BIRTHDAY THOUGHTS AND ASPIRATIONS.
WRITTEN ON MY THIRTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY, MARCH 20, 1854.
What solemn thoughts crowd o'er my mind
As this eventful day moves on.
I feel most forcibly inclined
To strive some proper words to find,
In praise of God for what he's done.
And why? For seven and thirty years:
He who at first my being gave
Has still upheld me, calmed my fears,
While passing through this Vale of Tears,
And on my journey to the grave.
'Tis then but right that I should take
A retrospect of my past days.
This done in faithfulness will make
My humble lyre aloud to wake
Its every string in God's pure praise.
Then let my memory recall
Each striking scene through which I've passed.
What strong emotion fills my soul,
As they in quick succession roll
Before my wondering gaze at last!
I feel my childhood's joys once more,
Again I pass its sorrows through.
Of richest mercies what a store,
In health or else in sickness sore,
As if by magic spring to view.
With all my sins upon my head
I see two near escapes from death;
Then is a feast before me spread,
And I on heavenly food am fed,
The precious gift of God through faith.
Lo, there I see Him guard me round,
Lest strong temptations me o'ercome;
Here I am in his favor found,
While others in perdition drowned
Were long since hurried to the tomb!
O, what a miracle is this,
That I am saved from hell and sin!
Predestined by pure Grace to Bliss,
My soul in transport bows submiss
To God, and hopes a crown to win.
Then may I mourn my past neglect
Of all thy goodness, O, my God!
Henceforward may I more respect
Thy just commands and still detect
Those lurking sins that bring thy rod.
Should I be spared another year,
May one great thought my bosom fill;
To let it to mankind appear
That I am but a pilgrim here,
Just left awhile to do Thy will.
But Lord, thou know'st I am but weak;
Impart fresh strength that I may be
More and more anxious still to seek
The good of souls with spirit meek,
And thus prove my sincerity.
And here I would once more record
The fervent breathings of my soul,
That thou would'st richest Grace afford
To all my children through the Word,
And still our every act control.
SONG TO THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.
Lily of the valley, this brief poetic sally
At the very least is due unto thee.
Thy fragrant wax-like flowers all freshened by Spring showers
Seem purity embodied unto me.
Lily of the valley blooming near the alley
Of the little garden close to my home!
Lily of the valley, I fain would gladly rally
All the powers of sweet Fancy to my aid
To describe thy form retiring, which I cannot help admiring
As it peeps from its broad, leafy shade.
Lily of the valley, etc.
Lily of the valley, thou very well dost tally
With my notion of a modest, gentle maid.
Thy delicate bell-cluster may lack in grandeur's lustre,
Yet thou in true beauty art arrayed.
Lily of the valley, etc.
Lily of the valley, Sol scarce with thee dare dally;
He plants no rose-blushes on thy cheek,
Yet indebted to his power art thou from hour to hour,
And his beams play with thee hide and seek.
Lily of the valley, etc.
Lily of the valley, deem not my rhyming folly,
For I love both thy form and thy scent;
And this is chiefly true as thou kissest in the dew,
While thy head in pure modesty is bent.
Lily of the valley, etc.
Lily of the valley, bloom near my garden alley,
And shed forth thy fragrancy around;
I'll think as thou art growing of the lessons thou art showing
To me when in musing I am found.
Lily of the valley blooming near the alley
Of the little garden close to my home.
DAISY, I HAVE SOUGHT FOR THEE.
Daisy, I have sought for thee
In the garden, on the lea,
Ever since I learned to roam
From my much loved English home.
Once I owned a little thing
Called a daisy here about,
And it bloomed awhile in Spring,
But the Winter froze it out.
'Twas a pigmy flower at best,
Though in red robe it was dressed.
English daisy's lively mien
Never in its face was seen.
When it died I did not fret,
Nor a dirge sung o'er its bier.
Some few plants that I have met
Claimed at least from me a tear.
Now what is it that I see?
Daisies growing on a tree!
White and double—white as snow,
Hundreds of them in full blow.
Let me look awhile at them,
Even through sweet fancy's eyes.
Every flower's a perfect gem.
And as such I will it prize.
But let Fancy stand aside,
Common folks might me deride.
Thinking something ailed my brain,
Should I such a thing maintain.
Well, 'tis all as one to me,
Fancy still shall have the sway.
That Daisies here grow on a tree
I mean to insist alway!
[Footnote: The blossoms of the double flowering cherry tree. They bear a great resemblance to the white double daisy of English gardens, and in fact were pronounced to be the same by a lady friend of mine. I took the hint and wrote the above.]
THE CHARMS OF JUNE.
INSCRIBED TO MY WIFE.
The lilacs are now in the full flush of beauty,
The fruit trees have blossomed, the tulips are gay,
And birds' gushing melody points out our duty
To God who doth bless us so vastly each day.
Brilliant verbenas in rich robes are glowing,
And spireas their fair silver glories maintain,
While violets and lilies their charms are bestowing
To add to the splendors of sweet Flora's reign.
O, soon will the odors of bright blushing roses
Unite with the woodbines in fragrance complete;
For hoards of their incense this fine month discloses,
To all who are fond of a garden retreat.
Viburnum Opulus its snowballs is forming,
The peonies are ready to burst into bloom,
Rude Boreas has ceased for awhile his dread storming,
And Nature at last has got rid of her gloom.
[Footnote: Guelder Rose.]
In flower-bedecked fields or vast woods at this season
I would 'twere my privilege to frequently roam;
But fear such indulgence might well be termed treason
Against the sweet duties and pleasures of Home.
Then since this solacement by God is denied me,
I'll joy that in fancy it still is my lot
To rove with my own lovely Ellen beside me,
Through scenes that can never by us be forgot.
TO DR. LAYCOCK, ON HIS LEAVING BRANTFORD ON ACCOUNT Of
ILLNESS.
NOVEMBER, 1854.
Doctor, you must not hence depart
Ere I address a parting lay
Fresh gushing from an honest heart,
Which grieves because you cannot stay.
To Rhyme I make but small pretence,
Yet what I write is what I feel;
And should it prove but common-sense,
Many defects this will conceal.
I have oft wished since you came here,
That we might years together spend;
And now I hang 'twixt hope and fear,
In strange uncertainty, my friend.
Right glad, dear Doctor, would I be
If you left here in perfect health;
I know 'tis prized by you and me
As far before the greatest wealth.
And well it may! For that is wealth
In most men's hands but splendid dross
To purchase friends who leave by stealth
Their friend, when he has found its loss.
Yet 'tis I own, when rightly used,
A goodly thing for you and me,
Who can't of hoarding be accused
At least from all that I can see.
Then take what I most freely give—
A wish sincere that you may yet
Return in health near us to live,
An honest livelihood to get.
And may your partner live to share
With you for years fresh joy and peace.
For this I urge an earnest prayer
To God who makes my joys increase.
TO MR. COWHERD, FROM HIS FRIEND, H. S. LAYCOCK.
[Perhaps my readers will have the goodness to pardon me if I here present them with an exact copy of a Rhyming Letter which I received in answer to the poem above from my much respected and greatly lamented friend, the late Dr. Laycock, of Woodstock, Ont. I place it here because of the compliment he was kind enough to pay me on my rhyming abilities, and chiefly in relation to those Pieces to my Children. I candidly acknowledge that it was his opinion, so freely and perhaps flatteringly expressed, which weighed with me greatly as an inducement for giving so many of them in these pages.]
Dear friend, though a poor hand at rhymes, I'll try
In kind to your kind verses to reply.
Together we have passed some happy hours,
Pleasantly loitering in the Muses' bower;
Not with the Bards who sing of Wine and Love,
But those who can the nobler Passions move
To finer sympathies, and by their art
Instruct, amend as well as cheer the heart!
Such Bard our COWPER. Oft his pleasing strains
Have won us to forget the cares and pains
The world lays on us all; WORDSWORTH the same;
And other bards besides less known to fame;
Thyself, dear friend, amongst the rest. Thy rhymes
Flow from a heart in tune with Nature's chimes,
And breathings of Sweet Home, Domestic joys,
The opening graces of thy girls and boys,
And themes like these to Nature dear please all
Whose souls like ours respond to Nature's call.
Nature, to whom proud Art can lend a grace,
But whom if absent Art can not replace!
Take these poor lines in haste and sickness penned,
As tribute from a warm and grateful friend,
Who, though thy kindness he can not repay,
Will ne'er forget thee, Cowherd, nor thy lay.
BRANTFORD, Nov. 16, 1854
TO MR. JAMES C——T
NOVEMBER, 1853.
"A friend in need's a friend indeed."
My friend much respected, 'tis hardly the thing
That I on some subjects so often should sing,
And yet never manage a rhyme to bestow
On one whose great kindness I'd gratefully show.
It oft has been spoken, as oft has been penned
That "It cannot be ever too late to amend."
And as I'm unconscious of lacking respect,
Will do what I can to repair my neglect.
O, can I look back to the time of my need,
When thou, under God, prov'dst a kind friend indeed,
And feel no emotion my bosom to swell?
'Twere baseness of conduct too shocking to tell.
Time was when chill penury stared in my face,
And I was made feel it almost a disgrace.
As a fruit of thy kindness that time has gone by,
So I to be thankful would constantly try.
O, well I remember how often I thought
My business endeavors would all come to naught;
That I, 'midst my toiling should surely stick fast,
And most sad disappointment meet me at last.
The Lord sent thee to me at such time of trial,
When exercised well with the grace Self-denial.
Thy kind way of speaking took from me my sadness,
And left in its place a rich increase of gladness.
And oft since that time though a much chequered life
Amidst this world's bustle, its turmoil and strife
My mind has been solaced with thoughts of thy love,
Which does thy relation to Christ clearly prove.
Under the weakness of age thou art bending,
Yet no doubt have I that the Lord is still sending
The joy of His presence thy spirit to cheer,
By doing thy duty while thou stayest here.
And Oh, may it please our kind Father and God
Thy steps to support with his "Staff and his Rod;"
Then cause his bright Angels thy way to attend,
And thus bring thee safely to Life-journey's end.
May thy good example to those that remain,
Be useful in showing Religion is gain,
That they may still follow the path that Christ trod,
And join thee in singing the praises of God.
TO THE CHRISTIANS OF BRANTFORD.
OCTOBER, 1853.
Christians of Brantford, list awhile,
An humble Rhymer speaks to you.
Perhaps the fact may cause a smile,
Though I speak not from motives vile,
But with your interest full in view.
You are engaged in warfare great
With that great sin which oft has made
A loving husband full of hate,
A young wife's beauty quickly fade,
And early death become her fate.
You have to grapple with that fiend
That oft has made poor children weep,
Bereft them too of every friend,
Who would unto their wants attend—
When they were sick afford relief.
