Long since forgotten—here they rest, Sons of a distant land,— The epochs of their short career Mere footprints on life's sand; But this stone will tell through many a year, They died on our shores, and they slumber here.



LOOKING FORWARD.

How busily those little fingers soft That within mine own are clasped so oft Have been, throughout this bright summer day, With pebbles and shells and leaves at play. They have sought birds' nests, plucked many a flower, Have decked with mosses the garden bower, Built tiny boats, without helm to steer, Yet floated them safe o'er the lakelet clear.

Ah! a time will come, and that ere long, When those soft hands will grow firm and strong; When they'll fling all boyish toys aside In the dawning strength of manhood's pride; Disdaining the prizes, the treasures gay, That they seize with such eager haste to-day; And parting with youth's joys, hopes and fears, Seek to grasp the aims of manhood's years.

Be it, then, thy care, my gentle boy, That new-born strength to well employ; Thine hand to raise in defence of right, To protect the weak 'gainst unjust might; Or in steadfast toil to spend its power, That toil—our birthright, our earthly dower— A God-given law from which none are free, Whether of lofty or low degree.

And that childish voice, so sweet and clear, That like music falls on my charmed ear, Waking the echoes with laugh and song, 'Mid wood and field through the hours long; Mocking the warbling bird in yon tree, Or lisping thy prayers beside my knee, When thy voice shall thrill with a deeper tone, Say, how wilt thou use it, my child, my own?

To defend the cause of each sacred truth Thou hast learned to prize in thy early youth, In kindly word to the sad, the poor, To those whose cross is hard to endure; Wilt thou raise it in telling thy Maker's praise, In winning souls to His love and ways? But never in proud or unholy strife, Or in words with wrong to a brother rife.

And thy guileless heart whose truth, my boy, Is to me a source of the purest joy, In whose sinless depths I can plainly see, That as yet from all thought of ill 'tis free; When manhood's down shall have clothed thy cheek, When pleasure shall tempt and passion speak, When beset by snares that have others beguiled, Ah! what wilt thou do with thy heart, my child?

Guard it as treasure of price untold, In value beyond earth's gems and gold, Guard it from breath, from shadow, of sin— No tempter must foothold gain therein. Let love of thy God and love of thy kind, Like tendrils around it closely wind; Blending those feelings of purest worth With love for Canada, land of thy birth.

If my prayer be answered, with tranquil breast I shall go content to my final rest, When death's icy finger has touched the brow That bends above thee so fondly now: Till then, I will daily ask of Heaven That, in manhood, it may to thee be given To devote thy voice, thy heart and thy hand, To God, thy kind, and thy native land.



THE HURON CHIEF'S DAUGHTER.

The dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre, The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their vengeful ire. It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude, To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood.

Yet 'mid those guilt-stained men could any vile enough be found To harm the victim who there stood, in helpless thraldom bound? A girl of slight and fragile form, of gentle child-like grace, Though woman's earnest thoughtfulness beamed in that sweet young face.

Oh! lovely was that winsome child of a dark and rugged line, And e'en mid Europe's daughters fair, surpassing might she shine: For ne'er had coral lips been wreathed by brighter, sunnier smile, Or dark eyes beamed with lustrous light, more full of winsome wile.

With glowing cheek and curving lip, she stood, in silent pride, A queen in simple majesty, though captive bound and tied, Nor could that sight of death, though fit to turn a strong heart weak, Chase back the deep scorn from her brow, the color from her cheek.

And, yet, it was not wonderful, that haughty, high-born grace, She stood amid her direst foes, a Princess of her race; Knowing they'd met to wreak on her their hatred 'gainst her name, To doom her to a fearful death, to pangs of fire and flame.

But, mindful of the teachings stern of childhood's early years, She had firmly vowed no plaints of hers, or womanish weak tears Would glad her foes but, as became her rank and lineage high, That she would, like a Huron maid, nobly and bravely die.

One moment,—then her proud glance fled, her form she humbly bowed, A softened light stole o'er her brow, she prayed to heaven aloud: "Hear me, Thou Great and Glorious One, Protector of my race, Whom, in the far-off Spirit land, I'll soon see face to face!

"Pour down Thy blessings on my tribe, may they triumphant rise Above the guileful Iroquois—Thine and our enemies; And give me strength to bear each pang with courage high and free, That, dying thus, I may be fit to reign, oh God! with Thee."

Her prayer was ended, and again, like crowned and sceptred Queen, She wore anew her lofty smile, her high and royal mien, E'en though the Chief the signal gave, and quick two warriors dire, Sprang forth to lead the dauntless girl to the lit funeral pyre.

Back, with an eye of flashing scorn, recoiled she from their grasp, "Nay, touch me not, I'd rather meet the coil of poisoned asp! My aged sire, and all my tribe will learn with honest pride That, as befits a Huron's child, their chieftain's daughter died!"

She dashed aside her tresses dark with bright and fearless smile, And like a fawn she bounded on the fearful funeral pile; And even while those blood-stained men fulfilled their cruel part They praised that maiden's courage rare, her high and dauntless heart.



AN AUTUMN EVENING AT MURRAY BAY.

Darkly falls the autumn twilight, rustles by the crisp leaf sere, Sadly wail the lonely night-winds, sweeping sea-ward, chill and drear, Sullen dash the restless waters 'gainst a bleak and rock-bound shore, While the sea-birds' weird voices mingle with their surging roar.

Vainly seeks the eye a flow'ret 'mid the desolation drear, Or a spray of pleasant verdure which the gloomy scene might cheer; Nought but frowning crags and boulders, and long sea-weeds, ghastly, dank, With the mosses and pale lichens, to the wet rocks clinging rank.

See, the fog clouds thickly rolling o'er the landscape far and wide, Till the tall cliffs look like phantoms, seeking 'mid their shrouds to hide; On they come, the misty masses of the wreathing vapour white, Filling hill and mead and valley, blotting earth and heaven from sight.

Silent, mournful, am I standing, gazing from the window pane, Dimmed and blurred with heavy plashes of the fast descending rain, While thoughts chiming with the hour my weary brain are passing through, Till the shadows of the evening on my brow are mirrored too.

Rise, although uncalled, within me, memories of the distant past, Of the dreams, the hopes, the fancies, that round life sweet sunshine cast; Whilst the moan of winds and waters, with a strange, mysterious art, Seem to awaken drear forebodings in the listening gazer's heart.

Ah! it needs yon pleasant tapers with enlivening, home-like ray, And the sound of voices sharing, each in turn, in converse gay, And the flash of fire-light, making happy faces still more glad, To dispel the mournful thoughts that make the evening hour so sad.

Turning from this lonely musing, wilful nursing of dark care, I will join the joyous circle of the dear ones gathered there, Who with smiles will greet my advent, and in that delightful room Shake aside the dreary shadows of this scene of autumn gloom.



SISTER M. B.'S ARRIVAL IN MONTREAL, 1654.

It is now two hundred years and more Since first set foot on Canadian shore That saint-like heroine, fair and pure, Prepared all things for Christ to endure; Resigning rank and kindred ties, And her sunny home 'neath France's skies.

A lonely sight for her to see Was the wilderness town of Ville Marie! The proud St. Lawrence, with silver foam, Touched softly the base of our island home, But frowning forest and tangled wood Made the land a dreary solitude.

Nor mansion, chapel, nor glinting spire Reflected the sunset's fading fire; The wigwam sent up its faint blue smoke, The owlet's shrill cry the stillness broke, While the small rude huts of the settlers stood Within frail palisades of wood.

Undaunted by fear of the savage foe, Wild midnight blaze or th'assassin's blow; Careless of suffering, famine, want, That haunted the settlers like spectres gaunt, Sister Bourgeois had but one hope, one aim— To humbly work in her Master's name.

Kindly she gathered around her knee The dusky daughters, unfettered, free, Of forest tribes, and, with woman's art, Ennobling, softening each youthful heart, Fashioned them into true womanhood, Slow unto evil but prompt to good.

And their pale-face sisters had full share In this gentle teacher's tender care; And grew up, holding as holy and dear The sacred duties of woman's sphere; Adding the firmness and courage high— Chief need of our sex in days gone by.

Sister Bourgeois' daughters have nobly all Responded unto her gracious call; Through sunshine and joy, through storm and pain— In one unfailing, unbroken chain Of teachers devoted—nought left undone To fulfil the task by their foundress begun.



A TOUCHING CEREMONY.

The following verses were suggested by a touching ceremony which lately took place in the chapel of the Congregation Convent, Notre Dame, Montreal, the beloved Institution in which the happy days of my girlhood were passed. The ceremony in question was the renewal of her vows by the Venerable Mother Superior, just fifty years from the date of her first profession, which was made at the early age of fifteen. In the world, in the few rare instances in which both bride and bridegroom live to witness the fiftieth anniversary of their union, the "golden wedding," as it is usually called, is generally celebrated with great pomp and rejoicing; tis but just, then, that in religion, the faithful spouses of the Saviour should welcome with equal satisfaction the anniversary of the epoch which witnessed the mystical union contracted with their Heavenly Bridegroom.

Montreal, Sept. 28, 1859.

On a golden autumn morning, Just fifty years ago, When harvests ripe lay smiling In the sunshine's yellow glow, A pious group was standing Round the lighted altar's flame In the humble convent chapel Of the Nuns of Notre Dame.

A girl of fifteen summers, With gentle, serious air, In novice garb of purple, Was humbly kneeling there; Uttering the vows so binding Whose magic power sufficed To make that child-like maiden The well-loved Bride of Christ.

No troubled, anxious shadow O'er-clouded that young brow, As with look and voice unfaltering She breathed her solemn vow: No regretful glances cast she On the pomps that she had spurned, Nor the dream of love and pleasure From which she had coldly turned.

* * * * *

Fifty years of joy and sorrow Since that day have o'er her flown— Years of words and deeds of mercy, Living but for God alone— And again a group is standing, By this holy scene enticed, To renew the golden bridal Of this faithful spouse of Christ.

True, her brow has lost the smoothness And her cheek the fresh young glow That adorned them on that autumn Morning—fifty years ago; But, oh! think not that her Bridegroom Loves her anything the less; He sees but the inward beauty And the spirit's loveliness.

Cloister honors long have fallen Ceaseless, constant, to her lot, But, like cloister honors falling, Unto one who sought them not; Daughter meek of the great Foundress Of thy honored house and name, Worthy art thou to be Abbess Of the nuns of Notre Dame!



ON THE DEATH OF THE SAME REVEREND NUN, THE VENERABLE MOTHER ST. MADELEINE, TEN YEARS LATER.

In Memoriam.

