Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812 Part 23

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 G.o.d 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 n.o.ble 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 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 G.o.d-like pity love it but the more.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 sh.o.r.e.

Sometimes, with rod and line, we try The ba.s.s's appet.i.te 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."

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.

FRAGMENTS.

"I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR."