Canada And Other Poems Part 17

Let us be fair with thee, thy fate deplore, And grieve thy youthful death, if nothing more.

Let us in mercy judge, for thus we can, E'en with thy faults, thou wert a n.o.ble man.

MEMORIES OF SCHOOLDAYS.

There are mem'ries glad of the old school-house, Which throng around me still; And voices spoke in my youthful days, My ears with music fill.

Those youthful voices I seem to hear, With their gladsome, joyous tone, And joy and hope they bring to me, When I am all alone.

I think of the joys of that time long past, Of its boyish hopes and fears, And 'tis partly joy, and partly pain, That wets my eyes with tears.

For 'tis joy I feel, when I seem to stand, Where I stood long years ago, And when I think that cannot be, My heart is fill'd with woe.

My old school mates are scatter'd far, And some are with the dead, And my old cla.s.s mates have wander'd, too, To seek for fame, or bread.

And those who still are near my home, And whom I often see, Have come to manhood's grave estate; They're boys no more to me.

And tho' we meet in converse yet, And each one's thoughts enjoy, Our thoughts and words are not so free, As when, each was a boy.

For the spring of life is gone for us, With all its bursting bloom, And manhood's thoughts, and joys, and cares, Are now within its room.

But the mem'ry of our bright school days, Will last through ev'ry strain, And time will brighten ev'ry joy, And darken ev'ry pain.

The rippling of our childhood's laugh, Will roll adown the years, And time will blunt, each day we live, The mem'ry of our tears.

Our boyhood's hopes, and boyhood's dreams, And aspirations high, Will doubtless never be fulfill'd, Until the day we die.

But still we'll cherish in our hearts, And live those days again, When awkardly we read our books, Or trembling held the pen.

SUNRISE.

How few there are who know the pure delight, The chaste influence, and the solace sweet, Of walking forth to see the glorious sight, When nature rises, with respect, to greet The lord of day on his majestic seat, Like some great personage of high degree, Who cometh forth his subjects all to meet, Like him, but yet more glorious far than he, He comes with splendor bright, to shed o'er land and sea.

With stately, slow and solemn march he comes, And gradually pours forth his brilliant rays, Unheralded by sounding bra.s.s or drums, His blazing glory on our planet plays, And sendeth healing light thro' darken'd ways.

His undimm'd splendor maketh mortals quail, And e'en, at times, it fiercely strikes and slays; But then it brighteneth the cheek so pale, Revives the plant, and loosens every nail That fastens sorrow to the heart, within this vale.

But 'tis the morning glory of the sun, I would request you now to view with me, 'Twill cheer that smitten heart, thou grieved one, And lighter make your load of misery, When you can hear and see all nature's glee.

Come friend arise, determin'd, drowse no more, But stroll away to yonder hill with me; And all the landscape round we shall explore, All nature slumbers now; its sleep will soon be o'er.

The stillness now is strange, oppressive, grand, The hush of death is now o'er all the earth, As if it slept by power of genius's hand, But soon the spell shall break, and songs and mirth, And light, shall all proclaim the morning's birth.

E'en now behold the sun's advancing gleams, The heralds of his coming, but the dearth Of words forbid my telling how the streams, And dewy gra.s.s are glinting, sparkling in the beams.

Or of the change, so steady and so sure, That creeps upon creation all around, Unwaken'd yet from slumbers bright and pure, By atmospheric change, or earthly sound, Such as at times awakes with sudden bound.

There comes a change o'er earth, and trees, and sky, And all creation's work wherever found, Save man, for he, with unawaken'd eye, In dozing, slothful ease, will yet for hours lie.

The grandest artificial sights will pall Upon the taste, and oft repeated, tire, But each succeeding morn, the monarch Sol Bedecks the world with fresh and vig'rous fire, That cheers the fainting heart and sootheth ire.

Each morn, the gazer seeth something new, And even what he saw will never tire, For in an aspect clear and fresh, the view Will gladden still your eyes, tho' oft it's gladden'd you.

By slow degrees the heralds make their way, Until, at last, old Sol himself appears, To reign supreme thro' all the blessed day, As he hath reign'd for many thousand years O'er joy and woe, bright smiles and bitter tears.

The very air is now astir with life, And all around, unto our eyes and ears Come evidences of a kindly strife, For fields, and air, and trees with bustling now are rife.

All animated nature seems to vie Each with the other, in their energy Of preparation for the day's supply Of work or play, or whate'er else may be Prompted for them to do instinctively.

The gra.s.s is fill'd with buzzing insect throngs, There's music in the air, and every tree Is vocal with the wild-bird's gladsome songs, Songs unrestrain'd by care or memory of wrongs.

A million tiny drops of crystal dew, In shining splendor make the meadows fair; The leaves upon the trees are greener, too, As, swaying in the gentle morning air, They are again prepar'd to stand the glare Of Sol's meridian heat, and give their shade To myriads of feather'd songsters there.

Our trip to see the sun arise is made, Let us retrace our steps, and bravely share Our portion of life's grief, anxiety and care.

LINES IN MEMORY OF THE LATE VEN. ARCHDEACON ELWOOD, A.M.

When men of gentle lives depart, They leave behind no brilliant story Of fam'd exploits, to make men start In wonder at their dazzling glory.

The scholar's light, religion's beams, Tho' fill'd with great, commanding pow'r, In modest greatness throw their gleams, In quiet rays, from hour to hour.

The greatest battles oft are fought, Unseen by any earthly eye; The victors all alone have wrought, And, unapplauded, live or die.

'Twas thus with thee, thou rev'rend man; In peaceful, holy work thy life Was spent, until th' allotted span Was cut by Time's relentless knife.

Far from the keen and heartless train, Who daily feel Ambition's sting, Thy life, remov'd, felt not the pain, Which goads each one beneath her wing.

What pains thou felt, what joys thou knew, Who shall presume to think or tell?

But this we know: there daily grew Within thy heart, a living well.

That well of love increas'd each day, The milk of human kindness flow'd, And cheer'd the faint ones on their way, Along a hard and toilsome road.

Thy voice rang out for years and years, In fancy, yet, we hear its roll, And see thy face, thro' blinding tears, Fill'd with a love for ev'ry soul.

Thy words we shall not soon forget, Thy deeds shall be remember'd, too, And now, while ev'ry eye is wet, Let us accord thee honor due.

Thou battl'd not 'gainst hosts of h.e.l.l, With words alone, convincing, warm; Thy deeds were like the fatal sh.e.l.l, That bursts amid the battle's storm.

The temple now, which stately stands A lasting monument, shall tell Of lib'ral hearts, and willing hands, Urg'd on by thee to labor well.

O father, friend, well see no more!

Thy fight is done, and it was long; But thou hast reach'd another sh.o.r.e, And singeth now a blessed song.

The snows shall come upon the hills, The valleys, too, with white be spread, The birds shall whistle by the rills, The flowers shall their fragrance shed.

The spring shall come to deck the earth, In garb of vernal loveliness; And sorrow shall abound, and mirth Betimes shall cheer our deep distress.

The seasons shall perform their rounds, And vegetation bloom and fade, But thou wilt heed nor sights nor sounds, For thou to rest for aye art laid.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY.