Hesperus - and Other Poems and Lyrics
by Charles Sangster
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Other Poems and Lyrics








Entered, according to the Act of the Provincial Parliament, in the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty, by CHARLES SANGSTER, in the office ef the Registrar of the Province of Canada.


Poems and Lyrics




My Niece,







Dedicatory Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

Hesperus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Crowned . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Mariline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

The Happy Harvesters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

Falls of the Chaudiere, Ottawa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

A Royal Welcome . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

Malcolm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

The Comet, October 1858 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63

Autumn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Colin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68

Margery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70

Eva . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76

The Poet's Recompense . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77

The Wine of Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78

The Plains of Abraham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80

Death of Wolfe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83

Brock . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84

Song for Canada . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86

Song.—I'd be a Fairy King . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89

Song.—Love while you may . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91


The Snows, Upper Ottawa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92

The Rapid. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94

Lost and Found . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99

Glimpses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100

My Prayer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102

Her Star . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104

The Mystery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107

Love and Truth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109

The Wren . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111

Grandpere . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113

England's Hope and England's Heir . . . . . . . . . . . . 114

Rose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116

The Dreamer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118

Night and Morning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119

Within thine eyes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120

Gertrude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121

Flowers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122

The Unattainable . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123

Yearnings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124

Ingratitude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125

True Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126

An Evening Thought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127

A Thought for Spring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128

The Swallows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129

Song.—Clara and I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130

The April Snow Storm, 1858 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132

Good Night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134

Hopeless . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135

Into the Silent Land . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139



Proem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159

Sonnet I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162

II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164

IV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

V . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166

VI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167

VII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168

VIII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169

IX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170

X . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171

XI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172

XII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173

XIII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174

XIV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175

XV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176

XVI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177

XVII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178

XVIII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179

XIX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180

XX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181

XXI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182

XXII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183

Au Revoir . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184




Dear Carrie, were we truly wise, And could discern with finer eyes, And half-inspired sense, The ways of Providence:

Could we but know the hidden things That brood beneath the Future's wings, Hermetically sealed, But soon to be revealed:

Would we, more blest than we are now, In due submission learn to bow,— Receiving on our knees The Omnipotent decrees?

That which is just, we have. And we Who lead this round of mystery, This dance of strange unrest, What are we at the best?—

Unless we learn to mount and climb; Writing upon the page of time, In words of joy or pain, That we've not lived in vain.


We all are Ministers of Good; And where our mission's understood, How many hearts we must Raise, trembling, from the dust.

Oh, strong young soul, and thinking brain! Walk wisely through the fair domain Where burn the sacred fires Of Music's sweet desires!

Cherish thy Gift; and let it be A Jacob's ladder unto thee, Down which the Angels come, To bring thee dreams of Home.

What were we if the pulse of Song Had never beat, nor found a tongue To make the Poet known In lands beyond his own?

Take what is said for what is meant. We sometimes touch the firmament Of starry Thought—no more; Beyond, we may not soar.

I speak not of myself, but stand In silence till the Master Hand Each fluttering thought sets free. God holds the golden key.

Kingston, C. W., May 1st, 1860.





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 sagas 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.

Thoughts too refined for utterance, Ethereal as the air, Crowd through the brain's dim labyrinths, And leave their impress there; {12}

As far along the gleaming void Man's tender glances roll, Wonder usurps the throne of speech, But vivifies the soul.

Oh, 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!


We gazed on the Evening Star, Mary and I, As it shone On its throne Afar, In the blue sky; Shone like a ransomed soul In the depths of that quiet heaven; Like a pearly tear, Trembling with fear On the pallid cheek of Even.

And I thought of the myriad souls Gazing with human eyes On the light of that star, Shining afar, In the quiet evening skies;


Some with winged hope, Clearing the cope Of heaven as swift as light, Others, with souls Blind as the moles, Sinking in rayless night.

Dreams such as dreamers dream Flitted before our eyes; Beautiful visions!— Angelo's, Titian's, Had never more gorgeous dyes: We soared with the angels Through vistas of glory, We heard the evangels Relate the glad story Of the beautiful star, Shining afar In the quiet evening skies.

And we gazed and dreamed, Till our spirits seemed Absorbed in the stellar world; Sorrow was swallowed up, Drained was the bitter cup Of earth to the very lees; And we sailed over seas Of white vapour that whirled Through the skies afar, Angels our charioteers, Threading the endless spheres,


And to the chorus of angels Rehearsed the evangels The Birth of the Evening Star.



Far back in the infant ages, Before the eras stamped their autographs Upon the stony records of the earth; Before the burning incense of the sun Rolled up the interlucent space, Brightening the blank abyss; Ere the Recording Angel's tears Were shed for man's transgressions: A Seraph, with a face of light, And hair like heaven's golden atmosphere, Blue eyes serene in their beatitude, Godlike in their tranquillity, Features as perfect as God's dearest work, And stature worthy of her race, Lived high exalted in the sacred sphere That floated in a sea of harmony Translucent as pure crystal, or the light That flowed, unceasing, from this higher world Unto the spheres beneath it. Far below The extremest regions underneath the Earth The first spheres rose, of vari-coloured light, In calm rotation through aerial deep, Like seas of jasper, blue, and coralline, Crystal and violet; layers of worlds— The robes of ages that had passed away,


Left as memorials of their sojournings. For nothing passes wholly. All is changed. The Years but slumber in their sepulchres, And speak prophetic meanings in their sleep.


Oh, how our souls are gladdened, When we think of that brave old age, When God's light came down From heaven, to crown Each act of the virgin page!

Oh, how our souls are saddened, At the deeds which were done since then, By the angel race In the holy place, And on earth by the sons of men!

Lo, as the years are fleeting, With their burden of toil and pain, We know that the page Of that primal age Will be opened up once again.


Progressing still, the bright-faced Seraph rose From Goodness to Perfection, till she stood The fairest and the best of all that waked The tuneful echoes of that lofty world, Where Lucifer, then the stateliest of the throng Of Angels, walked majestical, arrayed


In robes of brightness worthy of his place. And all the intermediate spheres were homes Of the existences Of spiritual life. Love, the divine arcanum, was the bond That linked them to each other—heart to heart, And angel world to world, and soul to soul. Thus the first ages passed, Cycles of perfect bliss, God the acknowledged sovereign of all. Sphere spake with sphere, and love conversed with love, From the far centre to sublimest height, And down the deep, unfathomable space, To the remotest homes of angel-life, A viewless chain of being circling all, And linking every spirit to its God.


Spirits that never falter, Before God's altar Rehearse their paeans of unceasing praise; Their theme the boundless love By which God rules above, Mysteriously engrafted On grace divine, and wafted Into every soul of man that disobeys.

Not till the wondrous being Of the All-Seeing Is manifested to finite man, Can ye understand the love


By which God rules above, Evermore extending, In circles never-ending, To every atom in the universal plan.


Oh, the love beyond computing Of the high and holy place! The unseen bond Circling beyond The limits of time and space.

Through earth and her world of beauty The heavenly links extend, Man feels its presence, Imbibes its essence, But cannot yet comprehend.


But the days are fast approaching, When the Father of Love will send His interpreter From the highest sphere, That man fully may comprehend.


Oh, truest Love, because the truest life! Oh, blest existence, to exist with Love! Oh, Love, without which all things else must die The death that knows no waking unto life! Oh, Jealousy that saps the heart of Love,


And robs it of its tenderness divine; And Pride, that tramples with its iron hoof Upon the flower of love, whose fragrant soul Exhales itself in sweetness as it dies! A lofty spirit surfeited with Bliss! A Prince of Angels cancelling all love, All due allegiance to his rightful Lord; Doing dishonour to his high estate; Turning the truth and wisdom which were his For ages of supreme felicity, To thirst for power, and hatred of his God, Who raised him to such vast preeminence!


Woe, woe to the ransomed spirit, Once freed from the stain of sin, Whose pride increases Till all love ceases To nourish it from within! Its doom is the darkened regions Where the rebel angel legions Live their long night of sorrow; Where no expectant morrow, No mercy-tempered ray From the altar of to-day, Comes down through the gloom to borrow One drop from their cup of sorrow, Or lighten their cheerless way.



But blest be the gentle spirit Whose love is ever increased From its own pure soul, The illumined goal Where Love holds perpetual feast!


Ingrate Angel, he, To purchase Hell, and at so vast a price! 'Tis the old story of celestial strife— Rebellion in the palace-halls of God— False angels joining the insurgent ranks, Who suffered dire defeats, and fell at last From bliss supreme to darkness and despair. But they, the faithful dwellers in the spheres, Who kept their souls inviolate, to whom Heaven's love and truth were truly great rewards: For these the stars were sown throughout all space, As fit memorials of their faithfulness. The wretched lost were banished to the depths Beneath the lowest spheres. Earth barred the space Between them and the Faithful. Then the hills Rose bald and rugged o'er the wild abyss; The waters found their places; and the sun, The bright-haired warder of the golden morn, Parting the curtains of reposing night, Rung his first challenge to the dismal shades, That shrunk back, awed, into Cimmerean gloom; And the young moon glode through the startled void With quiet beauty and majestic mien.



Slowly rose the daedal Earth, Through the purple-hued abysm Glowing like a gorgeous prism, Heaven exulting o'er its birth,

Still the mighty wonder came, Through the jasper-coloured sphere, Ether-winged, and crystal-clear, Trembling to the loud acclaim,

In a haze of golden rain, Up the heavens rolled the sun, Danae-like the earth was won, Else his love and light were vain.

So the heart and soul of man Own the light and love of heaven, Nothing yet in vain was given, Nature's is a perfect plan.


The glowing Seraph with the brow of light Was first among the Faithful. When the war Between heaven's rival armies fiercely waged, She bore the Will Divine from rank to rank, The chosen courier of Deity. Her presence cheered the combatants for Truth, And Victory stood up where'er she moved. And now, in gleaming robe of woven pearl, Emblazoned with devices of the stars, And legends of their glory yet to come,


The type of Beauty Intellectual, The representative of Love and Truth, She moves first in the innumerable throng Of angels congregating to behold The crowning wonder of creative power.


Oh, joy, that no mortal can fathom, To rejoice in the smile of God! To be first in the light Of His Holy sight, And freed from His chastening rod. Faithful, indeed, that soul, to be The messenger of Deity!


This, this is the chosen spirit, Whose love is ever increased From its own pare soul, The illumined goal Where Love holds perpetual feast.


With noiseless speed the angel charioteers In dazzling splendour all triumphant rode; Through seas of ether painfully serene, That flashed a golden, phosphorescent spray, As luminous as the sun's intensest beams, Athwart the wide, interminable space. Legion on legion of the sons of God; Vast phalanxes of graceful cherubim;


Innumerable multitudes and ranks Of all the hosts and hierarchs of heaven, Moved by one universal impulse, urged Their steeds of swiftness up the arch of light, From sphere to sphere increasing as they came, Till world on world was emptied of its race. Upward, with unimaginable speed, The myriads, congregating zenith-ward, Reached the far confines of the utmost sphere, The home of Truth, the dwelling-place of Love, Striking celestial symphonies divine From the resounding sea of melody, That heaved in swells of soft, mellifluous sound, To the blest crowds at whose triumphal tread Its soul of sweetness waked in thrills sublime, The sun stood poised upon the western verge; The moon paused, waiting for the march of earth, That stayed to watch the advent of the stars; And ocean hushed its very deepest deeps In grateful expectation.


Still through the viewless regions Of the habitable air, Through the ether ocean, In unceasing motion, Pass the multitudinous legions Of angels everywhere.

Bearing each new-born spirit Through the interlucent void


To its starry dwelling, Angel anthems telling Every earthly deed of merit To each flashing asteroid.


Through the realms sidereal, Clothed with the immaterial, Far as the fields elysian In starry bloom extend, The stretch of angel vision Can see and comprehend.


Innumerable as the ocean sands The angel concourse in due order stood, In meek anticipation waiting for The new-created orbs, Still hidden in the deep And unseen laboratory, where Not even angel eyes could penetrate: A star for each of that angelic host, Memorials of their faithfulness and love. The Evening Star, God's bright eternal gift To the pure Seraph with the brow of light, And named for her, mild Hesperus, Came twinkling down the unencumbered blue, On viewless wings of sweet melodious sound, Beauty and grace presiding at its birth. Celestial plaudits sweeping through the skies Waked resonant paeans, till the concave thrilled


Through its illimitable bounds. With a sudden burst Of light, that lit the universal space As with a flame of crystal, Rousing the Soul of Joy That slumbered in the patient sea, From every point of heaven the hurrying cars Conveyed the constellations to their thrones— The throbbing planets, and the burning suns, Erratic comets, and the various grades And magnitudes of palpitating stars. From the far arctic and antarctic zones, Through all the vast, surrounding infinite, A wilderness of intermingling orbs, The gleaming wonders, pulsing earthward, came; Each to its destined place, Each in itself a world, With all its coining myriad life, Drawing us nearer the Omnipotent, With hearts of wonder, and with souls of praise: Astrea, Pallas, strange Aldebaran, The Pleiads, Arcturus, the ruddy Mars, Pale Saturn, Ceres and Orion— All as they circle still Through the enraptured void. For each young angel born to us from earth, A new-made star is launched among its peers.


Dreamer in the realms aerial, Searcher for the true and good,


Hoper for the high, ethereal Limit of Beatitude, Lift thy heart to heaven, for there Is embalmed thy spirit prayer: Not in words is shrined thy prayer, But thy Thought awaits thee there. God loves the silent worshipper. The grandest hymn That nature chants—the litany Of the rejoicing stars—is silent praise. Their nightly anthems stir The souls of lofty seraphim In the remotest heaven. The melody Descends in throbbings of celestial light Into the heart of man, whose upward gaze, And meditative aspect, tell Of the heart's incense passing up the night. Above the crystalline height The theme of thoughtful praise ascends. Not from the wildest swell Of the vexed ocean soars the fullest psalm; But in the evening calm, And in the solemn midnight, silence blends With silence, and to the ear Attuned to harmony divine Begets a strain Whose trance-like stillness wakes delicious pain. The silent tear Holds keener anguish in its orb of brine, Deeper and truer grief Than the loud wail that brings relief,


As thunder clears the atmosphere. But the deep, tearless Sorrow,—how profound! Unspoken to the ear Of sense, 'tis yet as eloquent a sound As that which wakes the lyre Of the rejoicing Day, when Morn on the mountains lights his urn of fire. The flowers of the glen Rejoice in silence; huge pines stand apart Upon the lofty hills, and sigh Their woes to every breeze that passeth by; The willow tells its mournful tale So tenderly, that e'en the passing gale Bears not a murmur on its wings Of what the spirit sings That breathes its trembling thoughts through all the drooping strings. He loves God most who worships most In the obedient heart. The thunder's noisome boast, What is it to the violet lightning thought? So with the burning passion of the stars— Creation's diamond sands, Strewn along the pearly strands, And far-extending corridors Of heaven's blooming shores; No scintil of their jewelled flame But wafts the exquisite essence Of prayer to the Eternal Presence, Of praise to the Eternal Name. The silent prayer unbars


The gates of Paradise, while the too-intimate, Self-righteous' boast, strikes rudely at the gate Of heaven, unknowing why it does not open to Their summons, as they see pale Silence passing through.


In grateful admiration, till the Dawn Withdrew the gleaming curtains of the night, We watched the whirling systems, until each Could recognize their own peculiar star; When, with the swift celerity Of Fancy-footed Thought, The light-caparisoned, aerial steeds, Shod with rare fleetness, Revisited the farthest of the spheres Ere the earth's sun had kissed the mountain tops, Or shook the sea-pearls from his locks of gold.


Still on the Evening Star Gazed we with steadfast eyes, As it shone On its throne Afar, In the blue skies. No longer the charioteers Dashed through the gleaming spheres; No more the evangels Rehearsed the glad story; But, in passing, the angels Left footprints of glory:


For up the starry void Bright-flashing asteroid, Pale moon and starry choir, Aided by Fancy's fire, Rung from the glittering lyre Changes of song and hymn, Worthy of Seraphim. Night's shepherdess sat, queenlike, on her throne, Watching her starry flocks from zone to zone, While we, like mortals turned to breathing stone, Intently pondered on the Known Unknown.



Her thoughts are sweet glimpses of heaven, Her life is that heaven brought down; Oh, never to mortal was given So rare and bejewelled a crown! I'll wear it as saints wear the glory That radiantly clasps them above— Oh, dower most fair! Oh, diadem rare! Bright crown of her maidenly love.

My heart is a fane of devotion, My feelings are converts at prayer, And every thrill of emotion Makes dearer the crown I would wear. My soul in its fulness of rapture Begins its millennial reign, Life glows like a sun, Love's zenith is won, And Joy is sole monarch again.

My noonday of life is as morning, God's light streams approvingly down; Uncovered, I wait her adorning, She comes with the beautiful crown! I'll wear it as saints wear the glory That radiantly clasps them above— Oh, dower most fair! Oh, diadem rare! Bright crown of her maidenly love.



