Now hush the martial trumpet’s blare,
     And tune the softer lyre;
Nor shrink lest gentler tones should lack
     The high, heroic fire:

For many a valiant deed is done,

     And great achievement wrought,
Whose inspiration knows no source
     Save pure and holy thought.

Nor think some lofty pedestal,
     Proud-lifted towards the skies,

The only plane where Worth can wrest
     From Fame her highest prize:

For many a nameless nook and lone,
     And many a tongueless hour,
Sees deeds performed whose glories shame

     The pride of pomp and power.

Nor dream that to a noble deed
     It needs a noble name;
Or that to mighty act achieved
     Must link a stalwart frame:

For strung by Duty’s steady hand,
     And thrilled by Love’s warm touch,
Slight forms and simple names may serve
     At need, to avail for much. [page 69]

Then lay the blaring trumpet by,

     And tune the softer lyre
To songs of Woman’s chivalry,
     Of Woman’s patriot fire.

O heard ye not of Queenston Heights,—
     Of Brock who fighting fell,—

And of the Forty-ninth and York,
     Who ’venged their hero well?—

And of the gallant stand they made—
     What prowess kept at bay
The swelling foe, till Sheaffe appeared,

     And won the glorious day!

Yet heard ye how—ban of success—
     Irresolution ruled,¹
Till all our green peninsula
     And border-land, were schooled

To bear, nathless all frowningly,
     The yoke of alien power,
And wait in patience, as they might,
     The dawn of happier hour.

Till Forty-mile, and Stony Creek,

     Revived our waning hopes,
And round Fort George a limit held
     The Yankees as with ropes.

Yet, as do cordons oft enclose
     The unwilling with the fain,

Our people, by forced parole held,²
     Could naught but own the rein.

Then heard ye how a little post
     Some twenty miles away,
A check upon proud Dearborn’s hopes,

     Was fixed upon for prey? [page 70]

And how lest Britain’s bull-dog pluck,
     Roused by their isolation,
Should make these few, brave, lonely men,
     Fight as in desperation,

And prove a match for thrice their odds,
     They made them three times three,
And thrice of that, with guns to boot,
     To insure a victory?

Then they would take the Night along

     —No mean ally with odds,
As Stony Creek can testify:
     But then she marched with gods!—

Yet blame ye not the silent Night
     That she was forced to go,

For oft have captives been compelled
     To serve the hated foe:

And oft with grave and quiet mien,
     And Samson-like intent,
Have brought about such ends, as by

     Their lords were never meant.

Then blame ye not the dark-eyed Night,
     Of grave and silent mien;
Her whisper ’twas that foiled the foe,
     And fired our patriot queen.

“And why, my husband, why so pale?”
     ’Twas Laura Secord spoke;
And when she heard his plaintive tale,
     Then all the patriot woke.

“Thou knowest how Fitzgibbon holds

     The post at Beaver Dams,
And Dearborn frets, and fumes, and chafes,
     And calls us British shams: [page 71]

“Because we will not, willing, give,
     To feed an alien foe,

The substance, all too poor and sparse,
     Our stinted fields may grow.³

“So when the Night puts on her robes
     Of sad and sable hue,
A host he sends, of shameful strength,

     To oust that noble few.

“And who shall warn Fitzgibbon? Who?
     My weakness is my bale;
At such an hour of pressing need,
     O that my aid should fail!

“And yet, my country, if my blood,
     Drawn from me drop by drop,
Could save thee in this awful strait,
     ’Twere thine, ’twere thine, to stop

“This massacre, this horrid crime,

     To baulk this wicked plot!
My parole given!—by Heaven I could—
     I would—regard it not.

 “But here am I, a cripple weak;
     Great Heaven! and must they fall

Because I, wretched I alone,
     Know what will sure befall!”

“Calm thee, my husband, calm thee now,
     Heaven ne’er points out a deed,
But to the creature by whose means

     Its action is decreed:

“Thou, had’st thou not been sick and lame,
     Would’st ne’er have learned this plot,
And had’st thou strength thou could’st not pass
     The lines, and not be shot. [page 72]

“Wherefore, ’tis plain, ’tis not to thee
     The careful task is given;
’Tis rather me; and I will go,
     Safe in the care of Heaven.”

“Thou go, dear wife! a woman soft,

     And not too brave to shake
At sight of wolf or catamount,
     Or many-rattled snake:⁴

“Thou go!” “Nay, smile not, I will go;
     Fitzgibbon shall not fall

Unwarned at least; and Heaven will guard
     Its messenger-in-thrall.”

Scarce had Aurora backward drawn
     The curtains of the night,
Scarce had her choristers awaked

     The echoes with delight;

When Laura Secord left her home,
     With holy message fraught,
And lone Fitzgibbon’s distant post
     With hasty footsteps sought.

She chides the harsh-tongued sentinel
     Whose musket stops her way,
And hies her from his curious sight
     In such sort as she may.

A second bars her forward path,

     Nor will he be content;
And all her woman’s wit she needs
     Before his doubts are spent.

Beyond, a third the challenge gives—
     She almost gasps for breath—

“Oh, at the Mill my brother lies
     Just at the point of death.”⁵ [page 73]

But he nor cares for death nor life:
     Yet when she kneels and weeps,
He yields: for in his rugged heart

     A tender memory sleeps.

With beating heart and trembling limb,
     Swift hastes she; yet in ruth
That even for her country’s sake,
     She needs must veil the truth.

And when a rise of ground permits
     A last, fond, lingering look,
She, tearful, views her home once more—
     A lowly, leafy nook.

For there her sleeping children lie

     Unconscious of her woe;
Her choking sobs may not be stayed,
     For oh, she loves them so!

And there she leaves her maiden choice,
     Her husband, lover, friend.

Oh, were she woman could she less
     To homely sorrows lend!

On altar of the public weal
     Must private griefs expire—
Her tender grief exhaled to Heaven

     On wings of patriot fire.

The dew still glistened on the grass,
     The morning breezes swung
The honeysuckle and the rose,
     Above whose sweetness hung

The fritil’ butterfly,⁶ the bee,
     Whose early labours cheer,
And point the happy industry
     That marks the opening year. [page 74]

The cheerful robin’s sturdy note,

     The gay canary’s trill,
Blent with the low of new-milked kine
     That sauntered by the rill:

When Laura Secord stood beside
     The doomed St. David’s door,⁷

Whose portals never closed upon
     The weary or the poor.

“O sister,” cries the widowed dame,
     “What trouble brings you here?
Doth Jamie ail? Hath aught arisen

     To mar your fettered cheer?”

“Nor aileth any at the farm,
     Nor is our cheer less free,
But I must haste to Beaver Dam,
     Fitzgibbon there to see.

“For many a foe this coming night,
     To take him by surprise,
Is detailed, and he must be warned
     Before the moon doth rise.”

O pallid grew the gentle dame,

     And tremulous her tone,
As Laura Secord, at the board,
     Made all her errand known.

And oft her pallor turned to red,
     By indignation fired;

And oft her red to pallor turned,
     For Laura’s sake retired.

And many a cogent argument
     She used, of duteous wives;
And many more that mothers thus

     Should never risk their lives. [page 75]

And of the dangers of the way
     She told a trembling tale;
But to divert a settled mind
     Nor words nor woes avail.

And many a tear she let down fall,—
     And some dropt Laura too,—
But “’Tis my country!” yet she cried,
     “My country may not rue.”

A tender leave she gently takes

     Of him all wounded laid
Upon his weary couch of pain,
     But hides her errand sad.

And then, while yet the day was young,
     The sun scarce quarter high,

She plunges ’mid the sheltering bush,
     In fear of hue and cry,—

Of hue and cry of cruel foes
     Who yet might learn her route,
And mad with rage of baffled aim,

     Should spring in hot pursuit.

On, on she speeds through bush and brake,
     O’er log and stone and briar;
On, on, for many a lengthening mile
     Might stouter footsteps tire.

The hot sun mounts the upper skies,
     Faint grows the fervid air,
And wearied nature asks for rest
     ’Mid scenes so soft and fair.

The sward all decked with rainbow hues,

     The whispering of the trees,
Nor perfumed airs of flowery June,
     Can win her to her ease. [page 76]

Ah, serpent in our Paradise!
     In choicest cup our gall!

’Twas thou, distraught Anxiety,
     Wrapped Beauty’s self in pall;

And for that lonely traveller
     Empoisoned those sweet springs,
To souls that languish, founts of life

     Bestirred by angel wings.

Thou gavest each breeze an infant’s cry,
     A wailing, woesome tone;
And in each call of wildwood bird
     Spoke still of freedom gone.