Grief reigns now within the convent walls, And sadly float through its silent halls The notes of a requiem—solemn, clear, Falling like wail on each listening ear, And with tearful eyes and features pale, With low bowed head and close drawn veil, To the convent church, round a bier to kneel, The daughters of Marguerite Bourgeoys steal.

Scant is the mourning pomp displayed, Nor plumes nor hangings of gloomy shade, But rev'rend prelates and priests are there, With crowds of mourners joining in prayer; Each sister's heart is filled with grief, To which faith alone can bring relief, Deploring the loss of that sainted nun, Friend, mother and abbess, all in one.

Yet why should sorrow fill thus each breast? That well loved one has entered her rest, To live in eternal, cloudless light, To live in our memories, blessed and bright; Her chair may be vacant—her place unfilled— But her mission high was all fulfilled. And the thought of how well she did her part Will ever dwell in each sister's heart.

Sixty-one years passed in convent home, Amassing wealth for a world to come, Sixty-one years of constant prayer, Of cloister duties fulfilled with care, Of gentle aid to each sister dear, Kind tender counsel—sympathy's tear, Of high commune with her Maker, known Perchance to herself and to God alone.

Sixty-one years, oh! think of it well, Since first she entered the convent cell! On her cheek youth's soft and roseate dyes, Its radiant light in her cloudless eyes, Turning from earth's alluring wiles, From worldly promptings, from pleasure's smiles, From love's soft pleading look and tone, To give herself unto God alone.

Since then she has witnessed many a change, In the world around her, startling, strange; Her much loved Order growing in strength Throughout America's breadth and length; Our young city stretching far and wide, Till it reaches Mount Royal's verdant side, Where, fair as an Eden, through leafy screen, Villa Maria is dimly seen.

Timeworn foreheads and brows of snow Has the one we mourn seen in dust laid low; Fair girlish novice and nun professed, Quietly gathered to earth's dark breast; But with thoughts on heaven, she, through all, Patiently waited her Father's call, It came, and now she lays gladly down Her long borne cross to take up her crown.

Montreal, January, 1869.



THE RIVER SAGUENAY.

Few poets yet in praise of thee Have tuned a passing lay, Yet art thou rich in beauties stern, Thou dark browed Saguenay!

And those grand charms that surely form For earth her rarest crown On thee, with strangely lavish hand, Have all been showered down.

Thine own wild flood, so deep, so dark; That holds the gaze enthralled As if by some weird spell, at once Entranced yet not appalled;

Seeking in vain to pierce those depths, Where wave and rock have met, Those depths which, by the hand of man, Have ne'er been fathomed yet.

And then thy shores—thy rock bound shores, Where giant cliffs arise, Raising their untrod, unknown heights Defiant to the skies,

And casting from their steep, stern brows Shadows of deepest gloom Athwart thy wave, till it doth seem A passage to a tomb.

Such art thou in thy solitude, Majestic Saguenay! As lonely and as sternly rude As in time past away,

When the red man in his fragile bark Sped o'er thy glassy wave, And found amid thy forests wild His cradle, home and grave.

All, all is changed—reigns in his stead Another race and name, But, in thy lonely grandeur still, Proud River, thou'rt the same!



NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE POEMS.



RED ROCK CAMP.

A TALE OF EARLY COLORADO.

My simple story is of those times ere the magic power of steam First whirled the traveller o'er the plains with the swiftness of a dream, Reducing to a few days' time the journey of many a week, That fell of old to the miner's lot ere he "sighted" tall Pikes Peak.

'Neath liquid sunshine filling the air, 'mid masses of wild flowers gay, A prairie waggon followed the track that led o'er the plains away; And most of those 'neath its canvas roof were of lawless type and rude— Miners, broad-chested and strongly built, a reckless, gold-seeking brood.

Yet two of the number surely seemed most strangely out of place, A girl with fragile, graceful form, shy look, and beauteous face, One who had wrought out the old, old tale, left her home and friends for aye, Braved family frowns and strangers' smiles, love's promptings to obey.

And the lover husband at her side no miner rough was he, If we may believe the shapely hands as a woman's fair to see; But his tall, lithe form, so strongly knit, firm mouth and look of pride, Told of iron will, resolved to win a home for his darling bride.

Tender he was, but the plains were vast, toilsome and tedious the way, Developing soon the fever germs that within her latent lay, And daily the velvet azure eyes with a brighter lustre burned, And the hectic flush of the waxen cheek to a deeper carmine turned.

Oh! dread was the time 'neath that canvas close when she bravely fought for breath, Fire in her veins, while panting came each laboring painful breath! At length one eve she clasped his neck, with a wild and wailing cry: "O, darling, lay me on God's green earth, 'neath his sun bright clouds to die!"

Mutely the bridegroom caught her up after that touching appeal; Why refuse her prayer when on her brow was already set death's seal? To proffered help and rough words of hope, to protests whispered low, He murmured, "Leave us, go on your way! Comrades it must be so."

Then, in the eyes of those reckless men bright tears were glistening seen, For in their rugged, though willing, way most kindly had they been; No selfish fears of sickness dire had they shown by look or word, For whate'er of good dwelt within each heart that helpless girl had stirred.

They raised a tent, and from their stores they brought the very best, Whisp'ring of speedy help to come as each clammy hand they pressed. "Nay, friends," he said with a short, sharp laugh, more painful than sob to hear, "No help send back, for myself and wife must perforce both settle here."

Then he sat him down, and placed her head on his aching, throbbing breast, While the sweeping rush of the prairie winds seemed to bring relief and rest, And her dim eye watched, without a shade of regret or passing pain, The receding waggon, soon a speck on the wide and boundless plain.

"O Will! on your true and tender heart, happy and calm I die, For I know our lives, though severed here, will be joined again on high: One kiss, my husband, loving and loved, one clasp of thy strong kind hand, One farewell look in thy mournful eyes ere I pass to the Spirit Land!

"But, God! what is this?" she wildly asks with hurried, panting gasp; Her fingers have touched a weapon of death in her husband's hand close clasped: "O, surely, you would not—dare not—go uncalled to your Maker's sight?" "Wife, when passes your spirit away, mine, too, shall take its flight."

It boots not to tell of the loving prayers that welled from that true wife's heart, She sued with an angels holy power, a woman's winning art, Till that desp'rate man, with quick low sob, his weapon tossed away, And promised, till came his Maker's call, on this cheerless earth to stay.

Then sunshine lit up her wan white face and brightened her failing eyes, Enkindling upon her marble cheek the glow of the sunset skies; Closer she nestled unto his breast with a smile of childlike bliss; "Already a foretaste of yon bright Heaven is given me, Will, in this!"

A little while and the lashes drooped, unstirred by life's faint breath, Whilst the sweet smile on the perfect lips was sealed, for aye, by Death. With the second sunset he laid her in her lonely prairie grave, Then joined a passing miner's band that a friendly welcome gave.

But as time sped on, all, wond'ring, marked his silent, lonely ways, And the brooding nature, recking naught for blame, nor mirth, nor praise. At rudest tasks of the miner's toil with fevered zeal he wrought, But to its tempting golden spoils he gave nor word nor thought.

Soon want and toil and autumn rains brought fever in their train, And Red Rock Camp resounded with delirious moans of pain; And the healthy shrank from the fevered ones, with hard, unpitying eye, And, heeding but their selfish fears left the sick, unnursed, to die.

Then unto the stranger in their midst, new hope and vigor came, Enkindled swift in that nature grand by charity's ardent flame; He nursed the sick and buried the dead, by the dying watched, until The grateful miners blessed the chance that had brought them "Parson Will."

'Twas thus they named him. Health returned to the stricken camp again. One victim more the fever claimed—'twas he; nor grief nor pain Could be discerned in those patient eyes, but they shone with a radiant light As he whispered: "Joy and gladness come close after the cold dark night; A few short hours, and from life's dull chain will my weary heart be free, Then, Angel Wife, my promise kept, I go to God and thee!"



BOUND FOR CALIFORNIA.

With buoyant heart he left his home for that bright wond'rous land Where gold ore gleams in countless mines, and gold dust strews the sand; And youth's dear ties were riven all, for as wild, as vain, a dream As the meteor false that leads astray the traveller with its gleam.

Vainly his father frowned dissent, his mother, tearful, prayed, Vainly his sisters, with fond words, his purpose would have stayed; He heard them all with heedless ear, with dauntless heart and bold— Whisp'ring to soothe each yearning fear "I go to win you gold."

Restless he paced the deck until he saw the sails unfurled Of the ship which was to bear him to that new and distant world; And when his comrades stood with him and watched the lessening land, His clear laugh rose the loudest 'mid that gay gold-seekers' band.

In changing moods of grief and mirth the ocean way was passed, And all were weary, when the cry of "Land" was heard at last. Like birds escaped from thraldom long, the happy, smiling crowd Thronged to the deck with eager looks, rejoicing long and loud.

Yet one was missing 'mid that band who foremost should have been, Whose hopeful heart had cheered them oft when winds blew fierce and keen; And when dead calms or drizzling rains made the ocean way seem long Had wiled the time with lively tale, with jest, or stirring song.

But a sudden change had come o'er him, his ringing voice was hushed, The smooth young cheek grew pallid, or, at times, was deeply flushed; And now he lay in his lonely cot, a prey to sickness drear, His frame all filled with racking pain—his heart with doubt and fear.

"Oh, raise me up," he faintly breathed, "that I one glance may win Of that long looked for promised land I ne'er may enter in; Till I recall the tender words of friends, well loved of old— The friends I left without a pang, in idle search for gold."

The Exile's prayer was soon obeyed, and round his fevered brow The cool land breeze is playing, but death's damps are on it now! His spirit passed from earth away as Sol's last dying beams Lit up the golden Eldorado of all his boyish dreams.



THE GIRL MARTYR.

Upon his sculptured judgment throne the Roman Ruler sate; His glittering minions stood around in all their gorgeous state; But proud as were the noble names that flashed upon each shield— Names known in lofty council halls as well as tented field— None dared approach to break the spell of deep and silent gloom That hover'd o'er his haughty brow, like shadow of the tomb.

While still he mused the air was rent with loud and deaf'ning cry, And angry frown and darker smile proclaimed the victim nigh. No traitor to his native land, no outlaw fierce was there, 'Twas but a young and gentle girl, as opening rose bud fair, Who stood alone among those men, so dark and full of guile, And yet her cheek lost not its bloom, her lips their gentle smile.

At length he spoke, that ruthless chief, in tones both stern and dread: "Girl! listen! mark me well, or else thy blood be on thy head! Thou art accused of worshipping Jesus the Nazarene— Of scorning Rome's high, mighty Gods,—speak, say if this has been? I fain would spare thee, for thy name among our own ranks high; Thine age, thy sex, my pity move, I would not see thee die!

"If thou hast dared at foreign shrine to rashly bend the knee, Recant thine errors, and thy guilt cancelled at once shall be." Undaunted spoke she, "In His steps unworthy have I trod, And spurned the idols vain of Rome for Him, the Christian's God. I fear not death, however dread the ghastly shape he wear, He whom I serve will give me strength thy torments all to bear."

Darker than e'en the darkest cloud became her judge's brow, And stern the threats he thundered forth. "What dost thou dare avow? Retract thy words, or, by the Gods! I swear that thou shall die!" Unmoved she met his angry frown—his fierce and flashing eye: "Nay, I have spoken—hasten now, fulfil thy direful task, The martyr's bright and glorious crown is the sole boon I ask."

Fierce was the struggle raging then within her judge's breast, For she, that girl, in tones of love, he once had low addressed; And lowly as his haughty heart at earthly shrine might bow He'd loved the being, young and bright, who stood before him now. With iron might he'd nerved himself to say the words of fate, To doom to death the girl he sought—but sought in vain—to hate.

Yet now, e'en in the final hour, 'spite of his creed of crime, His ruthless heart and fierce belief, love triumphed for a time. "Irene! girl!" he wildly prayed, "brave not Rome's fearful power! Mad as thou art, she'll pardon thee, e'en in the eleventh hour; Cast but one grain of incense on yon bright and sacred fire, And outraged as thy rulers are, 'twill calm their lawful ire!"

"Bend but thy knee before the shrine where we've so often knelt, Joined in the same pure orisons—the same emotion felt; Forsake a creed whose very God with scorn was crucified—, Irene, hear me, and thou It be again my life and pride!" He pressed the censer in her hand, of which one single throw Would have restored her all the state, the bliss, that earth might know;

But she, inspired by heavenly grace, the censer dashed aside: "I've said I but believe in Him who on Mount Calvary died!" He spoke no word, her cruel judge had hurled his glittering dart; Barbed with relentless rage, it found his victim's dauntless heart. She but had time to breathe a prayer that he might be forgiven, And in that breath her spotless soul had passed from earth to heaven.



CORNELIA'S JEWELS.

Among the haughtiest of her sex, in noble, quiet pride, Cornelia stood, with mien that seemed their folly vain to chide: No jewels sparkled on her brow, so high, so purely fair, No gems were mingled 'mid her waves of dark and glossy hair; And yet was she, amidst them all, despite their dazzling mien, A woman in her gentle grace—in majesty a queen.

While some now showed their flashing gems with vain, exulting air, And others boasted of their toys, their trinkets rich and rare, And challenged her to treasures bring that shone with equal light, Proudly she glanced her dark eye o'er the store of jewels bright. "Rich as these are," she answered then, "and dazzling as they shine, They cannot for one hour compete in beauty rare with mine!

"You all seem doubtful, and a smile of scorn your features wear, Look on my gems, and say if yours are but one half as fair?" The Roman matron proudly placed her children in their sight Whose brows already bore the seal of intellectual might; She pressed them to her, whilst each trait with radiance seemed to shine, And murmur'd, "Tell me, dare you say, your jewels outshine mine?"



ST. FRANCIS OF BORGIA BY THE COFFIN OF QUEEN ISABEL.

"Open the coffin and shroud until I look on the dead again Ere we place her in Grenada's vaults, Where sleep the Monarchs of Spain; For unto King Charles must I swear That I myself have seen The regal brow of the royal corpse, Our loved, lamented Queen."

The speaker was Borgia, Gaudia's Duke, A noble and gallant knight, Whose step was welcome in courtly halls, As his sword was keen in fight. To him had his Monarch given the task Of conveying to the tomb. The Princess ravished from his arms In the pride of youthful bloom.

While they slowly raised the coffin lid, Borgia stood silent by, Recalling the beauty of the dead With low, half-uttered sigh— Longing to look on that statue fair That wanted but life's warm breath, That matchless form which he hoped to find Beautiful e'en in death.

'Tis done, and with silent, rev'rent step To the coffin draws he near, And sadly looks in its depths, where lies Spain's Queen, his sovereign dear. But what does he see? What horrors drear Are those that meet his eye, For he springs aside and shades his brow With a sharp, though stifled, cry?

Ah' youth and beauty, in spirit gaze On what that coffin holds— On the fearful object that now lies In the shroud's white ample folds: Nay, turn not away with loathing look, Lest that hideous sight you see, In a few short years from now, alas! It is what we all shall be.

Let us learn as Francis Borgia learned, By that lifeless form of clay, To despise the changing things of earth, All doomed to swift decay— Deep into his heart the lesson sank, Effacing earthly taint, And Spain's Court lost a gallant knight, While the Church gained a Saint!



ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA AT THE CHAPEL OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRAT.

'Tis midnight, and solemn darkness broods In a lonely, sacred fane— The church of Our Lady of Montserrat, So famous throughout all Spain; For countless were the pilgrim hosts Who knelt at that sacred shrine With aching hearts, that came to seek Relief and grace divine.

Pure as the light of the evening star Shines the lamp's pale, solemn ray, That burns through midnight's hush and gloom, As well as the glare of day, Like the Christian soul, enwrapped in God, Resigning each vain delight, Each earthly lure, to burn and shine With pure love in His sight.

Softly the gentle radiance falls On a mail-clad warrior there, Who humbly bows his stately head In silent, earnest prayer; It flashes back from his corslet bright, From each shining steel clad hand, And the brow which tells that he was born To pomp and high command.

Say, who is he, that vigil keeps, Like the warrior knights of old, Through the long lone hours of the silent night, Ere they donned their spurs of gold? A soldier brave and proud is he, And bears a noble name, Since Pampeluna's glorious day Won Loyola his fame.

What doth he at this lowly shrine? What mean those prayers and sighs, The tearful mist that dims the light Of his flashing, eagle eyes? They tell of life's vain pomps and pride Esteemed as worthless dross, For the dauntless soldier has become The soldier of the Cross.

That sword, that once like lightning swept Through ranks of foes hard pressed, Now hangs beside Our Lady's shrine, Henceforth in peace to rest,— And soon the penitent's rough, dark robe, His girdle and cowl of gloom, Will replace the soldier's armor bright, And his lofty, waving plume.

Well done, well done, thou warrior brave! A noble choice is thine! What are the laurels of earth beside The joys of bliss divine? And thou hast won, though seeking not, The saint's undying fame— Christ's Holy Church will evermore Revere and bless thy name!



CHARLES VII AND JOAN OF ARC AT RHEIMS.

A glorious pageant filled the church of the proud old city of Rheims, One such as poet artists choose to form their loftiest themes: There France beheld her proudest sons grouped in a glittering ring, To place the crown upon the brow of their now triumphant king.

The full, rich tones of music swelled out on the perfumed air, And chosen warriors, gaily decked, emblazoned banners bear: Jewels blazed forth, and silver bright shone armor, shield and lance, Of princes, peers, and nobles proud, the chivalry of France.

The object of these honors high, on lowly bended knee, Before the altar homage paid to the God of Victory; Whilst Renaud Chartres prayed that Heaven might blessings shower down On that young head on which he now was chosen to place a crown.

Fair was the scene, but fairer far than pomp of church or state, Than starry gems or banners proud, or trappings of the great, Was the maiden frail whose prophet glance from heaven seemed to shine, Who, in her mystic beauty, looked half mortal, half divine.

Her slight form cased in armor stern, the Maid of Orleans stood, Her place a prouder one than that of prince of royal blood: With homage deep to Heaven above, and prayers to Notre Dame, She waived above the monarch's head proud Victory's Oriflamme.

Then, as the clouds of incense rose, encircling in its fold That shining form, the kneeling king, the canopy of gold, It seemed unto the gazers there a scene of magic birth, Such as is rarely granted to the children of this earth.

Sudden a mystic sadness steals o'er Joan's features bright, Robbing her brow, her earnest eyes, of their unearthly light: A voice from Him, by whose right arm her victories had been won, Had whispered, 'bove the clank of steel, "Thy mission now is done."

Perchance the future, then, was shown to her pure spirit's gaze, The future with its sufferings, the shame, the scaffold's blaze; The deaf'ning shouts, the surging crowd, the incense, mounting high, Foreshadowed to her shrinking soul the death she was to die.

The youthful monarch now was crowned, and lowly at his feet Did France's saviour bend her form, rendering homage meet. No guerdon for past deeds of worth sought that young noble heart, She, who might all rewards have claimed, asked only to depart.

Oh! France! of all the stoned names that deck thy history's page, Thy sainted kings, thy warriors proud, thy statesmen stern and sage, None, none received the glorious light, the strange Promethean spark That Heaven vouchsafed thy spotless maid, immortal Joan of Arc!



THE FOUR WISHES.

"Father!" a youthful hero said, bending his lofty brow "On the world wide I must go forth—then bless me, bless me, now! And, ere I shall return oh say, what goal must I have won— What is the aim, the prize, that most thou wishest for thy son?"

Proudly the father gazed upon his bearing brave and high, The dauntless spirit flashing forth from his dark brilliant eye: "My son, thou art the eldest hope of a proud honored name, Then, let thy guiding star through life—thy chief pursuit—be fame!"

"'Tis well! thou'st chosen, father, well—it is a glorious part!" And the youth's glance told the wish chimed well with that brave ardent heart. "Now, brother, thou'lt have none to share thy sports till I return,— Say, what shall be the glitt'ring prize that I afar must earn?"

"The world," said the laughing boy, "on heroes poor looks cold, If thou art wise as well as brave, return with store of gold." "Perchance thou'rt right!" and now he turned to his sister young and fair, Braiding with skill a glossy tress of his own raven hair.

"'Tis now thy turn, sweet sister mine, breathe thy heart's wish to me, If I've the power, 'twill be fulfilled, ere I return to thee." The maiden blushed and whispring low, "I prize not wealth or pride, But, brother, to thy future home bring back a gentle bride."

The merry smile her words had raised fled, as with falt'ring voice, He asked of her, the best beloved, "Mother, what is thy choice?" "My son! my son!" she softly said, "hear my wish ere we part— Return as now thou goest forth, with true and guileless heart!"

* * * * *

The years sped on with rapid flight, and to his home once more The soldier came: he walked not with the buoyant step of yore; The eagle eye was sunken, dim, the curls of glossy hair Fell careless round an aching brow, once free from shade of care.

His soiled and shattered crest he laid low at his father's feet, And sadly said, "'Tis all I have—is it an off'ring meet? In battle's front I madly fought, till dead on dead were heaped, Want, weariness and pain I've borne, and yet no fame I've reaped.

"Brother, thou told'st me to return with treasures like a king; This hacked and dinted sword and shield is all the wealth I bring. Sister, I wooed a lady bright with eyes like thine, and hair,— I woke from wild and dazzling dreams to find her false as fair!

