LYRICAL POEMS.

THE EMIGRANT’S ADDRESS TO AMERICA.

All hail to thee, noble and generous Land!
  With thy prairies boundless and wide,
Thy mountains that tower like sentinels grand,
  Thy lakes and thy rivers of pride!

Thy forests that hide in their dim haunted shades
  New flowers of loveliness rare—
Thy fairy like dells and thy bright golden glades,
  Thy warm skies as Italy’s fair.

Here Plenty has lovingly smiled on the soil,
  And ’neath her sweet, merciful reign
The brave and long suff’ring children of toil
  Need labor no longer in vain.

I ask of thee shelter from lawless harm,
  Food—raiment—and promise thee now,
In return, the toil of a stalwart arm,
  And the sweat of an honest brow.

But think not, I pray, that this heart is bereft
  Of fond recollections of home;
That I e’er can forget the dear land I have left
  In the new one to which I have come.

Oh no! far away in my own sunny isle
  Is a spot my affection worth,
And though dear are the scenes that around me now smile,
  More dear is the place of my birth!

There hedges of hawthorn scent the sweet air,
  And, thick as the stars of the night,
The daisy and primrose, with flow’rets as fair,
  Gem that soil of soft verdurous light.

And there points the spire of my own village church,
  That long has braved time’s iron power,
With its bright glitt’ring cross and ivy wreathed porch—
  Sure refuge in sorrow’s dark hour!

Whilst memory lasts think not e’er from this breast
  Can pass the fond thoughts of my home:
No! I ne’er can forget the land I have left
  In the new one to which I have come!

FAR WEST EMIGRANT.

I.

Mine eye is weary of the plains
  Of verdure vast and wide
That stretch around me—lovely, calm,
  From morn till even-tide;
And I recall with aching heart
  My childhood’s village home;
Its cottage roofs and garden plots,
  Its brooks of silver foam.

II.

True glowing verdure smiles around,
  And this rich virgin soil
Gives stores of wealth in quick return
  For hours of careless toil;
But oh! the reaper’s joyous song
  Ne’er mounts to Heaven’s dome,
For unknown is the mirth and joy
  Of the merry “Harvest Home.”

III.

The solemn trackless woods are fair,
  And bright their summer dress;
But their still hush—their whisprings vague,
  My heart seem to oppress;
And ’neath their shadow could I sit,
  And think the livelong day
On my country’s fields and hedges green,
  Gemmed with sweet hawthorn spray.

IV.

The graceful vines and strange bright flow’rs,
  I meet in every spot,
I’d give up for a daisy meek,
  A blue forget-me-not;
And from the brilliant birds I turn,
  Warbling the trees among;
I know them not—and breathe a sigh
  For lark or linnet’s song.

V.

But useless now those vain regrets!
  My course must finish here;
In dreams alone I now can see
  Again my home so dear,
Or those fond loving friends who clung
  Weeping unto my breast;
And bade “God speed me” when I left,
  To seek the far, far West.

A WELCOME TO THE MONTH OF MARY.

Oh! gladly do we welcome thee,
  Fair pleasant month of May;
Month which we’ve eager longed to see,
  Through many a wintry day:
And now with countless budding flowers,
  With sunshine bright and clear—
To gild the quickly fleeting hours—
  At length, sweet month, thou’rt here!

But, yet, we do not welcome thee
  Because thy genial breath
Hath power our sleeping land to free
  From winter’s clasp of death;
Nor yet because fair flowers are springing
  Beneath thy genial ray;
And thousand happy birds are singing
  All welcome to thee, May!

No, higher, nobler cause have we
  These bright days to rejoice—
’Twas God ordained that thou should’st be
  The loved month of our choice:
It is because thou hast been given
  To honor her alone,
The ever gentle Queen of Heaven—
  The mother of God’s son.

The blossoms that we joyous cull
  By bank or silver stream;
The fragrant hawthorn boughs we pull,
  Most sacred too, we deem:
For not amid our tresses we
  Their op’ning buds will twine,
But garlands fair we’ll weave with care
  For Mary’s lowly shrine.

And when the twilight shades descend
  On earth, so hushed and still,
And the lone night bird’s soft notes blend
  With breeze from glade and hill,
We seek her shrine with loving heart,
  And, humbly kneeling there,
We linger long, loth to depart
  From that sweet place of prayer!

Oh! who can tell with what gifts rare
  Our Mother will repay
Their love who honor thus with care
  Her own sweet month of May!
A grace for every flower they’ve brought
  Or ’Ave, they have said;
And ev’ry pious, holy thought
  Shall be by her repaid!

NATURE’S MUSIC.

Of many gifts bestowed on earth
  To cheer a lonely hour,
Oh is there one of equal worth
  With music’s magic power?
’Twill charm each angry thought to rest,
  ’Twill gloomy care dispel,
And ever we its power can test,—
  All nature breathes its spell.

There’s music in the sighing tone
  Of the soft, southern breeze
That whispers thro’ the flowers lone,
  And bends the stately trees,
And—in the mighty ocean’s chime,
  The crested breakers roar,
The wild waves, ceaseless surge sublime,
  Breaking upon the shore.

There’s music in the bulbul’s note,
  Warbling its vesper lay
In some fair spot, from man remote,
  Where wind and flowers play;
But, oh! beyond the sweetest strain
  Of bird, or wave, or grove
Is that soother of our hours of pain—
  The voice of those we love.

When sorrow weigheth down the heart
  The night birds sweetest lay—
The harp’s most wild and thrilling art—
  Care cannot chase away;
But let affection’s voice be heard,
  New springs of life ’twill ope,—
One word—one little loving word—
  Will bring relief and hope.

