"And what is life?" I asked a maid, Who trod, as if on air, So lightly she did trip along, So bright she look'd, and fair.

The maiden stopp'd her graceful steps, And to my words replied, "Oh, life's a lovely dream," she said, With some slight boons denied.

"But love, and health, and beauty crowns My lot so filled with cheer, That joy beams forth from ev'rything, To favor'd mortals here.

"The birds and flow'rs are fill'd with joy, With joy the birds do sing; The very rain that comes from heav'n, Seems loads of joy to bring.

"And when I look to future years, The view seems brighter still, And brighter grow the perfum'd flow'rs, As I go up the hill."

"And what is life?" I asked a man, A man of middle years. "This world is truly call'd," he said, "A vale of bitter tears.

"I thought this earth a bright, fair spot, But that was long ago; I view it now, with truer sight, And see a world of woe.

"With disappointment and regret, And hopes thrown to the ground, I live, but with an aching heart I tread life's weary round."

"And what is life?" This time a man With hoary hair replied: "This life consists of gracious boons, With evils by their side.

"To leave the bad, and choose the good, Is done but by the few, And that is why mankind are such A discontented crew.

"With greed, the pleasure now is grasp'd, Or what they deem is so, Not thinking that each pleasure now, May bring a future woe.

"My son, take heed to what I say, And see thou mark it well, All earthly joys, too much indulg'd Will lead you down to hell.

"For Heaven's sake, I pray you now To curb your youthful will, Nor give your headstrong passions play, To use their deadly skill.

"There's joy, my son, all through this life, To meet, as well as woe, And if mankind would act aright, Much more of it they'd know.

"With prudence, virtue, for your friends, And caution by your side, And faith in God's o'erruling pow'r, Your life will calmly glide.

"Content to bear the ills you meet, Mix'd always with your joy, For human prudence can't avert Some woes, which still annoy.

"Pray that your mind be strong and clear, And vigorous your frame, Your heart inspir'd with love and fear For your Creator's name."

* * * * *

A HERO'S DECISION.

He just had reached the time of life, When cares are felt by men, But when they're strong to bear them well,— A score of years and ten. "Heigh ho!" says he, "and this is life, The dream of earlier years, In which we see so much of joy, And naught of bitter tears.

"I've lived a half a score of years, In search of fame and glory, For all earth's boasted joys I've sought, But ah! what is the story?"

The story! 'tis the same old tale, Told long, long years ago, But strange, each for himself must learn This earth's a 'fleeting show.'

"The dreams of sanguine, hopeful youth, Are chiefly dreams alone, Whose falseness often breaks the heart, Or turns it into stone. Fame's or ambition's giddy height Is only seldom gain'd, And often half the pleasure leaves, Just when the height's attain'd."

But still I strive, and still I hope, And still I fight the battle, Besieg'd by earth's artillery, With all its horrid rattle. Then come, ye mocking earthly foes, E'en come like fiends of hell, I'll fight the battle till I die, And I will fight it well.

"I'll change my tactics quickly, tho', Fight on a diff'rent line, And on my waving battle flag, I'll mark a diff'rent sign. Until this present moment, I Have fought in single strife, But I will fight no more alone, I'll get myself a wife.

We'll then fight all who dare oppose, E'en should it be her brother, And when we've vanquish'd all our foes, We'll turn and fight each other."

* * * * *

ODE TO MAN.

A man is not what oft he seems, On this terrestrial sphere, No pow'r to wield, no honor'd place, Oft curb his spirit here.

He knows not what within him lies, Until his pow'rs be tried, And when for them some use is found, They spring from where they hide,

To startle and to puzzle him, Who never knew their force, Because his unfreed spirit kept A low and shackl'd course.

Dishearten'd and despairing, he Had often sigh'd alone, Not thinking that in other ways His spirit might have grown.

Not thinking that another course, Which needed pluck and vim, Might raise his drowning spirit high, And teach it how to swim;

To battle with the rolling tide, That hurries onward men, And raise his head above the waves, That come and go again.

* * * * *

A SWAIN TO HIS SWEETHEART.

What subtle charm is in thy voice, That ever, when I hear its tone, My heart doth pleasantly rejoice, And fondly turns to thee alone?

The mem'ries of a toilsome life Are banish'd by its potent spell, And earthly care, and earthly strife, No whisper'd sorrows dare to tell.

Where hope had fled, new hope inspires; Comes life, where lately life had gone; New purposes my bosom fires, To battle hard and bravely on.