At the wheel plied Mariline, Beauteous and self-serene, Never dreaming of that mien Fit for lady or for queen.

Never sang she, but her words, Music-laden, swept the chords

Of the heart, that eagerly Stored the subtle melody, Like the honey in the bee; Never spake, but showed that she

Held the golden master-key That unlocked all sympathy

Pent in souls where Feeling glows, Like the perfume in the rose, Like her own innate repose, Like the whiteness in the snows.

Richly thoughted Mariline! Nature's heiress!—nature's queen!


By her side, with liberal look, Paused a student o'er a book, Wielder of a shepherd's crook, Reveller by grove and brook:


Hunter-up of musty tomes, Worshipper of deathless poems:

Lover of the true and good, Hater of sin's evil brood, Votary of solitude, Man, of mind-like amplitude.

With exalted eye serene Gazed he on fair Mariline.

Swifter whirled the busy wheel, Piled the thread upon the reel— Saw she not his spirit kneel, Praying for her after-weal?

Like the wife of Collatine, Busily spun Mariline.


Hour by hour, and day by day, Sang the maid her roundelay; Hour by hour, and day by day, Spun her threads of white and gray.

While the shepherd-student held Commune with the great of eld:

Pondered on their wondrous words, While he watched his scattered herds, While he stemmed the surging fords. And he knew the lore of birds,


Learned the secrets of the rills, Conversed with the answering hills.

Like her threads of white and gray, Passed their mingled Eves away, One unceasing roundelay— Winter came, it still was May!


When the spring smiled, opening up Pink-lipped flower and acorn cup;

When the summer waked the rose In the scented briar boughs; When the earth, with painless throes, Bore her golden autumn rows—

Field on field of grain, that pressed, Childlike, to her fruitful breast—

When hale winter wrapped his form In the mantle of the storm, Tamed the bird, and chilled the worm, Stopped the pulse that thrilled the germ;

As the seasons went and came, One in heart, and hope, and aim,

Cheered they each the other on, Where was labor to be done, At day-break or set of sun, Like two thoughts that merge in one.


Dignified, and soul-serene, Busily spun Mariline.


Brightly broke the summer morn, Like a lark from out the corn,— Broke like joy just newly born From the depths of woe forlorn,—

Broke with grateful songs of birds, Lowings of well-pastured herds;

Hailed by childhood's happy looks, Cheered by anthems of the brooks— Chants beyond the lore of books— Cawing crows, instead of rooks.

Glowed the heavens—rose the sun, Mariline was up, for one.


Like a chatterer tongue-tied, Lo, the wheel is placed aside!— Not from indolence or pride— Mariline must be a Bride!

Fairest maid of maids terrene! Bride of Brides, dear Mariline!


Up the meditative air Passed the smoke-wreaths, white and fair, Like the spirit of the prayer Mariline now offered there:


Passed behind the cottage eaves, Curling through the maple leaves:

Through the pines and old elm trees, Belies of past centuries, Hardy oaks, that never breeze Humbled to their gnarly knees:

Forest lords, beneath whose sheen Flowers bloomed for Mariline.

Round the cottage, fresh and green, Climbed the vine, the scarlet bean, Morning-glories peeped between, Looking out for Mariline.

Odours never felt before Tranced the locust at the door,

Vieing with the mignonette Bound the garden parapet, Whose rare fragrances were met By rich perfumes, rarer yet,

Stealing from the garden walks, Sentineled with hollyhocks.


What a heaven the cottage seemed! Love's own temple, where Faith dreamed Of the coming years that beamed On them, as pale stars have gleamed


Through unnavigated seas, To which the prophetic breeze

Whispered of a future day, When swift fleets would urge their way, Through the waters cold and gray, Like the dolphins at their play.

There the future Bride, and he, Prince of love's knight-errantry,

Whose good shepherd arms must hold This pet yeanling of the fold, Gift of God so long foretold, Gift beyond the price of gold.

There the parents, aged and hale, Passing down life's autumn vale,

With a joy as rare and true As their daughter's eye of blue, With such hopes as reach up to Heaven's gate, when, passing through,

Peris, bound for higher skies, Win the Celestial Paradise.


Thoughtfully stood Mariline, Whitely veiled, and soul-serene; Love's fair world for her demesne, Never looked she more a queen—


With her maidens by her side, Smiling on the coming bride.

Her pet lamb, with comic mirth, Licked her hand and scampered forth; The fine sheep-dog, on the hearth, Kindly eyed her for her worth.


Up the air, across the moor, As they left the cottage door,

Chimed the merry village-hells, Music-wrapt the neighbouring fells, Stirred the heart's awakened cells, Like fine strains from fairy dells.

Past the orchard, down the lane, By fresh wavy fields of grain,

By the brook, that told its love To the pasture, glen, and grove— Sacred haunts, that well could prove Vows enregistered above.

By the restless mill, where stood, Bowing in his amplest mood,

The old miller, hat in hand, Rich in goodness, rich in land, On whose features, grave and bland, Glowed a blessing for the band.


Through the village, where, behind Many a half-uplifted blind,

Eyes, that might have lit the skies Of Mahomet's Paradise, Flashed behind the curtains' dyes, With a cheerful, half-surprise.

Through the village, underneath, Many a blooming flower-wreath,

Garlanding the arches green Beared in honour of the queen Of this day of days serene, Day of days to Mariline.

To the church, whose cheering bells Told the tale in music-swells—

Told it to the country wide, With an earnest kind of pride— Something not to be denied— "Mariline must be a Bride!"


Up the aisle with solemn pace, Meeting God there, face to face.

Never Bride more chaste or fair Stood before His altar there, Her ripe heart aflame with prayer, Blessing Him for all His care:


Every earthly promise given, Registered with joy in heaven.

From the galleries looked down, Village belle and country clown, Men with honest labour brown, Far removed from mart or town:

Smiling with a zealous pride On the shepherd and his bride—

Playmates of their early days; For their walks in wisdom's ways, Ever crowned with honoured bays Of esteem and ardent praise.


Well done, servant of the Lord! Grave expounder of His Word,

Who in distant Galilee Graced the marriage feast, that He, With all due solemnity, Might commission such as thee

To do likewise, and unite Souls like these in marriage plight.

With what manly, gentle pride, The glad Shepherd clasps his Bride! Love like theirs, so true and tried, Ever true love must abide!



Ye whose souls are strong and firm, In whom love's electric germ

Has been fanned into a flame At the mention of a name; Ye whose souls are still the same As when first the Victor came,

Stinging every nerve to life, In the beatific strife,

Till the man's divinest part Ruled triumphant in the heart, And, with shrinking, sudden start, The bleak old world stood apart,

Periling the wild Ideal By the presence of the Real:

Ye, and ye alone, can know How these twain souls burn and glow, Can interpret every throe Of the full heart's overflow,

That imparts that light serene To the brow of Mariline.





Autumn, like an old poet in a haze Of golden visions, dreams away his days, So Hafiz-like that one may almost hear The singer's thoughts imbue the atmosphere; Sweet as the dreamings of the nightingales Ere yet their songs have waked the eastern vales, Or stirred the airy echoes of the wood That haunt the forest's social solitude. His thoughts are pastorals; his days are rife With the calm wisdom of that inner life That makes the poet heir to worlds unknown, All space his empire, and the sun his throne. As the bee stores the sweetness of the flowers, So into autumn's variegated hours Is hived the Hybla richness of the year; Choice souls imbibing the ambrosial cheer, As autumn, seated on the highest hills, Gleans honied secrets from the passing rills; While from below, the harvest canzonas Link vale to mountain with a chain of praise. Foremost among the honoured sons of toil Are they who overcome the stubborn soil; Brave Cincinnatus in his country home Was even greater than when lord of Rome. Down sinks the sun behind the lofty pines That skirt the mountain, like the straggling lines


Of Ceres' army looking from the height On the dim lowlands deepening into night; Soft-featured twilight, peering through the maze, Sees the first starbeam pierce the purple haze; Through all the vales the vespers of the birds Cheer the young shepherds homeward with their herds; And the stout axles of the heavy wain Creak 'neath the fulness of the ripened grain, As the swarth builders of the precious load, Returning homewards, sing their Autumn Ode.


God of the Harvest! Thou, whose sun Has ripened all the golden grain, We bless Thee for Thy bounteous store, The cup of Plenty running o'er, The sunshine and the rain.

The year laughs out for very joy, Its silver treble echoing Like a sweet anthem through the woods, Till mellowed by the solitudes It folds its glossy wing.

But our united voices blend From day to day unweariedly; Sure as the sun rolls up the morn, Or twilight from the eve is born, Our song ascends to Thee.


Where'er the various-tinted woods, In all their autumn splendour dressed, Impart their gold and purple dyes To distant hills and farthest skies Along the crimson west:

Across the smooth, extended plain, By rushing stream and broad lagoon, On shady height and sunny dale, Wherever scuds the balmy gale, Or gleams the autumn moon:

From inland seas of yellow grain, Where cheerful Labour, heaven-blest, With willing hands and keen-edged scythe, And accents musically blythe, Reveals its lordly crest:

From clover-fields and meadows wide, Where moves the richly-laden wain To barns well-stored with new-made hay, Or where the flail at early day Rolls out the ripened grain:

From meads and pastures on the hills, And in the mountain valleys deep, Alive with beeves and sweet-breathed kine Of famous Ayr or Devon's line, And shepherd-guarded sheep:


The spirits of the golden year, From crystal caves and grottoes dim, From forest depths and mossy sward, Myriad-tongued, with one accord Peal forth their harvest hymn.


Their daily labour in the happy fields A two-fold crop of grain and pleasure yields, While round their hearths, before their evening fires, Whore comfort reigns, whence weariness retires, The level tracts, denuded of their grain, In calm dispute are bravely shorn again, Till some rough reaper, on a tide of song, Like a bold pirate, captivates the throng:


A song, a song for the good old Flail, And the brawny arms that wield it, Hearty and hale, in our yeoman mail, Like intrepid knights we'll shield it. We are old nature's peers, Right royal cavaliers! Knights of the Plough! for no Golden Fleece we sail, We're Princes in our own right—our sceptre is the Flail.

A song, a song for the golden grain, As it wooes the flail's embraces, In wavy sheaves like a golden main, With its bright spray in our faces.


Mirth hastens at our call, Jovial hearts have we all! Knights of the Plough! for no Golden Fleece we sail, We're Princes in our own right—our sceptre is the Flail.

A song, a song for the good old Flail, That our fathers used before us; A song for the Flail, and the faces hale Of the queenly dames that bore us! We are old nature's peers, Right royal cavaliers! Knights of the Plough! for no Golden Fleece we sail, We're Princes in our own right—our sceptre is the Flail.


Fair was the maid, and lovely as the morn From starry Night and rosy Twilight born, Within whose mind a rivulet of song Rehearsed the strains that from her lips ere long Welled free and sparkling, as the vocal woods Repeat the day-spring's sweetest interludes. Her gentle eyes' serenest depths of blue Shrined love and truth, and all their retinue; The health and beauty of her youthful face Made it the Harem of each maiden grace; And such perfection blended with her air, She seemed some stately Goddess moving there: Beholding her, you thought she might have been The long-lost, flower-loving Proserpine:



"Oh, dreamy autumn days! I seek your faded ways, As one who calmly strays Through visions of the past; I walk the golden hours, And where I gathered flowers The stricken leaves in showers Are hurled upon the blast."

Thus mused the lonely maid, As through the autumn glade, With pensive heart, she strayed, Regretting Love's delay; In vain the traitor flies! To pleading lips and eyes, Sweet looks, and tender sighs, He falls an easy prey.

"Oh, dreamy autumn days! I tread your bridal ways, As one who homeward strays, Through realms divinely fair; I walk Love's radiant hours, Fragrant with passion flowers, And blessings fall like dowers Down the elysian air."

Thus mused the maiden now, With sunny heart and brow, For Love had turned his prow


Towards the Golden Isles, Where from Pierean springs The soul of Music sings Its sweet imaginings, Through all the Land of Smiles.


Up the wide chimney rolls the social fire, Warming the hearts of matron, youth, and sire; Painting such grotesque shadows on the wall, The stripling looms a giant stout and tall, While they whose statures reach the common height Seem spectres mocking the hilarious night. From hand to hand the ripened fruit went round, And rural sports a pleased acceptance found; The youthful fiddler on his three-legged stool, Fancied himself at least an Ole Bull; Some easy bumpkin, seated on the floor, Hunted the slipper till his ribs were sore; Some chose the graceful waltz or lively reel, While deeper heads the chess battalions wheel Till some old veteran, compelled to yield, More brave than skilful, vanquished, quits the field. As a flushed harper, when the doubtful fight Favors the prowess of some stately knight, In stirring numbers of triumphal song Upholds the spirits of the victor throng, A sturdy ploughboy, wedded to the soil, Thus sung the praises of the partner of his toil:



No maiden dream, nor fancy theme, Brown Labour's muse would sing; Her stately mien and russet sheen Demand a stronger wing, Long ages since, the sage, the prince, The man of lordly brow, All honour gave that army brave, The Soldiers of the Plough. Kind heaven speed the Plough! And bless the hands that guide it; God gives the seed— The bread we need, Man's labour must provide it.

In every land, the toiling hand Is blest as it deserves; Not so the race who, in disgrace, From honest labour swerves. From fairest bowers bring rarest flowers, To deck the swarthy brow Of those whose toil improves the soil, The Soldiers of the Plough. Kind heaven speed the Plough! And bless the hands that guide it; God gives the seed— The bread we need, Man's labour must provide it.


Blest is his lot, in hall or cot, Who lives as nature wills, Who pours his corn from Ceres' horn, And quaffs his native rills! No breeze that sweeps trade's stormy deeps, Can touch his golden prow; Their foes are few, their lives are true, The Soldiers of the Plough. Kind heaven speed the Plough! And bless the hands that guide it; God gives the seed— The bread we need, Man's labour must provide it.


Fast sped the rushing chariot of the Hours. Without, the Harvest Moon, through fleecy bowers Of hazy cloudlets, swept her graceful way, Proud as an empress on her marriage-day; The admiring planets lit her stately march With smiles that gleamed along the silent arch, And all the starry midnight blazed with light, As if 'twere earth and heaven's nuptial-night; The cock crowed, certain that the day had broke, The aged house-dog suddenly awoke, And bayed so loud a challenge to the moon, From the old orchard fled the thievish 'coon; Within, the lightest hearts that ever beat Still found their harmless pleasures pure and sweet; The fire still burned on the capacious hearth, In sympathy with the redundant mirth;


Old graybeards felt the glow of youth revive, Old matrons smiled upon the human hive, Where life's rare nectar, fit for gods to sip, In forfeit kisses passed from lip to lip. Be hushed rude Mirth! as merry as the May Is she who comes to sing her roundelay:


Whither now, blushing Claire? Maid of the sylph-like air, Blooming and debonair, Whither so early? Chasing the merry morn, Down through the golden corn? List'ning the hunter's horn Ring through the barley?

"Flowerets fresh and fair," Answered the blushing Claire, "Fit for my bridal hair, Bloom 'mongst the barley; Hark! 'tis the hunter's horn, Waking the sylvan morn, And through the yellow corn Comes my brave Charlie."

Through the dew-dripping grain Pressed the heart-stricken swain, Crushed with a weight of pain,


Drooped like the barley; Ah! timid shepherd boy! Man's love should ne'er be coy, Sweet is Claire's maiden joy, Kissing her Charlie!


A pleasant soul as ever trilled a song Was hers who warbled "Claire." All the day long Her voice was ringing like a bridal bell; Gladness and joy leaped up at every swell; And love was deeper, warmer, for the tone That clasped the heart like an enchanted zone. A youth was there more comely than the rest, One who could turn a furrow with the best, Compete for manly strength and portly air, Or wield a scythe with any reaper there. The spirit of her voice had moved above The waters of his soul, and waked his song to Love:


"Come tell me, merry Brooklet, of a gentle Maid I seek, Thou'lt know her by the freshness of the rose upon her cheek; Her eyes are chaste and tender, and so serenely bright, You can read her heart's pure secrets by their warm religious light."


"The Maid has not come hither," said the Brooklet in reply; "I've listened for her footfall ere the stars were in the sky; The Fountain has been singing of a Maid, with eyes so bright You may read the cherished secrets of her bosom by their light."

"Pray tell me, merry Brooklet, what saith her thoughts of one Who wronged her loving nature ere the setting of the sun? What say they of yon autumn moon that smiles so mournfully On the slowly-dying season, and the blasted moorland tree?"

"She sitteth by the Fountain," the Brook replied again, "Her heart as pure as heaven, and her thoughts without a stain; 'Oh, fickle moon, and changeful man!' she saith, 'a year ago All the paths were true-love-lighted where I'm groping now in woe.'

"She sitteth by the Fountain, the gentle mists arise, And kiss away the tear-pearls that tremble in her eyes, The Fountain singeth to me that the Maiden in her dream Shrinks as the vapours claim her as the Oread of the stream."


Off sped the merry Streamlet adown the sloping vale; The Shepherd seeks the Fountain, where sits the Maiden pale; And to the wandering Brooklet, through many a lonely wild, The burden of the Fountain was, that Love was reconciled.


But soon the Morn, on many a distant height, Fingers the raven locks of lingering Night; The last dark shadows that precede the day Have stripped the splendour from the Milky Way; And Nature seems disturbed by fitful dreams, As one who shudders when the owlet screams; The painful burden of the Whippoorwill, Like a vague Sorrow, floats from hill to hill; Along the vales the doleful accents run, Where the white vapours dread the burning sun; While human voices stir the haunted air, One sings "the Plough," another warbles "Claire:" The Happy Harvesters, a lightsome throng, Dispersing homewards, prove the excellence of Song.



I have laid my cheek to Nature's, placed my puny hand in hers, Felt a kindred spirit warming all the life-blood of my face, Moved amid the very foremost of her truest worshippers, Studying each curve of beauty, marking every minute grace; Loved not less the mountain cedar than the flowers at its feet, Looking skyward from the valley, open-lipped as if in prayer, Felt a pleasure in the brooklet singing of its wild retreat, But I knelt before the splendour of the thunderous Chaudiere.

All my manhood waked within me, every nerve had tenfold force, And my soul stood up rejoicing, looking on with cheerful eyes, Watching the resistless waters speeding on their downward course, Titan strength and queenly beauty diademed with rainbow dyes. Eye and ear, with spirit quickened, mingled with the lovely strife, Saw the living Genius shrined within her sanctuary fair,


Heard her voice of sweetness singing, peered into her hidden life, And discerned the tuneful secret of the jubilant Chaudiere:

"Within my pearl-roofed shell, Whose floor is woven with the iris bright, Genius and Queen of the Chaudiere I dwell, As in a world of immaterial light.

My throne, an ancient rock, Marked by the foot of ages long-departed, My joy, the cataract's stupendous shock, Whose roll is music to the grateful-hearted.

I've seen the eras glide With muffled tread to their eternal dreams, While I have lived in vale and mountain side, With leaping torrents and sweet purling streams.

The Red-Man's active life; His love, pride, passions, courage, and great deeds; His perfect freedom, and his thirst for strife; His swift revenge, at which the memory bleeds:

The sanguinary years, When sullen Terror, like a raging Fate, Swept down the stately tribes like slaughtered deers, And war and hatred joined to decimate

The remnants of the race, And spread decay through centuries of pain— No more I mark their sure, avenging pace, And forests wave where war-whoops shook the plain.


Their deeds I envied not. The royal tyrant on his purple throne, I, in secluded grove or shady grot, Had purer joys than he had ever known,

God made the ancient hills, The valleys and the solemn wildernesses, The merry-hearted and melodious rills, And strung with diamond dews the pine-trees' tresses;

But man's hand built the palace, And he that reigns therein is simply man; Man turns God's gifts to poison in the chalice That brimmed with nectar in the primal plan.

Here I abide alone— The wild Chaudiere's eternal jubilee Has such sweet divination in its tone, And utters nature's truest prophecy

In thunderings of zeal! I've seen the Atheist in terror start, Awed to contrition by the strong appeal That waked conviction in his doubting heart:

'Teachers speak throughout all nature, From the womb of Silence born, Heed ye not their words, O Scoffer? Flinging back thy scorn with scorn! To the desert spring that leapeth, Pulsing, from the parched sod, Points the famished trav'ler, saying— 'Brothers, here, indeed, is God!'


From the patriarchal fountains, Sending forth their tribes of rills, From the cedar-shadowed lakelets In the hearts of distant hills, Whispers softer than the moonbeams Wisdom's gentle heart have awed, Till its lips approved the cadence— 'Surely here, indeed, is God!'

Lo! o'er all, the Torrent Prophet, An inspired Demosthenes, To the Doubter's soul appealing, Louder than the preacher-seas: Dreamer! wouldst have nature spurn thee For a dumb, insensate clod? Dare to doubt! and these shall teach thee Of a truth there lives a God!'

By day and night, for hours, I watch the cataract's impulsive leap, Refreshed and gladdened by the cheering showers Wrung from the passion of the seething deep.

Pleased when the buried waves Emerge again, like incorporeal hosts Rising, white-sheeted, from their gloomy graves, As if the depths had yielded up their ghosts.

And when the midnight storm Enfolds the welkin in its robe of clouds, Through the dim vapours of the cauldron swarm The sheeted spectres in their whitest shrouds,


By the lightning's flash betrayed. These gather from the insubstantial vapour The lunar rainbows, which by them are made— Woven with moonbeams by some starry taper,

To decorate the halls Of my fair palace, whence I'm pained to see Thy human brethren watch the waterfalls— Not with such rev'rence as I've found in thee:

Too many with an eye To speculation and the worldling's dreams; Others, who seek from nature no reply, Nor read the oral language of the streams.

But of the few who loved The beautiful with grateful heart and soul, Who looked on nature fondly, and were moved By one sweet glance, as by the mighty whole:

Of these, the thoughtful few, Thou wert the first to seek the inner temple, And stand before the Priestess. Thou wert true To nature and thyself. Be thy example

The harbinger of times When the Chaudiere's imposing majesty Will awe the spirits of the heartless mimes To worship God in truth, with nature's constancy."


Still I heard the mellow sweetness of her voice at intervals, Mingling with the fall of waters, rising with the snowy spray, Ringing through the sportive current like the joy of waterfalls, Sending up their hearty vespers at the calmy close of day. Loath to leave the scene of beauty, lover-like I stayed, and stayed, Folding to my eager bosom memories beyond compare; Deeper, stronger, more enduring than my dreams of wood and glade, Were the eloquent appeals of the magnificent Chaudiere.

E'en the solid bridge is trembling, whence I look my last farewell, Dizzy with the roar and trampling of the mighty herd of waves, Speeding past the rocky Island, steadfast as a sentinel, Towards the loveliest bay that ever mirrored the Algonquin Braves. Soul of Beauty! Genius! Spirit! Priestess of the lovely strife! In my heart thy words are shrined, as in a sanctuary fair; Echoes of thy voice of sweetness, rousing all my better life, Ever haunt my wildest visions of the jubilant Chaudiere.



By England's side we stand, We grasp her royal hand, And pay her rightful homage through her Son; Thank God for England's care! Thank God for Britain's heir! Our hearts go forth to meet him—we are one.

A loyal Province pours Her thousands to her shores, From iron-girt Superior to the sea; We feel our youthful blood Surge through us like a flood, There's not a slave amongst us—we are free.

For none but Freemen know The truly loyal throe That gives heroic impulse to the Man— The passion and the fire, The chivalrous desire: Our Fathers all were heroes—in the van.

And we, their ardent sons, Through whom, triumphant, runs The old intrepid attribute serene, Would leave our chosen land, Our homes, our forests grand, To strike for England's honour and her Queen.


No soulless welcome we Dare give to such as thee: Be thou a bright example to the world; Great in thy well-earned fame, Beloved in heart and name, Wherever Britain's banner is unfurled.

Through all our leafy glades, Through all our green arcades, The living torrents, sweeping in, evince That from their manly hearts The Yeoman chorus starts: 'Honour to England's Heir!—long live the Prince!'

Oh, England! in this hour We own thy sov'reign pow'r; To thee and thine our best affections cling, And when thy crown is laid On Royal Albert's head, With heart and soul we'll shout—GOD SAVE THE KING!



Boy! this world has ever been A bright, glad world to me; Through each dark and checkered scene God's sun shone lovingly. But Content I've never known; Hoping, trusting that the years, With their April smiles and tears, Would yet bring me one like thee That I could call my own.

With thy soft and heavenly eyes In deep and pensive calm, I seem looking at the skies, And wonder where I am! Something more than princely blood Courses in thy tranquil face: When she lent thee such a grace, Nature lit life's earnest flame In her most queenly mood.

Such a sweet intelligence Is stamped on every line, Banqueting our craving sense With minist'rings divine. If thy Boyhood be so great, What will be the coming Man, Could we overleap the span? Are there treasures in the mine, To pay us, if we wait?


Doth the voice of Music live In that majestic brain, Waiting for the Hand to give Expression to the strain? Are there wells of Truth—pure, deep, Where the patient diver, Thought, Finds the pearl that has been sought Many a weary age in vain, Entrusted to thy keep.

Doth the fire of Genius burn Within that ample brow? Or some patient spirit yearn For things that are not now? Hidden in the over-soul Of the Future, to be born When the world has ceased its scorn, When the sceptic's heart will bow To the divine control.

Patiently we'll watch and hope, And wait, alternately; Trusting that, when time shall ope The casket's mystery, We will be made rich indeed With the wonders it contains; Rich beyond all previous gains; Richer for thy thought and thee, Beyond our greatest meed.



Erratic Soul of some great Purpose, doomed To track the wild illimitable space, Till sure propitiation has been made For the divine commission unperformed! What was thy crime? Ahasuerus' curse Were not more stern on earth than thine in Heaven!

Art thou the Spirit of some Angel World, For grave rebellion banished from thy peers, Compelled to watch the calm, immortal stars, Circling in rapture the celestial void, While the avenger follows in thy train To spur thee on to wretchedness eterne?

Or one of nature's wildest fantasies, From which she flies in terror so profound, And with such whirl of torment in her breast, That mighty earthquakes yearn where'er she treads; While War makes red its terrible right hand, And Famine stalks abroad all lean and wan?

To us thou art as exquisitely fair As the ideal visions of the seer, Or gentlest fancy that e'er floated down Imagination's bright, unruffled stream, Wedding the thought that was too deep for words To the low breathings of inspired song.


When the stars sang together o'er the birth Of the poor Babe at Bethlehem, that lay In the coarse manger at the crowded Inn, Didst thou, perhaps a bright exalted star, Refuse to swell the grand, harmonious lay, Jealous as Herod of the birth divine?

Or when the crown of thorns on Calvary Pierced the Redeemer's brow, didst thou disdain To weep, when all the planetary worlds Were blinded by the fulness of their tears? E'en to the flaming sun, that hid his face At the loud cry, "Lama Sabachthani!"

No rest! No rest! the very damned have that In the dark councils of remotest Hell, Where the dread scheme was perfected that sealed Thy disobedience and accruing doom. Like Adam's sons, hast thou, too, forfeited The blest repose that never pillowed Sin?

No! none can tell thy fate, thou wandering Sphinx! Pale Science, searching by the midnight lamp Through the vexed mazes of the human brain, Still fails to read the secret of its soul As the superb enigma flashes by, A loosed Prometheus burning with disdain.



If seasons, like the human race, had souls, Then two artistic spirits live within The Chameleon mind of Autumn—these, The Poet's mentor and the Painter's guide. The myriad-thoughted phases of the mind Are truly represented by the hues That thrill the forests with prophetic fire. And what could painter's skill compared to these? What palette ever held the flaming tints That on these leafy hieroglyphs foretell How set the ebbing currents of the year? What poet's page was ever like to this, Or told the lesson of life's waning days More forcibly, with more of natural truth, Than yon red maples, or these poplars, white As the pale shroud that wraps some human corse? And then, again, the spirit of a King, Clothed with that majesty most monarchs lack, Might fit old Autumn for his royal rule: For here is kingly ermine, cloth of gold, And purple robes well worthy to be worn By the best monarch that e'er donned a crown.

Proclaim him Royal Autumn! Poet King! The Laureate of the Seasons, whose rare songs Are such as lyrist never hoped to fling On the fine ear of an admiring world. Autumn, the Poet, Painter, and true King! His gorgeous Ideality speaks forth


From the rare colors of the changing leaves; And the ripe blood that swells his purple veins Is as the glowing of a sacred fire. He walks with Shelley's spirit on the cliffs Of the Ethereal Caucasus, and o'er The summits of the Euganean hills; And meets the soul of Wordsworth, in profound And philosophic meditation, rapt In some great dream of love towards The human race. The cheery Spring may come, And touch the dreaming flowers into life, Summer expand her leafy sea of green, And wake the joyful wilderness to song, As a fair hand strikes music from a lyre: But Autumn, from its daybreak to its close, Setting in florid beauty, like the sun, Robed with rare brightness and ethereal flame, Holds all the year's ripe fruitage in its hands, And dies with songs of praise upon its lips.

And then, the Indian Summer, bland as June: Some Tuscarora King, Algonquin Seer, Or Huron Chief, returned to smoke the Pipe Of Peace upon the ancient hunting grounds; The mighty shade in spirit walking forth To feel the beauty of his native woods, Flashing in Autumn vestures, or to mark The scanty remnants of the scattered tribes Wending towards their graves. Few Braves are left; Few mighty Hunters; fewer stately Chiefs, Like great Tecumseth fit to take the field, And lead the tribes to certain victory,


Choosing annihilation to defeat: But having run thy gauntlet of their days, This Autumn remnant of some unknown race, Nearing the Winter of their sad decay, Fall like dry leaves into the lap of Time; Their old trunks sapless, their tough branches bare, And Fate's shrill war-whoop thund'ring at their heels.



Who'll dive for the dead men now, Since Colin is gone? Who'll feel for the anguished brow, Since Colin is gone? True Feeling is not confined To the learned or lordly mind; Nor can it be bought and sold In exchange for an Alp of gold; For Nature, that never lies, Flings back with indignant scorn The counterfeit deed, still-born, In the face of the seeming wise, In the Janus face of the huckster race Who barter her truths for lies.

Who'll wrestle with dangers dire, Since Colin is gone? Who'll fearlessly brave the maniac wave, Thoughtless of self, human life to save, Unmoved by the storm-fiend's ire? Who, Shadrach-like, will walk through fire, Since Colin is gone? Or hang his life on so frail a breath That there's but a step 'twixt life and death? For Courage is not the heritage Of the nobly born; and many a sage Has climbed to the temple of fame, And written his deathless name In letters of golden flame, Who, on glancing down


From his high renown, Saw his unlettered sire Still by the old log fire, Saw the unpolished dame— And the dunghill from which he came.

Ah, ye who judge the dead By the outward lives they led, And not by the hidden worth Which none but God can see; Ye who would spurn the earth That covers such as he; Would ye but bare your hearts, Cease to play borrowed parts, And come down from your self-built throne: How few from their house of glass, As the gibbering secrets pass, Would dare to fling, whether serf or king, The first accusing stone!

Peace, peace to his harmless dust! Since Colin is gone; We can but hope and trust; Man judgeth, but God is just; Poor Colin is gone! Had he faults? His heart was true, And warm as the summer's sun. Had he failings? Ay, but few; 'Twas an honest race he run. Let him rest in the poor man's grave, Ye who grant him no higher goal; There may be a curse on the hands that gave, But not on his simple soul!



"Truth lights our minds as sunrise lights the world. The heart that shuts out truth, excludes the light That wakes the love of beauty in the soul; And being foe to these, despises God, The sole Dispenser of the gracious bliss That brings us nearer the celestial gate. They who might feed on rose-leaves of the True, And grow in loveliness of heart and soul, Catch at Deception's airy gossamers, As children clutch at stars. To some, the world Is a bleak desert, parched with blinding sand, With here and there a mirage, fair to view, But insubstantial as the visions born Of Folly and Despair. Could we but know How nigh we are to the true light of heaven; In what a world of love we live and breathe; On what a tide of truth our souls are borne! Yet we're but bubbles in the whirl of life, Mere flecks upon its ever-restless sea, Meteors in its ever-changing sky. Eternity alone is worth the thought That we expend upon the passing hour, Chasing the gaudy butterflies that lure Our footsteps from the path that leads us home. We will not see the beacon on the rock; The prompter is unheeded; and the spark Of the true spirit quenched in utter night, As we rush headlong, wrecked on Error's shoals. Some hearts will never open; all their wards


Have grown so rusty, that the golden key Of Love Divine must fail to move the bolt That Self has drawn to keep God's angels out."

So spake the merry Margery, the while Her fingers lengthened out a filigree, That seemed to me so many golden threads Of thought between her fingers and her brain, Bestrung with priceless pearls; her lightsome mood, Worn as occasion might necessitate, Replaced to-night by sober-sided Sense, That made her beauty like an eve in June, Just as the moon is risen. I, to mark My approbation of her present mood, Rehearsed a rambling lyric of my own, That seemed prophetic of her thoughts to-night:

Within my mind there ever lives A yearning for the True, The Beautiful and Good. God gives These, as He gives the dew

That falls upon the flowers at night, The grass, the thirsty trees, Because 'tis needful; and the light That suns my mind from these—

Truth—Beauty—Goodness, doth but fill A void within my soul; And I fall prone before the Will Of Him who gave the whole—


The wondrous life—the power to think, And love, and act, and speak. Standing, half-poised, upon the brink Of being—strong, yet weak—

Strong in vast hopes, but weak in deeds, I lift my heart and pray, That where the tangled skein of creeds Excludes the light of day

From human minds, God's purposes May be made plain, that all May walk in truth's and wisdom's ways, And lay aside the thrall

Of enmity, whose clouds have kept Their souls as dark as night; That they whose love and hope have slept, May come into the light,

And live as men, with minds to grasp Within the sphere of thought The boundless universe, and clasp The good the wise have sought,

As if it were a long-lost dove, Or a stray soul returned To worship in the fane of love, That it so long had spurned.