Nay now, why starts she in her path,
     By yonder tangled brake?
’Tis at the dreaded menace sprung
     By angry rattlesnake.

But know that fear is not the brand

     That marks the coward slave;
’Tis conquered fear, and duty done,
     That tells the truly brave.

With stick, and stone, and weapon mean
     She drives the wretch away,

And then, with fluttering heart, pursues
     Her solitary way.

And oft she trips, and oft she falls,
     And oft her gown is torn,
And oft her tender skin is pierced

     By many a clutching thorn.

And weariness her courage tries;
     And dread of devious way;
And oft she hears the wild-cat shriek
     A requiem o’er its prey. [page 77]

And when the oppressive summer air
     Hangs heavy in the woods,—
Though many a bank of flowerets fair
     Invites to restful moods;

And though the ruby humming-bird

     Drones with the humming bee;
And every gnat and butterfly
     Soars slow and fitfully;

No rest that anxious messenger
     Of baleful tidings takes,

But all the waning afternoon
     Her morning speed she makes.

Over the hills, and ’mongst the brier,
     And through the oozy swamp,
Her weary steps must never tire

     Ere burns the firefly’s lamp.

Oh, wherefore drops she on her knees,
     And spreads imploring hands?
Why blanches that courageous brow?
     Alas! the wolves’ dread bands!⁸

“Nay, not this death, dear Father! Not
     A mangled prey to these!”
She faintly cries to Heaven, from out
     The darkening waste of trees.

Fear not, O patriot, courage take,

     Thy Father holds thy hand,
Nor lets the powers of ill prevail
     Where He doth take command.

Away the prowling ghouls are fled,
     Some fitter prey to seek;

The trembling woman sighs the thanks
     Her white lips cannot speak. [page 78]

Now wherefore halts that sentry bold,
     And lays his piece in rest,
As from the shadowy depths below

     One gains the beechen crest?

’Tis but a woman, pale and faint,—
     As woman oft may prove,
Whose eagle spirit soars beyond
     The home-flight of the dove.

How changes now the sentry’s mien,
     How soft his tones and low,
As Laura Secord tells her tale
     Of an impendent foe!

“God bless thee, now, thou woman bold,

     And give thee great reward.”
The soldier says, with eyes suffused,
     And keeps a jealous guard,

As onward, onward still she goes,
     With steady step and true,

Towards her goal, yet far away,
     Hid in the horizon blue.

Behind her grows the golden moon,
     Before her fall the shades,
And somewhere near her hides the bird

     Whose death-call haunts the glades.

The early dew blooms all the sod,
     The fences undulate
In the weird light, like living lines
     That swell with boding hate.

For she has left the tangled woods,
     And keeps the open plain
Where once a fruitful farm-land bloomed,
     And yet shall bloom again. [page 79]

And now, as nears the dreaded hour,

     Her goal the nearer grows,
And hope, the stimulus of life,
     Her weary bosom glows.

Toward’s lone Decamp’s—whose ancient home
     Affords Fitzgibbon’s band

Such shelter as the soldier asks
     Whose life hangs on his brand—

A steady mile or so, and then—
     Ah, what is’t rends the air
With horrent, blood-encurdling tones.

     The tocsin of despair!

It is the war-whoop of the braves,
     Of Kerr’s famed Mohawk crew,
Who near Fitzgibbon ambushed lie
     To serve that lonely few.

Startled, yet fearless, on she speeds.
     “Your chief denote,” she cries;
And, proudly towering o’er the crowd,
     The chief does swift arise.

Fierce rage is in his savage eye,

     His tomahawk in air;
“Woman! what woman want?” he cries,
     “Her death does woman dare!”

But quickly springs she to his side,
     And firmly holds his arm,

“Oh, chief, indeed no spy am I,⁹
     But friend to spare you harm.”

And soon she makes her errand known,
     And soon, all side by side,
The red man and his sister brave

     In silence quickly glide. [page 80]

And as the moon surmounts the trees,
     They gain the sentried door,
And faintly to Fitzgibbon she
     Unfolds her tale once more.

Then, all her errand done, she seeks
     A lowly dwelling near,
And sinks, a worn-out trembling thing,
     Too faint to shed a tear.

Now let the Lord of Hosts be praised!

     Cheer brave Fitzgibbon’s band,
Whose bold discretion won the day,
     And saved our threatened land!

And cheer that weary traveller,
     On lowly couch that lies,

And scarce can break the heavy spell
     That holds her waking eyes.

No chaplet wreathes her aching brows,
     No pæans rend the air;
But in her breast a jewel glows

     The tried and true may wear.

And Time shall twine her wreath of bays
     Immortal as her fame,
And many a generation joy,
     In Laura Secord’s name.

“Fitzgibbon and the Forty-ninth!”
     Whene’er ye drink that toast
To brave deeds done a grateful land,
     Praise Laura Secord most.

As one who from the chargèd mine

     Coils back the lighted fuse,
’Twas hers, at many a fearful risk,
     To carry fateful news; [page 81]

And save the dreadnought band; and give

     To Beaver Dam a name,
The pride of true Canadian hearts,
     Of others, but the shame.

Now wherefore trembles still the string
     By lyric finger crossed,

To Laura Secord’s praise and fame,
     When forty years are lost?

Nay, five and forty, one by one,
     Have borne her from the day¹⁰
When, fired by patriotic zeal,

     She trod her lonely way:

Her hair is white, her step is slow,
     Why kindles then her eye,
And rings her voice with music sweet
     Of many a year gone by?

O know ye not proud Canada,
     With joyful heart, enfolds
In fond embrace, the royal boy
     Whose line her fealty holds?

For him she spreads her choicest cheer,

     And tells her happiest tale,
And leads him to her loveliest haunts,
     That naught to please may fail.

And great art thou, O Chippewa,
     Though small in neighbours’ eyes,

When out Niagara’s haze thou seest
     A cavalcade arise;

And, in its midst, the royal boy,
     Who, smiling, comes to see
An ancient dame whose ancient fame

     Shines in our history. [page 82]

He takes the thin and faded hand,
     He seats him at her side,
Of all that gay and noble band,
     That moment well the pride:

To him the agèd Secord tells,
     With many a fervid glow,
How, by her means, Fitzgibbon struck
     His great historic blow.

Nor deem it ye, as many do,

     A weak and idle thing
That, at that moment Laura loved
     The praises of a king;

And dwelt on his approving smile,
     And kissed his royal hand,

Who represented, and should wield,
     The sceptre of our land;

For where should greatness fire her torch,
     If not at greatness’ shrine?
And whence should approbation come

     Did not the gods incline?

And when, from o’er the parting seas,
     A royal letter came,¹¹
And brought a gift to recognize
     Brave Laura Secord’s fame.

What wonder that her kindling eye
     Should fade, suffused in tears?
What wonder that her heart should glow,
     Oblivious of the years?

And honour ye the kindly grace

     Of him who still hath been
In all things kindly, and the praise
     Of our beloved Queen. [page 83]

THE QUEEN’S JUBILEE,

JUNE 21ST, 1887.

——

     A JUBILEE! A Jubilee!
Waft the glad shout across the laughing sea!
     A Jubilee! A Jubilee! O bells
Ring out our gladness on your merry peals!

O thou, the root and flower of this our joy,

Well may thy praise our grateful hearts employ!
Fair as the moon and glorious as the sun,
Thy fame to many a future age shall run.

“I WILL BE GOOD.” ’Twas thus thy judgment spake,
When greatness would allure for greatness’ sake.

Thou hast been good; herein thy strength hath lain;
And not thine only, it hath been our gain:
Nor ours alone, for every people’s voice,
Because thou hast been good, doth now rejoice.
Beneath the shelter of that fruitful vine—

Thy goodness—hath pure Virtue reared her shrine.
Freedom hath lift her flag, and flung it free,
Rejoicing in a god-like liberty.
Truth hath her gracious lineaments revealed
To humble souls, beneath Victoria’s shield.

Mercy, whose message bore thy first command,¹
Hath carried festival to every land.
Justice hath worn his robes unsmirched of gold;
Nor longer strikes in vengeance, as of old.
Kind Pity, wheresoe’er the tried might be,

Widow, and babe, hath borne a balm from thee.
Valour hath drawn his sword with surer aim:
And Peace hath signed her treaties in thy name. [page 84]

Honour hath worn his plumes with nobler grace:
And Piety pursued her readier race.