What charm dwells in thine eye of blue, That thus, by its magnetic pow'r, The world to me hath brighter hue, And happier grows each passing hour?

With virtuous thought, and pure desire, Thine eyes look forth from lofty soul; Contagious, then, my thoughts aspire To reach, with thee, thy lofty goal.

Thine eyes contemptuously look down On all that's sordid, mean and low; Around thy head is virtue's crown, About the feet is virtue's snow.

* * * * *

THANKSGIVING DAY.

God of the harvest, once again Our joyful tones we raise, For all Thy goodness, day by day, We give Thee thankful praise.

With blessings rich, from fertile field, And gifts from fruitful tree, We wish, this day, our thanks to yield With earnest hearts, to Thee.

We plough'd the ground, we sow'd the seed, But Thou didst send the rain In grateful show'rs, in time of need, And now we've reap'd the grain.

The sun with grateful heat did shine; The dew did nightly fall; And now, for loaded tree and vine— We give Thee thanks for all.

The bee, in well-fill'd honey cells, Her sweets for us hath stow'd, The crystal water in the wells, For us from springs hath flow'd.

The lowing herd, the prancing steed Receiv'd we from Thy hand, And we, this day, return our meed Of praise, throughout the land.

Then let us sing with earnest hearts, Tho' joyful be each lay, And thankful ev'ry song that starts On this Thanksgiving Day.

* * * * *

A SUNSET.

"Oh come," said I unto my love, "And let us view the setting sun, And watch the fleeting clouds above, So brightly color'd, ev'ry one."

Thus lightly to my love, I spake, And she responded lightly, too, And by my side her place did take, Her young heart gladden'd by the view.

I walk'd along, she tripp'd beside, Short was the time, until we stood Above the rolling, glassy tide— Above old Huron's mighty flood.

"Oh, see," said I, "the glorious sight, Now spread before our favor'd gaze— The clouds all flame, the sea all light, The sun, one grand, terrific blaze."

E'en such a time, and such a scene Could not love's gentle pow'r dispel. I saw my love's grave, thoughtful mien, I turn'd and said: "your thoughts pray tell."

"My thoughts! Oh yes, since you request, My thoughts were centr'd all in you, As chang'd my gaze from crest to crest, Across the glassy ocean's blue;

"And, as I saw the waters shine With polish'd splendor from the sun, Thus gleam'd, I thought, this love of mine, Thus shall it gleam till life is done.

"And, as I saw the bars of gold, And clouds with crimson deeply dy'd, Your love, I thought, was wealth untold, And my heart's blood, your crimson tide."

"And yours," I said, "your love to me Is one great, shining, glassy flood; Your face, reflected, there I see, So beautiful, so bright and good.

"My nature glows at thy dear name, With deep, red heat, like yonder ball, It shines with constant, ruddy flame; It shines for you, but tinges all.

"But see, the sun has sunk to rest, As if beneath the distant wave, But still the colors in the west, Show that he still shines from his grave.

"And thus, my love, when I shall sink Into the dark and dread Unknown, 'Tis surely just for us to think, Some rays shall shine for thee alone.

"And if it be my fate to stay, While thou shalt calmly sink to rest, 'Tis surely right for me to say, Some light from thee shall cheer my breast."

* * * * *

THE MAPLE TREE.

Where craggy hills round Madoc rise, With scenic grandeur bold, Where frowning rocks, from wooded heights, Look down so stern and cold,

On peaceful vales, and silent lakes, And islets, wild and fair, Where trees, in fadeless beauty clad, Display their verdure there.

Where men, undaunted by the force Of nature's stern array, Determin'd, drive a prosp'rous course, And honorable way.

Here doth the oak rear high its form, The spreading beech beside, And here the hemlock meets the storm, With branches stretching wide.

The pine, with straight and lofty stem, The birch, whose shapen rind Sails o'er the lakes by dusky hands, Or favorable wind.

Such trees as those, are widely known, And many more beside, And may be found from Madoc's hills, To Huron's waters wide.

Right dear they are to sturdy hearts; To pioneers, their name Lights up the thoughts of other days, With bright and cheerful flame.

But dearer far than all of these, Than all from sea to sea, To Canada's brave sons of toil, Is the stout maple tree.

The maple tree! the maple tree! Because its leaf so fair, Is emblem of our Canada, And all our hopes are there.

Our country thrives, and so shall we, On this, our native sod, If we respect our maple tree, And worship only God.

The maple leaf! the maple leaf! Tho' in the fall it fade, May it but die, to bloom again, And brighten up the glade.