You are engaged in mortal strife
With that huge serpent which ere now
Has poisoned all the joys of life,
Made many homes with discord rife,
And sunk poor human nature low.
With him that oft has torn away
The laurel from the Sons of Fame,
Caused them from Wisdom's paths to stray,
Has turned to darkness their bright day,
And covered them all o'er with shame.
Young as some are, all must have seen
His potent arm stretched forth to strike
As victims those who long had been
Striving on human aid to lean.
Mind friends you never do the like!
Oh, have you thought upon his power,
And learned how weak are mortal men
When brought into temptation's hour,
And "storms arise and tempests lower?"
The strong may even falter then.
And feeling weak have you been led
To put your trust in God alone,
Who with his bounteous hand hath fed
You all your lives, and in the stead
Of guilty man did sin atone?
If you have not done this before
O flee, my dear young friends, away
To Jesus Christ, the friend who bore
Our sins, that he might us restore
To God and Bliss and Endless Day.
TO THE SAME.
NOVEMBER, 1854.
Christians, arouse you! Quick, up and be doing!
The monster Intemperance stalks through our land!
Unfurl wide your banners, and good still pursuing,
On "No Truce with Tyrants!" let each take his stand.
Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!
The might of this evil but few can withstand!
Shrieks and groans from the dying are heard all around you,
And heartrending sights every day are displayed;
While blasphemous curses may well nigh astound you,
And dangers fast thicken; yet be not dismayed.
Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!
If these things appal you your help they demand.
Thousands of widows and orphans call on you
Who lost their support from this tyrant's attacks,
And he with his legions may soon fall upon you,
If you now shrink from duty or show him your backs.
Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!
Your own peace and safety your efforts demand.
Our Jails and Asylums are full to o'erflowing
With victimized wretches struck by this fiend's hand,
And many poor youths unsuspicious are going
To destruction, led on by his magical wand.
Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!
The doom which hangs o'er them gives forth the command.
Then muster your forces and stand forth unyielding,
In the name of Humanity heed not his rage.
Mind not his blandishments—evil still gilding—
But ever determine to war with him wage.
Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!
In this monster's overthrow firmly now stand.
Christians, arouse you! Quick, up and be doing!
For help look to God's own Omnipotent Arm!
Let no Tempter charm with the soft voice of wooing,
Or frighten your hearts by the sounds of alarm.
Lend, lend a hand! Lend, lend a hand!
'Midst trials and dangers like true heroes stand.
VERSES WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER READING HORACE SMITH'S "BACHELOR'S FARE."
1854.
He who wrote these lively verses
Hath his talents misemployed,
While he marriage ills rehearses—
The conjugal life asperses
Which so many have enjoyed.
And each brown or blue eyed charmer,
Let her rank be high or low,
Must have felt such verses harm her—
Must have felt her cheek grow warmer
With just indignation's glow.
Were he then as bachelor living
He might speak of bachelor life.
But such men need not be giving
Crabbed views of man and wife.
If he were to fair one married
Greater still would be the shame;
It would prove love had miscarried,
He alone perhaps to blame.
Were it shown that he was jesting,
Jests like this with ills are rife;
Poets should be still attesting
This plain truth—Mankind are blest in
Chaste and sweet Conjugal Life.
Marriage is of God's ordaining,
Serving purpose wise and good.
Those who are from it abstaining,
Should be found always refraining
From treating it in jesting mood.
From experience I am speaking,
In protesting I prefer
A wedded life. If you are seeking
To have pockets with no leak in,
From it let naught you deter.
But this thing make up your mind in,
Choice should fall on one of worth.
Love of wealth some men are blind in;
For a wife may be worth finding,
Though she be of humble birth.
If you are a true wife blest in,
Mind you well fulfill your part,
That you may, all cares distressed in,
Prove the warmth of woman's heart.
I have proved it in rich measure,
And with honest brow declare,
Married life for sweetest pleasure
Can with any life compare!
STANZAS ON THE PEACEFUL STRUGGLE IN EUROPE.
APRIL, 1854.
England's real strength is in the Lord of Hosts
Slumbereth now the British Lion,
In his sweet green Island lair?
No! He rushes forth to die on
Europe's plains, or crush the Bear.
Now he may well hope for glory,
Warring in defense of Right.
Will he soon be faint and gory
From the Czar's most lawless fight?
Oh, forbid it, God of Battles—
In whom we would place our trust!
Ere is heard his cannon's rattles
Quench the Bear's most savage lust!
Turn him back to his own regions,
Though a wild and bitter clime;
Wide disperse his barbarous legions
In Thy own good way and time.
If in Wisdom thou ordainest
This dread war shall still proceed—
Let us feel thou ever reignest
Through the saddest hours of need;
That thou still as Sovereign rulest
O'er the Nations of this world;
That thou yet mad Despots schoolest,
Ere they to the dust are hurled.
O preserve our generous Lion,
And his partners in the War;
Bid their hosts thy arm rely on;
Guard each soldier, shield each tar.
Let we see them soon returning
To their now deserted domes;
Let pure joy instead of mourning
Fill their fondly cherished homes.
May we profit by the lesson
Which events like this should teach—
Seek to put away transgression,
Act as healers of each breach.
Then we long may share God's favor—
From the Queen upon her throne
To the lowly son of labor
Toiling his poor crust to own.
LINES WRITTEN ON THE MORNING OF THE DREADFUL FIRE WHICH
CONSUMED THE B. B. & G. R. R. DEPOT BUILDINGS.
Oh! there has come on us a dreadful calamity,
Our fine Depot Buildings in ruin lie low.
And works which for months were in earnest activity,
To Fire's fearful ravage have been made to bow.
If the watchmen were both in the right path of duty,
How came it we every one heard with amaze,
That they saw not the fire till it fiercely was bursting
Right through the gable in one perfect blaze.
I would not indulge in ungrounded suspicion,
But truly the matter looks dark to my mind.
And I trust before long a most strict inquisition
Will be instituted, the faulty to find.
But should this be done would it rear up the buildings
That now form a rubbish heap blackened and hot?
Ah, no! and the Muse peering into the Future
Fears never such structures shall rise on that spot!
Then mourn, Brantford, mourn! for thy sad, sad misfortune
May well make thy sons to remember this day;
And all may well sigh and feel strongest emotion,
For troubles now thicken in blackest array.
And oh, it would tend to thy weal in the future,
If thou such events as a warning would take
To cleanse from thy dwellings Sin's dreadful pollution,
Lest God's greater judgments against thee awake.
TO THE REV. J. W AND HIS BRIDE
A MARRIAGE DAY
October 4, 1853
An humble poet—save the mark!
Wishes to give to you a lay
In honor of your wedding day,
But somehow labors in the dark,
And fears from etiquette to stray.
And why? No invitation came
To bid me tune my simple lyre—
To fan my low poetic fire,
Nor yet a hope of deathless fame
Which might for risk, serve me for hire.
I'll run the risk and fearless strike
A lyre too apt to slumber long,
And pour my thoughts in artless song.
Many there are who do the like,
And yet in this may do no wrong.
Now, I would hope sweet blessings may
Flow to you from our Father kind:
The rich gift of a happy mind,
In Wisdom's paths content to stay,
And purest peace in that to find.
I trust you will be filled with love,
Such love as God alone can give;
That you may still before Him live.
Placing your hopes always above,
May you his Spirit never grieve.
O, may you still, as man and wife,
Mutual confidence possess;
For this will free from much distress
Your family in after life,
And make your care and sorrow less.
May both such lovely patterns be
Of what your character requires,
That if brought through Affliction's fires
Mankind your purity may see;
And which to see God most desires.
And may you ever useful prove
In making known Christ's saving Name;
Your minds not swayed by worldly fame—
In urging souls to taste that Love
Which cheers our hearts through scorn and shame.
And should you by His Grace become
A numerous, holy, happy band,
Still he'll uphold you by His Hand,
Till all at last come safely home
Unto that glorious Spirit Land.
STANZAS ON HEARING AN AUCTIONEER QUOTE THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE OF SCRIPTURE: "THERE WAS SILENCE IN HEAVEN ABOUT THE SPACE OF HALF AN HOUR."—
REV. VIII, I.
Yes, vain Scoffer! so the Scriptures tell us,
But awful was the silence at that time;
A prelude of the wrath of God most jealous,
Expressed in dreadful thunderbolts sublime.
Oh! hast thou ever marked the scene that follows,
When the first Angel did his trumpet take
And blow a blast heard through all Earth's vast hollows,
Which did the mountains to their bases shake?
Or realize "the hail and fire commingling
With blood, and all cast down upon the Earth?"
To mention this should set thine ears a-tingling,
And check at times thy loud uproarious mirth.
But read thou on with most profound attention:
Dire woes stand forth in gloomy vividness!
Ah! would'st thou shrink from some vague apprehension
That the perusal might cause thee distress?
Know thou, what follows is but the beginning
Of plagues more fearful than we can conceive.
This thou must see, and yet thou keep'st on sinning,
As if such madness Conscience could relieve.
Stop, then, at once, lest in Eternal ruin
Thy soul engulfed shall see her folly great.
Flee now to Christ; become a suppliant suing
For pardon from Him ere it be too late.
WINTER'S RAVAGES, AN APPEAL TO THE RICH ON BEHALF OF THE POOR.
NOVEMBER, 1857.
Stern Winter on foul mischief bent
Left his cold region of the North;
As his Advance-guard early sent
Loud howling blasts and snow storms forth.
These warriors hastened to obey
The mandate of their frost-robed King,
And as they came the Orb of Day
Withdrew his rays which gladness bring.
They, gathering strength as nigh the drew
Unto our homes, spread ruin round,
And thus transformed each beauteous view,
And in white mantle clad the ground.
Before their track lay pastures green,
While root crops in abundance told
How fruitful had the Summer been
Ere she away from us had rolled.
Behind them was a widespread waste
Of leafless trees and drifting snows,
And still with most malicious haste
They dealt around their chilling blows.
Anon their King in ice-car rode
With furious speed, and placed his seal
Upon the devastation broad,—
Exulting in his savage zeal.
This done, fair Nature at his feet
Lay prostrate in the arms of death!
And now the poor lack food and heat,
Benumbed by his dread icy breath.
For in our great Commercial World
Loud storms have rung their changes round,
While some are from high station hurled
And in chill Penury are found.
Our Workshops, erst with men well filled,
The scenes of Trade's most busy strife,
Are almost silent now, and skilled
Mechanics want the means of life.
And shall it e'er be said of those
Who have of means a full supply,
That avarice has their heart's blood froze,—
That they can see their brethren die?
Forbid it, O Thou gracious One,
From whom we every good obtain;
O, melt the hardest heart of stone,
And quell its cruel thirst for gain!
That those who have may freely give
Of food and clothes a plenteous store
To help the needy now to live:
"Those tend to God who help the poor."
A CANADIAN NATIONAL SONG.
Tune, "Auld Lang Syne."
O, no; I'm not an Englishman,
Though it is something great
To have for birthplace English soil,
And live in such a State;
Yet I'm not now an Englishman,
For why? I crossed the sea
And live in dear Canadian clime,
The Land of Liberty
I am not now a leal Scotchman,
Though born 'midst Scotia's hills,
And recollections of her scenes
My bosom ever thrills,
For I have sailed o'er ocean vast,
And to this land have come,
Where Freedom waves her banner o'er
My new, adopted home.
O, no, I'm not an Irishman,
Though sprung from Erin's bowers,
And Memory often takes me back
To those most happy hours
When, roaming o'er her fair green Isle,
With warmth I pressed her sod,
And felt my own, my native Land,
The best that foot e'er trod.
[Footnote: The writer's main object in writing this song was to do what he could toward breaking down all remains of clannish feeling in this highly important country. Should a company, consisting of one or more persons from each of the countries mentioned, desire to sing it, each one might take the part applicable to him, and when the several sections have been gone through all join as full chorus in the last stanza, or slight verbal alterations may be so made that any single individual may sing it.]
For I have come to Canada
To settle on her land,
And to all her inhabitants
Give Friendship's honored hand.
I am no longer German now
Though "Fatherland" I loved,
And vowed remembrance to take
Of her, where'er I roved.
For here on this prolific soil
I own a splendid farm,
And lovely children growing up
Call forth my feelings warm.
I would not be a Frenchman deemed,
Though sprung of Gaulish race,
And their pure blood I freely can
In my forefathers trace.
For I would feel as much at home
As ever man can be
Back in our woods or in our towns,
Whilst I have liberty.
O, yes; we are Canadians now,
Wherever we were born;
And we will strive in time to come
To heal a land so torn
By party strife, by clannish fire,
And aim to live in peace.
Then put united efforts forth,
Till life itself shall cease,
To make her what she ought to be—
Acknowledged on each hand
A noble, free, and powerful State,
A great and glorious Land!
A CALL TO THE SOIREE* OF THE MECHANIC'S INSTITUTE, DECEMBER 23, 1857.
"Endeavor always to combine real good with pleasurable enjoyment."
Come, friends, to the Soiree; O why will you tarry
When good things are waiting you there?
For, after the eating, our friends, for this, meeting
Have speeches prepared with due care.
Let all upper classes give ladies cash passes,
'Twill cost but a very small price;
And what they may spend in a way that will end in
Real good, is a blow unto vice.
Come, merchants and doctors; come lawyers and proctors,
And treat all your clerks to the feast.
Fear not that your kindness will make them more mindless
Of what is your interest, the least.
Come, all ye mechanics, for no dreadful panics
Will meet you with grim spectre-faces.
Bring also your spouses, nor leave in your houses
Those charmers who wear childhood's graces.
Come, each son of labor, and do us the favor
Of tasting the good things provided.
A truce to your moiling! for hard daily toiling
Gives Rank that must ne'er be derided.
Haste all to the Soiree; none need to be sorry
For giving our Institute aid.
The good you may do us'll diffuse itself through us
To the townsfolks of every grade.
* Pronounced as nearly as possible, swarry.
AN ADDRESS BY THE MEMBERS OF THE "INSTITUTE" TO THEIR FRIENDS AT THE SOIREE.
Dear friends, to this our social feast,
We bid you welcome gladly,
And trust you will not in the least
Spend moments with us sadly.
For though we've no great Bardling's strain
Joined to rich organ's pealing,
Yet none the less may Pleasure's train
Be softly near us stealing.
And should she deign to show her face,
To smile on us benignly,
Let's give to her a chaste embrace,
By no means most supinely.
What though we lack exciting cause
For loud, uproarious laughter?
Our temperate fare will not dispose
To heart-upbraidings after.
Yet we may well of mirth-enjoy
A reasonable measure;
And even skill and time employ
To gain so bright a treasure.
Avoiding still too great extremes,
Enjoy in moderation
The blessings which our Father deems
Best for us in each station.
Then we need have no vain regrets,
No consciences unruly,—
For sense of doing right begets
A sense of peace most truly.
ALCOHOL'S ARRAIGNMENT AND DOOM.
Alcohol! Alcohol! who are thy victims?
Come, answer me quickly; stand forth to the bar!
That frown most defiant
Will not make me pliant,
I've pledged myself firmly to wage with thee war.
For years thy dread shock
I have borne like a rock,
Still leaning for help on God's mighty aim.
Say, Alcohol, truly, who are thy victims?
"Of the rich and the poor, the good and the fair,
Mankind of each standing,
Know well I've a hand in
The havoc and ruin they see everywhere!
Daily with fury
From Still and from Brewery
I'm dealing out death without much alarm.
"Princes and Statesmen I count 'mongst my victims,
With painters and poets, philosophers sage,
Rich merchants, skilled doctors,
Cute lawyers, keen proctors,
Mechanics and laborers of each sex and age
Are found in my ranks,
And lured on by my pranks,
While I care not a pin what comes to them."
Then, Alcohol, tell me what do thy victims
In such vile standing while here in this world?
"They're spending their money
Not for milk and honey,
But for what will cause them to be quickly hurled
To that dreadful place
Where there is not a trace
Of richest mercy they here do contemn."
Alcohol, tell me what more are thy victims
As fruits of their orgies accomplishing here?
Asylums they're filling,
While jails by their swilling
Are constantly crowded, or far off or near;
And orphans are made
By this great liquor trade,
In thousands as all may very soon see!
Alcohol, listen the doom which awaits thee:
More than half of thy doings thou'st kept out of sight.
Every good man and true
Deems it is but thy due
That thou should'st be banished to Regions of Night.
And heart-broken mates,
With all orphans' sad fates,
Compel us to give forth this doom on thee.
TO MY BELOVED FRIEND MR. JAMES WOODYATT.
A CHRISTMAS LAY.
Woodyatt, this Christmas I devote
Some portion of my time to tell
In humble verse what God hath wrought
For us who're snatched as brands from hell.
The best of all my coaxing powers
To lure the Muse I'll freely spend,
Nor heed a whit the fleeting hours
Until my pleasing task shall end.
For I have found a friend in thee,
Such as I strove in vain to find
For twenty years; and this may be
A wonder to thy generous mind.
But so it is; and I would prize
The gift my God has kindly sent,
Nor quell the feelings which arise
Within my breast, till life be spent.
So, while my unlearned lyre I take,
Most gracious Muse, thy aid impart!
Thou canst not at such time forsake
Thy humble friend in this his Art.
No paltry theme shall form my lay
To such a friend at such a time.
Then let my thoughts in rich array
Come forth in gently flowing rhyme.
Nor wealth nor earthly pleasures make
The sum and substance of my song;
Such themes let grovelling rhymsters take,
Who write to please a worldly throng.
For him and me a better way
Remains, and I will freely sing
Of pleasures with most lustrous ray,—
Of those which from religion spring.
And well indeed may'st thou, dear friend,
Rejoice with me that God hath brought
Such sinful creatures to attend
Unto His voice who pardon brought.
I more than twice ten years have been
Within the Way to Endless Life.
Thou in the last few months hast seen
That Way with richest blessings rife.
And now, when seated round our fires,
Or when we take our walks abroad,
We seem as one in strong desires
To speak the praises of our God.
Big thoughts our kindred bosoms swell,
Deep gratitude our ardor fires,
Until we long for words to tell
The fervency that Love acquires;
And ponder as so well we may
Upon our present happy state
Compared with that in which we lay—
Objects of wrath at hell's dread gate.
We ask each other, Why is this?
Why are we favored thus of God?
Why are we made joint heirs of Bliss,
Destined to dwell in His abode?
Quickly the answer comes to hand:
Simply because of God's pure Grace.
And does not Love like God's demand
That we all seasons should embrace—
To speak to others of Christ's worth,
That they with us may fully share
The glories of our heavenly birth,
The riches He can freely spare?
Then let us, brother, with our might,
Work for Him while 'tis called To-day;
Looking above for strength, for light,
Press forward in this thrice-blest way.
Let us dig deep into that mine
Of hidden wealth stored in the Word,
And with strong faith all else resign
Just clinging solely to the Lord.
O, should our lives for years be spared,
May not one word or thought or deed
Unworthy God, be by us shared,
Who are from Satan's bondage freed.
1856.
TRIBUTARY VERSES, WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY ON HEARING OF DR. O'CARR'S DEATH.
APRIL 18, 1854.
Sorrow stealeth o'er my spirit,
For I hear O'Carr is dead.
Once I tried to sing his merit,
After health began to fade.
Then I thought his end was nigh,
That he very soon would die,
When I saw that he was leaving
His sweet home for distant Isle,
Oft the thought my soul was grieving
"He might linger for a while
And then leave his wife and babe,
Far away o'er Ocean's wave."
Yet I know our loving Father
Often hears his children's prayers;
That he would at all times rather
Ease them of their ills and cares,
Than lay on a single stroke,
If not needful 'neath his yoke.
And I thought he then would listen
To our supplications strong;
That each countenance might glisten
With sweet joy ere very long:
Joy from seeing him come back,
Having of good health no lack.
When I heard of his returning,
And how he was sinking fast,
Soon my soul was strongly yearning
To be with him ere he passed
From these earthly scenes away
To enjoy Eternal Day.
This, my wish, kept growing stronger,
As each day flew o'er my head,
Till I felt I could no longer
Brook delay, when lo! he's dead.
Now I prize this pleasing thought,
He to Bliss is safely brought.
While hot tears bedim the vision
Of dear friends who mourn his death,
May they manifest decision
By the wondrous power of Faith,
In belief that those who sleep
Safe in Jesus shall not weep.
We are not forbid to sorrow,—
Jesus wept at Lazarus' tomb.
Soon will come the glorious Morrow
Which shall chase away our gloom;
If we put our trust in God,
And still seek to kiss His Rod.
STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY THE DREADFUL RAILWAY ACCIDENT AT THE DESJARDINS CANAL, MARCH 12, 1857.
Deep gloom pervades my spirit, and great sorrow fills my breast
With an overwhelming sense, which leaves me but little rest,
For a dreadful stroke has fallen on the town in which I live,
And sympathy and condolence I would most gladly give.
I have gone through many a street since this event transpired,
Seen the faces of my townsmen in grief sincere attired,
Heard them make sad remarks, seen tears bedim their eyes,
While from every feeling bosom burst forth responsive sighs.
The stranger in our midst might well wonder why we're sad,
For tokens of prosperity can everywhere be had.
The river has not risen to a mighty swelling flood,
Nor raging fire destroyed the homes of the Evil and the Good.
No pestilence like a serpent, with dread envenomed fangs
Has seized the young and beautiful and filled our souls with pangs.
Then why has gloom profound so settled on each face,
And the finger-prints of sorrow left on us so dark a trace?
Ah! loving hearts left homes all filled with family delight.
Full of hope and joyous feelings, never dreaming of a blight
To prospects of enjoyment that awaited their return,
Where the smiles of wives and children make true love the brighter
burn.
In such a happy state of mind they to Toronto went,
And accomplished all their objects in the time which had been spent.
Now, with still lighter hearts they make for home again,
And in the cars meet many of their traveling fellow men.
Drawn by the snorting Iron Horse along the track they flew,
What danger might be lurking near was hidden from their view.
On, on, still on they went to a bridged precipice,
When the Bridge gave way and all were hurled into the dread abyss!
The locomotive like a demon took first the fatal leap,
Dragging the human-freighted cars with speed into the deep
One plunged with him beneath the dark and icy wave,
And one stood upright on its end, as if some few to save.
Oh, my soul shrinks back with horror from dwelling on the scene
Which met the gaze of anxious friends who to that place have been.
I'd rather dwell upon the fact that Death to some was Life;
That they have gained by having done so soon with earthly strife.
What thoughts filled all the bosoms of that mixed devoted band
Is only known to God Most High, who, in his mighty hand
Holds all our life and breath as his own most sovereign gift,
And who alone can mortals shield from such destruction swift.
O, I know that some there died who had tasted of his grace, And sudden death to them was summons to the place Prepared by Jesus for his Saints in the mansions of the Blest, And they now are drinking of the sweets of Everlasting Rest.
Amongst these we gladly number the three* whom we have lost,
In sympathy with the bereaved would try to count the cost;
But oh, 'twould prove a fruitless task; then, while we feel so sore,
Let us humbly bow our hearts to God and worship and adore.
*Mr. and Mrs. John Russell and Mr. Secord, who were well known as consistent Christians by all who had the pleasure of their acquaintance. All left large families and a numerous circle of friends to mourn their shocking and untimely end.
TRIBUTARY STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LAYCOCK, WHO WAS ACCIDENTALLY KILLED WHILE ON A PROFESSIONAL JOURNEY, DECEMBER 10, 1857.
Tumultuous feelings like a torrent rush
Athwart my soul and bear my spirit down.
Pent up awhile they from my bosom gush
In such wild measure as I scarce have known.
For one I loved as friend for many years
Has met a shocking end in Manhood's prime!
And this dire stroke prospective pleasure sears,
As grass is scorched by Sol in torrid clime.
Living as neighbors, Friendship's sacred bond
Grew stronger every time we visits paid.
He, undeterred by business would respond
To my desire, and list the songs I made.
Oft at such times he has my Mentor proved,
Doing his best to aid me in my Art,
By prudent counsel which I dearly loved,
Proceeding as it did from kindly heart.
Now with bold hand I strike my rude harp's strings,
And sing a funeral dirge o'er his sad bier.
Up, up, my Muse, and sail aloft on wings
Of tuneful pathos while I shed a tear.
No more shall this kind friend thy efforts guide,
Listening thy mournful or thy joyous strains.
Death suddenly has torn him from the side
Of her he loved, who shared his joys and pains.
And I no more on Earth shall see his face,
Or hear his praise or censure of my songs,
Nor yet will he most critically trace
What of true poesy to them belongs.
No more will he, well pleased, sweet music bring
From our melodeon, while we join in praise.
His soul untrammeled now on high will sing
In God's pure worship and angelic lays.
His frame, too weakly for his ardent soul,
Will feel fatigue no more by night or day.
But then no more he'll take with me a stroll
By our fine stream, soft murmuring on its way.
Nor yet, with pleasure great, hold deep discourse
On many subjects dear alike to both:
Tracing the stream of Truth up to its Source,
To do which fully he was nothing loth.
No more will he to an attentive throng
Give well-timed lectures for his Country's weal;
Yet his remembrances will live among
Those whom his conduct taught his worth to feel.
Ah me! that it should e'er have been my lot
To sing in soul-wrung anguish this sad strain!
For, while his friendship will not be forgot,
I long may wait to find such friend again.
BRANTFORD, December 12, 1857.
SONG OF THE CANADIAN CRADLER.
1858.
With my cradle scythe, feeling brisk and blithe,
In the breeze-tempered heat of this fine day;
I'll haste to the field with the wheaten yield,
And there will I manfully cut my way.
Now in all my walks, with broad, rapid strokes;
I bring down the waving grain quite low.
Every sweep I try seems to make it sigh,
But cheerful on, and still on I go.
I heed not the sweat, making my clothes wet,
The toil and care will be well repaid;
For this golden store drives want from my door,
And the surplus is farmers' profit made.
Binder now keep pace, for this hard-run race
Will tell on the field ere night come in;
And rest will be sweet in our plain retreat,
Until a new day with its toil begin.
O, I think I see with exhuberant glee,
The shocks in good order standing round,
And well-laden teams in my bright day-dreams,
Are now trotting briskly over the ground.
Then hasten the day when our grain and hay
Well secured beneath our good barn dome—
Will inspire our hearts to perform their parts
In the cherished joy of Harvest Home.
STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. B. HOWARD AND HIS FAMILY AS A TRIBUTE OF RESPECT ON THEIR DEPARTURE FROM BRANTFORD, AUGUST, 1858.
Howard, thy fervid Christian zeal,
Combined with large amount of love,
So blessed to bonny Brantford's weal,
So truly owned by God above,
Lead me, ere from our midst thou move
With those who form thy family,
To seek assistance from that Dove—
Inspirer of true Poesy,
That I may sing a well-timed lay;
One which may thy best feelings suit,
And thou may'st read when far away
With pleasure, as the genuine fruit
Of well-spent years that are not mute,
But which have spoke in loudest tone
To some who have been most astute,
As I in truth would frankly own.
They've told us of a work begun
Amongst thy people, brought quite low
By worldliness, which Saints should shun
If God's pure will they seek to know,
Or wish in safety's path to go.
Thou foundest them in this sad state
And to the yoke thy neck didst bow
With ardor, for thy soul was great.
Satan, no doubt, with jealous eye
Watched keenly for thy halting then;
But thy Redeemer, ever nigh,
Made much of his dread malice vain.
He spake the word and wicked men
Fell down before the high-raised Cross,
And forthwith steadily refrain
From pleasures now viewed but as dross.
Backsliding Christians trembling came
To that blest place—neglected long,
And there rekindled worship's flame,
And freely owned they had been wrong.
Then, feeling sense of pardon strong,
Afresh they family altars raise—
On which to offer sacred Song,
And join sweet prayer to grateful praise.
But 'tis a small, small part indeed
Of what God had for thee to do
Which I can sing; so I proceed
To waft my meed of tribute through.
For I would name, with pleasure too,
The part performed by thy good wife.
O, that I could in measure due
Descant upon her Christian life.
No party motives sway my soul,
Nor thirst for paltry worldly fame;
But feelings I need not control
Prompt me to dwell on her dear name.
Sweet sufferer, deem me not to blame
If I have sacred rapture felt
In noting freely since you came,
The virtues that with you have dwelt.
I frequent heard from one who saw
You lying oft on bed of pain,
How bright in you was love's pure glow,
Meek Patience following in his train.
Now, could we see our loss your gain,
Pleased we would bid you all depart;
And might from vain regrets refrain
Glad still to cherish you at heart.
GRUMBLINGS.
Man professes to be humble,
Signs himself "your servant, sir!"
But he's very prone to grumble,
Till it forms his character.
Grumbles he about the weather,
Now too hot, anon too cold;
Fancies oft 'tis both together
Ere the day is twelve hours old.
Then the dryness of the season
Rouses up anew his ire;
Next its wetness without reason
Makes him grumbling bolts to fire.
Grumbles he of prospects darkening,
Now, because hard times have come,
And to evil promptings hearkening
By much grumbling spoils his home.
Hard to please in point of dinner,
Flings he grumblings at his wife,
Breaking her dear heart—the sinner!
Inch by inch in daily life.
Nor at night are matters mended;
Grumbles he if supper's late.
She had need to be offended,
Being tied to such a mate.
For a little kind enquiry
Of existing state of things
Might well curb his temper fiery,
As each day her troubles brings.—
Bonny Fred's about his teething,
Jane is sick in bed of mumps,
Chris from croup has labored breathing,
Maid-of-all work has the dumps.
Often thus are grumblings marring
Man's great duties in the world;
Filling it with strife and jarring,
Till God's judgments forth are hurled.
Grumblers sometimes vent their spite in
Gross abuse of those in power,
Promise well to show their might in
Doing right, had they their hour.
Give it them, and still they grumble,
Having not got all they want;
Neither are they longer humble,
Which but proves them full of cant.
Many will not cease their grumbling
Till death puts a stop to it.
May God save all such from tumbling
Into the eternal Pit!
VERSES, SUGGESTED BY THE FEARFUL ACCIDENT ON THE GREAT WESTERN R. R. NEAR COPETOWN, ON THE NIGHT OF THE 18TH MARCH, 1859.
March, with his usual terrors armed,
Resolved again to mark his flight
O'er the "Great Western," which has swarmed
With human freight by day and night.
Leagued closely, with a mischievous crew,
Held by stern winter in reserve,
He up and down the doomed track flew,
But did not from his purpose swerve.
His eye he fixed upon a part—
A deep embankment on a slope,
And joy o'erflowed his chilly heart
While lingering near the town of Cope.
Musing, he to himself thus spoke:
"Here shall my darling scheme be tried;
I and my gang at one bold stroke
Can easily produce a slide.
"Better to serve my purpose foul
I'll fix it for the eighteenth night,
And raise such storm as may appal
The bravest soul that lacks daylight!"
Then, as by some mysterious spell
He called for elemental strife.
Forth came dread clouds as black as hell
That seemed with every mischief rife.
Impelled by many a howling blast,
Uniting in terrific roar,
They down their fearful contents cast,
And quickly a deep chasm tore.
The midnight train came rushing on,
Nor dreamt the passengers of death.
Nor thought perhaps that ere day's dawn
God would call some to yield their breath.
With furious speed the Iron Horse
Plunged headlong in the new-formed deep,
While raging elements their force
Spend as if laughing at the leap.
Dragged swiftly down is every car
Save one, the last of all the train,
And still the storm prolongs the war
With drifting snow or pelting rain.
Imagination scarce conceives
The shrieks, the groans, the heart-wrung wails,
Which rent the air! One yet believes
They did exceed what's told in tales.
And still the wind its keenest darts
Hurls at the living and the dead.
Blest then were those whose fearful hearts
Could cling to Christ who for them bled.