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VERSES AND RHYMES BY THE WAY.

BY NORA PEMBROKE.

There are poor Mango's poems, which James Batter and me think excellent, and if any one think otherwise, I wad just thank them to write better at their leisure." —Mansie Wauch

"All beneath the unrivalled rose
The lowly daisy sweetly blows,
Though large the forest monarch throws
His army shade,
Yet green the juicy hawthorne grows
Adown the glade."

—Burns

To Mrs. Irving,
PEMBROKE.

I dedicate these verses to one whom I hold dear,
One who in the dark days drew in Christian kindness near
May He who led me all my life do so and more to me
If ever I forget the debt of love I owe to thee.

CONTENTS

A STORY OF PLANTAGENET

A LEGEND OF BUCKINGHAM VILLAGE

OTTAWA

THE LAKE ALLUMETTE

HOW PRINCE ARTHUR WAS WELCOMED TO PEMBROKE

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR AN ONLY ONE

SERVANTS

ALAS, MY BROTHER!

I WILL NOT RE COMFORTED BECAUSE ONE IS NOT

TO A FATHER'S MEMORY

ORSON'S FAREWELL (Orson Grout)

DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN

ADDRESSES. To the Hon. Malcolm Cameron

ERIN'S ADDRESS TO THE HON. THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE

NORA TO DAVID HEBBISON

DEATH OF D'ARCY McGEE

LINES TO A SHAMROCK. A Song of Exile

LAMENTATION. (Walter and Freddie)

THE SONG OF THE BEREAVED

COMFORT YE, COMFORT YE MY PEOPLE

MAJORITY

MY OWN GREEN LAND

BEREAVEMENT. (Job in. 26)

OUT OF THE DEPTHS

ERIN, MAVOURNEEN. A Prize Poem

WRITTEN FOR THE O'CONNEL CENTENARY

WE LAMENT NOT FOR ONE BUT MANY

LINES FOR THE BRIDAL

WELCOME HOME

BAPTISM IN LAKE ALLUMETTE

GOOD BYE (To Miss E E.)

WEEP WITH THOSE WHO WEEP (Mary Maud)

TO ELIZABETH RAY

FAREWELL TO LORD AND LADY DUFFERIN

A WELCOME

DEATH OF NORMAN DEWAR

THE SHADOW OF THE ALMIGHTY

IN MEMORY OF JOHN LEACH CRAIG

FAREWELL

THE PRINCE OF ANHALT DESSAU

MARY'S DEATH

TO ISABEL

LINES ON ANNEXATION

TO MY FRIEND

LITTLE MINNIE

TECUMTHE

CREED AND CONDUCT COMBINED AS CAUSE AND EFFECT

RETROSPECT

TO THE RAIN

DIVIDED

TO MARY

TO FRANCES

A NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS, 1870

MY BABY

THE FATE OF HENRY HUDSON

FORSAKEN

KEEPING TRYST

EDGAR

GONE

WHAT WENT YE OUT FOR TO SEE?

THE IROQUOIS SIDE OF THE STORY

A SATIRE. A Humble Imitation

JUVENILE VERSES On the Birth of Albert Edward Prince of Wales

THE BIBLE

THE ADIEU TO ELIZA

TO MY VALENTINE

FIRST LOVE

CHILDREN'S SONG

ANSWER TO BURNS' ADDRESS TO THE DE'IL

SEPARATION

TO ANNE ON HER BIRTHDAY

TO ISABEL

ISABEL

THOUGHTS

TO J W

THE ORPHANS GOOD BYE

TO ANNIE ON HER BIRTHDAY

GONE

VERSES AND RHYMES BY THE WAY.

A STORY OF PLANTAGENET.

In the small Village of St Joseph, below the City of Ottawa, still lives or did live very recently, an ancient couple, whole story is told in the following lines.

PART I

Lays of fair dames of lofty birth,
And golden hair alt richly curled;
Of knights that venture life for love,
Suit poets of the older world.
We wilt not fill our simple rhymes,
With diamond flash, or gleaming pearl;
In singing of the by-gone times;
We simply sing the love and faith,
Outliving absence, strong as death,
Of one Jow-born Canadian girl.

'Twas long ago the rapid spring
Had scarce given place to summer yet,
The Ottawa, with swollen flood,
Rolled past thy banks, Plantagenet;
Thy banks where tall and plumed pines
Stood rank on rank, in serried lines.
Green islands, each with leafy crest,
Lay peaceful on the river's breast,
The trees, ere this, had, one by one,
Shook out their leaflets to the sun,
Forming a rustling, waving screen,
While swollen waters rolled between.

The wild deer trooped through woodland path,
And sought the river's strand,
Slight danger then of flashing death,
From roving hunter's hand;
For very seldom was there seen
A hunter of the doomed red race,
Few spots, with miles of bush between,
Marked each a settler's dwelling-place.
No lumberer's axe, no snorting scream
Of fierce, though trained and harnessed steam,
No paddle-wheel's revolving sound,
No raftsman's cheer, no bay of hound
Was heard to break the silent spell
That seemed to rest o'er wood and dell,
All was so new, so in its prime—
An almost perfect solitude,
As if had passed but little time
Since the All Father called it good.
Nature in one thanksgiving psalm,
Gathered each sound that broke the calm.

There was a little clearing there—
A snow white cot—a garden fair—
Where useful plants in order set,
With bergamot and mignonette.
Glories that round the casement run,
And pansies smiling at the sun,
And wild-wood blossoms fair and sweet,
Showed forth how thrift and beauty meet;
There was a space to plant and sow,
Fenced by the pines strong hands laid low.
By that lonely cottage stood,
With eyes fixed on the swollen flood,
A slight young girl with raven hair,
And face that was both sad and fair.

Oh, fair and lovely are the maids,
Nursed in Canadian forest shades;
The beauties of the older lands
Moulded anew by nature's hands,
Fired by the free Canadian soul,
Join to produce a matchless whole.
The roses of Britannia's Isle,
In rosy blush and rosy smile;
The light of true and tender eyes,
As blue and pure as summer skies;
Light-footed maids, as matchless fair
As grow by Scotia's heath fringed rills—
Sweet as the hawthorn scented air,
And true as the eternal hills.
We have the arch yet tender grace,
The power to charm of Erin's race;
The peachy cheek, the rosebud mouth,
Imported from the sunny south,
With the dark, melting, lustrous eye,
Silk lashes curtain languidly.

