Canadian Wild Flowers Part 7

And is there not some balm, I cried, 'Mid nature's boundless wealth?

"Behold"--a gentle voice replied-- "Behold the Fount of health!"

Just then a torrent met my eye, Fresh from the rock it burst; I could have drained the fountain dry, So raging was my thirst.

Such deep emotions filled my soul I woke--the vision fled: The moonbeams through the curtain stole, Ah! 'twas a dream, I said.

But well I know there is a land Where flows the living stream; And when upon its banks I stand, Oh, then 'twill be no dream.

THE LAST SONG.

"Earth is fair, oh so fair,"-- Sang a little, happy bird; Though a prey to grief and care, With a smile I heard.

Sing again that blithesome strain, Precious little bird, I said; For the heart that throbbed with pain Thou hast comforted!

"Earth is fair, oh so fair,"

Louder sang the happy bird; "What have I to do with care, Or with hope deferred?"

All the western sky was red With the beams of setting sun, As the sportsman homeward sped With the fatal gun.

"Earth is fair, oh so fair, And I love the green earth well,"-- Death was in the balmy air, And the warbler fell!

Earth _is_ fair--but earth no more Wears its pleasant green for thee,-- Cold and stiff and bathed in gore Underneath the tree.

Earth is fair, but alas!

It hath many scenes of woe; Happy they who through them pa.s.s, Sweetly singing as they go,-- Comforting some lonely heart, Making some weak spirit strong;-- So may I, and then depart, On my lips a song!

AN EVENING SCENE.

How still and calm! what fairer scene e'er met The eye of mortal short of Paradise?

The quiet lake is like a mirror set In richest green where sunset loves to see Itself arrayed in crimson, pink and gold.

And e'en the proud old mountain bows his head s.h.a.ggy with hemlocks, and appears well pleased To view so grand a form reflected there.

Hark! o'er the polished surface how the loons Call to each other, waking echoes wild From crag and cliff, and waking in my heart Sweet memories of other days and years When health was on my cheek, and hope and love O'er all the future wove one iris bright.

Ah, little prophets, do you then predict A rainy morrow? By yon crimson west I doubt your warnings; so in truth it seems Does yonder farmer who, with shouldered scythe From meadows fragrant with the new-mown hay, Goes whistling homeward, glad to seek repose Until another sun shall call him forth, To gather into barns the winter's store Of food provided for the gentle king That faintly lowing from the pastures come Scented with herbage, giving promise fair Of pails o'erflowing with a sweeter drink Than ever gleamed in the inebriate's bowl.

Now o'er the landscape signs of twilight creep, And sounds that tell of night--sounds that I love: The hooting of the owl, the tree-frog's cry By distance mellowed; and--more distant still-- I hear the barking of the village dogs.

The breath of evening whispering 'mid the pines, And deepening shadows, bid me homeward turn; And yet I linger--for I seem a part Of lake and mountain, meadow, tree and sky,-- And realize how sweet a thing it is To lay my heart so close to Nature's own That I can feel its throbbing, while each pulse Responsive beats, and o'er my being steals A rapturous calm like that out parents felt When to the bowers of Eden they repaired, And praised their Maker seen in all his works.

Author of nature! Source of life and light!

Almighty Father! let me praise thee too.

This lovely world is thine; yon moon and stars That now begin to usher in the night Are but the outposts of unnumbered spheres That march in order round thy dazzling throne, And chant thy praises in perpetual song.

All these are thine, for thou hast made them all; And I am thine! I thank thee, Lord of lords, King of the Universe, Creator, G.o.d, That while in part I realize thy _power_ I know it has an equal in the _love_ Which bowed the heavens and consecrated earth When the Messiah came to save mankind, And in its proper orbit reinstate A fallen world, which shall one day become The fairest 'mid the sisterhood of orbs, The most renowned because the dearest bought,-- The best beloved, because the ransom given Was all that G.o.d omnipotent could pay!

AUTUMN TEACHINGS.

The howling winds rage around my cas.e.m.e.nt. The summer is past, and everything indicates that winter will soon be here. The seared leaves are falling from their homes in the waving forests; the earth has thrown aside her gay mantle of green, and one scene of desolation presents itself to the eye. The decay of nature brings with it sad and solemn reflections, how much more the decay of the human form--of which autumn seems so striking an emblem. The days of man are few.