MAUDE.

A BALLAD OF THE OLDEN TIME.

Around the castle turrets fiercely moaned the autumn blast,
And within the old lords daughter seemed dying, dying fast;
While o’er her couch in frenzied grief the stricken father bent,
And in deep sobs and stifled moans his anguish wild found vent.

“Oh cheer thee up, my daughter dear, my Maude, he softly said,
As tremblingly he strove to raise that young and drooping head;
’I’ll deck thee out in jewels rare in robes of silken sheen,
Till thou shalt be as rich and gay as any crowned queen.”

“Ah, never, never!” sighed the girl, and her pale cheek paler grew,
While marble brow and chill white hands were bathed in icy dew;
“Look in my face—there thou wilt read such hopes are folly all,
No garment shall I wear again, save shroud and funeral pall.”

“My Maude thou’rt wilful! Far away in lands beyond the sea
Are sunny climes, where winter ne’er doth wither flower or tree;
And there thou’lt journey with me, till I see thee smile once more,
And thy fair cheek wear the rose’s hue as in the days of yore.”

“Ah, no roses shall I gather beneath a summer sky,
Not for me such dreams, dear father, my end is drawing nigh;
One voyage is before me, ’tis no use to grieve or moan,
But that dark, fearful journey must I travel all alone.”

“My precious child! last of my race! why wilt thou grieve me so?
Why add by such sad words unto thy grey haired father’s woe?
Live—live, my pearl! my stricken dove! earth’s joys shall all be thine;
Whate’er thy wish or will through life, it also shall be mine.”

Fast coursed the diamond tear drops down that fair, though faded, cheek,
And she whispered, but so softly, one scarce could hear her speak:
“Ah! father, half those loving cares when summer bright was here
Would have kept thy daughter with thee for many a happy year.

“But, ah! thy heart was marble then, and to thy direst foe,
More stern, relentless anger thou couldst not, father, show.
What was my crime? The one I loved, not rich but nobly born,
Was loyal, true, on whom no man e’er looked with glance of scorn.

“He wooed me fairly, father dear, but thou did’st often swear
Thou’dst rather see me in my grave than bride to Hengist’s heir.
Reckless, despairing, he embarked upon the stormy main,
To seek an end to grief and care, nor sought he long in vain.

“Calm and untroubled sleeps he now beneath the salt sea brine,
And I rejoice to think how soon that sweet sleep shall be mine!”
No answer made the father but a low and grief-struck moan;
And silence reigned again throughout that chamber sad and lone.

Sudden the girl starts wildly, with bright and kindling eye,
Her cheek assumes a crimson tint like hue of sunset sky,
“Father! that voice, that rapid step, ah, me! they are well-known,
Hengist who comes from ocean’s deeps to claim me for his own!”

Say, does she rave? No. See yon form, with proud and gallant brow,
Bending above her, whisp’ring low, fond word and tender vow:
“Maude, my own love! no spectral form, no phantom’s at thy side,
But thy girlhood’s lover, now returned to claim thee as his bride.”

The story runs that love and youth o’er death the victory won,
And again did Maude, a happy wife, play ’neath the summer sun,
While the old lord, grateful to the Power that Hengist’s life had spared,
Henceforth in all his children’s bliss, hopes, sorrows, fully shared.

REJOICINGS AFTER THE BATTLE OF INKERMAN.*

* Won by the “Allies” during the Crimean war though with great losses in killed and wounded.

Rejoice! the fearful day is o’er
  For the victors and the slain;
Our cannon proclaim from shore to shore,
  The Allies have won again!
Let our joy bells ring out music clear,
  The gayest they’ve ever pealed;
Let bonfires flames the dark night cheer,
  We are masters of the field

But list! dost hear that mournful wail
  ’Bove the joyous revelry?
Rising from hillside and lowly vale,—
  Say, what can its meaning be?
From Erin’s sunny emerald shore
  It trembles upon the gale,
And rises with the torrent’s roar
  From the birth place of the Gael.

Fair Albion, too, in every spot
  Of thy land of promise wide
Is heard that dirge for the mournful lot
  Of thy soldier sons—thy pride.
Them shall no bugle at dawn of day
  Arouse from their quiet sleep,
Them shall no charger with shrill neigh
  Bear off to the hillside steep.

’Mid the dead and dying stretched unknown
  On Crimea’s blood stained earth,
Lie the household gods of many a home,
  The lights of many a hearth:
While, vainly woman’s weeping voice
  Calls on each well loved one—
The tender wife on her girlhoods choice,
  The fond mother on her son.

And not only from the peasant’s cot
  Comes that mournful, dirge like cry,
’Tis heard—unto all a common lot—
  Where dwell the great and high;
And tears fall fast for the last lost child
  Of many a noble race,
Who has perished in that struggle wild,
  And left none to fill his place.

Yet if above our laurels bright
  Falls many a bitter tear,
Still, still, may we find a gleam of light,
  Our stricken hearts to cheer;
They have fallen in the country’s cause
  That their youth and manhood nursed,
They have fallen true to honor’s laws,
  In a sacred strife and just.

A FEW SHORT YEARS FROM NOW.

Say, art thou angry? words unkind
  Have fallen upon thine ear,
Thy spirit hath been wounded too
  By mocking jest or sneer,
But mind it not—relax at once
  Thine o’ercast and troubled brow—
What will be taunt or jest to thee
  In a few short years from now?

Or, perhaps thou mayst be pining
  Beneath some bitter grief,
From whose pangs in vain thou seekest
  Or respite or relief;
Fret not ’neath Heav’n’s chastening rod
  But submissive to it bow;
Thy griefs will all be hushed to rest
  In a few short years from now.

Art toiling for some worldly aim,
  Or for some golden prize,
Devoting to that glitt’ring goal
  Thy thoughts, thy smiles, thy sighs?
Ah! rest thee from the idle chase,
  With no bliss can it endow;
Of fame or gold, what will be thine
  In a few short years from now?

It may be pleasure’s roseate dreams
  Possess thy wayward heart,
Its gilded gauds for better things
  Leaving alas! no part;
Ah! cast away the gems and flowers
  That bind thy thoughtless brow,
Where will their gleam or brightness be
  In a few short years from now?

The good thou may’st on earth have done,
  Love to a brother shown—
Pardon to foe—alms unto need—
  Kind word or gentle tone;
The treasures thus laid up in Heav’n
  By the good on earth done now,
These will alone remain to thee,
  In a few short years from now.

TO THE SOLDIERS OF PIUS NINTH.

Warriors true, ’tis no false glory
  For which now you peril life,—
For no worthless aim unholy,
  Do ye plunge into the strife;
No unstable, fleeting vision
  Bright before your gaze hath shone,
No day dream of wild ambition,
  Now your footsteps urges on:

But a cause both great and glorious,
  Worthy of a Christian’s might,
One which yet shall be victorious,—
  ’Tis the cause of God and right:
Men! by aim more pure and holy
  Say, could soldiers be enticed?
Strike for truth and conscience solely,
  Strike for Pius and for Christ.

Even like the brave Crusaders—
  Heroes true and tried of old,
You would check the rash invaders
  Of all that we sacred hold.
And though hosts your steps beleaguer,
  Full of might and martial pride;
For the conflict be you eager—
  God Himself will be your guide!

Soldiers of the Cross, remember
  In the cause you fight for now,
’Tis not earthly wreaths you gather
  To adorn the dauntless brow;
But the laurels bright—unfading,
  Never from you to be riven—
Which will yet your brows be shading
  In the shining courts of Heaven.

COME, TELL ME SOME OLDEN STORY.

I.

Come tell me some olden story
  Of Knight or Paladin,
Whose sword on the field of glory
  Bright laurel wreaths did win:
Tell me of the heart of fire
  His courage rare did prove;
Speak on—oh! I will not tire—
  But never talk of love.

II.

Or, if thou wilt, I shall hearken
  Some magic legend rare—
How the Wizard’s power did darken
  The sunny summer air:
Thou’lt tell of Banshee’s midnight wail,
  Or corpse-light’s ghastly gleam—
It matters not how wild the tale
  So love be not thy theme.

III.

Or, perhaps thou may’st have travelled
  On distant, foreign strand,
Strange secrets have unravelled
  In many a far-off land;
Describe each castle hoary,
  Each fair or frowning shore—
But should love blend in thy story
  I’ll list thy voice no more.

IV.

Thou askest with emotion,
  Why am I thus so cold,
Urging all thy past devotion,
  Well known—well tried of old;
Hush! bend a little nearer
  That sad, o’erclouded brow—
Could love vows make thee dearer
  To me than thou art now!

REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS.

DIED JANUARY 26th, 1864, THE HON. JAMES B. CLAY, OF ASHLANDS, KENTUCKY, ELDEST SON OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS HENRY CLAY.

Another pang for Southern hearts,
  That of late so oft have bled,
Another name to add to the roll
  Of their mighty, patriot dead;
A vacant place ’mid that phalanx proud.
  Of which each glorious name
Is dear to a mighty nation’s heart,
  And dear to undying fame.

The God-given gift of genius his,
  The patriot’s holy fire,
For he we mourn was a worthy son
  Of a great and glorious sire:
Ah! whate’er the changes time may bring,
  Shall never pass away
From the people’s mind, in North or South,
  The deathless name of Clay.

Yet an exile in a foreign land,
  His spirit passed from earth,
Far from the old dear scenes of home,
  The loved land of his birth,—
The land he had well and truly served,
  With heart, with sword, with pen,
Since first he had joined the march of life,
  By the side of his fellow men.

No Southern breezes, soft and sweet,
  Played around his dying bed,
No Southern flowers in glowing bloom,
  Rich fragrance round him shed;
The wintry light of a Northern sky,
  Earth robed in snowy vest,
Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze
  As he passed into his rest

But near him gathered devoted hearts,
  Wife, children, at his side,
Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked,
  With fond, revering pride,
On him who had ever been to them,
  Throughout his life’s career,
A model of all that honor high,
  Or virtue holds most dear.

And other mourners leaves he too,
  Who had learned to love him well.
Though short the time since he had come,
  Within our midst to dwell:
Friends who will keep his name fore’er
’Mid those they we set apart,
To cherish deeply, and revere,
  Within their inmost heart.

Montreal, Jan. 27, 1864

WHEN WILL IT END?

Written during the Civil War in the United States.

O when will it end, this appalling strife,
With its reckless waste of human life,
Its riving of highest, holiest ties,
Its tears of anguish and harrowing sighs,
Its ruined homes from which hope has fled,
Its broken hearts and its countless dead?

In fair Virginia the new-made graves
Lie crowded thick as old ocean’s caves;
Whether sword or sickness dealt the blow,
What matters it?—They lie cold and low;
And Maryland’s heights are crimsoned o’er,
And its green vales stained, with human gore.

The stalwart man in the prime of life,
Sole stay of frail children and helpless wife;
The bright-eyed, ardent, and beardless boy,
Of some mother’s fond breast the pride and joy,
And the soldier-love, the idol rare
Of maiden and matron, gentle and fair.