"Now, mother, unto thee I turn! say, say, wilt though repine If I tell thee that those cherished hopes have all proved vain but thine? Though folly may have swayed awhile this heart since last we met— Still, mother, at thy feet, I swear, 'tis true and stainless yet!

"No aim has ever ruled it that thou might'st not calmly see— Nor hope nor thought, dear mother, that I'd shrink to bare to thee!" "Bless thee, mine own one, for those words! thrice dearer art thou now Than if thine hands were filled with gems, and laurels twined thy brow!

"And dearer is thy still fond smile, tho' dimmed its brightness be, Than that of fairest bride to glad our home with witching glee!" With all a mother's yearning love, she strained him to her heart, And in that fond embrace he felt her's was "the better part."



THE SOLDIER'S DEATH.

The day was o'er, and in their tent the weaned victors met, In wine and social gaiety the carnage to forget. The merry laugh and sparkling jest, the pleasant tale were there— Each heart was free and gladsome then, each brow devoid of care.

Yet one was absent from the board who ever was the first In every joyous, festive scene, in every mirthful burst; He also was the first to dare each perilous command, To rush on danger—yet was he the youngest of the band.

Upon the battle-field he lay a damp and fearful grave; His right hand grasped the cherished flag—the flag he died to save; While the cold stars shone calmly down on heaps of fallen dead, And their pale light a halo cast round that fair sleeper's head.

Say, was there none o'er that young chief to shed one single tear, To sorrow o'er the end of his untimely stopt career? Yes, but alas! the boundless sea its foam and crested wave, Lay then between those beings dear and his cold, cheerless grave.

With all a mother's doting love a mother yearned for him, And watching for his quick return, a sister's eye grew dim, And, dearer still, a gentle girl, his fair affianced bride,— And yet, with all these loving ones, unfriended, had he died.

No woman's low, sweet voice was near one soothing word to say Or gentle hand from his cold brow to wipe the damps away; But yet why should we grieve for him, that hero gallant, brave? His was a soldier's glorious death, a soldier's glorious grave!



THE HUNTER AND HIS DYING STEED.

"Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day, That cost thy life, my gallant grey!"—Scott

The Hunter stooped o'er his dying steed With sad dejected mien, And softly stroked its glossy neck, Lustrous as silken sheen; With iron will and nerve of steel, And pale lips tight compressed, He kept the tears from eyes that long Were strange to such a guest.

Thou'rt dying now, my faithful one, Alas! 'tis easy known— Thy neck would arch beneath my touch, Thou'dst brighten at my tone; But turn not thus thy restless eyes Upon my saddened brow, Nor look with such imploring gaze— I cannot help thee now.

No more we'll bound o'er dew gemmed sward At break of summer morn, Or follow on, through forests green, The hunter's merry horn; No more we'll brave the rapid stream, Nor battle with the tide, Nor cross the slipp'ry mountain path, As we were wont to ride.

Oh! we have travelled many miles, And dangers have we braved; And more than once thy matchless speed Thy master's life hath saved; And many nights the forest sward Has been the couch we've pressed, Where, pillowed on thy glossy neck, Most sweet has been my rest.

How often, too, I we shared with thee The hunter's scanty fare. To see thee suffer want or pain, Mute friend I could not bear; And now, thou best in agony, As if thy heart would burst, And I, what can I do for thee, Save slake thy burning thirst?

That parting sob, that failing glance— The pains of death are past! Thy glazing eyes still turned on me With love unto the last! Well may my tears o'er thy cold form, My steed, flow fast and free, For, oh! I have had many friends, Yet none so true as thee!



THE WOOD FAIRY'S WELL.

"Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden, Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array, Where the green earth with sunshine and fragrance is laden, And birds make sweet music throughout the long day. Each step thou hast taken has been over flowers, Of forms full of beauty—of perfumes most rare, Why comest thou home, then, with footsteps so weary, No smiles on thy lip, and no buds in thy hair?"

"Ah! my walk through the wild-wood has been full of sadness, My thoughts were with him who there oft used to rove, That stranger with bright eyes and smiles full of gladness Who first taught my young heart the power of love. He had promised to come to me ere the bright summer With roses and sunshine had decked hill and lea. I, simple and trusting, believed in that promise, But summer has come, and, alas! where is he?"

"Yes, simple and trusting—ah! child, the old story! Say, when will thy sex learn that man can forget? Thy lover was highborn, and thou art but lowly, Ere this he's forgotten that ever you met; But, methought, as I watch'd thee to-day slowly treading With step full of sadness yon green shady dell, Thou didst pause by the brink of its bright crystal treasure, Say, what didst thou see in our Wood Fairy's Well?"

"No sparkles of promise for me gemmed its surface, I saw that the rose from my cheek had nigh fled, That the eyes whose light he never weaned of praising, Are dimmed by the tears that I for him have shed; And I felt as I gazed that it would be far better, E'en though I might grieve to my heart's inmost core, That he should forget than, returning to seek me, Should find me thus changed, and then love me no more."

"What! love thee no more!—say, to love thee forever! See, true to my vows, I am here by thy side, Quick to bear thee away to a fair home of splendor, To reign there its mistress, my own gentle bride!" Oh! moment of bliss to that girl heart, grief laden, The lover so mourned for, no ingrate had grown, Despite absence and change he stood there by the maiden, With faith still unshaken and true as her own.



THE WREATH OF FOREST FLOWERS.

In a fair and sunny forest glade O'erarched with chesnuts old, Through which the radiant sunbeams made A network of bright gold, A girl smiled softly to herself, And dreamed the hours away; Lulled by the sound of the murmuring brook With the summer winds at play.

Jewels gleamed not in the tresses fair That fell in shining showers, Naught decked that brow of beauty rare But a wreath of forest flowers; And the violet wore no deeper blue Than her own soft downcast eye, Whilst her bright cheek with the rose's hue In loveliness well might vie.

But she was too fair to bloom unknown By forest or valley side, And long ere two sunny years had flown, The girl was a wealthy bride— Removed to so high and proud a sphere That she well at times might deem The humble home of her childhood dear A fleeting, changeful dream.

No more her foot sought the grassy glade At the break of summer day; No more neath the chesnut spreading shade In reverie sweet she lay; But in abodes of wealth and pride, With serious, stately mien, That envy's rancorous tongue defied, She now alone was seen.

But was she happier? Who might know? Wealth, fortune, on her smiled; Yet there were some who whispered low That she, fates favored child, Oft pressed her brow with a weary hand, In gay and festive hours, And fain would change her jewell'd band For a wreath of forest flowers.



THE VILLAGE GIRL AND HER HIGH BORN SUITOR.

"O maiden, peerless, come dwell with me, And bright shall I render thy destiny: Thou shalt leave thy cot by the green hillside, To dwell in a palace home of pride, Where crowding menials, with lowly mien, Shall attend each wish of their lovely queen."

"Ah! stranger my cot by the green hillside Hath more charms for me than thy halls of pride; If the roof be lowly, the moss rose there Rich fragrance sheds on the summer air; And the birds and insects, with joyous song, Are more welcome far than a menial throng."

"Child, tell me not so! too fair art thou, With thy starry eyes and thy queenlike brow, To dwell in this spot, sequestered and lone, Thy marvelous beauty to all unknown; And that form, which might grace a throne, arrayed In the lowly garb of a peasant maid."

"Nay, a few short days since didst thou not say That I in my rustic kirtle gray In thine eyes looked lovelier fairer far Than robed in rich state as court ladies are; And the wreath of violets in my hair Pleased thee more than diamond or ruby rare."

"Beloved! if thus coldly thou turn'st aside From the tempting lures of wealth and pride, Sure thy woman's heart must some pity own For one who breathes for thy self alone, And who would brave suffering, grief and toil To win from thy rose lips one shy, sweet smile."

"Ah! enough of this—thy love may be true, But I have tried friends who love me too; And in proud homes governed by fashion's voice, Thou would'st learn to blush for thy lowly choice. Go, seek thee a noble, a high born bride, And leave me my cot by the green hillside!"



THE LADY OF RATHMORE HALL.

Throughout the country for many a mile There is not a nobler, statelier pile Than ivy crowned Rathmore Hall; And the giant oaks that shadow the wold, Though hollowed by time, are not as old As its Norman turrets tall.

Let us follow that stream of sunset red, Crimsoning the portal overhead, Stealing through curtaining lace, Where sits in a spacious and lofty room Full of gems of art—exotics in bloom— The Lady of the place.

If Rathmore Hall is with praises named, Not less is its queen-like mistress famed For wondrous beauty and grace; And as she reclines there, calmly now, The sunset flush on her ivory brow, We marvel at form and face.

Wondrously perfect, peerlessly fair, Are the mouth and the eyes and luxuriant hair, As lily she's graceful and fall; Not florid full is that lady fair But pale and high-bred, with just the air That is suited to Rathmore Hall.

Health, youth, and loveliness on her smile, Her abode that noble and ancient pile, She, surely, must happy be— (With each wish fulfilled that wealth can fulfil, For as if by magic is wrought her will) A moment wait—we shall see!

At length she moves and heavily sighs, While wearily rest her violet eyes On her jewels richly wrought; Shuddering, she turns away her gaze From flashing diamond and ruby's blaze, As she whispers, "Too dearly bought!"

Then, slowly rising, the casement nears, And looking abroad through a mist of tears Sighs: "Yes, I have earned it all: Crushed a manly heart that too truly loved, False to my. vows and to honor proved, To be Lady of Rathmore Hall.

"What are now its broad rich acres to me, Stretching out as far as my gaze can see? With loathing I turn from the scene; My womanhood wasting in wild regret O'er a past that I would, but cannot, forget; O'er a life that might have been!

"Oh! for the humble, dear home of my youth, Its loving warm hearts, its unsullied truth, Its freedom from fashion's thrall. And the blameless hopes—the bliss that was mine Ere awoke in my heart a wish to shine As Lady of Rathmore Hall!"

She stops, for, lo! in the chamber still, Loud barking of hounds and harsh accents fill The quiet and dreamy air; Swearing at menials—with lowering brow, Earl Rathmore, entering her presence now, Turns on her an angry stare.

A shudder runs through her—what does it tell? A look in her eyes that not there should dwell— She hates him—his wedded wife! Surely angels grieve in their bliss above To see, where there should be perfect love, Disunion—unholy strife.

With an oath he mutters "Still moping, eh! From hour to hour and day to-day; Not for this from thy lowly state— Enticed by the beauty I'm weary of now, And smiles that have fled from thy sullen brow— I made thee a Rathmore's mate."

With no word from her lips she to him replies, But the shadow deepens within her eyes, And she smiles in cold disdain; Yet her snowy eyelids haughty droop, And the calm, that disdains to his will to stoop, Mask an aching heart and brain.

With a muttered curse, in still harsher tone, He passes out, and thus leaves her alone In her rich and gilded gloom Ah, no wretched wife through the whole broad land Is as weary of life as that lady grand As she sits in that splendid room.

If a daughter's soft arms should ever twine, Lady Rathmore, round that white neck of thine, Teach her not to barter all The guileless love of her innocent youth, Her premised vows and maidenly truth, For another Rathmore Hall.



THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ARNO.

'Tis no wild and wond'rous legend, but a simple pious tale Of a gentle shepherd maiden, dwelling in Italian vale, Near where Arno's glittering waters like the sunbeams flash and play As they mirror back the vineyards through which they take their way.

She was in the rosy dawning of girlhood fair and bright, And, like morning's smiles and blushes, was she lovely to the sight; Soft cheeks like sea-shells tinted and radiant hazel eyes; But on changing earthly lover were not lavished smiles or sighs.

Still, that gentle heart was swelling with a love unbounded, true, Such as worldly breast, earth harden'd, passion-wearied, never knew; And each day she sought the chapel of Our Lady in the dell, There to seek an hour's communing with the Friend she loved so well.

Often, too, she brought a garland of wild flowers, fragrant, fair, Which she culled whilst onward leading her flock with patient care; The diamond dew-drops clinging to every petal sweet,— For the mystic Rose of Heaven was it not a tribute meet?

The white statue of the Virgin boasted neither crown nor gem; On its head she placed her chaplet instead of diadem, Murm'ring, "O, my gentle Mother, would that it were in my power To give Thee pearl or diamond instead of simple flower!"

But for earth she was too winsome, that fair child of faith and love, One of those whom God culls early for His gardens bright above; And the hand of sickness touched her till she faded day by day, And to Our Lady's chapel she came no more to pray.

One evening, in the valley, after journeying many a mile, Two pious men in holy garb lay down to rest a while, And in sleep to both a vision of most wond'rous beauty came, Such as only visit souls which burn with heav'nly love's pure flame.

Amid clouds of golden brightness they saw to earth float down A band of fair young virgins, wearing each a glittering crown; And surpassing them in beauty, as the day outshines the night, Was high Heaven's regal Mistress—Our Lady, fair and bright.

Then the pious brothers knew at once that she was on her way To see a dying maiden, and her love through life repay; And when, from slumber waking, they told their vision true, They said: "Let us go visit this child of Mary, too!"

High instinct lent by Heaven guided on their feet aright, And in silence grave they journeyed till a cottage came in sight; 'Neath its humble porch they entered, with bow'd and reverent head, And found themselves in presence of the peaceful, holy dead.

Oh! most fair the sight! No maiden with bridal wreath on brow Ever looked one half so lovely as the one they gazed on now; As a lily, fair and spotless, bright and pure each feature shone, Bearing impress of that Heaven to which Mary's child had gone.



THE TWO BIRTH NIGHTS.

Bright glittering lights are gleaming in yonder mansion proud, And within its walls are gathered a gemmed and jewelled crowd; Robes of airy gauze and satin, diamonds and rubies bright, Rich festoons of glowing flowers—truly 'tis a wondrous sight.

Time and care and gold were lavished that it might be, every way, The success of all the season—brilliant fashionable gay. 'Tis the birth night of the heiress of this splendor wealth and state, The sole child, the only darling, of a household of the great.

Now the strains of the fast galop on the perfumed air arise, Rosy cheeks are turning carmine, brighter grow the brightest eyes, As the whirling crowds of dancers pass again and yet again— Girls coquettish, silly women, vapid and unmeaning men.

'Tis a scene to fill the thoughtful with a silent, vague dismay, And from its unholy magic we are fain to steal away; Out here in the quiet moonlight we may pause awhile and rest, Whilst the solemn stars of heaven bring back peace unto our breast.

Soft! who is the fair young being—she who nightly joins us now, In a robe of airy lightness, and with jewels on her brow, Fair as the most fair ideal dreaming poet e'er inspired, Or as lover, charmed by beauty, ever worshipped and admired.

Strange! what means that look so weary, that long-drawn and painful sigh; And that gaze, intense and yearning, fixed upon the starlit sky? Is she not the child of fortune, fortune's pet and darling bright, Yes, the beauteous, courted heiress—heroine of the gala night?

From the crowds of ardent lovers, who would beset her way, Sickened by their whispered flatt'ries, she has coldly turned away; And, as now the thrilling music falls upon her wearied ear, She cannot resist a shudder, caused by mingled hate and fear.

"This is pleasure, then," she murmurs; this is what the world calls bliss, Oh! for objects less unworthy, for a holier life than this! I am weary of its folly. O, Great Father, grant my boon: "From its sinful, silken meshes, I pray Thee, free me soon!"

Did He answer? Now another year has passed with rapid flight,— O'er the crowded, silent city broods the spirit of the night; In the sick wards of the convent, fever-stricken, gasping, lies, One with death's damps on his brow, and its film o'er his eyes.

There beside him kneels a Sister, in coarse dusky robe and veil, And with gentle care she moistens those poor lips so dry and pale; Now she whispers hope and courage, now she tells of Heaven bright— Thus it is the gentle heiress celebrates her next birth-night.

Not a trace of weary languor rests upon that ivory brow, No vague sigh of restless yearning e'er escapes her bosom now; Yet more fair and happy looks she, in that simple garb I ween, Than when, robed in lace and jewels, she was called a ballroom's queen.



THE YOUNG GREEK ODALISQUE.

'Mid silken cushions, richly wrought, a young Greek girl reclined, And fairer form the harem's walls had ne'er before enshrined; 'Mid all the young and lovely ones who round her clustered there, With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, she shone supremely fair.

'Tis true that orbs as dark as hers in melting softness shone, And lips whose coral hue might vie in brightness with her own; And forms as light as ever might in Moslem's heaven be found, So full of beauty's witching grace, were lightly hovering round.

Yet, oh, how paled their brilliant charms before that beauteous one Who, 'mid their gay mirth, silent sat, from all apart—alone, Outshining all, not by the spells of lovely face or form, But by the soul that shone through all, her peerless, priceless charm.

But, say, what were the visions sweet that filled that gentle heart? Surely to Azof, her liege lord, was given the greatest part,— To him who prized her smiles beyond the power his sceptre gave, And, mighty sultan though he was, to her was as a slave.

No, not of crowned heads thought she then, of hall or gilded dome, But of fair Greece, that classic land, her loved, her early home. She yearns to see again its skies, proud temples, woodland flowers, Less bright, but dearer far, than those that bloom in harem bowers.

She glanced upon the jewels rich that gemmed her shining hair, And wreathed her sculptured, snowy arms, her neck and brow so fair. Their lustre softened not the pangs that filled that lonely hour, More happy was she when her braids were decked with simple flower.

But, Azof, did not thought of him some passing joy impart; Did not the memory of his love bring gladness to her heart? Alas, that long and heavy sigh, the glitt'ring tear that fell From 'neath her dark and drooping lids, told more than words could tell.

Awhile she weeps, and then a change steals o'er her mournful dream, Her gloomy thoughts are chased away, and all things brighter seem, A timid and yet blissful smile lights up her beauteous brow, Her soft cheek crimsons, but, oh' not of Azof thinks she now.

Perchance of some gallant Greek she knew in life's young hour, Some childish love as guileless as her love for bird or flower, But which, looked back on through the mist of absence or of time, Seemed sad and sweet as are the words—of some old childish rhyme.

Could he, her royal lover, now but look into her heart, And read its depths, how sharp the pang that knowledge would impart, But no, secure in certain bliss, he deems her all his own, And prides himself that girlish heart loves him and him alone.

The sadness which might have awaked suspicion or mistrust, Was of the spells she swayed him by, the dearest and the first,— He deemed it but the token of a timid gentle heart, That ever kept from needless show or noisy mirth apart.

He knew not that the voice which now sang but some mournful lay Breathed once the soul of joyousness, was gayest of the gay, That the soft laugh whose magic power his very heart strings stirred, Though now so rare, in girlhood's home had oftentimes been heard!

Th' averted head, the timid look the half unwilling ear, With which she met his vows of love, he deemed but girlish fear, Nor ever dreamed that she whom all considered as thrice blessed, Whose life was like a summer day loved, honored and caressed;

Who held, a captive to her charms, a most accomplished knight And monarch brave that ever yet had bowed to woman's might Was but a poor and joyless slave, compelled to wear a smile And act a part for which she loathed her wretched self the while.

But, like some fair exotic brought unto a foreign strand, She lost her bloom and pined to see once more her native land, And only when from earthly scenes death summoned her to part A blissful smile played round her lips, and peace was in her heart.



LYRICAL POEMS.



THE EMIGRANT'S ADDRESS TO AMERICA.

All hail to thee, noble and generous Land! With thy prairies boundless and wide, Thy mountains that tower like sentinels grand, Thy lakes and thy rivers of pride!

Thy forests that hide in their dim haunted shades New flowers of loveliness rare— Thy fairy like dells and thy bright golden glades, Thy warm skies as Italy's fair.

Here Plenty has lovingly smiled on the soil, And 'neath her sweet, merciful reign The brave and long suff'ring children of toil Need labor no longer in vain.

I ask of thee shelter from lawless harm, Food—raiment—and promise thee now, In return, the toil of a stalwart arm, And the sweat of an honest brow.

But think not, I pray, that this heart is bereft Of fond recollections of home; That I e'er can forget the dear land I have left In the new one to which I have come.

Oh no! far away in my own sunny isle Is a spot my affection worth, And though dear are the scenes that around me now smile, More dear is the place of my birth!

There hedges of hawthorn scent the sweet air, And, thick as the stars of the night, The daisy and primrose, with flow'rets as fair, Gem that soil of soft verdurous light.

And there points the spire of my own village church, That long has braved time's iron power, With its bright glitt'ring cross and ivy wreathed porch— Sure refuge in sorrow's dark hour!

Whilst memory lasts think not e'er from this breast Can pass the fond thoughts of my home: No! I ne'er can forget the land I have left In the new one to which I have come!



FAR WEST EMIGRANT.

I.

Mine eye is weary of the plains Of verdure vast and wide That stretch around me—lovely, calm, From morn till even-tide; And I recall with aching heart My childhood's village home; Its cottage roofs and garden plots, Its brooks of silver foam.

II.

True glowing verdure smiles around, And this rich virgin soil Gives stores of wealth in quick return For hours of careless toil; But oh! the reaper's joyous song Ne'er mounts to Heaven's dome, For unknown is the mirth and joy Of the merry "Harvest Home."

III.

