EPITHALAMIUM.
Written in honour of the nuptials of two young friends.
(1882.)
Moonlight Chant of Fairies, crowned with maple leaves.
Scene:—Mount Royal, Canada.
I.
Speed, thou fiery monster, speed,
Let thy chariot wheels take heed
That they out-strip flight of beagle,
Till our Benedict they’ve borne
To his little maiden, lorn,
In the Land where screams the Eagle.
II.
The Goblin of Celibacy chagrined.
Scene:—On the border.
Oh—ho! they have escaped my grip;
How stupid I, to let them slip!
The fools! to lose their free estate!
These rash and idiotic pranks,
These sly desertions from my ranks
Have multiplied so fast of late
That few remain, save priests and nuns,
And some fastidious elder sons
To honour still the heavenly call,
And piously their loves resign,
Obedient to the word divine,
The gospel preached by good St. Paul.
III.
Hymenæus, exultant.
Scene:—Newark, N. J.
Welcome hither, happy pair;
All my bounties freely share,
Welcome to my honoured guild,
Founded in the days of old,
Ere the human heart grew cold,
Ere its native warmth was chilled
By mistaken sense of duty;—
By sacrifice of youth and beauty
To Plutus, with his lure of gold.
Fear not any churlish cry;
To the Goblin bid good-bye;
Enter, children, bravely enter
To my circle’s shining centre,
Clasping hands;
Stronger far than iron bands
Be your love, and hope and trust;
Equal freedom, fairest speech,
Give I lavishly to each.
See that neither moth nor rust,
Nor cobweb, nor insidious dust
Of cold neglect, e’er dim the light
That lights you from my torch to-night.
By my crown, unfading, bright—
Sweet marjoram and dewy roses—
Emblem of the sovereign might
Which wedded love to hate opposes;—
By this purple vest, symbolic
Of the royal rank of marriage,
Which the fiends alone disparage,
Mocking in their witless frolic;—
By this mystic torch, whose glow
On your souls I now bestow;—
By all these tokens joined, I swear
To have you in my constant care,
But I warn you, neophytes,
Warn you ever to beware
How you guard the altar reared
In my honour, ages gone:
Subtle is the snake that bites;
Wintry days will come anon;
Evil must be fought, not feared;
No fiend can harm, no god subdue
The soul that to itself is true.
To virtue be your homage paid,
And firmly hold the golden clue
Of knowledge, whose imperial aid
Is truly sought and found by few.
These farewell words in memory keep,
Or when you laugh or when you weep.
IV.
Salutation from the King of the Beavers.
Scene:—Canadian side of the border.
Happy couple, Bride and Groom,
In the flush of life’s fresh bloom,
Welcome to the kindly home
Where we shape the wattled dome,
Cemented o’er with plastic clay,
Impervious to the water’s play;
Where, in moonlight’s silver calm,
My faithful subjects build the dam;
The land whose maple leaf conveys
A prophecy of sweetened days.
Our store of knowledge is but scant,
Our culture in the shell, I grant.
No prophet of our kith and kin
Have we to point the paths of sin;
No learned Professor, beaver born,
Have we to rend in godly scorn
The sophistries our Darwins weave,
O’er which our pious pundits grieve.
I pray you, therefore, not impeach
The rudeness of our rustic speech,
But hear the fancies, none the less,
An honest beaver may express.
Your wisest men, the lords of thought,
Remote and near, have ever sought,
Instruction from the humblest things
That beat the air on filmy wings,
Or creep, or climb, or swim the sea:
Behold the little “busy bee;”
Go to, thou sluggard, cursed with want,
And learn from the industrious ant.
“The early bird;” the cooing dove,
Exemplar of the art of love.
A spider once, at climbing brave,
Fresh courage to a chieftain gave,
When, after many a sore defeat,
His hopes were all in full retreat;
But noting how the insect fell
Time after time, and naught could quell
Its resolution, firm and fast,
And how it reached its mark at last,
No longer chilled with black despair,
His men he rallied, sword in air,
And ere another set of sun
His last great battle fought and won.
And then his tribe—a proper thing—
Made him, like me, their lawful king.
The nautilus, your sages own,
To all mankind have plainly shown
The art of how to sail the seas;
Such creatures low in life as these
Have served to educate and guide;
Meet glossary on human pride!
The several nations show their bent
By what their ruling minds invent
To signify the special merit
That each assumes, or doth inherit.
Their boastful banners proudly bear
The savage forms of earth and air,
And monstrous shapes in neither seen,
Things that were hatched in human spleen,
Creatures patched up from beast and bird,
Which to a beaver seems absurd.
Dragons and griffins, flying fierce,
With fiery tongues designed to pierce
All alien flesh, wherever found,
And claws to clinch the deadly wound.
The warlike Briton, while he cheers,
The lion’s roar in fancy hears;
The Yankee in his happiest dream
Is sure he hears the eagle scream.
These truths the higher truth explain
That dawned on Darwin’s pregnant brain.
Such deference paid to creatures low
Man’s wiser instincts clearly show.
Unconsciously compelled to grant,—
By choosing for his common want,
As teachers, elephant and ant,
And other poor relations, in
Obedience to the law of kin,—
He owns his humble origin.
I know not if in any place,
Or any age, your lifted race
Its sense of equity hath shown
To one poor beast—we needs must own
Compact of kinship, bone of bone,
By making him an emblem fit
Of human wisdom, sense, and wit;
A patient brother, void of blame,
I hesitate to name his name,
But—no offence—I dare not pass
Our worthy, long-eared friend, the ass.
Forgetful that your hunters slay
My people, and their bodies flay.
That human skins, puffed up with pride,
Strut forth in ours—no tongue to chide—
We’re grateful for the honour given
To beaverhood, since nearer heaven
This great Dominion raised our name,
Emblazoned on the scroll of fame;
A choice that to the world attests
The base on which its greatness rests,
Our one transcendent, special gift:—
Persistency of honest thrift.
My sermon may appear to you
But wind and chaff, however true;
Reject it if you will.—Adieu!
V.
Serenade of Fairies, crowned with ivy.
Scene:—A street in Montreal, West End.
Time:—November.
Welcome home, our Benedict!
To duty never less than strict;
Welcome thrice thy comely Bride!
Spirit of the frozen north!
Come not from thy palace forth,
Yet a little while abide:
Tarry till the waning moon
Mournful, goes, as if too soon
Summoned from these lucent skies.
Twinkle, joyful, all ye stars!
Peeping through your silver bars,
Rivalled by their laughing eyes.
Hallowed be their sweet repose
When those eyes in slumber close,
When they listen, pleasure-haunted,
To the melody we pour
Down the chimney, through the door,
Listen in their dreams, enchanted.