The men of the North so dauntless and free,
The flower of the Southland chivalry,
The best and the bravest on either side,
Their citizen soldier, the nation’s pride,
Carelessly cast in each narrow, dank bed,
And fruitlessly numbered among the dead.

Are you nearer the end than when Sumter’s gun
Answered the summons of Charleston,
And the nation plunged in this deadly strife,
That has wrecked its happiness, wealth and life,—
Say what is your answer to foe or friend?
“’Tis a strife of which none can guess the end.”

Oh! keep your young strength for some stranger foe,
Let not brother’s rash hand lay brother low;
Remember one soil your childhood nursed,
In the past together your bonds you burst;
Together for freedom you learned to strike,
And brave Washington honored you both alike.

You have proved to the nations your mutual might;
You have proved you can suffer, struggle and fight;
By hundreds and thousands lie heaped your slain,
Your life-blood crimsons hill, stream and plain;
Prove of nobler struggle you are able yet,
And your mutual wrongs forgive and forget.

Oh, Father of mercies! stay now each hand,
Put back in its sheath the blood stained brand,
Whisper sage counsel to rulers proud,
Calm the wrath of the people, fierce and loud,
So that their hates and their strife may cease,
And their land know once more the boon of peace.

MOONLIGHT REVERIES.

The moon from solemn azure sky
  Looked down on earth below,
And coldly her wan light fell alike
  On scenes of joy and woe:
A stately palace reared its dome,
  Within reigned warmth and light
And festive mirth—the moon’s faint rays
  Soft kissed its marble white.

A little farther was the home
  Of toil, alas! and want,
That spectre grim that countless hearths
  Seems ceaselessly to haunt;
And yet, as if in mocking mirth,
  She smiled on that drear spot,
Silvering brightly the ruined eaves
  And roof of that poor cot.

And then, with curious gaze, she looked
  Within a curtained loom,
Where sat a girl of gentle mien
  In young life’s early bloom;
Her glitt’ring light made still more bright
  The veil and bridal flower,
Which were to wreathe the girl’s fair brow
  In the morrow’s solemn hour.

With changeless smile she gleamed within
  A casement, gloomy, lone,
Where lay a cold and rigid form,
  A death bed stretched upon.
The fixed gaze of the half closed eyes,
  The forehead chill and white,
The shroud and pall, more ghastly looked,
  Wrapped thus in still, silv’ry light.

Long, sadly, gazed I, then a thought,
  Sharp, bitter, filled my heart
’Gainst that cold orb, which in our joys
  And sorrows took no part;
Which shone as bright o’er couch of death,
  In prison’s darkened gloom,
As o’er the festal scenes of earth,
  Or stately palace room.

An inward voice reproved the thought,
  And whispered, soft and low,
“Unto that glorious orb ’twas given
  Its Maker’s power to show.
Throughout long ages has it shone
  With pure, undying flame,
His will obeying Dreamer, go,
  And do thou, too, the same!”

THE CLOUDS THAT PROMISE A GLORIOUS MORROW.

The clouds that promise a glorious morrow
  Are fading slowly, one by one;
The earth no more bright rays may borrow
  From her loved Lord, the golden sun;
Gray evening shadows are softly creeping,
  With noiseless steps, o’er vale and hill;
The birds and flowers are calmly sleeping;
  And all around is fair and still.

Once loved I dearly, at this sweet hour,
  With loitering steps to careless stray,
To idly gather an opening flower,
  And often pause upon my way,—
Gazing around me with joyous feeling,
  From sunny earth to azure sky,
Or bending over the streamlet, stealing
  ’Mid banks of flowers and verdure by.

You wond’ring ask me why sit I lonely
  Within my quiet, curtain’d room,
So idly seeking and clinging only
  Unto its chastened, thoughtful gloom.
You tell me that never fragrance rarer
  Did breathe from clustering leaf and bough;
That never the bright spring was fairer
  Or more enchanting than she is now.

Ah, useless chiding! The loved ones tender,
  Who shared my rambles long ago,
Whose cherished accents could only render
  Words of affection soft and low,
Are parted from me, perchance for ever,
  By miles of distance, of land or main,—
Death some has taken, and them, oh never
  Upon this earth shall I meet again.

’Tis thus this hour of gentle even
  Brings back in thought the friends long gone,—
Loved ones with whom this earth was Heaven
  But who have vanished, one by one.—
’Tis thus I cherish with wilful sadness
  The quiet of my lonely room,—
Careless, unmindful of all earth’s gladness,
  Or of her lovely evening bloom.

EARTH’S MOMENTS OF GLOOM.

“The heart knoweth its own bitterness”

The heart hath its moments of hopeless gloom,
As rayless as is the dark night of the tomb;
When the past has no spell, the future no ray,
To chase the sad cloud from the spirit away;
When earth, though in all her rich beauty arrayed,
Hath a gloom o’er her flowers—o’er her skies a dark shade,
And we turn from all pleasure with loathing away,
Too downcast, too spirit sick, even to pray!

Oh! where may the heart seek, in moments like this,
A whisper of hope, or a faint gleam of bliss?
When friendship seems naught but a cold, cheerless flame,
And love a still falser and emptier name;
When honors and wealth are a wearisome chain,
Each link interwoven with grief and with pain,
And each solace or joy that the spirit might crave
Is barren of comfort and dark as the grave.

Lift—lift up thy sinking heart, pilgrim of life!
A sure spell there is for thy spirit’s sad strife;
’Tis not to be found in the well-springs of earth,—
Oh! no, ’tis of higher and holier birth.

AUTUMN WINDS.

“Oh! Autumn winds, what means this plaintive wailing
  Around the quiet homestead where we dwell?
Whence come ye, say, and what the story mournful
  That your weird voices ever seek to tell—
Whispering or clamoring, beneath the casements,
  Rising in shriek or dying off in moan,
But ever breathing, menace, fear, or anguish
  In every thrilling and unearthly tone?”

“We come from far off and from storm-tossed oceans,
  Where vessels bravely battle with fierce gale,—
Mere playthings of our stormy, restless power,
  We rend them quickly, shuddering mast and sail;
And with their, stalwart, gallant crews we hurl them
  Amid the hungry waves that for them wait,
Nor leave one floating spar nor fragile taffrail
  To tell unto the world their dreary fate.”

“But He who holds you, wrathful winds of Autumn,
  Within the hollow of His mighty hand,
Can stay your onward course of reckless fury,
  Your demon wrath, or eerie sport command,
Changing your rudest blast to zephyr gentle
  As rocks the rose in summer evenings still,
Calming the ocean and yourselves enchaining
  By simple fiat of Almighty Will.”

“We’ve been, too in the close and crowded city
  Where want is often forced to herd with sin;
And our cold breath has pierced through without pity,
  Bare, ruined hovel and worn garments thin;
Through narrow chink and broken window pouring
  Draughts rife with fever and with deadly chill,
Choosing our victims ’mid old age and childhood,
  Or tender, fragile infancy at will.”

“Oh, Autumn blasts, He, whose kind care doth temper
  The searching wind unto the small shorn lamb,
To those poor shiv’ring victims, too, can render
  Thy keenest, sharpest blasts, both mild and calm
Rave on—rave on, around our happy homestead
  Upon this dark and wild November night,
Ye do but work out your God-given mission,
  Mere humble creatures of our Father’s might.”

“But, listen, we come, too, from graveyards lonely,
  From mocking revels held ’mid tombstones tall,
Tearing the withered leaves from off the branches,
  The clinging ivy from the time-stained wall,—
Uprooting, blighting every tiny leaflet
  That hid the grave’s bleak nakedness from sight,
Driving the leaves in hideous, death like dances,
  Around the lowly mounds, the grave-stones white.”

“And, what of that, ye cruel winds of Autumn?
  Spring will return again with hope and mirth,
Clothing with tender green the budding branches,
  Decking with snowdrops, violets, the earth;
And, oh! sweet hope, sublime and most consoling,
  The sacred dust within those graves shall rise
In God’s good time, to reign on thrones of glory
  With Him, beyond the cloudless, golden skies.”

FLOWERS AND STARS.

“Beloved! thou’rt gazing with thoughtful look
  On those flowers of brilliant hue,
Blushing in spring tide freshness and bloom,
  Glittering with diamond dew:
What dost thou read in each chalice fair,
  And what does each blossom say?
Do they not tell thee, my peerless one,
  Thou’rt lovelier far than they?”

“Not so—not so, but they whisper low
  That quickly will fade their bloom;
Soon will they withered lie on the sod,
  Ravished of all perfume;
They tell that youth and beauty below
  Are doomed, alas! to decay,
And I, like them, in life’s flower and prime
  May pass from this earth away.”

“Too sad thy thoughts! Look up at yon stars,
  That gleam in the sapphire skies;
Not clearer their radiance, best beloved,
  Than the light of thine own dark eyes!
With no thoughts of death or sad decay,
  Can they thy young spirit fill;
Through ages they’ve shone with changeless light,
  And yet they are shining still!”

“Ah! they bring before my spirit’s gaze
  Dreams of that home so blessed,
Where those who have served the Master well
  At length from their labors rest;
And do not chide if, despite all ties,
  Of close-clinging earthly love,
There are times when I turn a wistful glance
  To that distant home above.”

THE SUNSET THOUGHTS OF A DYING GIRL.

Friends! do you see in yon sunset sky,
  That cloud of crimson bright?
Soon will its gorgeous colors die
  In coming dim twilight;
E’en now it fadeth ray by ray—
Like it I too shall pass away!

Look on yon fragile summer flower
  Yielding its sweet perfume;
Soon shall it have lived out its hour,
  Its beauty and its bloom:
Trampled, ’twill perish in the shade—
Alas! as quickly shall I fade.

Mark you yon planet gleaming clear
  With steadfast, gentle light,
See, heavy dark clouds hovering near,
  Have veiled its radiance bright—
As you vainly search that gloomy spot,
You’ll look for me and find me not!

Turn now to yonder sparkling stream,
  Where silver ripples play;
Dancing within the moon’s pale beam—
  Ah! short will be their stay,
They break and die upon the shore—
Like them I soon shall be no more!

Yes! emblems meet of my career,
  Are ripple, cloud, and flower;
Fated like me to linger here,
  But for a brief, bright hour—
And then, alas! to yield my place;
And leave, perchance, on earth no trace!

No trace, my friends, save in your hearts,
  That pure and sacred shrine—
Where, ’spite life’s thousand cares and arts,
  A place shall yet be mine;
And love as deep as that of yore—
Though on this earth we meet no more!

ALAIN’S CHOICE.

By the side of a silvery streamlet,
  That flowed through meadows green,
Lay a youth on the verge of manhood
  And a boy of fair sixteen;
And the elder spake of the future,
  That bright before them lay,
With its hopes full of golden promise
  For some sure, distant day.

And he vowed, as his dark eye kindled,
  He would climb the heights of fame,
And conquer with mind or weapon
  A proud, undying name.
On the darling theme long dwelling
  Bright fabrics did he build,
Which the hope in his ardent bosom
  With splendor helped to gild.