The charms of many lands had met
In Marie of Plantagenet;
She had the splendid southern eye
She had the northern brow of snow,
The blush caught from a northern sky,
Dark silky locks of southern flow,
Light-footed as the forest roe,
As stately as the mountain pine,
A smile that lighted up her face,
The sunshine of a maiden's grace,
And made her beauty half divine.
So fair of face, so fair of form
Was she the peerless forest born.
Nature is kindly to her own,
To this Canadian cottage lone,
A back-wood settler's lot to bless,
She brought this flower of loveliness,
Seldom such beauty does she bring
To grace the palace of a king.

A chevalier of sunny France,
Whom fate ordained to wander here,
To trade, to trap, to hunt the deer,
To roam with free foot through the wild,
He chanced, at husking, in the dance
To meet Marie, Le Paige's child,—
And vowed that, roaming everywhere,
Except the lady fair as day,
Who held his troth-plight far away,
He ne'er saw face or form so fair;
From France's fair and stately queen,
To maiden dancing on the green,
From lowly bower to lordly hall,
This forest maid outshone them all

When old Le Paige would hear this praise,
Then would he turn and smiling say
To the plump partner of his days,
"We who know our Marie well,
How true the heart so young and gay,
We will not of her beauty tell.
Her love is more to thee and me,
And yet our child is fair to see."

So many a dashing hunter brave,
And many an axeman of the wood,
And hardy settler was her slave
And thought the bondage very good;
But she, so kind to those she met,
She smiled on all, but walked apart,
Keeping the treasure of her heart,
The fair Queen of Plantagenet,
No thought of love her bosom stirs
Toward her rustic worshippers
Until one came and settled near
Famed as a hunter of the deer

The firmest hand, the truest eye,
The dauntless heart and courage high
Where his, and famed beyond his years
He stood among his young compeers,
He, ere the snow-wreath left the land,
Slew two fierce wolves with single hand,
Famished they followed on his tracks,
He armed with nothing but his axe
He knew the river far and near,
Beyond the foaming dread Chaudiere,
Far far beyond that spot of fear
He'd been a hardy voyageur
Through the white swells of many assault
Had safely steered his bark canoe,
Knew how to pass each raging chute,
Though boiling like the wild Culbute
The wilds of nature were his home,
His paddle beat the fleecy foam
Of surging rapids' yeasty spray.
And bore him often far away
Beyond the pinefringed Allumette,
He saw the sun in glory set,
His boat song roused the lurking fox
From den beside the Oiseau rock
Upward upon the river's breast,
The highway to the wild Nor-west,
Past the long lake Temiscamingue,
Where wild drakes plume their glossy wing,
Oft had he urged his light canoe,
Hunting the moose and caribou;
He knew each portage on the way
To the far posts of Hudson's Bay,
And even its frozen waters saw,
When roaming courier du bois,
In the great Company's employ,
Which he had entered when a boy.
Comely he was, and blithe, and young,
Had a light heart and merry tongue,
And bright dark eye, was brave and bold,
Skilful to earn, and wise to hold,
And so this hunter came our way,
And stole our wood nymph's heart away;
And it became Belle Marie's lot
To love Napoleon Rajotte

Of all the sad despairing swains,
Foredoomed to disappointment's pains,
None felt the pangs of jealous woe
So keenly as Antome Vaiseau.
A thrifty settler's only son,
Who much of backwoods wealth had won;
A steady lad of nature mild,
Had been her playmate from a child,
And saw a stranger thus come in,
And take what he had died to win.
He saw him loved the best, the first,
Still he his hopeless passion nursed.

At Easter time the Cure came,
And after Easter time was gone,
The hunter brave, the peerless dame
Were blessed and made for ever one

Beside the cottage white she stood,
And looked across the swelling flood—
Across the wave that rolled between
The islets robed in tender green,
Watching with eager eyes, she views
A fleet of large well-manned canoes,
The high curved bow and stern she knew,
That marked each "Company canoe,"
And o'er the wave both strong and clear,
Their boat-song floated to her ear
She marked their paddles' steady dip,
And listened with a quivering lip,
Her bridegroom, daring, gay, and young,
With the bold heart and winning tongue,
Was with them, upward bound, away
To the far posts of Hudson's Bay,
Gone ere the honeymoon is past,
The bright brief moon too sweet to last,
Gone for two long and dreary years,
And she must wait and watch at home,
Bear patiently her woman's fears,
And hope and pray until he come,
She stands there still although the last
Canoe of all the fleet is past.
Of paddle's dip, of boat-song gay,
The last faint sound has died away,
She only said in turning home
"I'll wait and pray until he come"

PART II

Spring flung abroad her dewy charms,
And blushing grew to summer shine,
Summer sped on with outstretched arms,
To meet brown autumn crowned with vine,
The forest glowed in gold and green,
The leafy maples flamed in red
With the warm, hazy, happy beam
Of Indian summer overhead,
Bright, fair, and fleet as passing dream.
The autumn also hurried on,
And, shuddering, dropped her leafy screen;
The ice-king from the frozen zone,
In fleecy robe of ermine dressed,
Came stopping rivers with his hand
Binding in chains of ice the land;
Bringing, ere early spring he met,
To Marie of Plantagenet,
A pearly snow-drop for her breast.
An infant Marie to her home
To brighten it until he come.

Twice had the melting nor-west snow
Come down to flood the Ottawa's wave.
"The seasons as they come and go
Bring back," she said, "the happy day
To welcome him from far away;
Thy father, child, my hunter brave."
That snow-drop baby now could stand,
And run to Marie's outstretched hand;
Had all the charms that are alone
To youthful nursing mothers known.

'Twas summer in the dusty street,
'Twas summer in the busy town,
Summer in forests waving green,
When, at an inn in old Lachine,
And in the room where strangers meet,
Sat one, bright-eyed and bold and brown.
Soon will he joyful start for home,
For home in fair Plantagenet.
His wallet filled with two years' pay,
Well won at distant Hudson's Bay,
And the silk dress that stands alone,
For her the darling, dark-eyed one.
Parted so long, so soon to meet,
His every thought of her is sweet.
"My bride, my wife, with what regret,
I left her at Plantagenet!"
There came no whisper through the air
To tell him of his baby fair.
But still he sat with absent eye,
And thoughts that were all homeward bound,
And passed the glass untasted by,
While jest, and mirth, and song went round.
There sat and jested, drunk and sung,
The captain of an Erie boat,
With Erin's merry heart and tongue,
A skilful captain when afloat—
On shore a boon companion gay;
The foremost in a tavern brawl,
To dance or drink the night away,
Or make love in the servants' hall.
The merry devil in his eye
Could well all passing round him spy.
Wanting picked men to man his boat,
Eager to be once more afloat,
His keen eye knew the man he sought;
At once he pitched upon Rajotte.
The bright, brown man, so silent there,
He judged could both endure and dare;
He waited till he caught his eye.
Then raising up his glass on high,
"Stranger, I drink your health," said he,
"You'll sail the 'Emerald Isle,' with me.
"A smarter crew, a better boat,
"Lake Erie's waves will never float,
"I want but one to fill my crew;
"I wish no better man than you;
"High wage, light work, a jolly life
"Is ours—no care, no fret, no strife.
"So come before the good chance pass,
"And drown our bargain in the glass."
"Not so," Rajotte said with a smile,
"Let others sail the 'Emerald Isle,'
For I have been two years away,
A trapper at the Hudson's Bay;
Two years is long enough to roam,
I'm bound to see my wife and home."

