Poems of the Heart and Home Part 1

Poems of the Heart and Home.

by J. C. Yule.

INTRODUCTION.

In presenting this little book to her readers, the author is giving back to them in a collected form much that has previously been given them--anonymously, or under the _nom-de-plume_, first, of "Emillia," then of "Xenette," or, finally, under her true name either as Miss Vining or Mrs. Yule--and also, much that they have never before seen.

Some of these poems have been widely circulated, not only in Canada, but in the United States and Great Britain; and some appear for the first time in the pages of this book. They are offered solely upon their merits; and upon those alone they must stand or fall. Whatever there is in them calculated to stir the heart of our common Humanity,--to voice forth its joys or its sorrows,--to truly interpret its emotions,--or to give utterance to its aspirations and its hopes, will live; that which does not thus speak for Humanity, has no right to live; and the sooner it finds a merited oblivion the better for its author and the world.

These poems are essentially Canadian. They have nearly all been written on Canadian soil;-their themes and incidents--those that are not purely imaginary or suggested by current events in other countries--are almost wholly Canadian; and they are mainly the outgrowth of many and varied experiences in Canadian life.

To the author, there is hardly one that has not its little, local history, and that does not awaken reminiscences of some quiet Canadian home,--some rustic Canadian school-house,--some dreamy hour in the beautiful Canadian forests,--some morning or evening walk amidst Canadian scenery,--or some pleasant sail over Canadian waters.

They have been written under widely different circ.u.mstances; and, in great part, in brief intervals s.n.a.t.c.hed from the arduous duties of teaching, or the more arduous ones of domestic life.

Of the personal experiences traceable through many of them, it is not necessary to speak. We read in G.o.d's word that "_He fashioneth their hearts alike_;" therefore there is little to be found in any human experience, that has not its counterpart, in some sort, in every other, and he alone is the true Poet who can so interpret his own, that they will be recognized as, in some sense, the real, or possible experiences of all.

Trusting that these unpretending lyrics may be able thus to touch a responsive chord in many hearts, and with a sincere desire to offer a worthy contribution to the literature of our new and prosperous country, they are respectfully submitted to the public by the AUTHOR

INGERSOLL, ONT., Aug., 1881.

POEMS OF THE HEART AND HOME.

YES, THE WEARY EARTH SHALL BRIGHTEN.

Yes, the weary earth shall brighten-- Brighten in the perfect day, And the fields that now but whiten, Golden glow beneath the ray!

Slowly swelling in her bosom, Long the precious seed has lain,-- Soon shall come the perfect blossom, Soon, the rich, abundant grain!

Long has been the night of weeping, But the morning dawns at length, And, the misty heights o'ersweeping, Lo, the sun comes forth in strength!

Down the slopes of ancient mountains, Over plain, and vale, and stream, Flood, and field, and sparkling fountains, Speeds the warm rejoicing beam!

Think not G.o.d can fail His promise!

Think not Christ can be denied!

He shall see His spirit's travail-- He shall yet be satisfied!

Soon the "Harvest home" of angels Shall resound from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, And amid Earth's glad evangels, Christ shall reign for evermore!

TO A DAY LILY

What! only to stay For a single day?

Thou beautiful, bright hued on Just to open thine eyes To the blue of the skies And the light of the glorious sun, Then, to fade away In the same rich ray, And die ere the day is done?

Bright thing of a day Thou hast caught a ray From Morn's jewelled curtain fold On thy burning cheek, And the ruby streak His dyed it with charms untold-- And the gorgeous vest On thy queenly breast, Is dashed with her choicest gold.

A statelier queen Has never been seen, A lovelier never will be!-- Nay, Solomon, dressed In his kingliest best, Was never a match for thee, O beautiful flower, O joy of an hour-- _And only an hour_--for me!

An hour, did I say?

Nay, loveliest, nay, Not thus shall I part with thee, But with subtle skill I shall keep thee still, Fadeless and fresh with me:-- Through toil and duty, "A thing of beauty Forever" my own to be'

As with drooping head Amid thorns I tread, I shall see thee unfold anew, In the desert's dust, Where journey I must, Why beautiful form shall view, And visions of Home O'er my spirit will come, As thro' tear-drops I gaze on you'

LIVING AND DYING.

Living for Christ, I die;--how strange, that I, Thus dying, live,--and yet, thus living, die!

Living for Christ, I die;-yet wondrous thought, In that same death a deathless life is wrought;-- Living, I die to Earth, to self, to sin;-- Oh, blessed death, in which such life I win!

Dying for Christ, I live!--death cannot be A terror, then, to one from death set free'

Living for Christ, rich blessings I attain, Yet, dying for Him, mine is greater gain Life for my Lord, is death to sin and strife, Yet death for Him is everlas'ing life!

Dying for Christ, I live!--and yet, not I, But He lives in me, who did for me die.

I die to live,--He lives to die no more, Who, in His death my own death-sentence bore "To live is Christ," if Christ within me reign, To die more blessed, since "to die is gain!"

UP THE NEPIGON.

How beautiful, how beautiful, Beneath the morning sky, In bridal veil of snowy mist, These dreamy headlands lie!

How beautiful, in soft repose, Upon the water's breast, Steeped in the sunlight's golden calm, These fairy islets rest!

A Sabbath hush enfolds the hills, And broods upon the deep Whose music every hollow fills, And climbs each rocky steep, Now low and soft like love's own sigh, Now faint and far away, Now plaining to the answering pines, With melancholy lay.

Like white-winged birds, through azure depths, Above the restless tide, With snowy plume and golden crest, The fleecy cloudlets glide; Their dancing shadows fleck the deep, Or flit above the green Of emerald islands fast asleep 'Neath tranquil skies serene.

I watch the sunshine and the shade, The sparkle and the gleam, Till past and present seem to fade, And life becomes a dream-- A fairy, fancy-tinted dream, A sun-bright; summer rest, In which I glide through shade and gleam Past islands of the blest

How beautiful! "How beautiful!"

The quiet hills reply, And each responsive cliff gives back Its answer to the sky;-- "How beautiful!" the waves repeat, And every cloudlet smiles, And writes its answer on the green Of countless summer isles.

'Tis past--this first, last, only look!-- And now, away, away, To bear alone in Memory's book The sunshine of to-day; Yet oft, 'neath other skies than these, With other scenes in view, O isles of beauty, sunny seas, I shall remember you!

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