At length he paused, then questioned:
  “Brother, thou dost not speak;
In the vague bright page of the future
  To read dost thou never seek?”
Then the other smiled and answered,
  “Of that am I thinking now,
And the crown which I too am striving
  To win my ambitious brow.”

“What!—a crown? Thou hast spirit, brother;
  Say, of laurels will it be?
Thy choice, the life of a soldier,
  Undaunted—joyous—free.
Though by wind and sun undarkened
  Is thy blooming, boyish face,
To thy choice thou’lt do all honor,
  For ’tis worthy of thy race!

“Am I wrong? Well, ’tis more likely,
  With thy love of ancient lore,
Thou would’st choose the scholar’s garland,
  Not laurels wet with gore;
I’ll not chide—’tis surely noble,
  By mere simple might of pen,
To rule with master power
  The minds of thy fellow-men.”

But still shook his head the younger:
  “What! unguessed thy secret yet?
Ha! I know now what thou seekest
  To deck thy curls of jet:
Bright buds!” and he, laughing, scattered
  Blossoms on brow and cheek,
“Pleasure’s wreath of smiting flowers
  Is the crown that thou dost seek.”

“Not so—of all, that were vainest!
  ’Tis a crown immortal—rare—
Here on earth I must strive to win it,
  But, brother, I’ll wear it there!”
And he raised to the blue sky o’er him
  Eyes filled with tender thought,—
Who shall doubt that to him was given
  The glorious crown he sought?

THE FINAL RECKONING.

’Twas a wild and stormy sunset, changing tints of lurid red
Flooded mountain top and valley and the low clouds overhead;
And the rays streamed through the windows of a building stately, high,
Whose wealthy, high-born master had lain him down to die.

Many friends were thronging round him, breathing aching, heavy sighs—
Men with pale and awe-struck faces, women, too, with weeping eyes,
Watching breathless, silent, grieving him whose sands were nearly run,
When, with sudden start, he muttered: “God! how much I’ve left undone!”

Then out spoke an aged listener, with broad brow and locks of snow,
“Patriot, faithful to thy country and her welfare, say not so,
For the long years thou hast served her thou hast only honor won.”
But, from side to side still tossing, still he muttered: “Much undone!”

Then the wife, with moan of anguish, like complaint of stricken dove,
Murmured: “Husband, truer, fonder, never blessed a woman’s love,
And a just and tender father both to daughter and to son”—
But more feebly moaned he ever: “Oh! there’s much, there’s much undone!”

Quickly, then, a proud, stern soldier questioned: “Say, will not thy name
Long descend in future story, linked with honor and with fame,
For thine arm was prompt in battle and thy laurels nobly won;
Patriot, citizen and soldier, what, then, is there left undone?”

Then the dying man upraised him; at his accents loud and clear
Into silence men lapsed quickly—women checked each sob and tear;
And he said: “To fame, home, country, all my heart, my thoughts I’ve given,
But, Oh dreamers, can you tell me what I’ve done for God—for Heaven?

“It was not for Him I battled with the sword or with the pen,
Not for His praise that I thirsted, but that of my fellow-men;
And amid the light now flooding this my life’s last setting sun,
I can see, misguided worldling! that there’s much I’ve left undone.”

Thicker, darker, fell the shadows, fainter grew his flutt’ring breath
Then a strange and solemn stillness, ’twas the awful hush of death:
Hope we that a tender Saviour, unto gentle pity won,
Judged that dying man with mercy, whatsoe’er he left undone!

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE G. C. OF MONTREAL.

The earth was flooded in the amber haze
That renders so lovely our autumn days,
The dying leaves softly fluttered down,
Bright crimson and orange and golden brown,
And the hush of autumn, solemn and still,
Brooded o’er valley, plain and hill.

Yet still from that scene with rare beauty rife
And the touching sweetness of fading life,
From glowing foliage and sun bright ray,
My gaze soon mournfully turned away
To rest, instead, on a new made grave,
Enshrouding a heart true, loyal and brave.

At rest for aye! Cold and pulseless now
That high throbbing breast and calm, earnest brow;
Laid down forever the quick, gifted pen
That toiled but for God and his fellow men;
Silent that voice, free from hatred or ruth,
Yet e’er boldly raised in the cause of truth.

For the prize of our faith grateful he proved,
Breaking from ties and from scenes once loved,
From rank and fortune, and the lures of pride,
That tempt the gifted on every side,
To devote his genius—his pen of fire—
To aims more holy and themes far higher.

He was true to the land he had made his home,
And true to the grand old faith of Rome,
At whose feet he laid powers rarer than gold,
As knights laid their lances and shields of old,—
That Church on whose loving maternal breast
He peacefully sank to eternal rest.

Oh! no tears for him who passed away
Ere frame or spirit knew touch of decay,
Ere time had deadened one feeling warm,
Or his genius robbed of one single charm.
As he was when death struck, his image shall dwell
In the countless hearts that loved him so well.

ON SOME ROSE LEAVES BROUGHT FROM THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

Faded and pale their beauty, vanished their early bloom,
Their folded leaves emit alone a sweet though faint perfume,
But, oh! than brightest bud or flower to me are they more dear,
They come from that rose-haunted land, the bright Vale of Cashmere.

Cashmere! a spell is in that name! what dreams its sound awakes
Of roses sweet as Eden’s flowers, of minarets and lakes,
Of scenes as vaguely, strangely bright as those of fairy land,
Springing to life and loveliness ’neath some enchanter’s wand!

Cashmere! poetic in its name, its clear and brilliant skies
That seem to clothe earth, flower and wave in their own lovely dyes;
Poetic in its legend lore, and spell more dear than all,
Enshrined in poet’s inmost heart, the home of “Nourmahal.”*

Yes, there oft fell her fairy feet, there shone the glances bright,
That won for her the glorious name of harem’s queen and light;
There, as she wandered ’mid its bowers, her royal love beside,
She taught him to forget all else save her, his beauteous, bride.

