness a moment, as she closed that chamber door, And the memory of that moment is all I have to prize,— But that, at least, is mine for evermore.

Was she conscious, when she took it, that the jewel was my love? Did she think it but a bauble, she might wear or toss aside? I know not, I accuse not, but I hope that it may prove A blessing, though she spurn it in her pride.

“Why comes he not? why comes he not, My brave and noble son? Why comes he not with his warlike men, And the trophies his sword has won? How slowly roll his chariot wheels! How weary is the day! Pride of thy mother’s lonely heart, Why dost thou still delay? He comes not yet! will he never come To gladden these heavy eyes, That have watched and watched from morn till eve, And again till the sun did rise? Shall I greet no more his look of joy, Nor hear his manly voice? Why comes he not with the spoils of war, And the damsels of his choice?” Years rushed along in their ceaseless course, But Sisera came no more, With his mighty men and his captive maids, As he oft had come before. A woman’s hand had done the deed That laid a hero low;— A woman’s heart had felt the grief That childless mothers know.

Ex mediis viridem surgentem ut lœta columba Undis aspexit, post tempora tristia, terram, Et levibus volitans folia alis carpsit olivæ, Pacifera et rediit, libertatemque futuram Navali inclusis in carcere significavit; Sic terram, lœtis, super œquora vasta, Columbus Insequitur, ventis astrisque faventibus, alis; Inventam et terram placidis consevit olivis. Aevorum super æquora parva columba Columbum Inscia persequitur cum vaticinantibus alis! Omina nomina sunt et Verbo facta reguntur, Prœteritum nectitque futuro Aeterna Catena.

Summer is dead. Shall we weep or laugh, As we gaze on the dead queen’s epitaph Which Autumn has written in letters of gold: “She was bright and beautiful, blithe and young, And through grove and meadow she gaily sung, As with careless footsteps she danced along To the grave, where she now lies cold?”

Shall we weep that her beauty from earth has gone? Shall we weep for the friends that with her have flown? Shall we weep for those that with her have died? For the man that has perished in manhood’s pride? For the maiden that never can be a bride? For the hearts that are left alone?

Shall we laugh as we stand at earth’s palace-door, With the faded crown that poor Summer wore, And placing it on her sister’s brow, Forget the face that once smiled beneath That faded crown, and the flowery breath That parted those lips now cold in death? For Autumn is monarch now.

Summer is dead. Shall we laugh or weep? Is she really dead or only asleep With her sleeping garments on? She only sleeps, and in meadow and grove Again in gay dances her steps shall move; But shall she come back with the friends we love? God knows, and His will be done.

Torn by some careless hand From thy mother’s breast, Where gentle breezes fann’d Thy little leaves to rest, Here dost thou lie, forsaken, No more shalt thou awaken, To gladden with thy beauty the wanderer opprest! No more at early morn, When the lark’s gay song, Through grove and meadow borne, Calls his merry mates along, Shall thy tiny arms, outspreading, Their grateful odour shedding, Give silent, speaking welcome to Nature’s joyous throng! Peaceful and calm thy sleep! Thy life’s race run, Thou hadst no cause to weep, No duty left undone! Sweet little withered blossom, How many a blighted bosom Would fain repose as softly beneath a summer’s sun! How many a child of care, Won by thy power, Might raise his voice in prayer, Taught by thee, little flower! Ah! surely thou wast given, A gracious boon from heaven, To throw its charm on sinful earth for one short blissful hour! Farewell! I may not stay; Thy frail, drooping form Heeds not the sun’s fierce ray, Nor winter’s frowning storm! Like thee, kind hearts have perish’d By those that should have cherish’d, And held the shield of friendship to shelter them from harm. Like thee, I soon must fade, And ’neath the sky Lifeless and cold be laid! But though I claim no sigh, Though no fond heart may miss me When death’s pale lips shall kiss me, If my short life be pure as thine, I need not fear to die.

He stands alone upon the deck, A prince without a peer, He hears the cannon’s farewell boom, The loud and loyal cheer— A prayer from true New England hearts, Honest and brave and free, That God would guide Old England’s heir Safe o’er the stormy sea. He sees the sad, regretful gaze That marks him as he goes, And prays that God may never make Such trusty friends his foes, But that, as brothers in the cause Of Liberty and Right, Under the sacred flag of Truth They ever may unite.

He stands alone upon the deck, Son of the noblest Queen That ever placed a royal crown Upon a brow serene. For her sake did we welcome him, Who owns an empire’s love; But now we bless him for his own,— God bless him from above! He stands alone, a boy in years, A “mighty one” by birth, Crowned with a love that far excels The brightest crowns of earth; Nor thinks he of the pomp and power That wait his glad return, But thoughts of manly tenderness Deep in his bosom burn.

He stands alone upon the deck, Though thousands gaze on him, He sees them not, for fond regret Has made his blue eyes dim; His boyish lip is quivering, And flushed his boyish cheek, And his tearful eye speaks more, by far, Than words could ever speak. God grant that he may ever be As good a prince as now, Nor ever may true virtue’s crown Be lifted from his brow! God bless him for his mother’s sake, God bless him for his own, As thus he stands upon the deck, ’Mid thousands all alone!