Where'er I gaze, my eyes behold Nought but the beautiful. The world is grand as it is old; The only fitting school


For man, where he may learn to live, And live to learn that what He needs heaven will in mercy give. Whatever be his lot,

He shapes it for himself; his mind Is his own heaven or hell: Just as he peoples it, he'll find Himself compelled to dwell

With good or evil. Good abounds In this delightful sphere; But man will walk his daily rounds, And evermore give ear

To the false promptings that waylay His steps at every turn; Flinging the true and good away For joys that he should spurn,

As being all unworthy of His greatness as a man. Why, man!—why tremble at the scoff Of fools and bigots? Scan

The mental firmament, and see How men in every age, Who strove for immortality— Whose errand was to wage

Not War, but Peace—men of pure minds, Who sought and found the truth, And treasured it, as one who finds The secret of lost Youth


Restored and made immortal—see How they were scorned, because Their Sphinx-lives spake of mystery To those to whom the laws

Of nature are as clasped books!— Poets, who ruled the world Of Thought; in whose prophetic looks And minds there lay impearled,

But hidden from the vulgar sight, Such universal truths, That many, blinded by the light— Gray-haired, green-gosling youths,

With whips of satire, looks of scorn, And finger of disdain, Have crushed these harbingers of morn, But could not kill the strain

That was a part of nature's mind, And therefore can not die. That which men spurned, angels have shrined Among God's truths on high.

And so 't will ever be, till man Knows more of Goodness, Truth, And Beauty—more of nature's plan, And Love that brings back youth

To hearts that have grown frail and old By groping in the dark With blinded eyes; their idol, Gold, And Gain, their Pleasure-bark!


"'Tis well that nature hath her ministers," She said, her voice and looks so passing sweet; "Great-hearts that let in love, and keep it there, Like the true flame within the diamond's heart, Informing, blessing, chastening their lives. Man has but one great love—his love for God; All other loves are lesser and more less As they recede from Him, as are the streams The farthest from the fountain. God is Love. Who loves God most, loves most his fellow-men; Sees the Creator in the creature's form Where others see but man—and he, so frail The very devils are akin to him! There is no light that is not born of love; No truth where love is not its guiding star; Faith without love is noonday without sun, For love begetteth works both good and true, And these give faith its immortality."

We parted at the outer door. The stars Seemed never half so bright or numberless As they appeared to-night. Margery's laugh Tripped after me in merry cadences, Like the quick steps of fairies in the air United to the chorus of their hearts Breathed into silvery music. Happy soul! Nature's epitome in all her moods.



"God bless the darling Eva!" was my prayer. A pure, unconscious depth of earnestness Was in her eyes, so indescribable You might as well the color of the air Seek to daguerreotype, or to impress A stain upon the river, whose first swell Would swirl it to the deep. A calm, sweet soul, Where Love's celestial saints and ministers Did hold the earthly under such control Virtue sprung up like daisies from the sod. Oh, for one hour's sweet excellence like hers! One hour of sinlessness, that never more Can visit me this side the Silent Shore, To stand, like her, serene, unblushing before God!



His heart's a burning censer, filled with spice From fairer vales than those of Araby, Breathing such prayers to heaven, that the nice Discriminating ear of Deity Can cull sweet praises from the rare perfume. Man cannot know what starry lights illume The soaring spirit of his brother man! He judges harshly with his mind's eyes closed; His loftiest understanding cannot scan The heights where Poet-souls have oft reposed; He cannot feel the chastened influence Divine, that lights the Ideal atmosphere, And never to his uninspired sense Rolls the majestic hymn that inspirates the Seer.



Within Fancy's Halls I sit, and quaff Rich draughts of the Wine of Song, And I drink, and drink, To the very brink Of delirium wild and strong, Till I lose all sense of the outer world, And see not the human throng.

The lyral chords of each rising thought Are swept by a hand unseen; And I glide, and glide, With my music bride, Where few spiritless souls have been; And I soar afar on wings of sound, With my fair AEolian Queen.

Deep, deeper still, from the springs of Thought I quaff, till the fount is dry; And I climb, and climb, To a height sublime, Up the stars of some lyric sky, Where I seem to rise upon airs that melt Into song as they pass by.

Millennial rounds of bliss I live, Withdrawn from my cumbrous clay, As I sweep, and sweep, Through infinite deep On deep of that starry spray; Myself a sound on its world-wide round, A tone on its spheral way.


And wheresoe'er through the wondrous space My soul wings its noiseless flight, On their astral rounds Float divinest sounds, Unseen, save by spirit-sight, Obeying some wise, eternal law, As fixed as the law of light.

But, oh, when my cup of dainty bliss Is drained of the Wine of Song, How I fall, and fall, At the sober call Of the body, that waiteth long To hurry me back to its cares terrene, And earth's spiritless human throng.



I stood upon the Plain, That had trembled when the slain, Hurled their proud, defiant curses at the battle-heated foe, When the steed dashed right and left, Through the bloody gaps he cleft, When the bridle-rein was broken, and the rider was laid low.

What busy feet had trod Upon the very sod Where I marshalled the battalions of my fancy to my aid! And I saw the combat dire, Heard the quick, incessant fire, And the cannons' echoes startling the reverberating glade.

I saw them, one and all, The banners of the Gaul In the thickest of the contest, round the resolute Montcalm; The well-attended Wolfe, Emerging from the gulf Of the battle's fiery furnace, like the swelling of a psalm.


I heard the chorus dire, That jarred along the lyre On which the hymn of battle rung, like surgings of the wave When the storm, at blackest night, Wakes the ocean in affright, As it shouts its mighty pibroch o'er some shipwrecked vessel's grave.

I saw the broad claymore Flash from its scabbard, o'er The ranks that quailed and shuddered at the close and fierce attack; When Victory gave the word, Then Scotland drew the sword, And with arm that never faltered drove the brave defenders back.

I saw two great chiefs die, Their last breaths like the sigh Of the zephyr-sprite that wantons on the rosy lips of morn; No envy-poisoned darts, No rancour, in their hearts, To unfit them for their triumph over death's impending scorn.

And as I thought and gazed, My soul, exultant, praised The Power to whom each mighty act and victory are due,


For the saint-like Peace that smiled Like a heaven-gifted child, And for the air of quietude that steeped the distant view.

The sun looked down with pride, And scattered far and wide His beams of whitest glory till they flooded all the Plain; The hills their veils withdrew, Of white, and purplish blue, And reposed all green and smiling 'neath the shower of golden rain.

Oh, rare, divinest life Of Peace, compared with Strife! Yours is the truest splendour, and the most enduring fame; All the glory ever reaped Where the fiends of battle leaped, Is harsh discord to the music of your undertoned acclaim.



"They run! they run!"—"Who run?" Not they Who faced that decimating fire As coolly as if human ire Were rooted from their hearts; They run, while he who led the way So bravely on that glorious day, Burns for one word with keen desire Ere waning life departs!

"They run! they run!"—"Who run?" he cried, As swiftly to his pallid brow, Like crimson sunlight upon snow, The anxious blood returned; "The French! the French!" a voice replied, When quickly paled life's ebbing tide, And though his words were weak and low His eye with valour burned.

"Thank God! I die in peace," he said; And calmly yielding up his breath, There trod the shadowy realms of death A good man and a brave; Through all the regions of the dead, Behold his spirit, spectre-led, Crowned with the amaranthine wreath That blooms not for the slave.



OCTOBER 13TH, 1859.*

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 can not 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.

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 tongue need blazon forth their fame— The cheers that stir the sacred hill Are 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 Heaven sends to guard the golden age, Illuming the historic page With records of their pilgrimage; True Martyr, 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, In prayer, in thunder, thought, or song; Briarcus-limbed, they sweep along, The Typhons of the time.

* The day of the inauguration of the new Monument on Queenston Heights.



Sons of the race whose sires Aroused the martial flame That filled with smiles The triune Isles, Through all their heights of fame! With hearts as brave as theirs, With hopes as strong and high, We'll ne'er disgrace The honoured race Whose deeds can never die., Let but the rash intruder dare To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would flame throughout the land.

