Its Scenery.
|
Transferred from the shade of affection and love, |
|
I wander where instinct dictates me to rove, |
|
Having drunk of its goblet, in a City, whose towers |
|
Had claims on the Poet's high wrought mental powers, |
|
Demanding that homage, that genius to art |
5 |
Should render, in viewing her wonders apart. |
|
Thy shadow, kind City remains on the soul, |
|
With many dear object it there may enroll; |
|
I left thee, and waved thee a happy adieu, |
|
To print my proud footsteps in Belleville anew |
10 |
Sweet Ville, I hail thee with heart of no guile, |
|
I ask but to court thy fair beauties awhile. |
|
And should, peradventure, some theme round thy shore |
|
Perchance touch the lyre, or move its strings o'er, |
|
My heart, the great store-house of music and love, |
15 |
Would bid them in power and melody move, |
|
And stamp immortality on my proud song, |
|
Which all thy wild beauty would aid to prolong. |
|
Sweet Ville, thou art but a youth in thy pride, |
|
Just leaving thy boyhood round this sweet silver tide; |
20 |
The laurels of battle adorn not thy brow, |
|
No glories enwreath it with amarinths now, |
|
No ancient pedestals do rear on high, |
|
Their head proudly pillowing its front in the sky; |
|
No castles that wear the deep stamp of proud time |
25 |
Are here, claiming a place in my rhyme, |
|
Thou hast shaken the shaggy old dress thou did'st wear, |
|
Which the wolves of thy forest did aid oft to tear; |
|
Unbearing that beauty which nature bestrew, |
|
And clouds of the heaven bend to kiss with their dew; |
30 |
And art in her chasest ideas doth raise |
|
Her monuments here aloft to thy praise, |
|
Thy life and thy muscles expanding in strength |
|
Will raise in their giant proportions at length, |
|
That beauty imprinted upon thy mild face, |
35 |
Alluring thousands to court thy deep grace. |
|
A few fleeting years have fled on before, |
|
Since Indians did ramble around thy green shore; |
|
Frail man in his rudest form rambled thy wood, |
|
Then thirsting to bathe his fierce spear in blood; |
40 |
The bones of whom linger in mounds to declare |
|
The desperate terrors of heathenish war. |
|
The white man ennobled by science and art, |
|
Has raised on their ashes these bright scenes apart, |
|
And glory in bringing to honor and power, |
45 |
Their land of adoption to bliss every hour. |
|
The Author of Nature long favored thy shore, |
|
And lavish'd upon thee her plenteous store. |
|
A beautiful sheet of pure water she gave, |
|
Where all its proud surges so plentifully lave, |
50 |
And beauty is printed in lines of thy face, |
|
Adorned by art's power, in loveliest grace. |
|
Old Quinte's proud bosom doth heave up in pride, |
|
To bear on her surface, and move with the tide |
|
The beautiful vessels that furrow her cheek, |
55 |
Oft wafted by breezes so gentle and meek; |
|
These strengthen thy commerce and add to thy bliss, |
|
What more can'st thou covet in a world such as this? |
|
And Moira's mild River comes singing along, |
|
Engaging the spirit with her gentle song, |
60 |
She longs in the distant to fall on the breast, |
|
And pillow her labouring billows for rest; |
|
Burying her murmurs on Quinte's deep wave, |
|
Where all her proud surges cease ever to lave. |
|
O beautiful Ville, how blissful thy seat, |
65 |
Above these sweet waters that dance at thy feet. |
|
How lovely and healthy as fann'd by its breeze, |
|
And wet by the dews that do bless thy green trees, |
|
That wave in rich beauty adorning thy brow, |
|
And learned in obedience to wild winds to bow |
70 |
How wondrous these buildings that fall on my eye, |
|
That raise their proud summits aloft in the sky; |
|
How few are the years since it was a wood, |
|
Oft stained by the Indians in life's purple blood. |
|
The dust of thy fathers have scarcely grown cold, |
75 |
Who fell thy proud forests mid sufferings untold; |
|