Cashmere! what would this heart not give to see thy favored earth,
So rich in nature’s peerless gifts, in beauty’s dazzling worth,
Rich in a name that in mine ear from childhood’s hour hath rung,
The land of which impassioned Moore with such sweet power hath sung.

Yet, were I there, oh! well I know the time would surely come
When my yearning heart would turn again to my far Canadian home,
Longing to look once more upon its wintry wastes of snow,
And the friends whose hearts throb like mine own, with friendship’s changeless glow.

* The heroine of Moore’s beautiful poem The Light of the Harem.

HARVESTS.

Other harvests there are than those that lie
Glowing and ripe ’neath an autumn sky,
  Awaiting the sickle keen,
Harvests more precious than golden grain,
Waving o’er hillside, valley or plain,
  Than fruits ’mid their leafy screen.

Not alone for the preacher, man of God,
Do those harvests vast enrich the sod,
  For all may the sickle wield;
The first in proud ambition’s race,
The last in talent, power or place,
  Will all find work in that field.

Man toiling, lab’ring with fevered strain,
High office or golden prize to gain,
  Rest both weary heart and head,
And think, when thou’lt shudder in death’s cold clasp,
How earthly things will elude thy grasp,
  At that harvest work instead!

Lady, with queenly form and brow,
Gems decking thy neck and arms of snow,
  Who need only smile to win;
’Mid thy guests, perchance the gay, the grave,
Is one whom a warning word might save
  From folly, sorrow or sin.

Let that word be said, thine eyes so bright
Will glow with holier, softer light
  For the good that thou hast done;
And a time will come when thou wilt reap
From that simple act more pleasure deep
  Than from flatt’ring conquests won.

Young girl in thy bright youth’s blushing dawn,
Graceful and joyous as sportive fawn,
  There is work for thee to do,
And higher aims than to flirt and smile,
And practise each gay, coquettish wile,
  Admiring glances to woo.

Ah! the world is full of grief and care,
Sad, breaking hearts are every where,
  And thou can’st give relief;
Alms to the needy—soft word of hope
That a brighter view may chance to ope
  To mourners bowed by grief.

That gauzy tissue yon bud or flower
That tempt thee at the present hour,
  To be worn, then cast aside,
Bethink thee, their price might comfort bring,
Fuel or food to the famishing
  And help to the sorely tried.

Such harvest fruits are most precious and rare,
Worthy all toil and patient care,
  Think of the promised reward!
Not earthly gains that will pass away
Like morning mist or bright sunset ray,
  But Christ Himself, our Lord!

A WORLDLY DEATH-BED.

Hush! speak in accents soft and low,
  And treat with careful stealth
Thro’ that rich curtained room which tells
  Of luxury and wealth;
Men of high science and of skill
  Stand there with saddened brow,
Exchanging some low whispered words—
  What can their art do now?

Follow their gaze to yonder couch
  Where moans in fitful pain
The mistress of this splendid home,
  With aching heart and brain.
The fever burning in her veins
  Tinges with carmine bright
That sunken cheek—alas! she needs
  No borrowed bloom to-night.

The masses of her raven hair
  Fall down on either side
In tangled richness—it has been
  Through life her care and pride;
And those small perfect hands on which
  Her gaze complacent fell,
Now, clenched within her pillow’s lace,
  Of anguish only tell.

Sad was her restless, fev’rish sleep,
  More sad her waking still,
As with wild start she looks around
  Her chamber darkened—still;
Its silence and the mournful looks
  Of those who stand apart,
Some awful fear seem to suggest
  To that poor worldly heart.

“Doctor, I’m better, am I not?”
  She gasps with failing breath—
Alas! the answer sternly tells
  That she is “ill to death.”
“What! dying!” and her eyes gleam forth
  A flashing, fearful ray,
“I, young, rich, lovely, from this earth
  To pass so soon away?

“No, no, it must not, cannot be,
  Surely your skill can save—
Can stand between me and the gloom,
  The horrors, of the grave!”
Breathless she listens, but no word
  Breaks that dull pause of grief,—
Her pitying listeners turn away,
  They cannot give relief

Tossing aloft, in fierce despair,
  Her arms, with frenzied cry,
She gasps forth, “Save me—help, O help!
  I must not, will not die.”
But One can grant that wild appeal,
  Can stay her failing breath—
Of Him she never thought in life
  Nor thinks she now in death.

Without one prayer, one contrite tear,
  For past faults to atone—
For wasted talents, misspent life,
  She’s gone before God’s throne!
Prying that wilful, wayward heart
  That leaned on gods of clay,
For calmer, holier death than hers
  With solemn heart we pray.

THE CHOICE OF SWEET SHY CLARE.

Fair as a wreath of fresh spring flowers, a band of maidens lay
On the velvet sward—enjoying the golden summer day;
And many a ringing silv’ry laugh on the calm air clearly fell,
With fancies sweet, which their rosy lips, half unwilling, seemed to tell.

They spoke, as maidens often speak, of that ideal one
By whom the wealth of their warm young hearts will at length be wooed and won—
Fond girlish dreams! and half in jest and half in serious strain,
Each told of the gifts that could alone the prize of her love obtain.

The first who spoke was a bright-eyed girl, with a form of airy grace,
Mirth beaming in every dimple sweet of her joyous smiling face:
“I ask not much in the favor’d one who this dainty hand would gain;—
No ordeal long would I ask of him—no hours of mental pain.