The captain shook his curly head,
"Did you not hear the news?" he said,
"Last summer came from Hudson's Bay,
A courier from York Factory.
He brought the news that you were dead—
Killed by a wounded grizzly bear
When trapping all alone up there—
Found you himself the fellow said;
And your wife mourned and wept her fill
Refusing to be comforted.
But grief you know will pass away,
She found new love as women will;
And married here the other day."

Not doubting aught of what he heard
He sat, but neither spoke nor stirred.
His heart gave one great throb of pain,
And stopped—then bounded on again.
His bronze face took an ashen hue,
As his great woe came blanching through,
And stormy thoughts with stinging pain
Swept with wild anguish through his brain;
But not a word he spoke.
They only saw his lips grow pale,
But no word questioned of the tale.
You might have thought the captain bold,
Had almost wished his tale untold;
But careless he of working harm
When coveting that brave right arm.
At last the silence broke:
"He who brought news that I was dead,
Is it to him my wife is wed?
Was it? I know it must be so.
It must have been Antoine Vaiseau."
"Yes," said the Captain, "'tis the same,
Antoine Vaiseau's the very name."

So ere the morrow's morn had come,
Rajotte had turned his back from home,
And gone for ever more,
Gone off, alone with his despair,
While his true wife and baby fair,
Watched for him at the door.

The rough crew of the "Emerald Isle,"
Had one grim man without a smile,
So prompt to do, so wild to dare,
Reckless and nursing his despair.
The merry light had left his glance,
His foot refused to join the dance.
His heart refused to pray.
"Oh to forget!" he oft would cry,
Forget this ceaseless agony,
To fly from thought away."
Woe spun her white threads in his hair,
And bitter and unblessed despair
Ploughed furrows in his face;
Grief her dark shade on all things cast;
None dared to question of the past,
His sorrow seemed disgrace.

When rumour rose of Indian war;
Troops mustering for the west afar,
That wanted them a guide;
Rajotte said "I'm the man to go."
War's din he thought would drown his woe,
'Twas well the world was wide.
The Black Hawk war began—went on:
(Men dare not tell what men have done—
The white's relentless cruelty
O'ermastering Indian treachery;)
Rajotte, a stern determined man,
Sought death, forever in the van
On many a fierce-fought battle plain;
His life seemed charmed—he sought in vain.

Spring came and went—the years went past;
War ended, peace came round at last;
But war might go, and peace might come,
Rajotte thought not of turning home.
Till, failing strength, and fading eye,
He turned him homeward just to die.
Perhaps although he felt it not,
In his fierce wrestling with his lot,
There was a drawing influence
From the dear home so far away;
And faithful prayers had risen from thence,
To Him who hears us when we pray,
Who watched the lonely waiting heart
That nursed its love and faith apart;
And, pitying her well borne pain,
Ordained it should not be in vain.

PART III.

Now turn we to Plantagenet:
Through all these weary, waiting years,
How many hopes and fears have met'
How many prayers, how many tears!
When the time came that he should come
Back to his fair young wife and home,
Often and often would she say,
"He'll surely come to us to-day."
Pet Marie's best robe was put on
And the poor mother dressed with care—
Glad that she was both young and fair—
"To meet thy father, little one"
Oft standing on the very spot
Where she had parted from Rajotte
She stood a patient watcher long,
And listened eagerly to hear
The voyageurs' returning song
Come floating to her ear
But still he came not, years went by,
Yet she must pray, and hope, and wait,
His form would some day meet her eye,
His step sound at the river gate
Oh! it was hard to hear them say,
"He comes not, and he must be dead
Cease pining all your life away,
'Twere better far that you should wed
And Antoine keeps his first love still,
And Antoine is so well to do,
You may be happy if you will
His pleading eyes ask leave to woo"
'Twas a relief to steal away,
And tell her ebon rosary,
And to the Virgin Mother pray,
Thinking that she in Heaven above,
Remembered all of earthly love,
And human sympathy,
And having suffered human pain—
Known what it was to grieve in vain—
Might bend to listen to her prayer,
And make the absent one her care
In pleading with her Son

She waited while the years went on,
And would not think that hope was gone,
Ever his steps seemed sounding near,
His voice came floating to her ear,
And longing prayer, and yearning pain
Reached out to draw him back again;
And love beyond all estimate
Strengthened her heart to hope and wait
Pet Marie grew up tall and fair,
Her girlish love, her merry ways
Kept the poor mother from despair
Through many weary nights and days.

Spring and high water both had met
Once more at fair Plantagenet;
Once more the island trees were seen
Adorned with leaves of tender green,
Aux Lievres's roar was heard afar,
Where waters dashed on rocks to spray,
Roaring and tumbling in their play,
Kept up a boisterous holiday,
With tumult loud of mimic war.
The wild ducks of Lochaber's Bay
Were playing round on wanton wing,
Rippling the current with their breasts,
Feeling the gladness of the spring,
Pairing and building happy nests
All sounds of spring were in the air,
All sights of spring were fresh and fair
Sad Marie of Plantagenet,
With silver threads among her hair,
And by her side her blooming pet,
As she had once been, fresh and fair,
Stood on the bank that glorious day
Thinking of him so long away
Awhile they both in silence stood,
Then Marie said, "The Nor-west flood
Again another year has come.
You see those water-fowl at play
Come with the flood from far away.
What flood will bring your father home?
'Tis seventeen years ago to-day,
Since, parting here, he went away."
Just then young Marie, glancing round
"Mamma, I hear a paddle's sound,
Look there, those maple branches through,
Below us, there's a bark canoe,
'Tis stopping at our landing place
There's but one man with hair so grey,
And a worn weather-beaten face—
See, he is coming up this way
Mamma, I wonder who is he,
Stay here and I will go and see."

