One morning of the first sad Fall, Poor Adam and his bride Sat in the shade of Eden's wall,
'Tis over, Moses! All is lost! I hear the bells a-ringing; Of Pharaoh and his Red Sea host
O thicker, deeper, darker growing, The solemn vista to the tomb Must know henceforth another shadow,
The name the Gallic exile bore, St. Malo! from thy ancient mart, Became upon our Western shore
PRELUDE Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought,
Once more, dear friends, you meet beneath A clouded sky Not yet the sword has found its sheath,
I. "And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend?" My sister asked our guest one winter's day.
"A noteless stream, the Birchbrook runs Beneath its leaning trees; That low, soft ripple is its own,
We praise not now the poet's art, The rounded beauty of his song; Who weighs him from his life apart
Bear him, comrades, to his grave; Never over one more brave Shall the prairie grasses weep,
Not vainly did old poets tell, Nor vainly did old genius paint God's great and crowning miracle,
Still linger in our noon of time And on our Saxon tongue The echoes of the home-born hymns
Dry the tears for holy Eva, With the blessed angels leave her; Of the form so soft and fair
He has done the work of a true man, Crown him, honor him, love him. Weep, over him, tears of woman,
The sunlight glitters keen and bright, Where, miles away, Lies stretching to my dazzled sight
O river winding to the sea! We call the old time back to thee; From forest paths and water-ways
O thou, whose presence went before Our fathers in their weary way, As with Thy chosen moved of yore
O Holy Father! just and true Are all Thy works and words and ways, And unto Thee alone are due
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone
Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sleeping; Around it still the sumachs grow,
As Adam did in Paradise, To-day the primal right we claim Fair mirror of the woods and skies,
Last week the Lord be praised for all His mercies To His unworthy servant! I arrived Safe at the Mission, via Westport; where
No Berserk thirst of blood had they, No battle-joy was theirs, who set Against the alien bayonet
One Sabbath day my friend and I After the meeting, quietly Passed from the crowded village lanes,
Beneath the moonlight and the snow Lies dead my latest year; The winter winds are wailing low
The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind
I mourn no more my vanished years Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears,
Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark I would question thee, Alone in the shadow drear and stark
A picture memory brings to me I look across the years and see Myself beside my mother's knee.
The winding way the serpent takes The mystic water took, From where, to count its beaded lakes,
O Ary Scheffer! when beneath thine eye, Touched with the light that cometh from above, Grew the sweet picture of the dear Lord's love,
The years are but half a score, And the war-whoop sounds no more With the blast of bugles, where
We give thy natal day to hope, O Country of our love and prayer! Thy way is down no fatal slope,
A bending staff I would not break, A feeble faith I would not shake, Nor even rashly pluck away
Friend of mine! whose lot was cast With me in the distant past; Where, like shadows flitting fast,
Still, as of old, in Beavor's Vale, O man of God! our hope and faith The Elements and Stars assail,
Greystone, Aug. 4, 1886. Once more, O all-adjusting Death! The nation's Pantheon opens wide;
Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons,
I did but dream. I never knew What charms our sternest season wore. Was never yet the sky so blue,
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured
Sunlight upon Judha's hills! And on the waves of Galilee; On Jordan's stream, and on the rills
They sat in silent watchfulness The sacred cypress-tree about, And, from beneath old wrinkled brows,
He had bowed down to drunkenness, An abject worshipper: The pride of manhood's pulse had grown
O Friends! with whom my feet have trod The quiet aisles of prayer, Glad witness to your zeal for God
The goodman sat beside his door One sultry afternoon, With his young wife singing at his side
Where the Great Lake's sunny smiles Dimple round its hundred isles, And the mountain's granite ledge
"O for a knight like Bayard, Without reproach or fear; My light glove on his casque of steel,
The burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill, Whose summit, in the hot noontide,
From Institutes of Manu. The soul itself its awful witness is. Say not in evil doing, "No one sees,"
The Khan came from Bokhara town To Hamza, santon of renown. "My head is sick, my hands are weak;
Wildly round our woodland quarters Sad-voiced Autumn grieves; Thickly down these swelling waters
A strong and mighty Angel, Calm, terrible, and bright, The cross in blended red and blue
When Freedom, on her natal day, Within her war-rocked cradle lay, An iron race around her stood,
The wave is breaking on the shore, The echo fading from the chime; Again the shadow moveth o'er
Gift from the cold and silent Past! A relic to the present cast, Left on the ever-changing strand
Above, below, in sky and sod, In leaf and spar, in star and man, Well might the wise Athenian scan
"A! fredome is a nobill thing! Fredome mayse man to haif liking. Fredome all solace to man giffis;
I. Not without envy Wealth at times must look On their brown strength who wield the reaping-hook."
Saint Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herds Of Ballymena, wakened with these words 'Arise, and flee
Robert Rawlin! Frosts were falling When the ranger's horn was calling Through the woods to Canada.
Ho! workers of the old time styled The Gentle Craft of Leather! Young brothers of the ancient guild,
"All ready?" cried the captain; "Ay, ay!" the seamen said; "Heave up the worthless lubbers,
My ear is full of summer sounds, Of summer sights my languid eye; Beyond the dusty village bounds
In the outskirts of the village On the river's winding shores Stand the Occidental plane-trees,
Beneath the low-hung night cloud That raked her splintering mast The good ship settled slowly,
Beside a stricken field I stood; On the torn turf, on grass and wood, Hung heavily the dew of blood.
From Alton Bay to Sandwich Dome, From Mad to Saco river, For patriarchs of the primal wood
From Alton Bay to Sandwich Dome, From Mad to Saco river, For patriarchs of the primal wood
Yes, let them gather! Summon forth The pledged philanthropy of Earth. From every land, whose hills have heard
With a copy of Woolman's journal. Maiden! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye,
You flung your taunt across the wave We bore it as became us, Well knowing that the fettered slave
Men! if manhood still ye claim, If the Northern pulse can thrill, Roused by wrong or stung by shame,
O state prayer-founded! never hung Such choice upon a people's tongue, Such power to bless or ban,
O Christ of God! whose life and death Our own have reconciled, Most quietly, most tenderly