Our lakes are deep and wide, Our fields and forests broad; With cheerful air We'll speed the share, And break the fruitful sod; Till blest with rural peace, Proud of our rustic toil, On hill and plain True kings we'll reign, The victors of the soil. But let the rash intruder dare


To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would light him from the land.

Health smiles with rosy face Amid our sunny dales, And torrents strong Fling hymn and song Through all the mossy vales; Our sons are living men, Our daughters fond and fair; A thousand isles Where Plenty smiles, Make glad the brow of Care. But let the rash intruder dare To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would flame throughout the land.

And if in future years One wretch should turn and fly, Let weeping Fame Blot out his name From Freedom's hallowed sky; Or should our sons e'er prove A coward, traitor race,— Just heaven! frown In thunder down, T' avenge the foul disgrace!


But let the rash intruder dare To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would light him from the land.



Oh, I'd be a Fairy King, With my vassals brave and bold; We'd hunt all day, Through the wildwood gay, In our guise of green and gold; And we'd lead such a merry, merry life, That the silly, toiling bee, Would have no sweet In its dull retreat, So rich as our frolic glee. I'd be a Fairy King, With my vassals brave and bold; We'd hunt all day, Through the wildwood gay, In our guise of green and gold.

At night, when the moon spake down, With her bland and pensive tone, The fairest Queen That ever was seen Would sit on my pearly throne; And we'd lead such a merry, merry life, That the stars would laugh in show'rs Of silver light, All the summer night, To the airs of the passing Hours. I'd be a Fairy King, With my vassals brave and bold; We'd hunt all day Through the wildwood gay, In our guise of green and gold.


We'd talk with the dainty flow'rs, And we'd chase the laughing brooks; My merry men, Through grove and glen, Would search for the mossy nooks; And we'd be such a merry, merry band, Such a lively-hearted throng, That life would seem But a silvery dream In the flowery Land of Song. I'd be a Fairy King, With my vassals brave and bold; We'd hunt all day, Through the wildwood gay, In our guise of green and gold.



Day by day, with startling fleetness, Life speeds away; Love, alone, can glean its sweetness, Love while you may. While the soul is strong and fearless, While the eye is bright and tearless, Ere the heart is chilled and cheerless— Love while you may.

Life may pass, but love, undying, Dreads no decay; Even from the grave replying, "Love while you may." Love's the fruit, as life's the flower; Love is heaven's rarest dower; Love gives love its quick'ning power— Love while you may.




Over the snows, Buoyantly goes The lumberers' bark canoe; Lightly they sweep, Wilder each leap, Bending the white caps through. Away! away! With the speed of a startled deer, While the steersman true, And his laughing crew, Sing of their wild career:

"Mariners glide Far o'er the tide, In ships that are staunch and strong; Safely as they, Speed we away, Waking the woods with song." Away! away! With the flight of a startled deer, While the laughing crew Of the swift canoe Sing of the raftsmen's cheer:

"Through forest and brake, O'er rapid and lake, We're sport for the sun and rain; Free as the child Of the Arab wild, Hardened to toil and pain.


Away! away! With the speed of a startled deer, While our buoyant flight, And the rapid's might, Heighten our swift career."

Over the snows Buoyantly goes The lumberers' bark canoe; Lightly they sweep, Wilder each leap, Tearing the white caps through. Away! away! With the speed of a startled deer; There's a fearless crew In each light canoe, To sing of the raftsmen's cheer.




All peacefully gliding, The waters dividing, The indolent batteau moved slowly along, The rowers, light-hearted, From sorrow long parted, Beguiled the dull moments with laughter and song: "Hurrah for the Rapid! that merrily, merrily Gambols and leaps on its tortuous way; Soon we will enter it, cheerily, cheerily, Pleased with its freshness, and wet with its spray."

More swiftly careering, The wild Rapid nearing, They dash down the stream like a terrified steed; The surges delight them, No terrors affright them, Their voices keep pace with their quickening speed: "Hurrah for the Rapid! that merrily, merrily Shivers its arrows against us in play; Now we have entered it, cheerily, cheerily, Our spirits as light as its feathery spray."

Fast downward they're dashing, Each fearless eye flashing, Though danger awaits them on every side; Yon rock—see it frowning! They strike—they are drowning! But downward they speed with the merciless tide;


No voice cheers the Rapid, that angrily, angrily Shivers their bark in its maddening play; Gaily they entered it—heedlessly recklessly, Mingling their lives with its treacherous spray!



In the mildest, greenest grove Blest by sprite or fairy, Where the melting echoes rove, Voices sweet and airy; Where the streams Drink the beams Of the Sun, As they run Riverward Through the sward, A shepherd went astray— E'en gods have lost their way.

Every bird had sought its nest, And each flower-spirit Dreamed of that delicious rest Mortals ne'er inherit; Through the trees Swept the breeze, Bringing airs Unawares Through the grove, Until love Came down upon his heart, Refusing to depart.

Hungrily he quaffed the strain, Sweeter still, and clearer, Drenched with music's mellow rain, Nearer—nearer—dearer!


Chains of sound Gently bound The lost Youth, Till, in sooth, He stood there A prisoner, Raised between earth and heaven By love's divinest leaven.

Was there ever such a face? Was it not a vision? Had he climbed the starry space, To the fields Elysian? Through the glade The milk-maid With her pail, To the vale Passed along, Breathing song Through all his ravished sense, To gladden his suspense.

"Love is swift as hawk or hind, Chamois-like in fleetness, None are lost that love can find," Sang the maid, with sweetness. "True, in sooth," Thought the Youth, "Strong, as swift, Love can lift


Mountain weights To the gates Of the celestial skies, Where all else fades and dies."

Lightly flew the sunny days, Joy and gladness sending; Life becomes a song of praise When true hearts are blending. Guileless truth Won the Youth, Kept him there, A prisoner; While dear Love From above Poured down enduring dreams, In calm supernal gleams.



Young again! Young again! Beating heart! I deemed that sorrow, With its torture-rack of pain, Had eclipsed each bright to-morrow; And that Love could never rise Into life's cerulean skies, Singing the divine refrain— "Young again! Young again!"

Young again! Young again! Passion dies as we grow older; Love that in repose has lain, Takes a higher flight, and bolder: Fresh from rest and dewy sleep, Like the skylark's matin sweep, Singing the divine refrain— "Young again! Young again!"

Young again! Young again! Book of Youth, thy sunny pages Here and there a tear may stain, But 'tis Love that makes us sages. Love, Hope, Youth—blest trinity! Wanting these, and what were we? Who would chant the sweet refrain— "Young again! Young again!"



Sounds of rural life and labour! Not the notes of pipe and tabour, Not the clash of helm and sabre Bright'ning up the field of glory, Can compare with thy ovations, That make glad the hearts of nations; E'en the poet's fond creations Pale before thy simple story.

In the years beyond our present, King was little more than peasant, Labour was the shining crescent, Toil, the poor man's crown of glory; Have we passed from worse to better Since we wove the silken fetter, Changed the plough for book and letter. Truest life for tinsel story?

Up the ladder of the ages Clomb the patriarchal sages, Solving nature's secret pages, Kings of thought's supremest glory; Eagle-winged, and sight far reaching— Are we wiser for their teaching?— Wrangling creeds for gentle preaching! Falsest life for truest story!

Man is overfraught with culture, Virtue early finds sepulture, While our vices sate the vulture


We misname a bird of glory; Life is blindly artificial, Rarely pass we its initial, All our aims are prejudicial To its earnest, simple story.

Hail, primeval life and labour! Martial notes of pipe and tabour, Gleam of spears and clash of sabre, Hero march from fields of glory, All the thundering ovations Surging from the hearts of nations, Poet dreams and speculations, Pale before thy simple story!



O God! forgive the erring thought, The erring word and deed, And in thy mercy hear the Christ Who comes to intercede.

My sins, like mountain-weights of lead, Weigh heavy on my soul; I'm bruised and broken in this strife, But Thou canst make me whole.

Allay this fever of unrest, That fights against the Will; And in Thy still small voice do Thou But whisper, "Peace, be still!"

Until within this heart of mine Thy lasting peace come down, Will all the waves of Passion roll, Each good resolve to drown.

We walk in blindness and dark night Through half our earthly way; Our clouds of weaknesses obscure The glory of the day.

We cannot lead the lives we would, But grope in dumb amaze, Leaving the straight and flowery paths To tread the crooked ways.


We are as pilgrims toiling on Through all the weary hours; And our poor hands are torn with thorns, Plucking life's tempting flowers.

We worship at a thousand shrines, And build upon the sands, Passing the one great Temple, and The Rock on which it stands.

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