Roses of England of every hue, Your heads were lately bowed with the dew Of sorrow for one that was good and true, Through the length and breadth of your Island-garden, Missing a hand that had cared for you! He sleeps in your midst, O Roses, The Roses he loved and knew, And blest was your sorrow, Roses, You gave unto worth its due!

But, O Roses, smile again, He for whom you weep Left his spirit among men When he fell asleep,— Left his spirit and his name, Left his pure, unspotted fame, One who lives them all can claim. Smile on him, O Roses! He whose head reposes In a sacred spot of your Island-garden, Left him to you, good, brave and true, To cherish and guard you, Roses!

And now to you he brings A treasure to keep and love, From the north-land home of the old sea kings,— A beautiful Danish Dove! I heard proud Ocean’s waves, England’s and Denmark’s slaves, Tell it in all the caves That peep through the wall of your Island-garden! Then welcome her sweetly, Roses, She shall nestle among you soon, And shall be to the loved of him whom you loved In sorrow a priceless boon!

Winds that sport with the sea, Go east, west, south and north, And from every Rose of the English tree That remembers its English birth Carry from far and wide A gentle message of love To the lone Rose-queen and her garden’s pride, And his beautiful Danish Dove.

O gentle little comer In wintry days, Far more than songs of summer I love thy lays. They come when flowers are sweetest, And leaves are green; But thou thy song repeatest In sterner scene.

In joyous days are many The friends we find; In dark ones scarcely any, To soothe the mind. But friends in hours of sorrow Far more we prize Than those that go to-morrow If storms arise.

The clouds are blushing, the sun is gone, He has been kissing them, every one, Except the shy ones, that kept away, And tearfully watched his parting ray; But they love him no less For their bashfulness; The truest of lovers are not the most gay. The sun is gone, and the blushing clouds Are growing dimmer, as Night enshrouds Sky, sea and land in her sombre pall— The sexton at old Earth’s funeral, When her race is run, And her work is done, And her children are weaned from her, one and all. The Man of the Moon has lit his lamp, And is now commencing his airy tramp, To see how the stars, those merry elves That wink as he passes, behave themselves. With steady pace He is running his race, Holding his lamp with a dignified grace. The sun is rising behind the hill, And I am waiting and watching still— Waiting and watching, as night goes by, What queer little scenes take place in the sky, When the silence is deep And men are asleep, And none are awake but the stars and I!

.... Quis prodere tanta relatu .... possit? —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 give that music to the ambient air. The noblest poem poet ever wrote; The brightest picture artist ever drew; The loftiest music lyrist ever sung; The gentlest accents woman ever spoke,— Are paraphrases of a felt original, That lip, or pen, or pencil, cannot show Unto the seeing eye or listening ear. The thoughts we utter are but half themselves. The poet knows this well. The artist knows His hands bear not the burden of his thoughts Upon the canvas. The musician knows His soul must ever perish on his lips. Even the eye,—“the window of the soul,”— Though it may shed a light a little way, Gives but a glimpse of that which burns within. The sweet, unconscious tenderness of flowers; The boundless awe of star-encircled night; The tear that trickles down an old man’s cheek; Ocean’s loud pulse, that makes our own beat high; The vocal throb of a great multitude; The pause when we have heard and said “Farewell,” And feel the pressure of a hand that’s gone; The thought that we have wronged our truest friend, When he is sleeping in the arms of Death; The silent, fathomless anguish that engulfs Him who has found the precious power to love, And sees that all he loves is torn from him; His dying moments who is void of hope; Jezebel; Nero; Judas; any one Of all the hideous things that crawled through life In human form;—what mortal could express All that he feels in one or all of these, Giving the very image of his thought? Life, Death, Hell, Judgment, Resurrection, God— 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 song, Awakes our souls to fuller utterance.

Rejoice ye tribes of Israel, the Lord was on your side, Your fierce and daring enemies have fallen in their pride. In vain the heathen strove against Jehovah’s awful word, For Ammon’s proud, presumptuous sons have perished by the sword.

From Aroer to Minnith and to Abel’s fertile plain Of twenty noble cities the “mighty men” are slain; Rejoice, thou son of Gilead, the Lord hath heard thy vow,— Thy foes are crushed, thy father’s sons before thy presence bow.

It is an hour of triumph to the warrior and his band, An hour of stern rejoicing to all the chosen land, When the conqueror of Ammon, the valiant of his race, Beholds once more, with well-earned joy, his long-lost native place.

But who is this advancing with gay attendant crowd? O Jephthah! dost remember now the vow that thou hast vowed? Why is thy face so ghastly pale? why sinks thy noble head? Thy daughter’s blood must now atone for all that thou hast shed!

Honour and pomp and victory are all forgotten now, And clouds of darkest anguish sweep across the father’s brow. He speaks—his words are words of death: he orders—is obeyed— And lonely mountains mourn the fate of Israel’s queenly maid.

Rejoice, ye tribes of Israel, the Lord was on your side, Your fierce presumptuous enemies have fallen in their pride? But, Jephthah, thou art childless now, lift up thy voice and weep! No sound of wailing can disturb thy daughter’s dreamless sleep!