Oh, deeper strike each year thy roots, Young Canada's fair tree, That no rude hand may tear thee up, Thou emblem of the free.

If on thy branch an eagle bold, Or other bird of prey, Shall dare with haughtiness to sit, May it soon fly away.

* * * * *

GODERICH.

Where once the red deer, wolf or bear, Pursued by hardy Indian braves, Lay low, in cunning grove or lair, And listen'd to the rolling waves.

Where once the maple and the beech, In nature's splendor tower'd high, Far, far beyond the white man's reach, Was this lone spot, in years gone by.

The lofty bank, and level plain, With wide-mouth'd maitland stretch'd to view, Look'd out upon the inland main, And back, where virgin forests grew.

No harbor then, nor water-break, Made by the mind and hand of man, But fast into the rolling lake, In nature's course, the river ran.

No pennon stream'd from lofty mast, No ships were there, propell'd by steam, For then, instead of whistle blast, Was heard the lordly eagle's scream.

The light canoe of birchen rind, Sent o'er the waves by skilful oar, Express'd so plain the untrain'd mind— Content with this, it wish'd no more.

No chimneys, tall and massive made, Show'd where the white man ground his corn, For there no white man yet had stray'd, Where but the forest child was born.

And now, where spacious mansions stand, Where grace and culture now reside, There clasp'd the Indian brave the hand Of his own war-won forest bride.

Where once the painted warrior wrote His thoughts in rudely pictur'd signs, A cultur'd language now we quote, And write and print, in graceful lines.

Where once the hieroglyphic bark Told when the warlike bow should twang, The torch of light with glowing spark, Is held aloft by faithful Strang.

But there is yet another flame, With pure and holy light to shed; And all revere that honor'd name, And all respect that rev'rend head.

That hoary head, which, from the place Where mild religion's beams doth play, Hath warn'd, implor'd our fallen race, And pray'd, while years have pass'd away.

Beneficent and kind old man, Accept our humble tributes now, And when is run thine earthly span, May fadeless wreathes entwine thy brow.

* * * * *

VERSES WRITTEN IN AUTOGRAPH ALBUMS.

TO MISS ——

Youth is the time when all is bright; The mind is free from care; No thoughts of aught, save present joys, Can find an entrance there.

And, if a thought of future years Steal o'er the careless mind, That thought speaks of a happier time When years are left behind.

But when the years of youth have fled, And life is fill'd with pain, We think full oft of vanish'd years, And wish them back again.

And oft this wish will soothe our pain, And oft allay our woe, Oh, sweet to us is mem'ry then, When we think of long ago.

May thou live on till youth has pass'd, And feel but little pain, And may thou, in a blest old age, Live o'er your youth again.

TO A FRIEND.

With kindly thoughts full oft we've met, And bow'd at Friendship's sacred shrine; Oh, may we ne'er those thoughts forget, But may they still our hearts entwine.

May both retain those feelings long, Which prompt the words of friendly tongue, May I not fail to think of thee, Nor you to think of T. F. Young.

TO MISS ——

My friend of days, but not of years, With kindly heart these lines I trace, To tell you of a kindly wish, Which I upon this page would place.

It is that thou thro' future years May meet with very much of joy, And just a little grief, because Continued happiness will cloy.

And when, in future years, you read What I to you just now have sung, Let others praise or blame, do thou Think pleasantly of T. F. Young.

TO ——

These lines, which on this leaf I write, I trace with friendly thoughts of thee, And hope, when o'er this page you glance, You'll think a kindly thought of me.

And why should I this tribute ask? Why crave from you this humble boon? Because I knew you through life's morn, And hope to know you in its noon.

Because the path of life we trod, With youthful hearts so free from pain, When both together went to school, And wander'd gaily home again.

This, then, is why I ask of you, As on this little page you look, To think of me, with other friends, Whose names are written in your book.

TO A FRIEND.

In years to come, when looking o'er These lines I've penn'd for thee, I trust that thou shalt ne'er have cause To think unkind of me.

And if you have, let memory Try hard to blunt the dart, And tho' I may deserve the blame, Let kindness soothe the smart.

TO A FRIEND.

The youthful joys of vanish'd years, The joys e'en now we share, Have something of a sacred bliss, Which time can not impair.

For when the years of youth have gone, Its joys and hopes have flown, The mem'ry clings with fond embrace— Those joys are still our own.

Then, as I write these words for you,— This earnest wish I pen: That you may think but pleasant thoughts— When life's liv'd o'er again.