“Let him but come in the pomp of rank, endowed with wealth and pride,
To woo to a lofty palace home his youthful, worshipped bride,
Heaping my path with presents rare, with radiant jewels and gold,—
Love’s flame ’neath poverty’s breath, ’tis said, soon waxes faint and cold.”

Outspoke another, with proud dark eye, and a stately, regal mien:
“Thou saidst thou wast easily pleased, May, and so thou art, I ween,
Thou askest paltry rank and wealth—aim higher would be mine!
Rare mental gold—the priceless fire of genius divine.”

“And I,” said a third, with soft sweet voice, “would exact still less than ye,
No need for glitter of lofty state, no gold or jewels for me;
Nor ask I that genius’ lofty power in his ardent soul should dwell,
Enough, if he love but me alone, and love me only well!”

Another said that her choice would fall on manly beauty and grace,
That he she would love must matchless stand, the noblest of his race,
Excelling in sports of flood and field, and as lion brave in war,
Yet, with hand and voice, in lady’s bower, attuned to light guitar.

And now, with one accord, they turned to a dove-like maiden mild,
With a seraph’s purity of look, and soft graces of a child;
“Speak out, speak out now, sweet shy Clare, we anxious wait for thee,
Coy, gentle one! fear not to say what thy heart’s young choice will be.”

A moment paused she, and then a flush, like sunset, dyed her brow,
And softly she murmured “Sisters, dear, I have made my choice ere now,
And the rarest gifts that you could name, be they earthly or divine.
In strange perfection—God like grace—will be found all, all in mine.”

She ceased, and a thoughtful silence stole o’er those youthful brows of mirth,
They knew she spoke of the Bridegroom King—the Lord of Heaven and earth;
And e’er fleet time of another year had sounded the passing knell,
The maiden Clare and her Bridegroom fair were wedded in convent cell.

TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. SISTER THE NATIVITY, FOUNDRESS OF THE CONVENT OF VILLA MARIA (MONKLANDS.)

Oh, Villa Maria, thrice favored spot,
Unclouded sunshine is still thy lot
  Since first, ’neath thy mortal old,
The spouses of Christ—working out God’s will,
Meekly entered, their mission high to fill
  ’Mid the “little ones” of His fold.

But grief’s dark hour, that to all must come,
At length is on thee, and as a tomb,
  Hushed, joyless, art thou to-day,
For the lofty mind that thy councils led,
To womanly sweetness so closely wed,
  Has been called by death away.

“One ’mid a thousand!” no words could tell
The peerless worth that, like holy spell,
  Won all souls to saintly love;
And that knowledge rare of the human heart
That, with heavenly patience and gentle art,
  The coldest breast could move.

Oh! girlish natures, good blended with ill,
That she trained with such watchful, wondrous skill
  To be noble women and true—
The bliss of those households whose hope you are,
Where your worth shines steady as vesper star,
  Unto her is surely due.

And those chosen souls, called to holier state,
That on the Heavenly Bridegroom wait,
  Their cell an Eden below,
Whom she guided safely through wile and snare,
Making virtue appear so divinely fair,
  How much unto her they owe!

And many now sleeping ’neath churchyard sod,
But whose souls are reigning on high with God
  Through her teachings true and blessed—
With what strains of rapture, ravishing, sweet,
Their teacher and guide did they once more meet,
  As she entered on her rest.

When to Villa Maria will come again
Spring, with opening buds and gentle rain,
  Though her place be vacant there,
The spirit of her teachings will ever dwell
In the earthly home she loved so well,
  Treasured with sacred care.

The winds of winter, with sob and sigh,
And dirge-like voices go wailing by,
  Waking echoes in every breast.
As they sweep o’er the snow-clad reaches wide,
And the cold pale shroud where, on every side,
  The eyes are forced to rest.

And the stars shed their radiance pure, yet faint,
Like aureole round the brow of a saint,
  As on earth they calm look down;
And raising our tearful and heavy gaze
On high, to their solemn, silvery rays,
  We whisper—“Thus shines her crown.”

Mother beloved, O sainted nun,
Disciple true of the Crucified One,
  Thy teachings we keep for aye,
Till, our life’s brief course wrought out, we meet
At our Father’s glorious judgment-seat,
  In realms of cloudless day!

December 23rd, 1875.

SEA-SHORE MUSINGS.

How oft I’ve longed to gaze on thee,
  Thou proud and mighty deep!
Thy vast horizon, boundless, free,
  Thy coast so rude and steep;
And now entranced I breathless stand,
  Where earth and ocean meet,
Whilst billows wash the golden sand,
  And break around my feet.

Lovely thou art when dawn’s red light
  Sheds o’er thee its soft hue,
Showing fair ships, a gallant sight,
  Upon thy waters blue;
And when the moonbeams softly pour
  Their light on wave or glen,
And diamond spray leaps on the shore,
  How lovely art thou then!

Still, as I look, faint shadows steal
  O’er thy calm heaving breast,
And there are times, I sadly feel,
  Thou art not thus at rest;
And I bethink me of past tales,
  Of ships that left the shore,
And meeting with thy fearful gales,
  Have ne’er been heard of more.

They say thy depths hold treasures rare,
  Groves coral—sands of gold—
Pearls fitted for a monarch’s wear
  And gems of worth untold;
But these could not to life restore
  The idol of one home,
Nor make brave hearts beat high once more
  That sleep beneath thy foam.

But I must chase such thoughts away,
  They mar this happy hour,
Remembering thou dost but obey
  Thy Great Creator’s, power;
And in my own fair inland home,
  Mysterious, moaning main,
In dreams I’ll see thy snow-white foam
  And frowning rocks again.