The brave pioneer had to breast the deep snow, |
|
That fell in deep layers long years ago. |
|
The names of thy Meyers and Taylor are here, |
|
Around them entwine associations so dear; |
80 |
Yea, Meachem, and Leavins, and Simpson, are gone, |
|
And left their friend Petrie to struggle alone. |
|
The dust of thy Harris, and McIntosh too, |
|
Do sleep by thy River, with memories true. |
|
These giant minds labored around thy green shore, |
85 |
Their axes will sound on thy timber no more; |
|
They left happy homes for their sons to enjoy, |
|
Who reap of their labor, none dare them annoy; |
|
They fought with the lion and conquered the bear |
|
(Like David in Israel) that threat them to tear. |
90 |
Rest, rest, peaceful ashes; how sweet such a sleep, |
|
Where love's gentle dew-drops bend o'er you to weep. |
|
The sound of the rifle may break o'er your grave, |
|
Where beautiful flowers o'er your ashes may wave; |
|
The axe of the woodman may sound through the grove, |
95 |
Where intrepid sinews once eager did rove; |
|
But sleep ye, unheeding in its clamor and roar, |
|
Its sounds fails disturb you, your labors are o'er. |
|
The voice of the angel alone bids you rise |
|
To meet your Redeemer in bliss 'bove the skies. |
100 |
THE HON. BILLA FLINT. |
|
Thy Beauties, sweet Belleville, were courted before, |
|
By minds of rich lustre, who loved thy bright shore; |
|
Those souls early labored to raise thy rich name |
|
To dignity, honor, to wealth, and to fame. |
|
Nor least was that spirit, whose name in my song |
105 |
Will grace it while claiming chaste words from my tongue; |
|
B. Flint, thy dear name will fall sweet on the mind |
|
Of hundreds who know its affections so kind, |
|
And know that heroic and resolute soul, |
|
From whence mighty purposes ever did roll, |
110 |
Thy faith in the plans of thy own mighty mind |
|
Has led thee to daring bright deeds of all kind, |
|
And under the blessing of heaven's bright throne, |
|
Those deeds were successful through years now gone, |
|
And now while the blows on the almond doth grow, |
115 |
And scatter their silver threads o'er thee below, |
|
And time stamping deeper her furrows of power, |
|
Deep lining thy countenance here every hour; |
|
Thy soul's able power hath still bright resolve |
|
Where thoughts of thy youth so oft did revolve, |
120 |
Beside the deep interest in thy country's good, |
|
Thou seekest the honor, and glory of God. |
|
Let those mighty walls that do tower on high, |
|
Raising their breastworks aloft to the sky, |
|
Declare thy affection and love to that cause, |
125 |
Where most precious treasure are God's sacred laws. |
|
When Death, King of Terror, shall bow low thy head, |
|
It rests on the pillow of earth's dusty bed, |
|
The clods of the valley enclosing it o'er, |
|
And thou seen among them in Belleville no more, |
130 |
Thy memory will bless, and fall like the dew |
|
Upon our deep heart-strings to touch them anew. |
|
A tear of affection from Belleville will fall, |
|
Where slumber the ashes of Flint's relics all, |
|
Bedewing the flowers so gay that may wave, |
135 |
In their gentle beauty then, over thy grave. |
|
THE HON. LEWIS WALLBRIDGE. |
|
Yea, Belleville may e'er proudly boast of a son, |
|
Who honors her precincts by victories won. |
|
She need not solicit from Europe's great light, |
|
An agent to raise her to glory so bright, |
140 |
But geniuses nurtured upon her own breast, |
|
May raise her to glory and honor the best. |
|
His being is woven in one with thine own; |
|
Yea, by deep affection and interest one. |
|
He's made of the elements that have made thee, |
145 |
His heart is entwined with thy high destiny. |
|
It soon learned to love thee, in youth's gentle hour, |
|
And rose with thy greatness to knowledge and power. |
|
Thy atmosphere fann'd him in life's early dawn, |
|
He bathed in thy waters, and roamed in thy lawn, |
150 |
He rose by industry, his high mental powers, |
|
To dignity, knowledge, from life's early hours. |
|
He grew with the increase by effort and worth, |
|
And early sent shadows of true greatness forth. |
|
The eye of the country may now turn in pride |
155 |
To his home on the shores by Quinte's sweet tide, |
|
Where Wallbridge was nurtured on Canada soil, |
|
And raised to high honor by talent and toil. |
|
Is it true that all nations partake in their mind |
|
The attributes round them in scenes of all kind? |
160 |
Do the mountains of Cymru inspire their soul |
|
With wildest conceptions they fail to control? |
|
Did the hills of old Scotia contribute the more, |
|
Deep, deep inspiration to Byron's great power? |
|
Did they blaze on the soul of the noble young bard, |
165 |
Baptizing with fire a heart getting hard? |
|
Did his spirit partake its proportions so grand, |
|
And move him to sing of its hills through the land? |
|
Thus Canada's various great emblems of power |
|
May enter thy genius and move it this hour. |
170 |
Thus, thus, may all cities on Canada's shore |
|
E'er labor to raise her own talent to power. |
|
The bard may be valued did he sing from afar |
|
The glory and lustre of Canada's star? |
|
Why not when he prints his mild feet round the home |
175 |
Of Wallbridge in Belleville when he chanced to come? |
|
THE HON. ROBERT READ. |
|
Thou stand'st an example of industry and power, |
|
To raise us to honor through life's changing hour. |
|
The principle in us that makes man excel, |
|
Should ever be lauded to aid us do well. |
180 |
The weight of thy character often doth fall |
|
In deeds of rare kindness to thy neighbors all. |
|
Thy wealth is devoted to aid the distressed, |
|
Whose lips thy pure actions of kindness have blessed. |
|
The heart of the country do harmonize well |
185 |
In sending thy popular name to the poll-- |
|
To raise thee to stations of honor and power, |
|
From whence thou'lt defend them in each trying hour. |
|
The workman who labors with hands for his bread |
|
Will bless thy remembrance when death bows thy head. |
190 |
But live thou to bless them through long, distant years, |
|
Dispersing oppression and chasing their fears. |
|
May Belleville be proud of her adopted son |
|
Who'll aid e'er to bring her to wealth and renown; |
|
Nor blame the poor poet for swelling his song |
195 |
On themes that are known to the old and the young. |
|
His brush may be dipp'd in the light of some soul |
|
Whose powers may mould our destinies all. |
|
Perchance he'll give life to those scenes that do fade, |
|
'Fore the eye of your spirits yea bloomless and dead. |
200 |
But touched by the magic wand from his own soul, |
|
Deep shadows of life may creep over them all. |
|
Then gaze on the beauties of Belleville and see |
|
Has he shadowed its glories with true poetry; |
|
And call now the cold world to list to his song, |
205 |
And cadence that fall in mild grace from his tongue. |
|
T.C. WALLBRIDGE, ESQ., M.P. |
|
The noble and bright youthful spirit should dwell |
|
Awhile on the lyre to list its spell. |
|
My heart can well sympathise with the deep fire |
|
There dwell the ambition for honor and fame, |
210 |
There live vast desires to gain a proud name; |
|
And there dwell the motives that'll raise him to power, |
|
And to brightest glory in life's future hour; |
|
And there dwells the knowledge within his bright mind, |
|
To cause him to bless us with truths of all kind. |
215 |
The blossoms of youth do yet hang round his brow, |
|
And grace from his lips may cause hundreds to bow, |
|
To own the bright powers that break in his soul, |
|
With passionate eloquence that from it may roll. |
|
May he gain those high honors his soul doth desire, |
220 |
That nations may list to the sound of his lyre, |
|
And own him, like others on Canada's soil, |
|
That have raised to high power by labor and toil. |
|
Its Religion.
|
|
The Gospel of Jesus was welcomed by thee, |
|
Thou loved'st its precepts and deep purity. |
|
Its heralds were hailed on thy bright shores to bless |
|
Thy mind with its peace and its pure righteousness, |
|
Which shed mildest lustre all over thy heart, |
5 |
To purify all its vast passions apart. |
|
Thy wealth was devoted to raise up on high |
|
Pure altars to worship the God of the sky. |
|
How mild are thy Sabbaths, in contrast with lands |
|
Who feel not the power of Heaven's high commands. |
10 |
But thou drink'st of pleasures that flow through the blood, |
|
Which ever do "gladden the city of God." |
|
Proud talents from lands far away are combined |
|
To nourish thy spirit and strengthen thy mind, |
|
Imbuing thy soul with salvation's strong power |
15 |
To face the dread terrors of death's fatal hour. |
|
Yea, minds that were cast in various moulds are |
|
Adorning thy churches God's truth to declare, |
|
To guide to that city of glory and light |
|
Those hearts that kind Heaven succeeds to make right. |
20 |
The Church that first dandled the bard on her knee, |
|
And fed him with manna gratuitously, |
|
And watched him in childhood, on England's green shore, |
|
Doth here unfold him the Gospel's deep store. |
|
The sons of that spirit--immortal his name-- |
25 |
Whose heart was e'er radiant of seraphic flame-- |
|
Thou, Wesley, whose labors of spiritual power |
|
Are felt in the nations of earth to this hour-- |
|
Thou rescuest doctrines from darkness and death, |
|
Unfolding how sinners are pardoned by faith. |
30 |
And here thy children, fraught with deepest grace, |
|
Do follow the footsteps which thou didst retrace. |
|
REV. MR. ROSE. |
|
Not thou like the beautiful rose of the vale, |
|
In humble proportion oft bowed by the gale. |
|
Thy noble brow towers aloft like the oak, |
35 |
Well able to brave the proud thunderstorm's stroke. |
|
Thou seemest a "Bunting," whose mind had a clause, |
|
For the wide dimensions of Methodist Laws. |
|
With that Evangelical vein in his soul, |
|
And eloquent only when mighty thoughts roll. |
40 |
Those truths of thy fathers entwine round thy heart, |
|
No power can bid them from thither depart. |
|
And HALL, whose rich classical
mind is imbued |
|
With the grace of the Gospel which Heaven bedewed, |
|
Can sway like a bulrush his audience below, |
45 |
While streams of pure mental and moral truths flow,-- |
|
They feel their souls going in one with his own, |
|
To view God's effulgence that breaks from His throne,-- |
|
Go on till thy soul like a Summerfield flies, |
|
To bask in the glory and bliss of the skies. |
50 |
Then, then, may thy spirit in raptures there fall, |
|
To crown thy Redeemer through grace "Lord of all." |
|
That Church's dimensions that towers on high, |
|
Attempting to stay the proud clouds of the sky, |
|
Can find in the Province no mightier wall |
55 |
Where Methodist eloquence ever will fall. |
|
May Rose's deep knowledge of the Gospel truth |
|
Break forth like the lightning on the heart of the youth. |
|
And bow them in penitence before their just God, |
|
Who'll grant them remission of sins through "the blood." |
60 |
And live may the sins of the Wesleys e'ermore, |
|
From England's green island to earth distant shore. |
|
EPISCOPAL METHODIST. |
|
The graceful lips of the Reverend Mr. GROVES, |
|
Can pour chaste language and deep thoughts that move; |
|
Correct his diction, and his thoughts concise, |
65 |
He shews the beauty of the pearl of price, |
|
Unfolds the glory of the gospel grace, |
|
As it doth shine from his Redeemer's face. |
|
Stamped by the power of those bright veteran minds, |
|
That braved Columbia's most infuriate winds, |
70 |
To spread the knowledge of their Savior's name, |
|
Throughout the earth with more than mortal fame, |
|
He's here alike, their son, by gospel light |
|
Shedding its lustre, and its glory bright: |
|
To point the poor sinner to that purple fount, |
75 |
That's op'ed for sin on Calvary's sacred mount. |
|
May those aged veteran's holiness and power |
|
Be taught by thee, and practiced through life's hour. |
|
Thy church be fed by pasture from that grove |
|
Whence flows the streams of christian "perfect love." |
80 |
May Beulah's light break on their heart so pure, |
|
And heaven's own bliss be theirs each to secure. |
|
CHURCH OF ENGLAND.
REV. MR. GREIR AND REV. MR. JONES. |
|
Our graceful aged mother, the church, has a son |
|
Reflecting deep lustre upon her renown, |
|
His eloquent language doth move the deep heart |
85 |
Of Belleville who judges his powers apart, |
|
And deem him thus worthy to raise new church walls |
|
Where all his bright powers of eloquence falls. |
|
How graceful the old church aloft on the hill, |
|
Which Belleville's inhabitants do each Sabbath fill, |
90 |
And list to the eloquence from his deep soul |
|
When floods of its power do constantly fall. |
|
Enriching the spirit with knowledge and truth, |
|
Refreshing the aged and guiding the youth. |
|
The rever'd gray hairs of the Reveren'd GRIER, |
95 |
Do linger among us in reverence here; |
|
Though tottering on the deep brink of the grave, |
|
Where soon the gay flowers may over him wave. |
|
He served them through distant long years afar, |
|
And faithful did always God's pure word declare. |
100 |
Soon, soon, he will hear the welcome "well done, |
|
Come up, my dear servant, and sit on a throne," |
|
And reap the reward of thy toil evermore, |
|
Where all this world's labors and sorrows are o'er. |
|
There gaze on those wounds that were purple with blood, |
105 |
To bring us poor rebels to glory and God; |
|
And there evermore, in the light of His throne |
|
Thou'lt cast the deep lustre that hangs round thy own, |
|
And crown him with all the vast millions that fall, |
|
And shout "he is worthy of the crowns of you all." |
110 |
PRESBYTERIAN. |
|
Old Scotia may boast of proud sons on this soil |
|
Who labor to equal her deep mental toil, |
|
MCLAREN, thy name would be hailed on that
shore |
|
Through which thy dear parents in youth traversed o'er, |
|
They'd read in thine image those features of power |
115 |
Betray'd in her history in each distant hour. |
|
I know of these faithful deep preaching of truth, |
|
I know her deep students and illustrious youth, |
|
I hung on their eloquence that captured my soul |
|
While waves of seraphic truth on it did roll, |
120 |
And felt my young genius then early allied |
|
With minds of such power long tested and tried, |
|
And now in thy presence I feel a kin mind |
|
Break light on my spirit of seraphic kind. |
|
Yea, blessed are the people that feed on the fruit |
125 |
Of thy meditations with mind so acute. |
|
So chaste is thy language, and noble thy thought, |
|
Of spirituality always is fraught, |
|
Long live throwing lustre around the bright cause |
|
Of Jesus who governed thy heart with his laws |
130 |
And guide the poor sinner for peace to the blood |
|
That well'd in compassion from the heart of his God. |
|
And WALKER, whose genius has
similar power |
|
To chain his neat audience in the sweet Sabbath hour, |
|
His portly exterior bears in it a mind |
135 |
Fraught with deepest knowledge and truth of all kind, |
|
Once gathered by labor from sources afar, |
|
Now shedding its light as the bright evening star, |
|
He rightly divineth the word of God's truth |
|
To fill the deep wants of both aged and youth. |
140 |
He guides them in danger to the rock from the storm, |
|
Where all their deep fears will cease to alarm. |
|
May he and his people yet land on that shore |
|
Where storms and temptations will reach them no more. |
|
And as the church militant needs every grade |
145 |
Of talent and power none equal are made, |
|
But one may be strong in deep morals and grace, |
|
Another by genius that beams in his face. |
|
Dear CLIMIE, thy power proceeds from thy heart, |
|
From there thy great energies ever do start, |
150 |
'Tis the seat where mild graces abundantly flow |
|
To imitate Jesus thy Saviour below; |
|
There zeal in her fervent devotion doth dwell, |
|
E'er warning the sinner whose path leads to hell. |
|
Thou standest between him and its awful flame |
155 |
To point him for mercy in Jesu's dear name, |
|
Thou lovest to gather the lambs of his fold |
|
To hide them forever safe in his stronghold, |
|
And sheep that have stray'd from the fold thou hast brought |
|
Back home on thy shoulder as a good shepherd ought, |
160 |
They'll bless thee when heaven's bright stars cease to shine, |
|
When they'll stand by thy side 'fore the white throne divine, |
|
And shine as the stars in the crown on thy brow. |
|
Though often enamored by poverty now, |
|
That bliss, dear CLIMIE, be ever thine own, |
165 |
When called by the Saviour to face his bright throne. |
|
ST. MICHAEL'S CHURCH. |
|
The Church of old Rome has here found her a place, |
|
Here towers her spires in beauty and grace, |
|
And would were its morals as beautiful too; |
|
The bard would be faithful and praise them as true. |
170 |
But fearing a quarrel, I pledge her my song |
|
Will not of unkindness attempt do her wrong. |
|
She has her own traits of high excellency, |
|
That claim from some pencils a rich eulogy; |
|
But as we do differ, we calmly agree |
175 |
To fight out own battles and gain victory. |
|
The bard would be silent and limit his pen, |
|
Until he has reason to sway it again. |
|
WIDOW OF THE REV. WM. CASE,
FIFTY YEARS AN ITINERANT MINISTER IN THE WESLEYAN BODY IN THIS
COUNTRY. |
|
My heart is not dead to the tender and true, |
|
For the holy and pure affects it anew, |
180 |
As I gaze on mild features, all furrowed with care, |
|
Who followed God's servant his truth to declare, |
|
And bore his vast sorrows on her deep heart of love, |
|
Till he winged his bright pinion to seraphs above. |
|
Through long fifty years of labor and toil |
185 |
He preach'd the pure gospel on Canada soil. |
|
His heart of compassion led him to proclaim |
|
To poor blind Indians the Saviour's dear name. |
|
That heart of deep grace bore him up under all |
|
The dangers and trials incident to his call. |
190 |
His labors are ended, no more will he tell |
|
Of glories and fullness that in Jesus dwell, |
|
No more will his beautiful language of love |
|
Direct the soul doubting, to glories above. |
|
O Belleville! I ask one kind favor from thee, |
195 |
I ask as a Poet, deep, passionately! |
|
If granted, I'll honor thy name evermore, |
|
And throw deeper lustre around thy bright shore: |
|
I ask for the bones and the dust of dear CASE, |
|
From Alnwick church yard, to thy lovely place. |
200 |
They are there, with no marble stone over his head, |
|
There lieth God's servant, yet speaking, though dead. |
|
He roamed thy sweet suburbs when thou were a child, |
|
He offered thee Jesus in language so mild, |
|
His widow has thrown her late years for rest |
205 |
In confidence freely on thy loving breast. |
|
O then let them both sleep in peace in one grave, |
|
Where Quinte's proud waters so beautiful lave; |
|
And rise in the Judgment from 'neath the same stone, |
|
To meet their Redeemer upon his white throne. |
210 |
MAJOR LEVESCONTE.--LADY FRANKLIN. |
|
The Brother dear of that immortal man, |
|
(The friend of Franklin, who the world would span, |
|
And break a passage through the northern pole, |
|
With desperate powers from out his noble soul,) |
|
Is here to weep his Brother's solemn fate, |
215 |
Who's learn'd, too true, the sacred news of late. |
|
Ah, furious winds how cruel was that blast, |
|
That hush'd not then, when Franklin breathed his last. |
|
The breathless angels gazed upon his brow, |
|
Stop'd in their flight to drop a tear so low. |
220 |
But ye too proud, would bow the pride of man, |
|
Nor deign'd in mildness, his dying brow to fan. |
|
No, no, he in fury pass'd the hero by, |
|
Took on your wing his last deathly sigh, |
|
And bore it on, to lands to us unknown, |
225 |
Where nature's birds of foreign wings have flown. |
|
O, hush my muse! or else my song of fire |
|
May thaw the iceberg, falling from my lyre, |
|
Where all the bones of Franklin and his men, |
|
May meet the vision and engage thy pen, |
230 |
Thy muse be tempted to chant on that wave, |
|
That gave to Franklin a cold icy grave. |
|
Forgetting Belleville, and her glories too, |
|
To whom thou pledgest songs of beauty true, |
|
His mournful Widow pressed thy beautious soil, |
235 |
True to the instincts of her heart of toil, |
|
And kiss the friends, of those who're ever dear |
|
To her fond heart, that perished with him there. |
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I love her virtues, and the bard would dwell |
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In happy strains and of their wonders tell, |
240 |
Till hearts grow warm beneath his thought of fire, |
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That chanced to fall from this proud native lyre. |
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Belleville, forgive this wandering of my song, |
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It may not to thee strictly here belong; |
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But my heart is relieved of its deep debt of pain |
245 |
And turns now to sing of "thy beauties" again. |
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Its Literature.
|
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It cannot yet boast of that great giant power |
|
Displayed throughout Europe that heavenward doth tower, |
|
But yet it bids fair in its bright days of youth |
|
To grow into power by knowledge and truth. |
|
Its neat purple building that stands by its side, |
5 |
Augments its deep beauty, and graces its pride, |
|
There minds of rare power do eagerly seize |
|
The germs of what knowledge and learning they please, |
|
They feed on the manna that makes the souls grow, |
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They thirst for the deep streams that murmur below, |
10 |
Their mind gathers power their labor to love |
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While they soar on the pinions of knowledge above, |
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Support it, O Belleville, and it will adorn |
|
The youth and the manhood of thy sons yet unborn, |
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And send them to honor thy history far, |
15 |
As they'll pour out their lustre like some burning star. |
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The Press flings three papers to give them the news |
|
Or knowledge of politics that they may choose, |
|
The lofty INTELLIGENCER sends its sheets forth, |
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Each current with articles of moral worth; |
20 |
And true to the country that gives it its life |
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No feelings disloyal, no passions of strife. |
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THE HASTINGS DIRECTORY. |
|
Let labors unknown of thy powers ever tell, |
|
In the work that thy mind has accomplished so well; |
|
Of thy power in issuing, four years ago, |
25 |
A book that the county at large should all know. |
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There labor and toil of deep value are seen |
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With maps to shew all the fine world they live in. |
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May the county be forward to honor thy pen |
|
For another such volume will soon come again. |
30 |
The CHRONICLE labors to treasure the truth |
|
And sways the young passions of Belleville's bright youth. |
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The country doth sympathize with it afar, |
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And hails the deep raylights that fall from this star. |
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And thou INDEPENDENT, in mind and in heart, |
35 |
Can'st gaze on the powers that labor apart. |
|
And smile on the contests, thy judgment thine own, |
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Thine Editor loyal to the old British throne, |
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Who roamed round her shadow, in youth's gentle hour, |
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And now in her Province displaying thy power. |
40 |
MRS. MOODY, AUTHORESS. |
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The birds of thy forests may fold their bright wing, |
|
The nightingale music may cease here to sing, |
|
The skylark that whistles above the proud storm |
|
May fall 'neath its power in beautiful form, |
|
Its music may its melody be heard to prolong; |
45 |
But yet is one songster left thee to adorn, |
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To chirp in the evening and sing in the morn; |
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She skirts the wild forests there often to swell |
|
Her song where the nightingale warbled so well. |
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And out of her spirit flows music and love, |
50 |
She knows the Canadian's deep heart how to move. |
|
She knows of the passions that burn in its breast, |
|
Can sway them to peace and can lull them to rest, |
|
And early awake them by the sound of her song, |
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Enchanting their spirit as she doth prolong. |
55 |
We'll hail the rich product of thy lustrous mind, |
|
From whence flow emotions of infinite kind, |
|
To bend our powers, as the rush 'fore the storm, |
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To strengthen the spirit and keep its life warm. |
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Long live to adorn the dear land of thy youth, |
60 |
And that of adoption, with thy ripest truth. |
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May human life's forms take their stamp from thy soul, |
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And tell us what meaneth its deep shadows all. |
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Thy mind must be mellow with the fruit on its bough, |
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Each cause to thee known. Haste, haste, tell us how, |
65 |
That we may be taught the deep lessons of life, |
|
And learn to survive yet this dark world of strife, |
|
And governed by righteousness, equity, truth, |
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May we bloom in rich beauty in these bright days of youth, |
|
And follow thy spirit at last to the Throne |
70 |
Where thousands of earth's brightest spirits have gone, |
|
There smiling at tempests that broke on their soul, |
|
Deep wave of bright glory now over them roll. |
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May that blessed portion, dear Spirit, be thine, |
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And ours when we fall 'fore its lustre divine. |
75 |
Its Military.
|
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The proud sword of Briton cause thousands to dread |
|
And bow 'fore its lustre in terror as dead. |
|
The loftiest Monarch has homaged its power, |
|
It forced him to own it in the dread battle hour. |
|
The cave in St. Helen has long closed the foe |
5 |
That fain would eclipse its effulgence below. |
|
Let that little Island where proud billows roar, |
|
Tell nations of Briton's great valor and power, |
|
It bowed there, the mightiest Monarch that slew |
|
The nations around, with the sword that he drew. |
10 |
And why was he conquered? Let Britain's great heart |
|
Of valor and power, each answer apart. |
|
Deep love to their country inspired their soul, |
|
Though thunders in battle may over them roll, |
|
They smile at their terrors, and front the proud foe |
15 |
To death or to victory, in valor they go. |
|
Thus Belleville, not least in that deep loyal power, |
|
Do welcome their foemen, or death's fatal hour, |
|
To keep that rich lustre unmarr'd round the throne; |
|
That loyalty to her can do it alone. |
20 |
Here's LeVesconte' spirit, imbued with that power |
|
By which his ancestry to glory did tower; |
|
And Colonel Cambpell, whose fine discipline |
|
Would keep them through fire, each strict in their line. |
|
Six Companies linger around this bright shore, |
25 |
Each waiting the fates that may thee linger o'er. |
|
Brave, brave volunteers, should danger appear |
|
Your rifles would reach from the front to the rear, |
|
And proud would the Town of young Belleville then own |
|
Her country protected by your renown. |
30 |
The muse fondly lingers around this green
shore, |
|
And is loathe now to silence its harp-strings all o'er. |
|
But prudence dictates her no longer to sing, |
|
Then, hush my fond harp on thy last tender string. |
|
I ask those bright stars that do roam in the sky |
35 |
To deepen their lustre as they pass this scene by. |
|
And ye, mighty winds, through the forests that roar, |
|
Let silence become you as you pass Belleville shore. |
|
Sweet breezes of summer, bring health on your gale, |
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To flushen the cheek that long sickness makes pale. |
40 |
Proud Nature, I ask in obedience to God, |
|
O shower thy mercies on this land abroad. |
|
The beauty of holiness stamp every heart, |
|
Is the last prayer the poet sends up as he'll part, |
|
In hope in its lustre himself to yet rise, |
45 |
To meet his Redeemer in bliss 'bove the skies. |
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