May nought of sorrow, or of woe, Invade to wound or pain, And may the joys that we have shar'd Be bright in mem'ry's train.

TO MISS ——

In tracing here these lines, my friend, Which spring from friendly heart, I here record an earnest wish, For thee, before we part:

May health and happiness serene, Long, long with thee abide, May youthful joys no sorrow bring, Nor future woes betide.

And when thy youthful beauty leaves, And youthful thoughts thy breast, May thou in calm old age still live, In happiness and rest.

TO A LITTLE GIRL.

Go, little girl, your course pursue, On life's rough ocean safely glide, May want nor woe e'er visit you, Nor any other ills betide.

Improve the shining hours of youth, For soon, alas, they will be gone, Strive hard for learning, zeal and truth, For ev'ry soul must fight alone.

TO A FRIEND.

Within this little book of thine, Are thoughts of many a friendly mind, Express'd in words, on which you'll gaze In after years, with feelings kind.

And while you're scanning o'er each page, These lines I write, perchance you'll see, And tho' they're penn'd by careless hand, You'll know that they are penn'd by me.

Perhaps you'll think of school-days then, Of happy school-days, long since past, When you and I, in careless youth, Thought that those days would always last.

TO MASTER GEORGE TWIDDY.

G o on your way, my youthful friend, E arth's joys and woes to feel, O 'er rough and smooth, your course will tend, R ight on, thro' woe and weal, G ird up yourself then, for the fight, E ach foe to meet without affright.

T hink not too much of joy or woe, W hich one and all must meet, I n duty's path still onward go, D ark days and bright to greet, D etermin'd still to do your best, Y our work, be sure, will then be blest.

TO MISS ——

The fairest flowers often fade, And die, alas! too soon, Ere half their life is sped, they droop, And wither in their bloom.

But may thy life thro' future years, In healthful beauty shine, And when you think of other days, Think of this wish of mine.

TO MISS MILLY SCOTT.

Memories of happy school-days, In which we view the years gone by, Long they last, and long they cheer us— Live well the moments as they fly, Your youth is passing swiftly by.

See, then, Milly, that your school-days Can no mem'ries sad retain. Onward! upward! be your motto, Try and try, and try again, The future will reward the pain.

THOMAS MOORE.

The land of poetry and mirth, Of orators and statesmen, too, To one more genial, ne'er gave birth, Than when, gay Moore, it brought forth you.

The land of Goldsmith, Wolfe and Burke, May well, with gladness, sound thy name, And honor thee, whose life and work Produc'd a bright and joyous flame.

Thy lively genius, sparkling, free, Emitted rays, which sparkle yet, And gladden hearts across the sea, When tears of pain their eyelids wet.

Mild Goldsmith sang with taste, and well, And so did Wolfe, his plaintive ode, But thou, alone, possess'd the spell, That served to ease thy country's load.

O'Connell work'd with wondrous skill, With silv'ry tongue, and prudent head, With patriotic heart and will, To ease Oppression's crushing tread.

He did remove th' oppressor's weight, Or made it rest more lightly there, But still there crowded in the gate The ills of life we all must share.

Great Burke, with comprehensive mind, Pour'd forth his thoughts, too lofty far, To glad his humble, simple kind, Who could not reach the lowest bar.

But thou brought forth thy tuneful lyre, And swept it with a skilful hand, And hearts, with joy and hope afire, Arose to bless thee, thro' the land.

Thy songs of love, religion, fame, Resounded from each hill and dale, And fann'd the patriotic flame, In beautiful Avoca's vale.

They reach'd us here, we have them now, And treasure them, both rich and poor; And here's a green wreath for thy brow, Of Irish shamrocks, Thomas Moore.

In fadeless verdure may it stay, And long thy gifted head entwine, For time will mark full many a day, Till head and heart shall live, like thine.

ROBERT BURNS.

One hundred years have come and gone, Since thy brave spirit came to earth, Since Scotland saw thy genius dawn, And had the joy to give thee birth.

There was no proud and brilliant throng, To celebrate thine advent here, And but the humble heard the song, Which first proclaim'd a poet near.

But genius will assert its right To speak a word, or chant a lay, And thou, with independent might, Asserted it from day to day.

No fawning, sycophantic whine, Marr'd the clear note thy spirit blew, Thy stirring words, thy gift divine, Were to thyself and country true.

Tho' heir to naught of wealth, or land, Thy soaring mind, with fancy fir'd, Saw, in Creation's lavish hand, The gifts display'd, thy soul desir'd.