I’ve seen the Ocean try to kiss the Moon, Till the wild effort of his hopeless love Tortured him into madness, and the roar From his great throat was terrible to hear; And his vast bosom heaved such awful sighs As made Earth tremble to her very bones, And all her children cling to her for fear. And I have watched and seen a gentle change Come over him, till, like a child, he lay, That, disappointed, cries herself asleep, And on her sorrow angels paint a dream So happy that her face is one sweet smile. So have I seen the love-tost Ocean smile After his fury, till I almost hoped That the gay Moon would never tempt him more. But ever his heart throbs at her approach, And he awakes in all the strength of love, And frets himself to madness, watching her. And when, as I have sometimes seen, the Sun, His mighty rival, struts before his eyes With her he loves, and warmly looks on her, Oh! how his heart is torn with jealousy! Oh! how he froths and foams and moans and raves, Till all his energy is lost in sleep, From which his love will rouse him soon again! So did I learn the Ocean’s tale of love, Watching him, day by day, for many years, Hearing him often murmur in his sleep Such sweet, sad murmurs, that I pitied him; And, like Electra, sat beside his bed Till all the madness of his love awoke. O Ocean! thou art like the human heart, Which craves forever what it cannot have, And, though a little it forget its strife Of longing, only wakes to long again For that which is no more accessible Than is the Moon to thee! Yet, shouldst thou lie Dull, sluggish, motionless, thy very life Would grow corrupt, and from the stagnant mass All things abominable would creep forth To soil with slimy poison the fair Earth; And that alone which moves thee to thy heart Can keep thee pure and bright and beautiful! So, by the anguish of a hopeless love,— So, by the madness born of mental pain,— So, by the endless strife of joy and fear,— So, by all sufferings, tortures, agonies,— So, by the powers that shake it to its depths,— So, by the very loss of what it seeks,— The heart is purified, and that which seems Its death gives it a fresher, truer life.

Sweet words of pity! Oh! if thou could’st rise, Fair Queen, from out the darkness of the tomb, And their old beauty light again thine eyes, And thy persuasive lips no more be dumb,— If thou, in all thy charms, should’st thus appear, How thy full heart would throb! With what surprise And rapture thou would’t watch thy gentle peer, By sad Lochleven, as, with tender sighs, She mourned thy fate,—“Poor Mary wandered here.”

This vengeance Time hath brought thee; and thy foe, Should she, too, rise with envy in her breast, Would see thee throned with mercy in the best And purest heart that ever beat below The purple of a Queen; whose veins are warm With that same blood that gave the beauteous glow To thine own cheeks. In her still lives the charm, For which, in spite of all, men worshipped thee,— Refined by honour, truth and purity.

A group of merry children played; The smiling sun to watch them stayed; A cloud came by with deadly shade; “Unus abest.”

Bright faces glow ’mid dance and game; Hush! some one named a well-known name; But dance and song go on the same; “Unus abest.”

A father joins his children’s mirth; A mother mourns an awful dearth; “Ashes to ashes, earth to earth;” “Unus abest.”

One sits before a lonely fire, Watching the flame’s unsteady spire Wasting with suicidal ire; “Unus abest.”

Thus, day by day, in house or street, We miss some form we used to meet; Some human heart has ceased to beat; “Unus abest.”

The years pass on; our hair is grey; A few years more we’ll pass away, Each leaving to his friends to say “Unus abest.”

Then let us live that, when the call Of the Great Trumpet wakes us all, These words from God’s high throne may fall: “Nullus abest.”

Long, my Father, have I wandered From the home I loved of old,— All Thy tender mercies squandered, All Thy loving-kindness sold.

I have sinned against Thy goodness, Mocked Thy sorrow, scorned Thy love; Treated all Thy care with rudeness, ’Gainst Thy gentle Spirit strove.

Far from Thy free, bounteous table, I have fed on husks of sin; Wayward, thankless, and unstable, Father, wilt Thou take me in?

Take me, oh! in mercy take me, To Thy blessed home again, And let no enticement shake me,— Satan’s wiles nor wicked men.

I am sinful, doubting, fearing— Thou canst banish all alarm; I am weak, and blind, and erring— Thou canst shield from every harm.

Look upon me, crushed and broken, Humble, contrite, at Thy feet. Dost Thou know me? Hast Thou spoken? “Hast Thou come Thy child to meet!”

Lost and found! Once dead, now living! Once an outcast, now a son! Once despairing, now believing,— I my Father’s house have won.

It is the quiet hour, when weary Day Whispers adieu in his dark Sister’s ear, And my lone soul is wandering away To blissful scenes that are no longer near; And well-known faces seem to smile again, And voices long unheard sound blithe and gay, As, when, of yore, a happy, careless train, We plucked the flowers that grew by life’s young way. Sweet flowers!—destined to a swift decay! Bright faces!—that on earth have smiled your last! Gay voices!—that have ceased to sing the lay That rose spontaneous in the joyous past! Memory’s own stars amid my night of pain, Shine out and tell me “Love is not in vain!”