Rajotte who thought he did not care—
That he had conquered even despair,
Could bear to see as well as know
That Marie was the Dame Vaiseau,
Came to the parting spot, and there,
In the bright sunlight's happy beams,
Stood the fair image of his dreams
As young as on the parting day,
As bright as when he went away,
As beautiful as when he met
Her first in fair Plantagenet,
His Marie, living, breathing, warm,
Her glorious eyes, her midnight hair
Shading the beauty of her face,
The same lithe, rounded, perfect form,
The look of true and tender grace

Rajotte stood spell-bound, and the past
Seemed fading like a horrid dream.
"Marie," he said, "I'm home at last,
Speak, Marie, are you what you seem?
After all these long years of pain,
Art thou love given to me again?"
The maiden stood with wondering eyes,
Silent, because of her surprise,
But the wife Marie gave a cry
Of joy that rose to agony
She rushed the long lost one to meet,
And falling, fainted at his feet
He held the true wife's pallid charms
Slowly reviving in his arms,
And then he surely learned to know
A little of the grand, true heart
That through so many years of woe
Waited, and prayed, and watched apart,
Keeping love's light while he was gone,
Like sacred fire still burning on

While hearts are bargained for and sold,
In fashion's fortune-chasing whirl,
We simply sing the love and faith
Out-living absence strong as death,
Of one low-born Canadian girl.

A LEGEND OF BUCKINGHAM VILLAGE.

PART I

Away up on the River aux Lievres,
That is foaming and surging always,
And from rock to rock leaping through rapids,
Which are curtained by showers of spray;

That is eddying, whirling and chasing
All the white swells that break on the shore;
And then dashing and thundering onward,
With the sound of a cataract's roar.

And up here is the Buckingham village,
Which is built on these waters of strife,
It was here that the minister Babin,
Stood and preached of the Gospel of Life,

Of the message of love and of mercy,
The glad tidings of freedom and peace,
Of help for the hopeless and helpless,
For all weary ones rest and relief.

Was his message all noise like the rapids?
Was it empty and light as the foam?
Ah me! what thought the desolate inmate
Of the still upper room of his home?

One too many, one sad and unwelcome,
That reclined in his invalid's chair,
With her pale, busy fingers still knitting
Yarn mingled with sorrow and care.

And the brother stood up in the pulpit,
Stood up there in the neat village church,
And he preached of the pool of Bethesda,
Where the poor lame man lay in the porch

Waiting for the invisible mercy,
That shall healing and blessedness bring,
For those soft waters never were troubled,
Until swept by the life angel's wing.

But was that cottage home a Bethesda?
Was the porch up the dark narrow stair?
Were the thoughts of the lonely sister
Brighter made by a fond brother's care?

Ah who knows!—for the chair now is empty,
And the impotent girl is away,
While the night and the darkness covered
Such a deed from the light of the day.

Did she struggle for her dear existence?
Did the wild night winds bear off her cry?
Ere the pitiless, swift surging waters,
Caught and smothered her agony;

And again when the black, whirling eddy,
Drew her down to its cold, rocky bed,
Who was it that stood so remorseless
On the strong ice arched over her head?

Men may join and strike hands to hide it,
And agree to say evil is good;
Mingled with the loud roar of the waters,
Rings the cry of our lost sister's blood.

Mirth and song, and untimely music,
May sound up to the starry skies;
Nought of earth can stifle the gnawing
Of that dread worm that never dies.

PART II

Away in a distant city,
Is a stranger all unknown;
Far, far from the leaping river,
That is rushing past his home.

He lay in the stilly silence
Of a quiet, darkened room,
Feeling that the dread death angel
Stands in the gathering gloom.

One foot on shadowy waters,
One foot on the earthly shore;
He swears to the shrinking mortal,
That his time shall be no more.

The spray of the silent river,
Is cold beaded on his brow,
For Jordan's billowy swellings
Are bearing him onward now

He is floating into darkness,
Going with the shifting tide,
And there is the seat of judgment,
Waits him at the further side.

But his eyes are looking backward,
In pauses of mortal strife,
And he sees the quiet village,
Where he preached the word of life.

And he sees the pleasant cottage,
To which in the flush of pride,
The popular village pastor,
Brought home a most haughty bride

But ever there comes another,
With a pale and pleading face,
So helpless, and so unwelcome,
A burden and a disgrace

And the river roars and rushes,
Leaping past with fearful din,
Its ever foaming caldron
Suggesting a deadly sin.

Saying, "I am partially sheeted,
In the winter's ice and snow,
What's plunged in my dashing waters,
No mortal shall ever know"

So ever with nervous fingers,
He harnesses up his sleigh;
So ever with stealthy movements,
He travels the icy way.

And stops where the yawning chasm,
Shows the yawning wave beneath,
And she knows with sudden horror,
That she has been brought to her death

Her weak hands cling to his bosom,
His ears are thrilled with her cry;
When the last struggling strength went forth
In that shriek of agony.

So his most unwilling spirit,
Still travels memory's track,
Despair staring blindly forward,
Remorse ever dragging back.

Again he walks by the waters,
While innocent mortals sleep,
Asking the pitiless river,
The horrible deed to keep.

Spring comes and the ice is breaking,
Does it break before its time?
Then he knows on God's fair footstool
No shelter there is for crime.

For the rushing, tempting waters,
Have got an accusing roar;
The treacherous sweeping eddy
Has brought the crime to his door.

Then he lives over and over,
That moment of anguished dread,
When the cry arose—awestruck hands
Had found and borne oft his dead.

Thus he, conscience-lashed and goaded,
Feeling as the murderer feels,
Has reached the last, last spot of earth,
The Avenger at his heels

Ah me! to plunge in those swellings,
Along with that ghastly face,
Going out on unknown waters
In that clinging dread embrace

So he floated on to judgment,
What award may meet him there,
Who knows—but his earthly punishment
Was greater than he could bear

OTTAWA.

Hail! to the city sitting as a queen
Enthroned a cataract on either hand,
The voice of many waters in her ears,
And the great river tranquil at her feet,
Smoothing his locks and all his foamy mane
After his wild leap from the rifted rocks,
And while he fawns about her feet, she sits
A young Cybele diademed with towers,
So young yet on her sandals there is blood,
And all the river will not wash it out
Spilt at her feet for being true to her,
So young, and well she doth become her state,
We look, and know her born to be a queen,
Before the mother finger o'er the sea
Touched her, and made her royal with a touch;
For, seated where the thundering waters meet,
Spanned by her fingers, she can lay her hand
On two fair provinces, and call them hers;
Greater than those which swell and pride themselves
In long, loud titles in the older world;
The whirl and hum of industry are here,
And all the fragrance of the enriching pine;
And on the river in the wake of boats
That snort and prance like Neptune's battle steeds,
Pawing the water with impatient steps,
Passes our floating wealth that seeks the sea.

THE LAKE ALLUMETTE.

"One is not."

Have you seen the beautiful Allumette,
The magnificent pine-fringed lake,
In its splendour the sun about to set,
Ere the fair lady moon awake.

The waters are tinged with a golden glow,
With rose and ruby and purple bars;
Heaven's mantle flung on the lake below
Till it fades off beneath the stars.

The distant hills, robed in violet mist
Of the heavenly hues partake,
As they stand, with the sunlight crowned and kissed,
On guard round the beautiful lake.

Over the waters ride gay little boats,
Diamonds flash from the dipping oars;
Laughter and song's mingled melody floats
To ripple and die around the shores.

Life is so gay on the Lake Allumette,
Ah me! does its sky ever frown
On a place unmarked, unheeded, and yet
In that place my brother went down.

Sad hearted we sit by Lake Allumette,
Who saw him go down in the wave;
And question ourselves in anguished regret,
Did we make every effort to save?

For those who are left, to some one so dear.
We tried feebly warning to set,
We have failed, we look with sorrow and fear
For woe that must come by Lake Allumette.

HOW PRINCE ARTHUR WAS WELCOMED TO PEMBROKE.

Do you know the town Pembroke so loyal and long
And so worthy the praise of a poet in song?
Nestled down by the lake shore, that ripples and shines,
And hemmed in by the hills with their crowning of pines.
Now this town is that town so wondrous and fair,
Long thought to be but a chateau in the air,
Where the sons are all brave and the daughters all fair.

You may guess what great gladness there rang down the street,
Where the wise and the witty so neighbourly meet,
To compare their opinions to hear something new,
As their friends the Athenians of old used to do,
When the news was to all so gracious and good,
"There is coming to see us a Prince of the blood."
Then all our good people grew loyalty wild
To show love for the Queen as they welcomed her child.
Straightway counsel was ta'en as to what should be done
For to greet as befitted her Majesty's son,
In a way to bring credit and praise to the town.
"We must have an arch at the bridge, and a crown,
And 'Welcome to Arthur,' arranged all so fine
With balsam and tamarack, spruce and green pine;
But the crown shall be flowers, the fairest that blow,
Or are made by deft fingers, from paper you know,
And many a fair one who skilfully weaves
Wreaths and garlands, shall bring them of ripe maple leaves;
And then, as 'Jason Gould' that so snug little boat,
The most cosy, most homelike was ever afloat,
Will not quicken herself for a Prince or for two,
But will at her own pace the Mud Lake paddle through.
It will be about midnight, or later than that,
And as dark as the crown of your grandfather's hat,
When that ponderous boat waddles up to the pier,
A tired Prince will his Highness be when he gets here.
We'll illumine the town, from mansion to cell,
County buildings and cottages, home and hotel,
And the arch with its motto, that triumph of skill,
Shall be seen in its glory by light from the mill,
Which floor upon floor many windowed shall blaze
And light up each bud in the crown with its rays.
We shall have out that carriage, so costly and grand,
Fit to carry the one Royal Prince in this land;
And a crowd bearing torches shall light up the way,
Till along Supple's lane be as brillant as day
And to guard and escort him our brave volunteers
With their swords and their bayonets, which ought to be spears,
Shall wait at the landing for him, and the band
With the noise and the music they have at command,
Shall be heard in the distance before they are seen,
Rolling out the first greeting in "God save the Queen."
Well, the Prince over portages rattled and whirled,
Suspected he drew near the end of the world,
But right royally welcomed, surprised he lit down
In this dazzling, ambitious and long little town.
And the night air was rent with full many a cheer
For joy that the son of our Sovereign was here
And he heard every sound, and he saw every sight,
That the people had planned for to give him delight;
And he felt he was cared for with loyalty's care,
In this wonderful town, so far off, and so fair,
In the whole wide Dominion there is not a town
So loyal so lovely as this of our own
Broad Ottawa washes no happier place,
As it lies in sweet Allumette's tender embrace
Oh, to see it when autumn and sunset unite
To drape earth and sky with one robe of delight,
When the banners of heaven in the west are unrolled,
And the blue lake is barred off with purple and gold,
And the Isle, like the patriarch's favourite son,
Its coat many coloured and royal has on
Thus fair as a vision, and sweet as a dream,
It burst on the gaze of the son of our Queen,
In the glory of fair Indian summer all drest,
And this was the welcome they felt and expressed

THE WELCOME

We welcome thee Prince to the land of the pine,
For thy mother's sake welcome, as well as for thine,
This town highest up in the Ottawa vale,
With the voice of pine forests gives cheer, and all hail
Our welcome as rude as the mountains may be,
But that cheer is the willing voiced shout of the free
And though rude be our welcome, you'll find us, I ween,
Most lovingly loyal to country and Queen.
Come and see our sweet lake, when its waters' at rest
Chafe not round the islands that sleep on its breast
And our woods many tinted in glory arrayed,
Dyed in rainbows and sunsets illumine the shade.
Come and see our dark rocks frowning sterile and high,
Their brown shoulders bare and upheaved to the sky;
Come and see our grand forests, all echoing round
With the strokes that are bringing their pride to the ground;
Where thousands of workers bold, hardy and free,
Carve out wealth for themselves and an empire for thee
Our river now placid, now surging to foam,
Shall echo kind thoughts that will follow thee home.
All good wishes that tender and prayer like arise,
And blessings that fall as the dew from the skies,
Shall be breathed out for thee our young Prince of the blood,
Son of much loved Victoria and Albert the Good.
May thy heart be all fearless, thy life without stain,
As the saint and the hero are joined in thy name.
Forget not the people whose love thou hast seen
God bless thee Prince Arthur thou, son of our Queen

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR AN ONLY ONE

(CLARISSA HARLOW)

Seek not to calm my grief,
To stay the falling tear;
Have pity on me, ye my friends,
The hand of God is here.

She was my only one,
Oh, then my love how great!
Now she is gone, my heart and home
Are empty desolate

I thought not, in my love
That we were doomed to part,
Now I am childless, and my fate
Falls heavy on my heart

O Thou who gave the gift,
Who took the gift away,
Who only can heal up the wound,
Give answer while I pray!

Do Thou send comfort down,
All goodness as Thou art,
Even in Thy last passion, Thou
Didst soothe a mother's heart.

I would not take her back,
From Thee, from Heaven and bliss,
Though yearning for her twining arms,
And happy loving kiss

I miss her bounding step,
Her voice of bird like glee,
Yet thank Thee I had such a child
To give her back to Thee

Father, my child! my child,
Is laid beneath the sod!
and, oh! with quivering lips I try
To kiss the chastening rod

Father, Thy will be done
Oh make my will the same!
And teach me in this trying hour,
To glorify Thy name.

SERVANTS.

They are but servants, say the words of scorning,
As though they meant to say, we're finer clay,
Yet, all the universe holds solemn warning,
Against this pride in creatures of a day

In fashion's last new folly, flaunting slowly,
With white plumes tossing on the Sabbath air
They pass with scornful words a sister lowly.
Do scornful lips know anything of prayer?

Alas! poor human nature's inconsistence,
Up to God's house we go, that we be fed;
And there, as beggars begging for assistance,
Say "Give us, Lord, this day our daily bread."

Without a price, the priceless blessings buying
Which are laid up for us, with Christ in God;
To Him we come as little children crying,
That He may guide us by His staff and rod,

We leave His presence on the Sabbath morning,
Feeling forgiven, feeling satisfied;
Then pass our lowlier sisters full of scorning
Ruffling ourselves as those that dwell in pride.

Yet He to whom we come with wishes fervent,
When He came down as bearing our relief,
It was His will to come in form a servant,
Being despised, being acquaint with grief

Earth's mighty conquerors, it is said, have founded
Orders of merit, after fields were won.
And victors' brows the laurel wreath surrounded,
To tell of daring deeds most bravely done.

Trifles as fading as the classic laurel,
Became the guerdon of each mighty deed,
Titles and stars rewarded mortal peril,
And men for such as these would gladly bleed

But He, our holy, sinless, suffering Saviour,
When He sat down upon a conqueror's throne,
Ordained the soldiers of the cross that ever
They wear the name in which He victory won

Servants to do all things He hath commanded,
To bear the service which our Lord has borne,
To suffer for His name, with false words branded,
To pay with loving service bitter scorn

What was beforetime low, is now the highest,
And that is glory that the world calls shame,
Those who can say "I serve" to Him are nighest
Because the Son hath worn a servant's name

Lift up your heads heed not the words of scorning,
From those whose earnest life is not begun,
Blessed are they who on the judgment morning
Hear from the Master, "Servant, 'tis well done"

ALAS, MY BROTHER!

(P McD)

We waited for him, and the anxious days
Melted to years and floated slowly by
We spoke of him kind words of lofty praise,
Of yearning love and tender sympathy.

We laid by what was his with reverent care—
Started in dreams to greet him coming home—
But hope deferred left no relief but prayer,
And heart-sore longings breathed in one word—Come.

We never dreamed of murderous ambush laid
By savage redskins greedy for the prey—
Of him, our darling, in the forest laid
Alone, alone, ebbing his life away.

He who would not have harmed the meanest thing,
Who carried gentleness to such excess
That, to the stranger and the suffering,
His purse meant help, his touch was a caress.

Ah me! that cruel far off land of gold,
That lured him off beyond the ocean foam,
To roam a stranger among strangers cold—
His blank life only cheered by news from home.

The home that he was never more to see,
While yet his heart was planning his return,
Short, sharp and swift the message came, and he
Passed to his long home o'er the mystic bourne.

And while we watched for him the grass was green
Upon his grave, swept by the summer air;
There grow strange flowers—passes the hunter keen,
The stately caribou and grizly bear.

But never more his mother's eyes he'll bless,
Or with a fond embrace his sisters meet;
No brother's hand will he in welcome press,
Nor his hound's bay tell of his coming feet.

To us remains the mourner's never more,
And aching hearts and eyes with sorrow dim;
Thou who at Bethany their sorrow bore,
Draw nigh us also while we weep for him.

I WILL NOT BE COMFORTED BECAUSE ONE IS NOT

There is a gladness over all the earth,
For summer is abroad in breezy mirth,
Nature rejoices and the heavens are glad,
And I alone am desolate and sad,
For I sit mourning by an empty cot,
Refusing comfort because one is not.

And I will mourn because I am bereaved,
Others have suffered others too have grieved
Over hopes broken even as mine are broke,
By a swift unexpected bitter stroke,
And I must weep as weeping Jacob prest,
To grieving lips his last ones princely vest

You tell me cease weeping, to resign
Unto the Father's a will this will of mine,
You say my lamb is on the Shepherd's breast,
My flower blooms in gardens of the blest,
I know it all I say, Thy will be done
Yet I must mourn for him—my son! my son!

TO A FATHERS MEMORY

(J. M. D.)

I thank Thee Father that I feel Thee near,
That it is hand of Thine that's raised to smite,
Oh, make Thy loving kindness to appear,
Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right!

Poor woe-worn watchers! he is going home;
No skill can save him, and no love can keep;
He served his generation—he is gone,
And gathered to his fathers, falls asleep.

We've bitter cups to drain—but his is dry;
Burdens of care—but care has left his breast;
Tears—but they never more shall dim his eye;
Labour,—but he has entered into rest.

Oh, to be with him, toil and care all past,
Sleeping, dear mother earth, within thy breast,
I, too, could lay my hand in thine, O death,
And gladly enter where the weary rest.

ORSON'S FAREWELL.

(ORSON GROUT),

One of the victims of the Southern Prisons.

Sit by me comrade, thou and I have stood
Shoulder to shoulder on the battle-field,
And bore us there like men of British blood,
But comrade this is death, and I must yield.

You have been leal, my friend, and true and tried
In battle, in captivity of me;
Since we went up to worship side by side
O'er the green hills I never more shall see.

From this dread prison pen, thou shalt go forth;
But I, I know it, never more shall rise,
Nor see my home in the cool pleasant North,
Nor see again my wife's dark mournful eyes.

Nor see my children, every shining head
And merry eye, for what know they of grief;
'Twill still their play to know that I am dead;
But childhood's woe, thank God, is always brief.

Try to cheer Annie in her widowed woe;
Let her hear words of comfort at thy mouth;
But, friend, I charge thee, do not let her know
Aught of the tender mercies of the South.

Tell her that I have never been alone,
One like the Son of Man was by my side;
The Everlasting arms were round me thrown
Of my dear Lord who for our freedom died.

I don't regret, that though of British birth,
I have been true to the cause unto death;
'Tis not alone the Union, or the North,
It is the people's cause o'er all the earth.

And it shall prosper, and this slaughter pen
Shall be a monument of Southern chivalry
Before the world;—thus proving to all men
Slave power begets and sanctions cruelty.

From here went up for years the bondman's cry;
In the same glaring sun and rotting dew,
The white war-prisoners' cry of agony
To the great God of Battles rises too.

And He, who was by suffering perfected,
Watches the nation's life, the captive's pain;
And from the strife, beside her martyred dead,
With shield blood-cleansed from slavery's broad stain,

Columbia shall arise renewed, and wear
Her coronet of stars, and round her fold
Her robe of stripes, by righteousness made fair,
Which still exalts the nations as of old.

But I shall rest upon the other side,
Rest in that place of which no tongue can tell,
And thitherward my wife and babes He'll guide;
Friend, life's for thee, and death for me, Farewell'

DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN.

In the Capitol is mourning,
Mourning and woe this day,
For a nation's heart is throbbing—
A great man has passed away

It was yester'even only
Rejoicing wild and high,
Waving flags and shouting people
Proclaimed a victory

For our God had led our armies,
In the cause of truth and right,
It was, therefore, the brave Southren
Had bowed to Northern might.

Then flashed o'er the land the tidings,
The flush of joy to quell,
Fallen is the people's hero,
As William the Silent fell.

The stealthy step of the panther,
The tiger's cruel eye;
A flash—and the wail of a nation
Rang in that terrified cry.

Shame falls on the daring Southren,
Woe on the Southren land,
The stars and bars are quartered
With the murderer's bloody hand

Well—he stood to his duty firmly,
Rebellion's waves rolled high,
He dared to be true and simple
To battle a gilded lie

And the life has died out of treason,
Died with oppression and wrong,
The shame is wiped from the nation
Worn as a jewel so long

But he, in the hour of triumph
Who wise and firmly stood
Planning for them large mercies,
Lies weltering in his blood.

For a cause so vile meet ending,
To set with a murder stain,
The "sum of human villainy"
Should die with the brand of Cain

Lay him down with a nation's weeping,
Lay him down with the heart's deep prayer
That the mantle of the martyr
Fall on the vacant chair

ADDRESSES.

TO HON. MALCOM CAMERON.

By many a bard the Cameron clan is sung,
Their march, their charge, their war cry, their array;
Their laurels that from bloody fields have sprung,
Where they have kept the sternest foes at bay.

The flowing tartan and the eagle plume,
The gathering, and the glories of the clan,
Let others sing, we will not so presume,
We bring our humble tribute to the man.

The man with heart benevolent and kind,
The man with earnest and persuasive tongue;
Would there were many like him heart and mind
To combat with this fashionable wrong;

Who longs to remedy these human ills,
Feeling God made of one blood all the earth;
Whose sympathies have passed his native hills,
And spread beyond the clan that gave him birth.

Is it not sad when in high places so
No sense of honour or of shame remains;
Men who make laws while reeling to and fro,
Statesmen with swaying step and muddled brains!

For scenes disgrace our new-built palace walls,
And Canada on some reformer waits;
Shall vice within the Legislative Halls
Be rampant as the lions on the gates?

Oh for a man of action and of prayer,
Who feels this sin a national disgrace;
A man who has the strength to do and dare
The pluck and courage of the Celtic race.

If thou art he, thou'rt welcome to the van,
To battle for the right in time of need;
To win fresh laurels for the Cameron clan,
And thousands bid thee heartily God speed.

ERIN'S ADDRESS

TO THE HON. THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE.

O thou son of the dark locks and eloquent tongue,
With the brain of a statesman sagacious, and strong,
And the heart of a poet, half love, and half fire,
Thou hast many to love thee and more to admire;
But I bore thee, and nursed thee, and joyed at the fame
Which the sons of the stranger have spread round thy name.
I am Erin, green Erin, the "Gem of the sea."
Listen, then, to thy mother's voice, D'Arcy McGee.

Since the crown from my head, and the sceptre are gone
To the hand of the stranger, who held what he won,
I have borne much of sorrow, of wrong and of shame,
I've been spoken against with scorning and blame;
But still have my daughters been spotless and fair,
And my sons have been dauntless to do and to dare;
For as great as thou art and most precious to me,
Still thou art not my only one, D'Arcy McGee.

At the bar, in the senate, in cassock or gown,
Our foes being judges, they've got them renown;
On the red field of battle, of glory, of death,
They've been true to their colours and true to their faith;
And where bright swords were clashing and carnage ran high,
They have taught the stern Saxon they know how to die.
Well, no wit, poet, statesman or hero can be
More dear to my heart than thou, D'Arcy McGee.

Wild heads may plan glories for Erin their mother,
Weak plans and wicked plans chasing each other;
To me worse than the loss of a sceptre and crown
Is a spot that might tarnish my children's renown,
'Tis the laurels they win are the jewels I prize,
They're the core of my heart and the light of my eyes;
For my children are gems and crown jewels to me,
And art thou not one of them, D'Arcy McGee!

I had one son, and, oh, need I mention his name!
He who well knew where lay both our weakness and shame;
His true, tender heart sought to measure and know
This thing, most accursed, formed of babbling and woe;
And his life did he dedicate freely, to slay
The monster that made my bright children his prey;
In the place where the wine cup flows deadly and free,
The bane of the gifted, oh D'Arcy McGee.

For so well hath the father of lies tried to fling
A false glory around it, so hiding the sting,
Saying wit gets its flash, and high genius its fire,
From the fiend that drags genius and wit through the mire
Ah 'it biteth, it stingeth, it eateth away,
And our best and our brightest it takes for its prey,
'Tis the bowl of the helot, no cup for the free,
As thou very well knowest, my D'Arcy McGee.

Hast thou risen my loved one and cast from thy name
All the shadows that darken thy life with their shame;
Thou hast raised thyself up, against wind, against tide,
Thou art high, thou art honoured, my joy and my pride;
Now the song of the drunkard is chased from thy place,
And my pride is relieved from this touch of disgrace.
Thou wilt help to make Erin "great, glorious and free,"
And I bless thee my silver-tongued D'Arcy McGee.

NORA TO DAVID HERBISON.

There's a place in the North where the bonnie broom grows,
Where winding through green meadows the silver Maine flows,
Every lark as it soars and sings that sweet spot knows;
For the mate for whom it sings,
Till the clear blue heaven rings,
Is brooding on its nest mid the daisies in the grass;
And that psalmist sweet, the thrush,
And the linnet in the bush,
Tell the children all their secrets in song as they pass.