The field, the forest and the hill Supplied thee with exhaustless wealth, The singing birds, and flowing rill, Unto thy soul gave food and health.

An honest man thou lov'd, and thou Wert honest to thy bosom's core, As harden'd hand, and sweated brow, A true, tho' silent witness bore.

No empty theorizer, thou, Thy words said what thyself would do, Thou ne'er would make thy spirit bow, That worldly honors might accrue.

Torn by temptations, strange and wild— Hard-hearted critics laugh to scorn The fate of the "poetic child," In rugged, bonnie Scotland born.

But let them laugh, they laugh in vain. For they, or we, who know in part, Can never gauge the mighty strain, That burst the genial poet's heart.

It is enough for us to know The songs he sang for Scotland's sake, Which winds of time can never blow Into oblivion's silent lake.

O Burns! thy life was sad, we know, Thy sensitive and fertile mind Had to withstand full many a blow, Dealt by the ignorant and blind.

But let us do thee justice here, Tho' distant from thy native shore, For all thy faults repress the sneer, And thy great qualities explore.

In Canada, where all are free, And none can e'er be call'd a slave, Let Scotia's sons remember thee, And weave a garland for thy grave.

In fancy, let them grace thy brows With wreathes of fadeless asphodel, And let them yearly plight their vows Unto the bard they love so well.

BYRON.

While genius endows the sons of men With eloquence, or with poetic pen, It leaves them still the frailties of our frame, It does not curb, but fans th' unrighteous flame. It gives a wider, nobler range of thought, But such advantage, oft, is dearly bought. Man's lower nature troubles scarce the low, But, like a fiend, at natures high doth go. Of such a nature, now, these lines shall tell, Who wrote full many a line, and wrote them well. Byron, the noble, sensitive and high, Whose bosom hath not heav'd for thee a sigh? Whose breast hath not full often given room To mournful thoughts, for thy untimely doom? Thy genius soar'd to regions bright and fair, And thou, such times, were with thy genius there. And then thy lofty mind, 'neath passion's sway, Left its high throne, and wander'd far astray. 'Twas strange and sad, that one so richly bless'd, Should find within the world, so much unrest; But we can in thy life and nature see The means, to some extent, that fell'd the tree. Thy shining youth, men much too freely prais'd, And then the cry of blame, too loudly rais'd. The fickle crowd, thy person loudly curs'd, And then thou fled, and dar'd them do their worst. Unfortunate in love, thy youthful heart Was pain'd, and likewise with the burning smart Thy vanity receiv'd from critic's pen, Which often makes sarcastic, stronger men. 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 noble 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 class 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 brass 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 grass 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 grass 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 hell, With words alone, convincing, warm; Thy deeds were like the fatal shell, 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 shore, 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.

The chilly days of March are here, The raw, cold winds are blowing; All nature now, is bleak and drear, But piercing winds and frosts are going.

But frosts nor snows, nor biting blast, Can chill the warmth within each heart, When comes around the day at last, To sainted mem'ry set apart.

For many centuries thy name, St. Patrick, has been warmly bless'd, And many more thy righteous fame Shall animate each Christian breast.

Each Christian, and each patriot, too, Shall celebrate for years, the day, And show the world that they are true To virtuous worth, long pass'd away.

Oh, Ireland! for many years Unhappy thou hast been, and sore, But long, we're thankful thro' our tears, Sweet songs have sounded from thy shore.

While other lands in bitter strife Fought wildly for kingship or gold, The words of peace, the way of life, Within fair Ireland were told.

The Druid priests their rites forbore, And listen'd to the words that fell From Patrick's pious lips, as o'er The land he told his story well.

His lips told of the way of life; His self-denying actions, too, Enforc'd the truth, where all was rife With wrongful rites of darken'd hue.

The people listen'd to his voice, And learn'd to love the faith he taught; When fruits arose in after years, They bless'd the name of him who wrought.

Who wrought successfully to place Religion's fight within the land— A benefit to all his race, At home, or on a foreign strand.

Religion's flight shone clear and bright, And then the lesser lights appear'd; Learning arose with quiet might, And simple minds it rais'd and cheer'd.

Old Tara's heathen temple rung With sounds, whose waves are rolling yet, From which unmeasur'd good has sprung, Which grateful hearts will not forget.

The triple leaf—St. Patrick's flow'r— Long may it grow, long may it bear Those symbols of the mighty Pow'r, That rules the sea, the earth, the air.

The Shamrock! may our hearts entwine, And meet in one, as it, tho' three; And may your patron Saint, and mine, Our patron saint forever be.



THE END.