Charles Sangster

By England's side we stand, We grasp her royal hand, And pay her rightful homage through her Son;

I am happier for the Spring; For my heart is like a bird That has many songs to sing,

Bird of the fanciful plumage, That foldest thy wings in the west, Imbuing the shimmering ocean

That morn our hearts were like artesian wells, Both deep and calm, and brimming with pure love. And in each one, like to an April day,

If seasons, like the human race, had souls, Then two artistic spirits live within The Chameleon mind of Autumn - these,

OCTOBER 13TH, 1859.* One voice, one people, one in heart And soul, and feeling, and desire!

Who'll dive for the dead men now, Since Colin is gone? Who'll feel for the anguished brow,

Her thoughts are sweet glimpses of heaven, Her life is that heaven brought down; Oh, never to mortal was given

"They run! they run!" - "Who run?"    Not they Who faced that decimating fire As coolly as if human ire

Dear Carrie, were we truly wise, And could discern with finer eyes, And half-inspired sense,

England's Hope and England's Heir! Head and crown of Britain's glory, Be thy future half so fair

"God bless the darling Eva!" was my prayer. A pure, unconscious depth of earnestness Was in her eyes, so indescribable

Thank God I love the Flowers! Mute voices of the Spring, That gladden all her bowers

Underneath the maple-tree Gertrude worked her filigree, All the summer long;

Sounds of rural life and labour! Not the notes of pipe and tabour, Not the clash of helm and sabre

We never say, "Good Night;" For our eager lips are fleeter Than the tongue, and a kiss is sweeter

Old Grandpere gat in the corner, With his grandchild on his knee, Looking up at his wrinkled visage,

When the heavens throb and vibrate All along their silver veins, To the mellow storm of music

PRELUDE. The Stars are heaven's ministers; Right royally they teach

I think through the long, long evenings, Such thoughts of intensest pain, And I hope and watch for her coming,

Full on the wave the moonlight weeps, To quiet its weary breast; Cruelly cold the mad wave leaps,

I. "Oh for a pen of light, a tongue of fire, That every word might burn in living flame

In the mildest, greenest grove Blest by sprite or fairy, Where the melting echoes rove,

Young Love sat in a rosy bower, Towards the close of a summer day; At the evening's dusky hour,

Like a bold, adventurous swain, Just a year ago to-day, I launched my bark on a radiant main,

Boy! this world has ever been A bright, glad world to me; Through each dark and checkered scene

"Truth lights our minds as sunrise lights the world. The heart that shuts out truth, excludes the light That wakes the love of beauty in the soul;

At the wheel plied Mariline, Beauteous and self-serene, Never dreaming of that mien

O God! forgive the erring thought, The erring word and deed, And in thy mercy hear the Christ

The winds are piping loud to-night, And the waves roll strong and high; God pity the watchful mariner

Alice, I need not tell you that the Art That copies Nature, even at its best, Is but the echo of a splendid tone,

When the evening broods quiescent Over mountain, vale and lea, And the moon uplifts her crescent

Oh, I'd be a Fairy King, With my vassals brave and bold; We'd hunt all day,

Day by day, with startling fleetness, Life speeds away; Love, alone, can glean its sweetness,

Sons of the race whose sires Aroused the martial flame That filled with smiles

We have a joke whenever we meet, Clara and I; Prattle and laughter, and kisses sweet,

My soul goes out to meet her, and my heart Flings wide the portals of its love, and yearns To have her enter its serene retreat.

'Tis summer still, yet now and then a leaf Falls from some stately tree.    True type of life! How emblamatic of the pangs that grief

Oh, holy sabbath morn! thrice blessed day Of solemn rest, true peace, and earnest prayer. How many hearts that never knelt to pray

The birds are singing merrily, and here A squirrel claims the lordship of the woods, And scolds me for intruding.    At my feet

Another day of rest, and I sit here Among the trees, green mounds, and leaves as sere As my own blasted hopes. There was a time

Blest Spirit of Calm that dwellest in these woods! Thou art a part of that serene repose That ofttimes lingers in the solitudes

Through every sense a sweet balm permeates, As music strikes new tones from every nerve. The soul of Feeling enters at the gates

Our life is like a forest, where the sun Glints down upon us through the throbbing leaves; The full light rarely finds us. One by one,

Above where I am sitting, o'er these stones, The ocean waves once heaved their mighty forms; And vengeful tempests and appalling storms

Poor snail, that toilest at my weary feet, Thou, too, must have thy burden! Life is sweet If we would make it so. How vast a load

Oh, that I were the spirit of these wilds! I'd make the zephyrs dance for my delight, And lead a life as happy as a child's.

The moon shone down on fair Eliza's face, And made it beautiful. No fitter place Could she have chosen for her gracious smile;

I've almost grown a portion of this place, I seem familiar with each mossy stone; Even the nimble chipmunk passes on,

There is no sadness here. Oh, that my heart Were calm and peaceful as these dreamy groves! That all my hopes and passions, and deep loves,

How my heart yearns towards my friends at home! Poor suffering souls, whose lives are like the trees, Bent, crushed, and broken in the storm of life!

Last night I heard the plaintive whippoorwill, And straightway Sorrow shot his swiftest dart. I know not why, but it has chilled my heart

My footsteps press where, centuries ago, The Red Men fought and conquered; lost and won. Whole tribes and races, gone like last year's snow,

THERE WAS A TIME - and that is all we know! No record lives of their ensanguined deeds: The past seems palsied with some giant blow,

I do not wonder that the Druids built Their sacred altars in the sacred groves. Fit place to worship God. The native guilt

I sat within the temple of her heart, And watched the living Soul as it passed through, Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure.

Intense young soul, that takest hearts by storm, And chills them into sorrow with a look! Some minds are open as a well-read book;

Dark, dismal day - the first of many such! The wind is sighing through the plaintive trees, In fitful gusts of a half-frenzied woe;

Spread lightly, virgin shower, Your winding-sheet of snow; Winter has lost his power,

Erratic Soul of some great Purpose, doomed To track the wild illimitable space, Till sure propitiation has been made

Spirit of Song! whose whispers Delight my pensive brain, When will the perfect harmony

I have laid my cheek to Nature's, placed my puny hand in hers, Felt a kindred spirit warming all the life-blood of my face, Moved amid the very foremost of her truest worshippers,

I. Autumn, like an old poet in a haze Of golden visions, dreams away his days,

A joy from my soul's departed, A bliss from my heart is flown, As weary, weary-hearted,

My mind is like a troubled sea O'er which the winds forever sweep; Within its depths, eternally,

I stood upon the Plain, That had trembled when the slain, Hurled their proud, defiant curses at the battle-heated foe,

His heart's a burning censer, filled with spice From fairer vales than those of Araby, Breathing such prayers to heaven, that the nice

All peacefully gliding, The waters dividing, The indolent b'tteau moved slowly along,

Over the snows, Buoyantly goes The lumberers' bark canoe;

All my mind has sat in state, Pond'ring on the deathless Soul: What must be the Perfect Whole,

I asked the first stray swallow of the spring, "Where hast thou been through all the winter drear? Beneath what distant skies did'st fold thy wing,

I yearn for the Unattainable; For a glimpse of a brighter day, When hatred and strife,

Within Fancy's Halls I sit, and quaff Rich draughts of the Wine of Song, And I drink, and drink,

Early each spring the little wren Came scolding to his nest of moss; We knew him by his peevish cry,

Her love is like the hardy flower That blooms amid the Alpine snows; Deep-rooted in an icy bower,

Within thine eyes two spirits dwell, The sweetest and the purest That ever wove Love's mystic spell,

I long for diviner regions, - The spirit would reach its goal; Though, this world hath surpassing beauty,

Young again!    Young again! Beating heart!    I deemed that sorrow, With its torture-rack of pain,