Like the flower of the field he perisheth, and yet how few seem to realize it! O G.o.d, teach me to apply my heart unto wisdom. Help me to love and serve thee, that when "the heavens shall be dissolved and the elements shall melt with fervent heat" I may not be among those who shall take up the sad lamentation: "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."--_Oct._, 1852.

THE WATCHER.

[As Miss Johnson lived in the house with Dr. G. O. Somers, who would frequently in winter cross lake Memphremagog on the ice in visiting his patients, the following, written on a sick-bed, gives a graphic description of what her fears pictured might be a reality.]

Night comes, but he comes not! I fear The treacherous ice; what do I hear?

Bells? nay, I am deceived again,-- 'Tis but the ringing in my brain.

Oh how the wind goes shrieking past!

Was it a voice upon the blast?

A cry for aid? My G.o.d protect!

Preserve his life--his course direct!

How suddenly it has grown dark-- How very dark without--hush! hark!

'Tis but the creaking of the door; It opens wide, and nothing more.

Then wind and snow came in; I thought Some straggler food and shelter sought; But more I feared, for fear is weak, That some one came of him to speak: To tell how long he braved the storm, How long he kept his bosom warm With thoughts of home, how long he cheered His weary horse that plunged, and reared, And wallowed through the drifted snow Till daylight faded, and the glow Of hope went out; how almost blind, He peered around, below, behind,-- No road, no track, the very sh.o.r.e All blotted out,--one struggle more, It is thy last, perchance, brave heart!

O G.o.d! a reef! the ma.s.ses part Of snow and ice, and dark and deep The waters lie in death-like sleep; He sees too late the chasm yawn; Sleigh, horse and driver, all are gone!

Father in heaven! It may be thus, But thou art gracious,--pity us, Save him, and me in mercy spare What 'twould be worse than death to bear.

Hark! hark! am I deceived again?

Nay, 'tis no ringing in my brain; My pulses leap--my bosom swells-- Thank G.o.d! it is, _it is his bells_!

PATRIOTIC POEMS

THE SURRENDER OF QUEBEC.

[Quebec is the oldest city in Canada, having been founded by Champlain, in 1608, near the site of an Indian village. It was taken from the French, by the English, under General Wolfe, in 1759, after a heroic defence by Montcalm. Both generals fell on the battle-field, mortally wounded. In 1853 the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec offered a prize medal for the best poem relating to the history of Canada. Miss Johnson (then in her eighteenth year) wrote the following, which took the prize.]

The orb of day upon his pathway pressed, Beaming with splendor, toward the shining west, Cast one long, lingering glance upon the scene, Lit up the river and the forest green, Left his last rays upon the lordly dome, And deigned to smile upon the peasant's home; Then 'neath the western hills he sought repose, And sank to rest as calmly as he rose: Bright at the dawn of day, but brighter now, When day had almost pa.s.sed, and round her brow Hung the expiring beams of dazzling light, The certain presage of approaching night.

Slowly his gorgeous train, like him, withdrew, Changing as they advanced in form and hue, Until one lovely tint of fairest dye Stole softly o'er the calm and cloudless sky; Day, gently smiling, left her gleaming throne, And evening fair came forth, and reigned alone.

The twinkling stars the azure vault adorned; Like glistening gems, a glorious crown they formed, And proudly sat in splendor pure and bright Upon the pale and pensive brow of night; While in the midst of all, with tranquil mien, Mild Cynthia lent enchantment to the scene.

Beneath lay spreading pastures green and fair, And lofty hills and waving forests, where The human voice had never yet been heard, Or other sound, save when the depths were stirred By the loud screams of some lone midnight bird.

But high o'er all the lofty city rose, Firm in its strength, sublime in its repose; On every hand by nature fortified, And strongly built; with air of conscious pride Gazed from its heights upon the scene below, And bade defiance to each lurking foe; Confiding in its bulwarks firm and sure, It calmly slept and deemed itself secure!

The river swept along; with surging roar Its waves dashed wildly on the rocky sh.o.r.e; While on its broad, expansive bosom lay The twinkling orbs in beautiful array; And every pearly drop shone clear and bright, Bathed in a flood of soft and silvery light.