Learning hath pressed where ne’er she walked before:
And Science touched on realms undreamt of yore.
Commerce hath spread wide wings o’er land and sea,
And spoken nations glorious yet to be.
Before the light of Temperance’ purer grace,

Excess hath veiled his spoiled and purpled face.
And never since the peopled world began
Saw it so strong the brotherhood of man.
Great glory thus hath gathered round thy name,—
VICTORIA. QUEEN. Goodness hath been thy fame,

And greatness shall be, for the twain are one;
As thy clear eye discerned ere rule begun.
O Queen, receive anew our homage free;
Our love and praise on this thy Jubilee. [page 85]

          O THE roaring and the thunder!
          O the terror and the wonder!
O the surging and the seething of the flood!
          O the tumbling and the rushing—
          O the grinding and the crushing—

O the plunging and the rearing of the ice!
          When the great St. Lawrence River,
          With a mighty swell and shiver,
Bursts amain the wintry bonds that hold him fast.

          ’Twas on an April morning—

          And the air was full of warning
Of the havoc and the crash that was to be.—
          A deed was done, whose glory
          Flames from out the simple story,
Like the living gleam of diamond in the mine.

          ’Twas where St. Mary’s Ferry
          In sweet summer makes so merry,
’Twixt St. Helen’s fortressed isle and Montreal,
          There, on an April morning,—
          As if in haughty scorning

Of the tale soft Zephyr told in passing by—
          Firm and hard, like road of Roman,
          Under team of sturdy yeoman,
Or the guns, the ice lay smooth, and bright, and cold.
          And watching its resistance

          To the forces in the distance
That nearer and yet nearer ever rolled, [page 86]
          Warning off who tempt the crossing,
          All too soon so wildly tossing,
Stood a party of Old England’s Twenty-Fourth.

          While as yet they gazed in wonder,
          Sudden boomed the awful thunder
That proclaimed the mighty conqueror at hand.
          O then the fierce uplifting!
          The trembling, and the rifting!

The tearing, and the grinding, and the throes!
          The chaos and careering,
          The toppling and the rearing,
The crashing and the dashing of the floes!

          At such an awful minute

          A glance,—the horror in it!—
Showed a little maiden midway ’twixt the shores,
          With hands a-clasp and crying,
          And, amid the masses, trying,—
Vainly trying—to escape on either hand.

          O child so rashly daring!
          Who thy dreadful peril sharing
Shall, to save thee, tempt the terrors of the flood
          That roaring, leaping, swirling,
          And continuously whirling,

Threats to whelm in frightful deeps thy tender form!
          The helpless soldiers, standing
          On a small precarious landing,
Think of nothing but the child and her despair,
          When a voice as from the Highest,—

          To the child he being nighest—
Falls “Quick-march!” upon the ear of Sergeant Neill.
          O blessed sense of duty!
          As on banderole of duty
His unswerving eye he fixes on the child;

          And straight o’er floe and fissure,
          Fragments yielding to his pressure,
Toppling berg, and giddy block, he takes his way; [page 87]
          Sometimes climbing, sometimes crawling,
          Sometimes leaping, sometimes falling,

Till at last he stands where cowers the weeping child.
          Then with all a victor’s bearing,
          As in warlike honours sharing,
With the child all closely clasped upon his breast,
          O’er floe and hummock taking

          Any step for safety making,
On he goes, till they who watch can see no more.

          For both glass and light are failing,
          As the ice-pack, slowly sailing,
Bears him onward past the shore of far Longueil.

          “Lost!” his comrades cry, and turning,
          Eyes cast down, and bosoms burning,
Gain the shelter of their quiet barrack home;
          Where, all night, the tortured father
          Clasps the agonizing mother,

In the mute embrace of hopelessness and dread.
          O the rapid alternations
          When the loud reverberations
Of the evening gun boom forth the hour of rest!
          The suffering and the sorrow!

          The praying for the morrow!
The fears, the hopes, that tear the parents’ breasts!
          And many a word is spoken
          At the mess, so sadly broken,
Of the men who mourn their comrade brave and true;

          And many a tear-drop glistens,
          Where a watching mother listens
To the tumult of the ice along the shore.
          And ever creeping nearer,
          Children hold each other dearer,

In the gaps of slumber broken by its roar.

          Twice broke the rosy dawning
          Of a sunny April morning, [page 88]
And Hope had drooped her failing wings, to die;
          When o’er the swelling river,

          Like an arrow from a quiver,
Came the news of rescue, safety, glad return;
          And the mother, as from Heaven,
          Clasped her treasure, newly-given;
And the father wrung the hand of Sergeant Neill:

          Who shrunk from their caressing,
          Nor looked for praise or blessing,
But straight returned to duty and his post.

          And this the grateful story,
          To others’ praise and glory,

That the Sergeant told his comrades round the fire.

          “Far down the swelling river,
          To the ocean flowing ever,
With its teeming life of porpoise, fish, and seal,
          There hardy, brave, and daring,

          Dwells the habitant; nor caring
Save to make his frugal living by his skill.
          Nor heeds he of the weather,
          For scale, and fur, and feather,
Lay their tribute in his hand the year around.

          On the sunny April morning,
          That the ice had given warning
Of the havoc and the crash that was to be,
          Stood Pierre, Louis, gazing,
          Their prayers to Mary raising,

For a season full of bounty from the sea.
          And when the light was failing,
          And the ice-pack, slowly-sailing,
Crashing, tumbling, roaring, thundering, passed them by,
          Their quick eye saw with wonder,

          On the masses torn asunder,
An unfortunate who drifted to his doom [page 89]

          “O then the exclamations!
          The rapid preparations!
The launching of canoes upon the wave!

          The signalling and shouting!—
          Death and disaster flouting—
The anxious haste, the strife, a human life to save
          Across the boiling surges,
          Each man his light bark urges,

Though death is in the error of a stroke;
          And paddling, poising, drifting,
          O’er the floes the light shell lifting,
The gallant fellows reach the whirling pack:
          And from the frightful danger,

          They save the worn-out stranger.
And oh, to see the nursling in his arms!
          And oh, the pious caring,
          The sweet and tender faring,
From the gentle hands of Marie and Louise!

          And the pretty, smiling faces,
          As the travellers take their places
To return again to those who weep their loss.”

          And the Sergeant’s story ending,
          His head in rev’rence bending,

He cried “God bless for ever all noble souls like these!”
          But cheer on cheer resounded,
          Till the officers, astounded
At their mess, upon their sword-hilts clapped their hands.
          And the plaudits rose still higher,

          When they joined with martial fire,
In the cry “God bless the Twenty-Fourth, and its gallant Sergeant        Neill!” [page 90]

OCTOBER 13TH, 1872.

——

A PLEA FOR THE VETERANS OF 1812.

——

FORGET not, Canada, the men who gave,
In fierce and bloody fray, their lives for thine.
Pause thou, Ontario, in thy forward march,
And give a tear to those who, long ago,
On this day fell upon those Heights where now

Their ashes rest beneath memorial pile.
And while those names, BROCK and MACDONELL, wake
A throb of emulative gratitude
And patriotic fervour in thy breast,
Forget not those—“the boys,” the nameless ones,—

Who also fought and fell on that October day;
Nameless their ashes, but their mem’ries dear!
            Remember, too,
Those grandsires at thy hearths who linger still;
Whose youthful arms then helped to guard thy peace,—

Thy peace their own. And ere they go to join
Their ancient comrades of the hard-won fight,
Glad their brave hearts with one applauding cheer
In memory of the day. Comfort their age
With plenty. Let them find that sturdy youth,

Whose heritage they saved, bows rev’rent head,
And lends a strong right arm to ancient men,
Whose deeds of patriot prowess deck the silk
That waves so proudly from the nation’s towers. [page 91]

LOYAL.

——

     “The Loyalists having sacrificed their property to their politics, were generally poor, and had to work hard and suffer many privations before they could reap crops to support their families. In those early days there were no merchants, no bakeries, no butchers’ shops, no medical men to relieve the fevered brain or soothe a mother’s aching heart, no public house, no minister in console the dying or bury the dead, no means of instruction for the young; all was bush, hard labour and pinching privation for the present, and long toil for the rising generations.”

O Ye, who with your blood and sweat
     Watered the furrows of this land,—
See where upon a nation’s brow
     In honour’s front, ye proudly stand!

Who for her pride abased your own,

     And gladly on her altar laid
All bounty of the older world,
     All memories that your glory made.

And to her service bowed your strength,
     Took labour for your shield and crest;

See where upon a nation’s brow
     Her diadem, ye proudly rest! [page 93]

            I STOOD on Queenston Heights;
And as I gazed from tomb to cenotaph,
From cenotaph to tomb, adown and up,
My heart grew full, much moved with many thoughts.
            At length I cried:

“O robed with honour and with glory crowned,
Tell me again the story of yon pile.”
And straight the ancient, shuddering cedars wept,
The solemn junipers indued their pall,
The moaning wind crept through the trembling oaks

And, shrieking, fled. Strange clamour filled the air;
The steepy hill shook with the rush of arms;
Around me rolled the tide of sudden war.
The booming guns pealed forth their dreadful knell;
Musketry rattled; shouts, cries, groans, were heard;

Men met as foes, and deadly strife ensued.
From side to side the surging combat rolled,
And as it rolled, passed from my ken.
A silence! On the hill an alien flag
Flies flaunting in the wind, mocking the gun.

Dark forms pour o’er the heights, and Britain’s day
Broods dark.
But hark! A ringing cheer peals up the height,
Once more the battle’s tide bursts on my view.
Brock to the rescue! Down goes the alien flag!

Back, back the dark battalions fall. On, on
The “Tigers” come. Down pours the rattling shot
From out the verdant grove, like sheets of hail.
Up, up they press, York volunteers and all.
Aha! the day is ours! See, where the hero comes

In conquering might, quick driving all before him!
O brave ensample! O beloved chief! [page 93]
Who follows thee keeps ever pace with honour.
Shout Victory! Proud victory is ours!
Ours, noble Brock!

Ours? DEATH’S! Death wins; THE DAY IS HIS.

Ah! shudder still ye darkling cedars,
Chant yet your doleful monotone, ye winds;
Indue again your grey funereal pall,
Ye solemn junipers; for here he fell,

And here he lies,—dust; ashes: nothing.

Such tale the hill-side told me, and I wept.
Nay! I wept not! The hot, indignant thoughts
That filled my breast burned up the welling tears
Ere they had chance to flow, and forward Hate

Spake rashly. But calm Reflection
Laid her cool hand upon my throbbing brow
And whispered, “As up the misty stream
The Norseman crept to-day, and signals white
Waved kind salutes from yon opposing shore;

And as ye peered the dusky vista through,
To catch first glimpse of yonder glorious plinth,
Yet saw it not till I your glance directed,—
So high it towered above the common plane;—
So, towering over Time, shall Brock e’er stand.—

So, from those banks, shall white-robed Peace e’er smile.”

October 12, 1881. [page 94]

NEW ORLEANS, MONROE, MAYOR, APRIL 29, 1862.

——

THE HAULING DOWN OF THE STATE FLAG FROM OVER
THE CITY HALL.

——

A NOBLE man! a man deserving trust.
A man in whom the higher elements
Worked freely. A man of dignity;
On whom the robes and badge of state sat well
Because the majesty of self-control,

And all its grace, were his,
                        I see him now—
Pale with the pallor of a full, proud heart—
Descend those steps and take his imminent place
Before the deadly piece, as who should say

“’Ware ye! these people are my people; such
Their inward heat and mine at this poor deed
That scarce we can control our kindled blood. [page 95]
But should ye mow them down, ye mow me too.
’Ware ye!”
                        O men for whose dear sake he stood

An offering and a hostage; on that scroll
Old Chronos doth unfold along the years
Are writ in gold names of undaunted Mayors,
Pepin and Charlemagne, and Whittington
And White. Did not your fathers know them?

And shall not he, your Mayor of ’Sixty-two,
Monroe, stand side by side with them? [page 96]

THE EMIGRANT’S SONG.

——

No work, no home, no wealth have I,
     But Mary loves me true,
And, for her sake, upon my knees
     I’d beg the wide world through:
For her sweet eyes look into mine

     With fondness soft and deep;
My heart’s entranced, and I could die
     Were death a conscious sleep.

But life is work, and work is life,
     And life’s the way to heaven,

And hand-in-hand we’d like to go
     The road that God has given.
And England, dear old Motherland,
     Has plenty mouths to feed
Without her sons and daughters fair,

     Whose strength is as their need.

To Canada! To Canada!
     To that fair land I’ll roam,
And till the soil with heart of grace,
     For Mary and a home.

Hurrah for love! Hurrah for hope!
     Hurrah for industry!
Hurrah for bonnie Canada,
     And her bonnie maple tree! [page 97]

TO THE INDIAN SUMMER.

——

AND art thou come again, sweet Indian maid!
How beautiful thou art where thou dost stand,
With step arrested, on the bridge that joins
The Past and Future—thy one hand waving
Farewell to Summer, whose fond kiss hath set

Thy yellow cheeks aglow, the other stretched
To greet advancing Winter!
Nor can thy veil, tissue diaphanous
Of crimsoned haze, conceal thy lustrous eyes;—
Those eyes in whose dark depths a tear-drop lurks

Ready to fall, for Beauty loved and lost.
From thy point gazing, maiden, let us, too,
Once more behold the panorama fair
Of the lost year. See where, far down yon slope
That meets the sun, doth quick advance gay Spring,

His dainty fingers filled with swelling buds:
O’er his wreathed head, among the enlacing trees,
The merry birds flit in and out, to choose
A happy resting-place; and singing rills
Dwell on his praise. Gladly his laughing eyes

Rest on fair Summer’s zone set thick with flowers,
That chide their own profusion as, tiptoe,
And arm outstretched, she reaches to restore
The fallen nestling, venturous and weak:
While many a nursling claims her tender care.

Beneath her smile all Nature doth rejoice,
And breaks into a song that sweeps the plain
Where now the swarthy Autumn, girded close,
Gathers his yellow sheaves and juicy fruit
To overflowing garners; measure full,

And blest to grateful souls. Through the low air [page 98]
A myriad wings circle in restless sort;
And from the rustling woods there comes a sound
Of dropping nuts and acorns—welcome store
To little chipmunk and to squirrel blithe:

Dependants small on Nature’s wide largesse.
How doth the enchanting picture fill our souls
With faith! Sweet Indian maid, we turn with thee
And greet gray Winter with a trustful smile. [page 99]

IN JUNE.

——

I CANNOT sleep, and morning’s earliest light,
All soft and rosy, tempts my restlessness
To ask from Nature what of peace she gives.
I gaze abroad, and all my soul is moved
At that strange calm that floats o’er earth at rest.

The silver sickle of the summer moon
Hangs on the purple east. The morning star,
Like a late watcher’s lamp, pales in the dawn.
Yonder, the lake, that ’neath the midday sun
All restless glows and burns like burnished shield,

Lies as a child at rest with curtain drawn.
The forest trees are still. The babbling creek
Flows softly through the copse and glides away;
And the fair flowers, that lie as thick and sweet
As posies at a bridal, sleep, quietly.

No early breeze his perfumed wings unfolds.
No painted butterfly to pleasure wakes.
The bees, whose busy hum pervades the hours
Through all the sultry day, keep yet the hive.
And, save the swallow, whose long line of works

Beneath each gable, points to labours vast,
No bird yet stirs. Upon the dewy mead
The kind repose; the active horse lies prone;
And the white ewes doze o’er their tender lambs,
Like village mothers with their babes at breast.

So still, so fair, so calm, the morning broods,
That, while I know the gairish day will come,
And bring its clouds of gnat-like stinging cares,
Rest steals into my heart, and gentle peace. [page 100]

LIVINGSTONE.

——

OBIIT MAY 1ST, 1883.

——

SLEEP now and take thy rest, thou mighty dead!
Thy work is done—thy grand and glorious work.
Not “Caput Nili” shall thy trophy be.
But broken slave-sticks and a riven chain.
As the man Moses, thy great prototype,

Snatched, by the hand of God, his groaning millions¹
From out the greedy clutch of Egypt’s despot;
So hast thou done for Afric’s toiling sons:
Hast snatched its people from the poisonous fangs
Of hissing Satan, veiled in commerce foul.

For this thy fame shall ring; for this thy praise
Shall be in every mouth for ever. Ay,
Thy true human heart hath here its guerdon—
A continent redeemed from slavery.—
To this, how small the other! Yet ’twas great.

Ah, not in vain those long delays, those groans
Wrung from thy patient soul by obstacle,
The work of peevish man; these were the checks
From that Hand guiding, that led thee all the way.
He willed thy soul should vex at tyranny;

Thine ear should ring with murdered women’s shrieks,
That torturing famine should thy footsteps clog;
That captive’s broken hearts should ache thine own.
And Slavery—that villain plausible—
That thief Gehazi!—He stripped before thin eyes

And showed him all a leper, foul, accursed.
He touched thy lips, and every word of thine
Vibrates on chords whose deep electric thrill [page 101]
Shall never cease till that wide wound be healed.
And then He took thee home. Ay, home, great heart!

Home to His home, where never envious tongue,
Nor vile detraction, nor base ingratitude,
Nor cold neglect, shall sting the quiv’ring heart.
Thou endedst well. One step from earth to Heaven,
When His voice called “Friend, come up higher.” [page 102]

ON SEEING THE ENGRAVING

“THE FIRST VISIT OF QUEEN VICTORIA TO HER WOUNDED SOLDIERS ON THEIR RETURN FROM THE CRIMEA.”

——

YES, go to them, the brave, the tried, the hurt—
’Tis very fitting so! We cannot go—
Some scores of million souls—to tell them all
                        We think and feel:
To ease the burden of our laden hearts;

To give the warm grasp of our British hands
In strong assurance of our praise and love;
Of our deep gratitude, to them, our friends,
Our brothers, who for us toiled, suffered, bled:
And left, as we, their dead upon the field,

Their comrades tried and true, around Scutari.
Go to them, then, dear Queen, ’tis very fitting so!
Thy hand can clasp for ours. Thy voice express
                        Our hearts.
We send thee as our best, as so we ought;

We send thee as our dearest, as thou art;
We send thee our elect, perfect to fill
The office thou hast chosen for our sakes.
A gentle woman thou, and therefore tender:—
A loving wife, and therefore sympathetic:—

A mother, thou, and therefore patient:—
Is there a son among those wounded men
Has made his mother sad? Thy tear will soften him.
Is there a husband kept from wife and bairns?
Thy smile will comfort him.

Is there a lonely one with none to love?
He’ll warm beneath thy glance, his dear Queen’s glance;
And—soldiers all—they’ll all forget their pains,
And long to fight again, even to fall, for thee. [page 103]
And if for thee, for us; us, who would clasp

Their thin worn hands in ours, and smile our thanks,
And speak our praise of them, and heal their wounds
With gentlest care, each for himself, if so
We might thus ease our o’er-full hearts.
Yet happy are we still in this, nay, happier,—

Thou being that our best; our dearest;
Our elect; perfect epitome
Of all we would—that thou dost go to them.

Great Western Hotel, Liverpool, June 9, 1880. [page 104]

TO A CHILD

SINGING “JESUS LOVES ME, THIS I KNOW.”

——

SING, little darling, sing,
And may thy song be everlasting!
Not all the learning wits and sages boast
Can equal the sweet burden of thy song;—
Can yield such rest amid life’s noisiest strife;—

Such peace to still the spirit’s wildest wars;—
Such hope to stem the most tumultuous wave
May threat to overwhelm.
                        The love of Jesus,—
Sweet, having this thou risest far above

All this world’s clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven.

                        Did He who blest
That infant band that crowded round His knee,
See, in a face like thine, a tender memory
Of that dear home He left for our sakes?

It may be; nay, it must: “Of such,” He said,
“My Father’s kingdom.” And His great heart
Went out in fondest tones: His soft embrace
Encircling such as thou, thrilled out that love
That vibrates yet, and still enfolds so warm

His tender lambs.
                        Sing, little darling, sing,
And may thy song be everlasting. [page 105]

HOME.

——

THE morning sun shone soft and bright,
     The air was pure and clear,
My steady steps fell quick and light,
     Nor knew my soul a fear.
For though the way was long and cold,

     The end I knew not where,
Hope’s vivid pictures made me bold
     To wait, or do, or dare.

But ah, the change when evening gray
     Curtained a cloudy sky,

And languid, I retraced the way
     My feet could scarce descry!
By rugged care my heart was bruised,
     Hope’s rainbow tints were gone;
To this world’s watch and ward unused,

     I could but stumble on.

The rough wind’s breath, the dark sky’s frown
     Fell like the stroke of wrath,
When—from above a star looked down—
     A ray beamed on my path.

The light of Home—oh, blessed light—
     To weary wanderers dear!
The light of Heaven, oh, glorious light
     To souls that stumble here!

What matters now the weary road,

     My toil shall soon be o’er;
And, oh, at last, at home with God
     Life’s cares shall cark no more.
Be this my hope! Be this my aim!
     Though rough the road my be,

Thy feet, blest Jesus, trod the same,
     And I would follow Thee. [page 106]

LOST WITH HIS BOAT.

——

ALONE—alone! I sit, and make my moan.
The fire burns low, the candle flickers dim.
Alone—alone! I rock, and think of him.
Of him who left me in the purple pride
Of early manhood. Yestermorn he went.

The sun shone bright, and scintillant the tide,
O’er which the sea-mew swept, with dewy drops besprent.
Before he went he kissed me; and I watched
His boat that lay so still and stately, till
Automaton she seemed, and that she moved

                        No alarms
Chilled my fond heart, nor dimmed my vision,
As I saw the fair white messenger move off
On fleecy puffs of cloud into the blue;
My nearest thought to trim my hearth, and make

A dainty dish would please my darling’s taste
On his return. And all day long, and through
The dreamy summer day, my thoughts were full
Of many a gay return; my ears reheard
The cheery word and joke were wont to mark them.

Nor when the sun went down in wrack and mist—
A mist that gathers who knows how or where?—
Feared I of aught. My little hearth burned bright,
The kettle sang, and pussy purred and napped;
And—rocking to and fro, as I do now,

I hummed a little song; one he had sung
In other days, and with the manly tones [page 107]
Had stolen my heart away.
The hearth burned low; I ate my meal alone,
And something like a fear I chased away,

Despite the deepening surges of the wind
That scurried round our cot.
                        I slept: and waked
What time the summer storm, that rose and fell
In sullen gusts, flew by; and slept again,

And dreamed a glad return. When morning broke
A glorious day begun. The storm was gone:
The sparkling waves toyed with the lilting breeze;
The merry sun shone bright; and all the blue
Was decked with tiny flecks of feathery white.

A gladsome morn! But I, I missed my love.

And now they say he’s dead. Lost, with his boat,
In that short summer storm of yesternight.
Lost! lost! my love is lost! No more may I
Welcome his step, hear his glad voice, and kiss

His laughing lips. I may not even clasp
His cold dead form in one long, last embrace!
And here I sit alone.—
I drove them all away, their words but maddened me.
                        Alone I sit,

And rock, and think,—I cannot weep—
And conjure up the depths, those cruel depths
That chafe and fret, and roll him to and fro
Like a stray log:— he, whose dear limbs should lie
Peaceful and soft, in rev’rent care bestowed.—

Or in the sunken boat, gulfed at his work,
I see his blackened corse, even in death
Faithful to duty. O that those waves,
That with their gentle lullaby mock my wild woe,
Would rise in all their might and ’whelm me too!

Oh, love!—oh, love!—my love! [page 108]

LIFE IN DEATH.

——

On her pale bier the baby lay,
And healthy children from their play,
With tip-toe awe and bated breath,
Came gently in to look on Death.

One touched the flowers that decked the bier;

Another dropped a little tear;
One stroked the cheek so waxy white;
And one cowered weeping with affright.

But one fair boy won Life from Death
By that quick faith that childhood hath;

And cried, with gaze past present things,
“P’raps baby’s trying her new wings.” [page 109]

INVOCATION TO RAIN.

——

MAY, 1874.

——

O BLESSED angel of the All-bounteous King,
Where dost thou stay so long? Our sad hearts pine,
Our spirits faint, for thee. Our weary eyes
Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud
Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn

Or East or West, no vap’rous haze, nor view
Of distant panorama, wins our souls
To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant.
            Thy brother Spring is come.
His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray—

The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee.
Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves
Of yellow dog’s tooth vie with curly fronds
Of feathery fern, in strewing o’er his path;
The dielytra puts her necklace on,

Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose.
Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass
Grows up in single blades and braves the sun.
But thou!—O, were art thou, sweet early Rain,
That with thy free libations fill’st our cup?

The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note
From off the ridge cap, but can find no spot
Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence
Explores the pasture with his piercing eye,
And visits oft the bushes by the stream,

But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tufts
Are there to hide a home. Oh what is earth
Without a home? On the dry garden bed, [page 110]
The sparrow—the little immigrant bird—
Hops quick, and looks askance,

And pecks, and chirps, asking for kindly crumbs—
Just two or three—to feed his little mate:
Then, on return from some small cunning nook
Where he has hidden her, he mounts the wires,
Or garden fence, and sings a happy song

Of home, and other days. A-missing thee
The husbandman goes forth with faltering step
And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard
The lab’ring plough, but the dry earth falls back
As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs

The plough-boys feet with rich encumb’ring mould.
The willows have a little tender green,
And swallows cross the creek—the gurgling creek
Now fallen to pools—but, disappointed,
Dart away so swift, and fly so high

We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land
Doth mourn for thee.
                        Ah! here thou comest, sweet Rain.
Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!
See now, what transformation in thy touch!
Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees

Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms
From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift
Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white
As angel’s raiment. Little wood children
Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth

Offers rich gifts. The little choristers
Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman
Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake
And mingle with the swift roulade of streams.
The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing

Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in
The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads
From desk and bench, and cry “Summer is here!” [page 111]
And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms;
And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks;

And hear the plover whistling in the fields.
And little children dream of daisy chains;
And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday;
A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers.
O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain!

Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become
Like that Great Heart, whose almoner art thou. [page 112]

REMONSTRANCE WITH “REMONSTRANCE.”

——

(IN “CANADIAN MONTHLY,” APRIL, 1874.)

——

WHY, now, sweet Alice, though thy numbers ring
Like silver bells, methinks their burden wrong.
For if ’tis right, then were the hermits right,
And all recluses. And He was wrong
Who gave to Adam, Eve; and leaned upon

The breast of John the loved. So was He wrong
To love the gentle home at Bethany,
The sisters, and their brother Lazarus.
So was He wrong to weep at Lazarus’ grave,
Pity’s hot tears for Sin, and Death, and Woe.

And in that awful hour when manhood failed
And God forsook, He still was wrong to think
With tenderest solicitude and care
Upon his mother, and leave her in the charge
Of John. And He was wrong who gave us hearts

To yearn, and sensibilities to meet
Those “clinging tendrils” thou wouldst have us cut.
            If thou art right, sweet Alice,
There were no ties of infancy, or age;
Of consanguinity; or noble bond

Of wide humanity, or sacred home:
For without love,—e’en our poor earthly love,—
The world were dead.
Love is the silver cord, that, being loosed,
The fabric of humanity falls wide

In hopeless wrack. Well for us it is
That when our nature, hurt, falls, shrieking, down,
The Great Physician’s hand may raise it up [page 113]
And bind the wound. But what mad folly ’twere
Did we, like peevish child, beat down the hand,

And tear afresh the wound. And this we do
When of our morbid selves we idols make,
And cry “No sorrow like to mine.”
O rather should we turn our tenderer hearts—
Made gentler by our griefs—to gentle cares

For weak Humanity, and, knowing what woe
Our sinful nature brings upon itself,
With God-like pity love it but the more. [page 114]

THE ABSENT ONES.

——

How I miss their faces!
     Faces that I love.
Where I read the traces
  Heart and soul approve.
Traces of their father

     Scattered here and there;
Here a little gesture,
     There a twist of hair.
Brave and generous Bertie,
     Sweet and quiet Fred,

Tender-hearted Jackie,
     Various, but true-bred.

How I miss their voices
     Raised in laughter gay;
And in loving blessing

     When they go to pray.
Even of their quarrels
     Miss I now the noise,
Angry or disdainful,
     (What are they but boys?)

Shouting in the garden,
     Spurring on the game,
Calling a companion
     By some favourite name.

How I miss the footsteps,

     Lightsome, loud, or slow;
Telling by their echo
     How the humours go. [page 115]
Lagging when they’re lazy,
     Running when they’re wild,

Leaping when they’re gladsome,
     Walking when they’re mild.
Footsteps, voices, faces,
     Where are ye to-night?
Father, keep my darlings

     Ever in Thy sight. [page 116]

AWAY.

——

Oh, where are all the madcaps gone?
Why is the house so drear and lone?
No merry whistle wakes the day,
Nor evening rings with jocund play.
No clanging bell, with hasty din,

Precedes the shout, “Is Bertie in?”
Or “Where is Fred?” “Can I see Jack?”
“How soon will he be coming back?”
Or “Georgie asks may I go out,”
“He has a treasure just found out.”

The wood lies out in all the rain,
No willing arms to load are fain;
The weeds grow thick among the flowers,
And make the best of sunny hours;
The drums are silent; fifes are mute;

No tones are raised in high dispute;
No hearty laughter’s cheerful sound
Announces fun and frolic round.
Here’s comic Alan’s wit wants sport;
And dark-eyed Bessie’s quick retort

Is spent on Nellie, mild and sweet;
And dulness reigns along the street.
The table’s lessened numbers bring
No warm discussion’s changeful ring,
Of hard-won goal, or slashing play,

Or colours blue, or brown, or gray.
The chairs stand round like rows of pins;
No hoops entrap unwary shins;
No marbles—boyhood’s gems—roll loose;
And stilts may rust for want of use;

No book-bags lie upon the stairs;
Nor nails inflict three-cornered tears. [page 117]
Mamma may lay her needle down,
And take her time to go up town;
Albeit, returning she may miss

The greeting smile and meeting kiss.

But hark! what message cleaves the air,
From skies where roams the Greater Bear!
“Safe, well, and happy, here are we,
Wild as young colts and just as free!

With plenteous hand and kindly heart,
Our hosts fulfil a liberal part.
Nor lack we food to suit the mind,
Our alma-mater here we find,
And in her agricultural school

We learn to farm by modern rule;
Professor Walter fills the chair,
But teaches in the open air.
And by his side we tend the stock,
Or swing the scythe, or bind the shock.

Nor miss we academic lore,
We walk where Plato walked before,
And eloquent Demosthenes,
Who taught their youth beneath the trees;
Here with sharp eyes we love to scan

The rules that point Dame Nature’s plan,
We mark the track of bear and deer,
And long to see them reft of fear.—
Though well they shun our changeful moods,
Taught by our rifle in the woods.

Yet we may tell of mercy shown,
Power unabused, the birdling flown,—
When caught by thistly gossamer—
Set free to wing the ambient air.
Cautious we watch the gliding snake,

’Neath sheltering stone, or tangled brake,
And list the chipmunk’s merry trill
Proclaim his wondrous climbing skill. [page 118]
The bird; the beast; the insect; all
In turn our various tastes enthrall;

The fish; the rock; the tree; the flower;
Yield to quick observation’s power.
And many a treasure swells our store
Of joys for days when youth is o’er.
Our glowing limbs we love to lave

Beneath the lake’s translucent wave,
Or on its heaving bosom ride
In merry boat; or skilful guide
The light canoe, with balanced oar,
To yonder islet’s pebbly shore.

Sometimes, with rod and line, we try
The bass’s appetite for fly;
Well pleased if plunge or sudden dart
Try all our piscatorial art;
And shout with joy to see our catch

Prove bigger than we thought our match.
Oft when the ardent sun at noon
Proclaims his power, we hide full soon
Within the cool of shady grove,
Or, gathering berries, slowly rove

And often when the sun goes down,
We muse of home, and you in town;
And had we but a carrier dove
We’d send her home with loads of love.” [page 119]

POOR JOE.

——

HE cannot dance, you say, nor sing,
     Nor troll a lilting stave;
And when the rest are cracking jokes
     He’s silent as the grave.

Poor Joe! I know he cannot sing—

     His voice is somewhat harsh:
But he can whistle loud and clear
     As plover in the marsh.

Nor does he dance, but he would walk
     Long miles to serve a friend,

And though he cares not crack a joke,
     He will the truth defend.

And so, though he for company
     May not be much inclined,
I love poor Joe, and think his home

     Will be just to my mind. [page 120]

FRAGMENTS.

——

“I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR.”

A HAPPY year, sweet as the breath of flowers;
     A merry year, glad as the song of birds,
A jocund year, gay as brown harvest hours;
     A prosperous year, rich, as in flocks and herds.

———

THE LIFE–BOAT MAN.

WHEN the load minute gun alarms the night,
And plunging waters hide the bark from sight,
When lurid lightnings threat, and thunders roll,
And roaring tempests daunt the trembling soul—
’Tis thine, O Life-boat Man, such fears to brave,

And snatch the drowning from a watery grave.

———

“I AM learning the stitch,” the lover said
As over her work he bent his head.
But the scene spake plain to the mother’s eye
“I am watching these busy fingers ply.”
And ever anon when a stitch she’d miss,

’Twas because he bent lower her hand to kiss.
Oh tender lover, and busy maid,
May the sweet enchantment never fade;
Nor the thread of life, though a stitch may miss,
Know a break that may not be joined by a kiss. [page 121]

THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE.¹

———

A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS.

———

ACT I.

SCENE I.—Scugog.

The breakfast-room in the house of BLOGGS, a wealthy Scugog merchant. At the table, KATE, his daughter, reading a letter.

     Kate (in much indignation). Refused! I knew it!
The crass ingratitude of haughty man,
Vested in all the pride of place and power,
Brooks not the aspirations of my sex,
However just. Is’t that he fears to yield,

Lest from his laurelled brow the wreath should fall
And light on ours? We may matriculate,
And graduate—if we can, but he excludes
Us from the beaten path he takes himself.
The sun-lit heights of steep Parnassus

Reach past the clouds, and we below must stay;
Not that our alpen-stocks are weak, or that
Our breath comes short, but that, forsooth, we wear
The Petticoat. Out on such trash!

Enter MR. BLOGGS.

     Mr. Bloggs. Why, what’s the matter, Kate?

     Kate. Not much, papa, only I am refused
Admission to the college. Sapient says
The Council have considered my request,
And find it inconsistent with the rules
Of discipline and order to admit

Women within their walls. [page 122]
     Mr. B. I thought they’d say so. Now be satisfied;
You’ve studied hard. Have made your mark upon
The honour list. Have passed your second year.
Let that suffice. You know enough to wed,

And Gilmour there would give his very head
To have you. Get married, Kate.
     Kate. Papa, you vex me; Gilmour has no chance
And that I’ll let him know. Nor have I spent
My youth in studious sort to give up now.

     Mr. Bloggs. What will you do? They will not let you in,
For fear you’d turn the heads of all the boys.
And quite right, too. I wouldn’t have the care
And worry of a lot of lively girls
For all I’m worth.

[He kisses her.

     Kate. P’raps not, papa. But yet I mean to have
The prize I emulate.
                              If I obtain
The honours hung so tantalizingly
Before us by the University,
Will you defray the cost, as hitherto

You’ve done, like my own kind papa?

[She kisses him.

     Mr. Bloggs. I guess I’ll have to: they won’t send the bills to you.
     Kate. Ah, dear papa! I’ll make you proud of me
As if I were a son.

Enter MRS. BLOGGS. Exit MR. BLOGGS.

     Mrs. Bloggs. My dearest Kate,
                     How very late
                                         You keep the breakfast things!

     Kate. My dear mamma,
            I had papa
                        To tell of lots of things.
     Mrs. Bloggs. Your secret, pray,
            If so I may
                        Be let into it also. [page 123]

     Kate. Oh, it was just this letter, mamma, from Mr. Sapient, telling me that the Council won’t let me go to University College to share the education that can only be had there at a reasonable cost, because the young men would be demoralized by my presence.
     Mrs. Bloggs. Kate, I am astonished at you! Have I not always said that women do not need so much education as men, and ought to keep themselves to themselves, and not put themselves forward like impudent minxes? What’ll men think of you if you go sittin’ down on the same benches at the colleges, and studyin’ off of the same desk, and, like enough—for there are girls bold enough for that—out of the same books? And what must the professors think women are comin’ to when they want to learn mathyphysics and metamatics and classical history, and such stuff as unfits a woman for her place, and makes her as ignorant of household work, managin’ servants, bringin’ up children, and such like, as the greenhorns that some people take from the emigrant sheds, though I wouldn’t be bothered with such ignoramuses, spoilin’ the knives, and burnin’ the bread, for anythin’?
     Kate. Now, mamma, you know we have gone all over this before, and shall never agree, because I think that the better educated a woman is, the better she can fulfil her home duties, especially in the care and management of the health of her family, and the proper training of her sons and daughters as good citizens.
     Mrs. Bloggs. You put me out of all patience, Kate! For goodness’ sake get married and be done with it. And that reminds me that Harry Gilmour wants you to go to the picnic with him on Dominion Day, and to the concert at the Gardens at night; and he said you had snubbed him so at Mrs. Gale’s that he didn’t like to speak about it to you without I thought he might. Now, that’s what I call a real shame, the way you do treat that young man. A risin’ young lawyer as he is, with no end of lots in Winnipeg, and all the money his father made for him up there; comes of a good old family, and has the best connections; as may be a member yet, perhaps senator some day, and you [page 124] treat him as if he was quite beneath you. I do hope you’ll just show a little common sense and accept his invitations.
     Kate. Well, mamma, I think the real shame, as you call it, is that you, and other ladies, will allow your daughters to go about to picnics, parties, balls, theatres or anywhere else, with any man who happens to ask them, and without even so much as a girl-companion, and yet you see nothing but impropriety in my desire to attend college, where all the opportunity of associating with the other sex is limited to a few lectures delivered by grave and reverend Professors, under conditions of strict discipline, and at which the whole attention of the students must necessarily be concentrated on the subject. As for unlimited opportunities for flirting, there are none; and the necessities of college life compel each student to attend to his duties while within the halls, and then go home; wherever that may be.
     Mrs. Bloggs. It’s not use talking, Kate, you won’t alter my opinion. If they’d build another college specially for ladies, as I hear the Council is willin’ to do, and put it under charge of a lady who would look after the girls, I wouldn’t object so much, though, as I always say, I don’t see the need of so much learnin’ for women.
     Kate. Well, mamma, how much would be gained by a separate building? The Council, it is true, offer a piece of ground, within a few minutes’ walk of the college, for a ladies’  college, and promise to deliver lectures specially “altered to suit the female capacity.” But if there was an intention of giddiness and flirtation on the part of the lady students, how much hindrance do you think the separate college would be? And if we can’t understand the same lectures as our brothers, it is evident we can’t understand the same books.—Rather a hard nut to crack, isn’t it?
     Mrs. Bloggs. How rude you are, Kate! I am ashamed of you.

[Exit MRS. BLOGGS in a rage.

SCENE 2.—A lady’s bedroom.

KATE BLOGGS and her cousin, ORPHEA BLAGGS, in conversation.

     Orphea. What will you do, dear?
     Kate. A deed without a name!
A deed will waken me at dead of night!
A deed whose stony face will stare at me
With vile grimace, and freeze my curdling blood!

Will make me quake before the eye of day;
Shrink from the sun, and welcome fearsome night!
A deed will chase my trembling steps by ways
Unknown, through lonely streets, into dark haunts!—
Will make me tremble if a child observes

Me close; and quake, if, in a public crowd,
One glances at me twice!
A deed I’ll blush for, yet I’ll do’t; and charge
Its ugliness on those who forced me to’t—
In short, I’ll wear the breeks.

     Orphea. Oh, Katie! You?
     Kate. Yes, me, dear coz.
     Orphea. But then your hair, and voice!
     Kate. I’ll train my voice to mouth out short, thick words,
As Bosh! Trash! Fudge! Rot! And I’ll cultivate

An Abernethain, self-assertive style,
That men may think there is a deal more in
My solid head than e’er comes out.
My hair I’ll cut short off.

[She looses down her abundant brown hair, and passes her hands through it caressingly.

Ah, woman’s simple pride! these tresses brown

Must all be shorn. Like to Godiva fair,
Whose heart, so true, forgot itself, to serve
Her suffering kind; I, too, must make
My hair an offering to my sex; a protest strong
’Gainst man’s oppression. [page 126]

Oh, wavy locks, that won my father’s praise,
I must be satisfied to cut ye off,
And keep ye in a drawer ’till happier times,
When I again may wear ye as a crown:
Perchance a bang.

     Orphea. ’Twould, perhaps, be best to wear some as moustache.
     Kate. The very thing! then whiskers won’t be missed.
     Orphea. But oh, your mannish garb! How dreadful, Kate!
     Kate. True; but it must be done, and you must help.

[Exeunt.

———

SCENE 3.—The same room. Evening.

KATE alone.

     Kate. Not let me in! We’ll see. I’ll beat ’em yet.
To think that down in Canterbury, girls,²
Like my poor self, have had the badge bestowed
That I so fondly covet. To think that they
Enjoy the rights I ask, and have received

The Cambridge University degree, B.A.
Not only wear the gown and cap
As college students, but the hood. The hood!
And shall Macaulay’s proud New Zealander
Thus sit on me? Not if I know it. No!

I’ll don the dreadful clothes, and cheat the Dons.

[She goes to the window.

The blinds are down, the shutters closed, the slats
As well, surely no one can see.

[She takes up a man’s coat and looks at it, then the vest, then the pants.

I’ll do’t!

[Invests herself in the masculine apparel. A knock at the door. She starts and turns pale.

     A Voice. Katie, dear!
     Kate. Pshaw! ’tis only Orphea!

[She unlocks the door. [page 127]

    (In masculine tones.) Come in, dear coz.

[Attempts to kiss her, but receives a slap in the face.

     Orphea. How dare you, sir! Oh! let me out.
     Kate (in natural voice). Orphea, you goose!
     Orphea. Oh, Kate, you did so scare me!
     Kate. And is it then a good disguise?

     Orphea. ’Tis poor old Tom again.
     Kate. But how essay it in the street and hall?
     Orphea. Well, there’s the gown to help. ’Twill cover all.
     Kate. And then the cap? But that I do not mind;
My Derby hat has used me to a style

A trifle jaunty, and a hard stiff crown;
So if my hair prove not too trying
I yet may like to wear the “mortar-board,”
If still they wear such things.
     Orphea. Oh, Kate, it is an awful risk!

     Kate. Awful, my dear; but poor mamma
Thinks I’m an awful girl.
If she but knew—
Yet might I plead that men and women oft
Have done the same before; poor Joan of Arc;

Portia; and Rosalind. And I have heard
That once Achilles donned the woman’s garb:
Then why not I the student’s cap and gown? [page 128]

ACT II.

SCENE I.—A bedroom in a Toronto boarding-house. KATE BLOGGS in bed.

Enter boarding-house mistress.

     Kate. Yes, nursey, I’ll be quick, but mind your words
And looks, and do not make mistakes.
     Nurse. Oh no, Miss Kate—or Mr. Christopher,
As that’s the name you’ve chose, I’ll not mistake.
     Kate. And always mind and keep my room,

My time and liberty, intact, and so
You’ll make it easier for me to obtain
By surreptitious means, the rights I should
Enjoy in happier sort.
     Nurse. I’ll do my best, Miss Kate.

[Exit Nurse.

     Kate (in masculine attire, about to descend to the breakfast table, turns once more to the mirror). Oh, Harberton,
Hadst thou but taught the world
The beauty of thy new divided skirt
Ere I was born, this had not now been thus.
This blush, that burns my cheek, had long been past;

These trembling limbs, that blench so from the light,
Had gotten strength to bear me manfully.
Oh for the mantling night, when city fa-
Thers save the gas, and Luna draws her veil!

[She sits down on a box.

Away, weak tears!

I must be brave and show myself a man,
Nay, more, a student, rollicking and gay.
Would I could feel so! (Sniffs at the air.) Somebody smokes,
And before breakfast; pah, the nasty things!
Would I could smoke! They say some women do;

Drink toddy, too; and I do neither:
That’s not like a man; I’ll have to learn. [page 129]
But no! my soul revolts; I’ll risk it.
Surely there are among a studious band
Some who love temperance and godly life.

That’s the crowd I’ll join. They will not plunge into
Those dreadful orgies that the Globe describes,
Of men half-tight with lager and old rye,
Who waylay freshmen and immerse them in
The flowing wave of Taddle.

Horrors! Why, I shall be a freshman!
If they touch me I’ll scream! ah—ha, I’ll scream!
Scream, and betray my sex? No, that won’t do;
At Rome I’ll have to be a Roman;
And, to escape that dread ordeal, I

Shall cringe and crawl, and in the presence of
A fourth year man step soft and bow,
And smile if he but condescend to nod.
Oh, yes, I’ll do’t. In tableaux once I played
Uriah Heep, and made the character

So “’umble” and so crawly, that for days
I loathed my hands, and slapped my fingers well
For having knuckles.
Thus will I to the tyrant play the slave.
An old antithesis.

[Some one calls at the door.

                        Yes, yes, I’m coming, Hannah.

Now for that dreaded step yclept the first,
Pray Heaven it may cost most; but that I doubt.

[Descends to the breakfast table. [page 130]

ACT III.

SCENE I.—The same as Scene 2, Act I.

MISS ORPHEA BLAGGS solus, reading a letter.

“KATE.”

     A merry letter truly.
                                    I’ll to the dressmaker. [page 132]

ACT IV.

SCENE I.—A boarding-house dining-room richly decorated with flowers and plants. Twenty gentlemen, among whom is Mr. Tom Christopher, each accompanying a lady, one of whom is Miss Blaggs. The cloth is drawn, and dessert is on the table.

     Mr. Biggs, B.A. (Tor. Univer.), on his feet.

            Ah—ladies and gentlemen, here’s to our host,
            And rising, as thus, to propose him a toast,
                        I think of the days which together
            In shade, and in sunshine, as chums we have passed,
            In love, and esteem, that forever must last,
                        Let happen what will to the weather.

[Tremendous cheering and clinking of glasses. Several are broken, and the excitement consequently subsides.

     Mr. Tom Christopher.—Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you
              much.
For these your loving words. A third year man,
I came upon you fresh from nowhere;
This in itself a warranty for cold

And hard suspicion; but you received
Me with some warmth, and made me one of you,
Chaffed me, and sat on me, and lent me books,
And offered pipes, and made inquiries kind
About my sisters; and Time, who takes

Men kindly by the hand, made us warm friends,
And knit us in a love all brotherly.
     Many Voices.—Yes, brothers! brothers! we are brothers all!
     A Voice.—And sisters!
     Mr. Tom.—I would say sisters too, but that I fear

My lady guests would think I did presume;
But yet I know, and knowing it am proud,
That most men here to-night would welcome all
The sweet girl-graduates that would fill the list
Did but the College Council set aside

A foolish prejudice, and let them in.
And now, I know a girl who long has worked
To pass the exams, take the proud degree
I hold to-day, and yet her petticoat
Forbade.
     Several Voices.—Name! Name! A toast! A toast!

     Mr. Tom.—I will not name her, gentlemen, but bring
Her to your presence, if you so incline;
First begging that you will not let surprise
Oust self-possession, for my friend’s a girl [page 134]
Of timid temper, though she’s bold to act

If duty calls.
     Many Voices.—Your friend! Your friend!
     Mr. Tom.—I go to fetch her, gentlemen; dear ladies all,
I beg your suffrages of gentle eyes
And kindly smile to greet my guest.

[Exit MR. TOM CHRISTOPHER.

SCENE 2.—The same.

Enter MISS KATE BLOGGS in full dinner toilet of Reseda silk, and carrying a dandelion and lily bouquet.

     Miss Blaggs.—My cousin! oh, my cousin!

[Rushes excitedly forward and falls into hysterics on MISS BLOGGS’ neck. The company gather round in great surprise.

     Miss B.—Dear Orphea! Orphea, my dear! oh, water, gentlemen! Lay her upon the couch. See! see! she gasps! Orphea, dear girl!

[The ladies are much alarmed, but MISS BLAGGS soon gives signs of recovery, and sits up.

     Kate.—Dear friends, you look surprised.
Pray Heaven you’ll not look worse when you know all.
I am indeed a girl, though you have known
Me hitherto as Thomas Christopher.

Four years ago I passed the exams for
Us women, at your University.
Once more I passed. But when again I would,
I stumbled for the teaching that is chained—
Like ancient scripture to the reading desk—

Within your College walls. No word of mine
Could move the flinty heads of College Council. [page 135]
Order and discipline forbade, they said,
That women should sit side by side with men
Within their walls. At church, or concert, or

At theatre, or ball, no separation’s made
Of sexes. And so I, being a girl
Of firm and independent mind, resolved
To do as many a one beside has done
For lesser prize, and, as a man, sat at

The feet of our Gamaliels until I got
The learning that I love. That I may now
Look you all in the face without a blush, save that
Which naturally comes at having thus
To avow my hardihood, is praise, I trow,

You will not think unworthy; and to me
It forms a soft remembrance that will ever dwell
Within my grateful heart.
Can you forgive me?
     Many Voices.—We do, we must. All honour to the brave!

     Mr. Biggs.—I cannot speak, except to ask the lady’s pardon
For our rough ways.
     Kate.—No; pardon me.
     Many Voices.—No! no! we ask your pardon.
     Kate.—If that, indeed, as I must need believe

From all your looks, you do not blame me much,
Endue me with a favour. It is this:—
Let every man and woman here to-night
Look our for those petitions that will soon
Be placed in many a store by those our friends

Who in this city form a ladies’ club,³
And each one sign. Nay more, to show you mean
What I, with swelling heart have often heard
You strongly urge, the rights of women to
The College privileges, get all your friends

To sign. Do what your judgment charges you
To help so good a cause, and let the lists
Of 1883 have no more names [page 136]
Set by themselves as women. Let us go
In numbrous strength before the Parliament,

And ask our rights in such a stirring sort,
They shall be yielded. Then I shall know
Your brotherly and pleasant words mean faith,
And shall no more regret a daring act
That else will fail of reason.

May I thus trust?
     All.—You may! You may.
     Kate.—Then hands all round, my friends, till break of day. [page 137]