Oh brightly shines the sun there where wee birdies sing,
A glamour's o'er the buds in the green lap of spring,
In happy, happy laughter children's voices ring!
Like some fair enchanted ground,
In memory it is found,
Where my childhood's golden hours of happiness were spent;
There within a leafy nook,
I have pored upon a book
Till romance and fairy lore with every thought were blent.

I mind how fair the world was one bright summer day,
Sitting in a shady place better seemed than play;
Childhood's golden memories never fade away;
My child friend most sweet and fair,
My bright Lily she was there;
We read and mused in silence and spoke our thoughts by turns;
Lily, with her lofty look,
Turned oftenest to her book,
The book that lay between us was the peasant poet Burns.

The heaven-gifted man with winsome witching art,
Who touches at his will the kindly human heart,
'Till it throbs with joy like pain and tears begin to start;
He so tenderly touched ours
With his melting magic powers,
Made feelings which he felt within our bosoms spring,
Where he wished for Scotia's sake,
Some plan or book to make,
Or to write the bonnie songs his country loves to sing.

Fancies wild were ours on that day so long ago,
Stirred by Burns's genius, for we had learned to know
The beauty of sweet Erin and something of her woe;
And in song we longed to tell
Of the land we loved so well,
Singing words of hope and cheer, wailing each sad mishap,
Like the daisies on the sod,
With their faces turned to God,
Clung we to the island green that nursed us on her lap.

I said to Lily, fair, my hand among her curls,
If we were Red Branch Knights, or high and noble Earls,
Or poets grand like Burns, instead of simple girls,
We might do some noble deed,
Or touch some tuneful reed,
Something for the land we love to bring her high renown,
The land where we were born;
Is spoken of with scorn,
Her children's songs should praise her, her children's deeds should
crown.

My fair and stately Lily how thy hand sought mine
Clasped it warm and tender with sympathy in thine,
As I wished that we could make our 'streams and burmes shine'
There's many a ruin old,
There's many a castle bold,
There's Sleive mis with his head in mist, here's the silver Maine,
But who of them will sing
Till the whole world shall ring,
With the melody, and ask to hear it once again?

If one of her own children standing boldly forth,
With eyes to see her beauty, a heart to know her worth,
Would fling the charm of song o'er the green robe of the North
Lily said, sweet friend there's one,
And his name is Herbison,
Who sings of Northern Erin in sunlight and in storm,
Of the legend and the tale,
Of the banshees awful wail,
Of Dunluce upon the sea, of the castle of Galgorm

Of the gallant deeds of the all but vanished race,
The high O'Neils who kept with princely state their place
Of their white armed daughters in beauty's woeful race
In that joyful youthful time
All my pulses beat to rhyme,
I thought what you were doing that I would also do,
I would praise the bonnie North,
And draw its legends forth
From cottage and from castle the pleasant country through

I'd make the land I loved in poesy to shine,
The Maine should flow along in "many a tuneful line,"
Songs praising hills and streams full sweetly should be mine,
And the legends I would sing,
From lip to lip should ring,
My native land should ask for, and hear my humble name;
When like her tuneful son,
Green laurels I had won,
I'd think her love for me was better far than fame.

Blessed be the green recess by the sweet Maine water where
I a little child with my child friend sweet and fair
Built with golden fancies this castle in the air!
My child friend is at rest,
Erin's shamrock's on her breast,
I her little minstrel am all unknown to fame,
For the songs are all unsung,
And not a northern tongue
Has spoken once in praise my very unknown name

But I know heroic souls beyond my feeble praise,
I know of calm endurance like the great of other days,
High deeds for battle song, worth a poet's noblest lays,
Of the pathos of the strife
In the lowly walks of life,
Of many an unknown hero that has won the victor's crown
And the lovely, lovely land,
Landscape fair, and castle grand,
Worthy the coming bard who will sing of their renown.

I love thee well, sweet Erin, though fate led another way;
I'll call thee still, mavourneen, when head and heart are grey;
Another one will say and sing what I have failed to say;
But this very day to me,
There has come across the sea
Some pleasant verses bearing a well remembered name;
That has done for Erin's land
What I only thought and planned,
And won a place in Erin's heart that I can never claim.

So unknown beside a pine-fringed lake away beyond the sea,
Half in gladness of remembrance, half in wakened childish glee
I stretch my hand in homage and kindredship to thee,
I greet thee this bright day
From three thousand miles away,
And to thy well earned laurels I'd add a sprig of bay
Glad to know thou'rt rhyming yet,
For thy readers can't forget
Erin's genial loving son,
Poet of the steadfast North kindly David Herbison

DEATH OF D'ARCY McGEE

He stood up in the house to speak,
With calm unruffled brow,
And never were his burning words
More eloquent than now

Fresh from the greatest victory
That mortal man can win
The triumph against fearful odds.
Over besetting sin

'Twas this gave to his eloquence
That thrilling trumpet tone
Moving all hearts with those bright thoughts
Vibrating through his own

Thoughts strong, and wise, and statesmanlike,
Warm with the love of Right
That gave his wit its keenest edge,
His words their greatest might

He little thought his last speech closed,
That his career was o'er,
That those who hung upon his words
Should hear his voice no more.

He walked home tranquilly and slow,
Secure, and unaware,
That there was murder in the hush
Of the still midnight air.

"Tis morning," said he, knowing not
That he had done with time;
That a bloody hand would our country stain
With another useless crime.

He stood before a portal closed
To him for evermore,
Behind him with uncreaking hinge
Oped the eternal door.

And ere the east grew red again,
His life blood's purple flow
Had made that pavement holy ground,
And filled the land with woe.

My country! Oh my country!
What is to thee the gain?
Wilt nourish trees of liberty
In blood so foully slain?

LINES TO A SHAMROCK

A SONG OF EXILE

A withered shamrock, yet to me 'tis fair
As the sweet rose to other eyes might be,
Because its leaves spread in my native air,
And the same land gave birth to it and me.

They were as plentiful as drops of dew
In our green meadows sprinkled everywhere,
Heedless I wandered o'er them life was new,
Now as a friend I greet thee shamrock fair

Because I dwelt with my own people then,
Erin's bright eyes, and kindly hearts and true,
That from my cradle loved me, and again
We'll never meet—spoken our last adieu

I am a stranger here, I have not seen
One friendly face of all that I have known,
And my heart mourns for thee my island green,
Because I am a stranger and alone

So thou art welcome as a friend to me,
Tell me where lay the sod that brought thee forth,
Idly I wonder as I look at thee
If thou hast come, as I did, from the North?