The solemn trackless woods are fair, And bright their summer dress; But their still hush—their whisprings vague, My heart seem to oppress; And 'neath their shadow could I sit, And think the livelong day On my country's fields and hedges green, Gemmed with sweet hawthorn spray.

IV.

The graceful vines and strange bright flow'rs, I meet in every spot, I'd give up for a daisy meek, A blue forget-me-not; And from the brilliant birds I turn, Warbling the trees among; I know them not—and breathe a sigh For lark or linnet's song.

V.

But useless now those vain regrets! My course must finish here; In dreams alone I now can see Again my home so dear, Or those fond loving friends who clung Weeping unto my breast; And bade "God speed me" when I left, To seek the far, far West.



A WELCOME TO THE MONTH OF MARY.

Oh! gladly do we welcome thee, Fair pleasant month of May; Month which we've eager longed to see, Through many a wintry day: And now with countless budding flowers, With sunshine bright and clear— To gild the quickly fleeting hours— At length, sweet month, thou'rt here!

But, yet, we do not welcome thee Because thy genial breath Hath power our sleeping land to free From winter's clasp of death; Nor yet because fair flowers are springing Beneath thy genial ray; And thousand happy birds are singing All welcome to thee, May!

No, higher, nobler cause have we These bright days to rejoice— 'Twas God ordained that thou should'st be The loved month of our choice: It is because thou hast been given To honor her alone, The ever gentle Queen of Heaven— The mother of God's son.

The blossoms that we joyous cull By bank or silver stream; The fragrant hawthorn boughs we pull, Most sacred too, we deem: For not amid our tresses we Their op'ning buds will twine, But garlands fair we'll weave with care For Mary's lowly shrine.

And when the twilight shades descend On earth, so hushed and still, And the lone night bird's soft notes blend With breeze from glade and hill, We seek her shrine with loving heart, And, humbly kneeling there, We linger long, loth to depart From that sweet place of prayer!

Oh! who can tell with what gifts rare Our Mother will repay Their love who honor thus with care Her own sweet month of May! A grace for every flower they've brought Or 'Ave, they have said; And ev'ry pious, holy thought Shall be by her repaid!



NATURE'S MUSIC.

Of many gifts bestowed on earth To cheer a lonely hour, Oh is there one of equal worth With music's magic power? 'Twill charm each angry thought to rest, 'Twill gloomy care dispel, And ever we its power can test,— All nature breathes its spell.

There's music in the sighing tone Of the soft, southern breeze That whispers thro' the flowers lone, And bends the stately trees, And—in the mighty ocean's chime, The crested breakers roar, The wild waves, ceaseless surge sublime, Breaking upon the shore.

There's music in the bulbul's note, Warbling its vesper lay In some fair spot, from man remote, Where wind and flowers play; But, oh! beyond the sweetest strain Of bird, or wave, or grove Is that soother of our hours of pain— The voice of those we love.

When sorrow weigheth down the heart The night birds sweetest lay— The harp's most wild and thrilling art— Care cannot chase away; But let affection's voice be heard, New springs of life 'twill ope,— One word—one little loving word— Will bring relief and hope.



MAUDE.

A BALLAD OF THE OLDEN TIME.

Around the castle turrets fiercely moaned the autumn blast, And within the old lords daughter seemed dying, dying fast; While o'er her couch in frenzied grief the stricken father bent, And in deep sobs and stifled moans his anguish wild found vent.

"Oh cheer thee up, my daughter dear, my Maude, he softly said, As tremblingly he strove to raise that young and drooping head; 'I'll deck thee out in jewels rare in robes of silken sheen, Till thou shalt be as rich and gay as any crowned queen."

"Ah, never, never!" sighed the girl, and her pale cheek paler grew, While marble brow and chill white hands were bathed in icy dew; "Look in my face—there thou wilt read such hopes are folly all, No garment shall I wear again, save shroud and funeral pall."

"My Maude thou'rt wilful! Far away in lands beyond the sea Are sunny climes, where winter ne'er doth wither flower or tree; And there thou'lt journey with me, till I see thee smile once more, And thy fair cheek wear the rose's hue as in the days of yore."

"Ah, no roses shall I gather beneath a summer sky, Not for me such dreams, dear father, my end is drawing nigh; One voyage is before me, 'tis no use to grieve or moan, But that dark, fearful journey must I travel all alone."

"My precious child! last of my race! why wilt thou grieve me so? Why add by such sad words unto thy grey haired father's woe? Live—live, my pearl! my stricken dove! earth's joys shall all be thine; Whate'er thy wish or will through life, it also shall be mine."

Fast coursed the diamond tear drops down that fair, though faded, cheek, And she whispered, but so softly, one scarce could hear her speak: "Ah! father, half those loving cares when summer bright was here Would have kept thy daughter with thee for many a happy year.

"But, ah! thy heart was marble then, and to thy direst foe, More stern, relentless anger thou couldst not, father, show. What was my crime? The one I loved, not rich but nobly born, Was loyal, true, on whom no man e'er looked with glance of scorn.

"He wooed me fairly, father dear, but thou did'st often swear Thou'dst rather see me in my grave than bride to Hengist's heir. Reckless, despairing, he embarked upon the stormy main, To seek an end to grief and care, nor sought he long in vain.

"Calm and untroubled sleeps he now beneath the salt sea brine, And I rejoice to think how soon that sweet sleep shall be mine!" No answer made the father but a low and grief-struck moan; And silence reigned again throughout that chamber sad and lone.

Sudden the girl starts wildly, with bright and kindling eye, Her cheek assumes a crimson tint like hue of sunset sky, "Father! that voice, that rapid step, ah, me! they are well-known, Hengist who comes from ocean's deeps to claim me for his own!"

Say, does she rave? No. See yon form, with proud and gallant brow, Bending above her, whisp'ring low, fond word and tender vow: "Maude, my own love! no spectral form, no phantom's at thy side, But thy girlhood's lover, now returned to claim thee as his bride."

The story runs that love and youth o'er death the victory won, And again did Maude, a happy wife, play 'neath the summer sun, While the old lord, grateful to the Power that Hengist's life had spared, Henceforth in all his children's bliss, hopes, sorrows, fully shared.



REJOICINGS AFTER THE BATTLE OF INKERMAN.*

[* Won by the "Allies" during the Crimean war though with great losses in killed and wounded.]

Rejoice! the fearful day is o'er For the victors and the slain; Our cannon proclaim from shore to shore, The Allies have won again! Let our joy bells ring out music clear, The gayest they've ever pealed; Let bonfires flames the dark night cheer, We are masters of the field

But list! dost hear that mournful wail 'Bove the joyous revelry? Rising from hillside and lowly vale,— Say, what can its meaning be? From Erin's sunny emerald shore It trembles upon the gale, And rises with the torrent's roar From the birth place of the Gael.

Fair Albion, too, in every spot Of thy land of promise wide Is heard that dirge for the mournful lot Of thy soldier sons—thy pride. Them shall no bugle at dawn of day Arouse from their quiet sleep, Them shall no charger with shrill neigh Bear off to the hillside steep.

'Mid the dead and dying stretched unknown On Crimea's blood stained earth, Lie the household gods of many a home, The lights of many a hearth: While, vainly woman's weeping voice Calls on each well loved one— The tender wife on her girlhoods choice, The fond mother on her son.

And not only from the peasant's cot Comes that mournful, dirge like cry, 'Tis heard—unto all a common lot— Where dwell the great and high; And tears fall fast for the last lost child Of many a noble race, Who has perished in that struggle wild, And left none to fill his place.

Yet if above our laurels bright Falls many a bitter tear, Still, still, may we find a gleam of light, Our stricken hearts to cheer; They have fallen in the country's cause That their youth and manhood nursed, They have fallen true to honor's laws, In a sacred strife and just.



A FEW SHORT YEARS FROM NOW.

Say, art thou angry? words unkind Have fallen upon thine ear, Thy spirit hath been wounded too By mocking jest or sneer, But mind it not—relax at once Thine o'ercast and troubled brow— What will be taunt or jest to thee In a few short years from now?

Or, perhaps thou mayst be pining Beneath some bitter grief, From whose pangs in vain thou seekest Or respite or relief; Fret not 'neath Heav'n's chastening rod But submissive to it bow; Thy griefs will all be hushed to rest In a few short years from now.

Art toiling for some worldly aim, Or for some golden prize, Devoting to that glitt'ring goal Thy thoughts, thy smiles, thy sighs? Ah! rest thee from the idle chase, With no bliss can it endow; Of fame or gold, what will be thine In a few short years from now?

It may be pleasure's roseate dreams Possess thy wayward heart, Its gilded gauds for better things Leaving alas! no part; Ah! cast away the gems and flowers That bind thy thoughtless brow, Where will their gleam or brightness be In a few short years from now?

The good thou may'st on earth have done, Love to a brother shown— Pardon to foe—alms unto need— Kind word or gentle tone; The treasures thus laid up in Heav'n By the good on earth done now, These will alone remain to thee, In a few short years from now.



TO THE SOLDIERS OF PIUS NINTH.

Warriors true, 'tis no false glory For which now you peril life,— For no worthless aim unholy, Do ye plunge into the strife; No unstable, fleeting vision Bright before your gaze hath shone, No day dream of wild ambition, Now your footsteps urges on:

But a cause both great and glorious, Worthy of a Christian's might, One which yet shall be victorious,— 'Tis the cause of God and right: Men! by aim more pure and holy Say, could soldiers be enticed? Strike for truth and conscience solely, Strike for Pius and for Christ.

Even like the brave Crusaders— Heroes true and tried of old, You would check the rash invaders Of all that we sacred hold. And though hosts your steps beleaguer, Full of might and martial pride; For the conflict be you eager— God Himself will be your guide!

Soldiers of the Cross, remember In the cause you fight for now, 'Tis not earthly wreaths you gather To adorn the dauntless brow; But the laurels bright—unfading, Never from you to be riven— Which will yet your brows be shading In the shining courts of Heaven.



COME, TELL ME SOME OLDEN STORY.

I.

Come tell me some olden story Of Knight or Paladin, Whose sword on the field of glory Bright laurel wreaths did win: Tell me of the heart of fire His courage rare did prove; Speak on—oh! I will not tire— But never talk of love.

II.

Or, if thou wilt, I shall hearken Some magic legend rare— How the Wizard's power did darken The sunny summer air: Thou'lt tell of Banshee's midnight wail, Or corpse-light's ghastly gleam— It matters not how wild the tale So love be not thy theme.

III.

Or, perhaps thou may'st have travelled On distant, foreign strand, Strange secrets have unravelled In many a far-off land; Describe each castle hoary, Each fair or frowning shore— But should love blend in thy story I'll list thy voice no more.

IV.

Thou askest with emotion, Why am I thus so cold, Urging all thy past devotion, Well known—well tried of old; Hush! bend a little nearer That sad, o'erclouded brow— Could love vows make thee dearer To me than thou art now!



REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS.



DIED JANUARY 26th, 1864, THE HON. JAMES B. CLAY, OF ASHLANDS, KENTUCKY, ELDEST SON OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS HENRY CLAY.

Another pang for Southern hearts, That of late so oft have bled, Another name to add to the roll Of their mighty, patriot dead; A vacant place 'mid that phalanx proud. Of which each glorious name Is dear to a mighty nation's heart, And dear to undying fame.

The God-given gift of genius his, The patriot's holy fire, For he we mourn was a worthy son Of a great and glorious sire: Ah! whate'er the changes time may bring, Shall never pass away From the people's mind, in North or South, The deathless name of Clay.

Yet an exile in a foreign land, His spirit passed from earth, Far from the old dear scenes of home, The loved land of his birth,— The land he had well and truly served, With heart, with sword, with pen, Since first he had joined the march of life, By the side of his fellow men.

No Southern breezes, soft and sweet, Played around his dying bed, No Southern flowers in glowing bloom, Rich fragrance round him shed; The wintry light of a Northern sky, Earth robed in snowy vest, Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze As he passed into his rest

But near him gathered devoted hearts, Wife, children, at his side, Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked, With fond, revering pride, On him who had ever been to them, Throughout his life's career, A model of all that honor high, Or virtue holds most dear.

And other mourners leaves he too, Who had learned to love him well. Though short the time since he had come, Within our midst to dwell: Friends who will keep his name fore'er 'Mid those they we set apart, To cherish deeply, and revere, Within their inmost heart.

Montreal, Jan. 27, 1864



WHEN WILL IT END?

Written during the Civil War in the United States.

O when will it end, this appalling strife, With its reckless waste of human life, Its riving of highest, holiest ties, Its tears of anguish and harrowing sighs, Its ruined homes from which hope has fled, Its broken hearts and its countless dead?

In fair Virginia the new-made graves Lie crowded thick as old ocean's caves; Whether sword or sickness dealt the blow, What matters it?—They lie cold and low; And Maryland's heights are crimsoned o'er, And its green vales stained, with human gore.

The stalwart man in the prime of life, Sole stay of frail children and helpless wife; The bright-eyed, ardent, and beardless boy, Of some mother's fond breast the pride and joy, And the soldier-love, the idol rare Of maiden and matron, gentle and fair.

The men of the North so dauntless and free, The flower of the Southland chivalry, The best and the bravest on either side, Their citizen soldier, the nation's pride, Carelessly cast in each narrow, dank bed, And fruitlessly numbered among the dead.

Are you nearer the end than when Sumter's gun Answered the summons of Charleston, And the nation plunged in this deadly strife, That has wrecked its happiness, wealth and life,— Say what is your answer to foe or friend? "'Tis a strife of which none can guess the end."

Oh! keep your young strength for some stranger foe, Let not brother's rash hand lay brother low; Remember one soil your childhood nursed, In the past together your bonds you burst; Together for freedom you learned to strike, And brave Washington honored you both alike.

You have proved to the nations your mutual might; You have proved you can suffer, struggle and fight; By hundreds and thousands lie heaped your slain, Your life-blood crimsons hill, stream and plain; Prove of nobler struggle you are able yet, And your mutual wrongs forgive and forget.

Oh, Father of mercies! stay now each hand, Put back in its sheath the blood stained brand, Whisper sage counsel to rulers proud, Calm the wrath of the people, fierce and loud, So that their hates and their strife may cease, And their land know once more the boon of peace.



MOONLIGHT REVERIES.

The moon from solemn azure sky Looked down on earth below, And coldly her wan light fell alike On scenes of joy and woe: A stately palace reared its dome, Within reigned warmth and light And festive mirth—the moon's faint rays Soft kissed its marble white.

A little farther was the home Of toil, alas! and want, That spectre grim that countless hearths Seems ceaselessly to haunt; And yet, as if in mocking mirth, She smiled on that drear spot, Silvering brightly the ruined eaves And roof of that poor cot.

And then, with curious gaze, she looked Within a curtained loom, Where sat a girl of gentle mien In young life's early bloom; Her glitt'ring light made still more bright The veil and bridal flower, Which were to wreathe the girl's fair brow In the morrow's solemn hour.

With changeless smile she gleamed within A casement, gloomy, lone, Where lay a cold and rigid form, A death bed stretched upon. The fixed gaze of the half closed eyes, The forehead chill and white, The shroud and pall, more ghastly looked, Wrapped thus in still, silv'ry light.

Long, sadly, gazed I, then a thought, Sharp, bitter, filled my heart 'Gainst that cold orb, which in our joys And sorrows took no part; Which shone as bright o'er couch of death, In prison's darkened gloom, As o'er the festal scenes of earth, Or stately palace room.

An inward voice reproved the thought, And whispered, soft and low, "Unto that glorious orb 'twas given Its Maker's power to show. Throughout long ages has it shone With pure, undying flame, His will obeying Dreamer, go, And do thou, too, the same!"



THE CLOUDS THAT PROMISE A GLORIOUS MORROW.

The clouds that promise a glorious morrow Are fading slowly, one by one; The earth no more bright rays may borrow From her loved Lord, the golden sun; Gray evening shadows are softly creeping, With noiseless steps, o'er vale and hill; The birds and flowers are calmly sleeping; And all around is fair and still.

Once loved I dearly, at this sweet hour, With loitering steps to careless stray, To idly gather an opening flower, And often pause upon my way,— Gazing around me with joyous feeling, From sunny earth to azure sky, Or bending over the streamlet, stealing 'Mid banks of flowers and verdure by.

You wond'ring ask me why sit I lonely Within my quiet, curtain'd room, So idly seeking and clinging only Unto its chastened, thoughtful gloom. You tell me that never fragrance rarer Did breathe from clustering leaf and bough; That never the bright spring was fairer Or more enchanting than she is now.

Ah, useless chiding! The loved ones tender, Who shared my rambles long ago, Whose cherished accents could only render Words of affection soft and low, Are parted from me, perchance for ever, By miles of distance, of land or main,— Death some has taken, and them, oh never Upon this earth shall I meet again.

'Tis thus this hour of gentle even Brings back in thought the friends long gone,— Loved ones with whom this earth was Heaven But who have vanished, one by one.— 'Tis thus I cherish with wilful sadness The quiet of my lonely room,— Careless, unmindful of all earth's gladness, Or of her lovely evening bloom.



EARTH'S MOMENTS OF GLOOM.

"The heart knoweth its own bitterness"

The heart hath its moments of hopeless gloom, As rayless as is the dark night of the tomb; When the past has no spell, the future no ray, To chase the sad cloud from the spirit away; When earth, though in all her rich beauty arrayed, Hath a gloom o'er her flowers—o'er her skies a dark shade, And we turn from all pleasure with loathing away, Too downcast, too spirit sick, even to pray!

Oh! where may the heart seek, in moments like this, A whisper of hope, or a faint gleam of bliss? When friendship seems naught but a cold, cheerless flame, And love a still falser and emptier name; When honors and wealth are a wearisome chain, Each link interwoven with grief and with pain, And each solace or joy that the spirit might crave Is barren of comfort and dark as the grave.

Lift—lift up thy sinking heart, pilgrim of life! A sure spell there is for thy spirit's sad strife; 'Tis not to be found in the well-springs of earth,— Oh! no, 'tis of higher and holier birth.



AUTUMN WINDS.

"Oh! Autumn winds, what means this plaintive wailing Around the quiet homestead where we dwell? Whence come ye, say, and what the story mournful That your weird voices ever seek to tell— Whispering or clamoring, beneath the casements, Rising in shriek or dying off in moan, But ever breathing, menace, fear, or anguish In every thrilling and unearthly tone?"

"We come from far off and from storm-tossed oceans, Where vessels bravely battle with fierce gale,— Mere playthings of our stormy, restless power, We rend them quickly, shuddering mast and sail; And with their, stalwart, gallant crews we hurl them Amid the hungry waves that for them wait, Nor leave one floating spar nor fragile taffrail To tell unto the world their dreary fate."

"But He who holds you, wrathful winds of Autumn, Within the hollow of His mighty hand, Can stay your onward course of reckless fury, Your demon wrath, or eerie sport command, Changing your rudest blast to zephyr gentle As rocks the rose in summer evenings still, Calming the ocean and yourselves enchaining By simple fiat of Almighty Will."

"We've been, too in the close and crowded city Where want is often forced to herd with sin; And our cold breath has pierced through without pity, Bare, ruined hovel and worn garments thin; Through narrow chink and broken window pouring Draughts rife with fever and with deadly chill, Choosing our victims 'mid old age and childhood, Or tender, fragile infancy at will."

"Oh, Autumn blasts, He, whose kind care doth temper The searching wind unto the small shorn lamb, To those poor shiv'ring victims, too, can render Thy keenest, sharpest blasts, both mild and calm Rave on—rave on, around our happy homestead Upon this dark and wild November night, Ye do but work out your God-given mission, Mere humble creatures of our Father's might."

"But, listen, we come, too, from graveyards lonely, From mocking revels held 'mid tombstones tall, Tearing the withered leaves from off the branches, The clinging ivy from the time-stained wall,— Uprooting, blighting every tiny leaflet That hid the grave's bleak nakedness from sight, Driving the leaves in hideous, death like dances, Around the lowly mounds, the grave-stones white."

"And, what of that, ye cruel winds of Autumn? Spring will return again with hope and mirth, Clothing with tender green the budding branches, Decking with snowdrops, violets, the earth; And, oh! sweet hope, sublime and most consoling, The sacred dust within those graves shall rise In God's good time, to reign on thrones of glory With Him, beyond the cloudless, golden skies."



FLOWERS AND STARS.

"Beloved! thou'rt gazing with thoughtful look On those flowers of brilliant hue, Blushing in spring tide freshness and bloom, Glittering with diamond dew: What dost thou read in each chalice fair, And what does each blossom say? Do they not tell thee, my peerless one, Thou'rt lovelier far than they?"

"Not so—not so, but they whisper low That quickly will fade their bloom; Soon will they withered lie on the sod, Ravished of all perfume; They tell that youth and beauty below Are doomed, alas! to decay, And I, like them, in life's flower and prime May pass from this earth away."

"Too sad thy thoughts! Look up at yon stars, That gleam in the sapphire skies; Not clearer their radiance, best beloved, Than the light of thine own dark eyes! With no thoughts of death or sad decay, Can they thy young spirit fill; Through ages they've shone with changeless light, And yet they are shining still!"

"Ah! they bring before my spirit's gaze Dreams of that home so blessed, Where those who have served the Master well At length from their labors rest; And do not chide if, despite all ties, Of close-clinging earthly love, There are times when I turn a wistful glance To that distant home above."



THE SUNSET THOUGHTS OF A DYING GIRL.

Friends! do you see in yon sunset sky, That cloud of crimson bright? Soon will its gorgeous colors die In coming dim twilight; E'en now it fadeth ray by ray— Like it I too shall pass away!

Look on yon fragile summer flower Yielding its sweet perfume; Soon shall it have lived out its hour, Its beauty and its bloom: Trampled, 'twill perish in the shade— Alas! as quickly shall I fade.

Mark you yon planet gleaming clear With steadfast, gentle light, See, heavy dark clouds hovering near, Have veiled its radiance bright— As you vainly search that gloomy spot, You'll look for me and find me not!

Turn now to yonder sparkling stream, Where silver ripples play; Dancing within the moon's pale beam— Ah! short will be their stay, They break and die upon the shore— Like them I soon shall be no more!

Yes! emblems meet of my career, Are ripple, cloud, and flower; Fated like me to linger here, But for a brief, bright hour— And then, alas! to yield my place; And leave, perchance, on earth no trace!

No trace, my friends, save in your hearts, That pure and sacred shrine— Where, 'spite life's thousand cares and arts, A place shall yet be mine; And love as deep as that of yore— Though on this earth we meet no more!



ALAIN'S CHOICE.

By the side of a silvery streamlet, That flowed through meadows green, Lay a youth on the verge of manhood And a boy of fair sixteen; And the elder spake of the future, That bright before them lay, With its hopes full of golden promise For some sure, distant day.

And he vowed, as his dark eye kindled, He would climb the heights of fame, And conquer with mind or weapon A proud, undying name. On the darling theme long dwelling Bright fabrics did he build, Which the hope in his ardent bosom With splendor helped to gild.

At length he paused, then questioned: "Brother, thou dost not speak; In the vague bright page of the future To read dost thou never seek?" Then the other smiled and answered, "Of that am I thinking now, And the crown which I too am striving To win my ambitious brow."

"What!—a crown? Thou hast spirit, brother; Say, of laurels will it be? Thy choice, the life of a soldier, Undaunted—joyous—free. Though by wind and sun undarkened Is thy blooming, boyish face, To thy choice thou'lt do all honor, For 'tis worthy of thy race!

"Am I wrong? Well, 'tis more likely, With thy love of ancient lore, Thou would'st choose the scholar's garland, Not laurels wet with gore; I'll not chide—'tis surely noble, By mere simple might of pen, To rule with master power The minds of thy fellow-men."

But still shook his head the younger: "What! unguessed thy secret yet? Ha! I know now what thou seekest To deck thy curls of jet: Bright buds!" and he, laughing, scattered Blossoms on brow and cheek, "Pleasure's wreath of smiting flowers Is the crown that thou dost seek."

"Not so—of all, that were vainest! 'Tis a crown immortal—rare— Here on earth I must strive to win it, But, brother, I'll wear it there!" And he raised to the blue sky o'er him Eyes filled with tender thought,— Who shall doubt that to him was given The glorious crown he sought?



THE FINAL RECKONING.

'Twas a wild and stormy sunset, changing tints of lurid red Flooded mountain top and valley and the low clouds overhead; And the rays streamed through the windows of a building stately, high, Whose wealthy, high-born master had lain him down to die.

Many friends were thronging round him, breathing aching, heavy sighs— Men with pale and awe-struck faces, women, too, with weeping eyes, Watching breathless, silent, grieving him whose sands were nearly run, When, with sudden start, he muttered: "God! how much I've left undone!"

Then out spoke an aged listener, with broad brow and locks of snow, "Patriot, faithful to thy country and her welfare, say not so, For the long years thou hast served her thou hast only honor won." But, from side to side still tossing, still he muttered: "Much undone!"

Then the wife, with moan of anguish, like complaint of stricken dove, Murmured: "Husband, truer, fonder, never blessed a woman's love, And a just and tender father both to daughter and to son"— But more feebly moaned he ever: "Oh! there's much, there's much undone!"

Quickly, then, a proud, stern soldier questioned: "Say, will not thy name Long descend in future story, linked with honor and with fame, For thine arm was prompt in battle and thy laurels nobly won; Patriot, citizen and soldier, what, then, is there left undone?"

Then the dying man upraised him; at his accents loud and clear Into silence men lapsed quickly—women checked each sob and tear; And he said: "To fame, home, country, all my heart, my thoughts I've given, But, Oh dreamers, can you tell me what I've done for God—for Heaven?

"It was not for Him I battled with the sword or with the pen, Not for His praise that I thirsted, but that of my fellow-men; And amid the light now flooding this my life's last setting sun, I can see, misguided worldling! that there's much I've left undone."

Thicker, darker, fell the shadows, fainter grew his flutt'ring breath Then a strange and solemn stillness, 'twas the awful hush of death: Hope we that a tender Saviour, unto gentle pity won, Judged that dying man with mercy, whatsoe'er he left undone!



IN MEMORY OF THE LATE G. C. OF MONTREAL.

The earth was flooded in the amber haze That renders so lovely our autumn days, The dying leaves softly fluttered down, Bright crimson and orange and golden brown, And the hush of autumn, solemn and still, Brooded o'er valley, plain and hill.

Yet still from that scene with rare beauty rife And the touching sweetness of fading life, From glowing foliage and sun bright ray, My gaze soon mournfully turned away To rest, instead, on a new made grave, Enshrouding a heart true, loyal and brave.

At rest for aye! Cold and pulseless now That high throbbing breast and calm, earnest brow; Laid down forever the quick, gifted pen That toiled but for God and his fellow men; Silent that voice, free from hatred or ruth, Yet e'er boldly raised in the cause of truth.

For the prize of our faith grateful he proved, Breaking from ties and from scenes once loved, From rank and fortune, and the lures of pride, That tempt the gifted on every side, To devote his genius—his pen of fire— To aims more holy and themes far higher.

He was true to the land he had made his home, And true to the grand old faith of Rome, At whose feet he laid powers rarer than gold, As knights laid their lances and shields of old,— That Church on whose loving maternal breast He peacefully sank to eternal rest.

Oh! no tears for him who passed away Ere frame or spirit knew touch of decay, Ere time had deadened one feeling warm, Or his genius robbed of one single charm. As he was when death struck, his image shall dwell In the countless hearts that loved him so well.



ON SOME ROSE LEAVES BROUGHT FROM THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

Faded and pale their beauty, vanished their early bloom, Their folded leaves emit alone a sweet though faint perfume, But, oh! than brightest bud or flower to me are they more dear, They come from that rose-haunted land, the bright Vale of Cashmere.

Cashmere! a spell is in that name! what dreams its sound awakes Of roses sweet as Eden's flowers, of minarets and lakes, Of scenes as vaguely, strangely bright as those of fairy land, Springing to life and loveliness 'neath some enchanter's wand!

Cashmere! poetic in its name, its clear and brilliant skies That seem to clothe earth, flower and wave in their own lovely dyes; Poetic in its legend lore, and spell more dear than all, Enshrined in poet's inmost heart, the home of "Nourmahal."*

Yes, there oft fell her fairy feet, there shone the glances bright, That won for her the glorious name of harem's queen and light; There, as she wandered 'mid its bowers, her royal love beside, She taught him to forget all else save her, his beauteous, bride.

Cashmere! what would this heart not give to see thy favored earth, So rich in nature's peerless gifts, in beauty's dazzling worth, Rich in a name that in mine ear from childhood's hour hath rung, The land of which impassioned Moore with such sweet power hath sung.

Yet, were I there, oh! well I know the time would surely come When my yearning heart would turn again to my far Canadian home, Longing to look once more upon its wintry wastes of snow, And the friends whose hearts throb like mine own, with friendship's changeless glow.

[* The heroine of Moore's beautiful poem The Light of the Harem.]



HARVESTS.

Other harvests there are than those that lie Glowing and ripe 'neath an autumn sky, Awaiting the sickle keen, Harvests more precious than golden grain, Waving o'er hillside, valley or plain, Than fruits 'mid their leafy screen.

Not alone for the preacher, man of God, Do those harvests vast enrich the sod, For all may the sickle wield; The first in proud ambition's race, The last in talent, power or place, Will all find work in that field.

Man toiling, lab'ring with fevered strain, High office or golden prize to gain, Rest both weary heart and head, And think, when thou'lt shudder in death's cold clasp, How earthly things will elude thy grasp, At that harvest work instead!

Lady, with queenly form and brow, Gems decking thy neck and arms of snow, Who need only smile to win; 'Mid thy guests, perchance the gay, the grave, Is one whom a warning word might save From folly, sorrow or sin.

Let that word be said, thine eyes so bright Will glow with holier, softer light For the good that thou hast done; And a time will come when thou wilt reap From that simple act more pleasure deep Than from flatt'ring conquests won.

Young girl in thy bright youth's blushing dawn, Graceful and joyous as sportive fawn, There is work for thee to do, And higher aims than to flirt and smile, And practise each gay, coquettish wile, Admiring glances to woo.

Ah! the world is full of grief and care, Sad, breaking hearts are every where, And thou can'st give relief; Alms to the needy—soft word of hope That a brighter view may chance to ope To mourners bowed by grief.

That gauzy tissue yon bud or flower That tempt thee at the present hour, To be worn, then cast aside, Bethink thee, their price might comfort bring, Fuel or food to the famishing And help to the sorely tried.

Such harvest fruits are most precious and rare, Worthy all toil and patient care, Think of the promised reward! Not earthly gains that will pass away Like morning mist or bright sunset ray, But Christ Himself, our Lord!



A WORLDLY DEATH-BED.

Hush! speak in accents soft and low, And treat with careful stealth Thro' that rich curtained room which tells Of luxury and wealth; Men of high science and of skill Stand there with saddened brow, Exchanging some low whispered words— What can their art do now?

Follow their gaze to yonder couch Where moans in fitful pain The mistress of this splendid home, With aching heart and brain. The fever burning in her veins Tinges with carmine bright That sunken cheek—alas! she needs No borrowed bloom to-night.

The masses of her raven hair Fall down on either side In tangled richness—it has been Through life her care and pride; And those small perfect hands on which Her gaze complacent fell, Now, clenched within her pillow's lace, Of anguish only tell.

Sad was her restless, fev'rish sleep, More sad her waking still, As with wild start she looks around Her chamber darkened—still; Its silence and the mournful looks Of those who stand apart, Some awful fear seem to suggest To that poor worldly heart.

"Doctor, I'm better, am I not?" She gasps with failing breath— Alas! the answer sternly tells That she is "ill to death." "What! dying!" and her eyes gleam forth A flashing, fearful ray, "I, young, rich, lovely, from this earth To pass so soon away?