Joseph Horatio Chant

Brave soul, 'twere well if all the same would say, And artists aim their patron's wish t'obey. What signifies a wart, or e'en a scar?

The well-built house with walls of brick, or stone, May tremble some if struck by the cyclone; The most established saint may trials feel,

The gem is not this ode itself; Hardly can it aspire so high. Earth has its gems; but all its wealth,

As the caged eagle neared the mountain range, O'er which he oft had soared on pinions strong, He clapped his wings, moved by some impulse strange,

I know in part, but know not all, The part I know is known; What know I not I hope with Paul

Man is like God in miniature, When he is at his best; His motives and impulses pure,

With purpose strong to do or die, The race of life he ran, With love supreme to God on high,

This world is but the shadow Of the world that is to be, A ripple on the surface

My neighbor's farm and mine lie side by side, And nothing should our mutual trust divide; But they who made th' original survey

O God, I am ashamed to die, But not the least afraid; Tho' death's dark shadow draweth nigh,

I stand to-day on higher ground Than ever reached before, Yet from this summit I have found,

Two men, well versed in use of arms, Set out, 'tis said, in search of game. Each felt that hunting had its charms,

O beautiful sky of every hue; Golden and purple, crimson and blue, With some sombre lines thrown in between,

Is brotherhood to flesh confined? Is there no kinship of the soul? To have it thus, I am resigned,

Buttercups and daisies growing everywhere, In the field of clover, on the hillside fair, And in lovely valley, tilled with greatest care.

Dear Canada, our native land, Our love for thee grows day by day; Our fathers left the olden strand,

Up to Dunbar our Cromwell went, Not to invade was his intent; But they who first King Charles sold

The yeoman lays aside his soil-stained smock, And from his herd selects a trusty steed, And sallies forth to help in hour of need;

Somewhere in the realms supernal Is a home prepared for me, Where my joys shall be eternal,

Father of Universal Man, Where'er in this wide world he roam, Not known to thee by kith or clan,

When presses hard my load of care, And other friends from me depart, I want a friend my grief to share,

'Tis well to have a goal in mind, A life-aim, high and true; Clear as the day, and well defined,

I fear not, my Father, the tempest's loud roar, Nor dread the huge breakers on the rock-girded shore; Thy presence is with me, my refuge is near,

The air is chill with the frost of doubt, And men's hearts are sadly failing; They do not hear the great Victor's shout;

From God's all bounteous hand descend Rare gifts in rich effusion, And with those gifts no poisons blend,

Every flower that decks the way, Whether it be dun or gay, Fills a place in God's great plan,

Thy plan is best, though it may not agree With my conceptions of my needs and rights, And faith may fail to scale its azure heights;

(Isaiah 33:16) Tossed about in strange commotion Like the surface of the ocean

Every tear that dims the eye, Or bedews the careworn cheek, Will our God, who reigns on high,

A painter, high in worldy fame, Was sought to reproduce by art A likeness of the man whose name

When the French soldier from the field returned, Begrimed with smoke and blood, he felt content, As from Napoleon he this fact had learned,

In gentle showers the rain descends, And softly falls the dew. The dewdrop with the raindrop blends;

O Thou, who art the source of joy and light, The great Revealer of the will Divine; Thyself Divine, all nature owns Thy might,

Beneath the surface of a shallow lake, Where grasses rank and mammoth rushes grow, And playful fish their bright fins nimbly shake,

Those men are deemed heroes who rush on the foe Regardless of danger, and seek not to know What others may do;

The night of affliction, with its long hours of sadness, Will soon pass away to be remembered no more; And the weeping will end in a morning of gladness;

"Thank God, we have kept the flag floating."--General White. Some men, like French, display much dash; They boldly rush upon the foe,

The fields lie bare before me now, The fruit is gathered in, Not even seen a grazing cow,

Our lives seem filled with things of little worth; A thousand petty cares arise each day Which bring our soaring thoughts from heaven to earth,

O Thou Eternal One, look down Upon an erring child of earth; Thy handiwork with knowledge crown,

The armies met on Marston Moor, 'Midst lightning's flash and thunder's roar; As murky clouds sweep o'er the sky,

She brought her alabaster flask Well-filled with precious nard; Nor did she deem the act a task,

Remembrance of the past will joy impart If in that past the conscience was supreme; But if the soul be made an auction mart,

The battleship its anchor weighs, And belches forth its thunder; Its commodore all classes praise,

My lot on earth is not all mirth, Nor is it constant gloom; Some joys decay and fall away,

My old sweetheart is away to-day; I feel as I did of old, In my courting days, when far away

My pansy pets are sleeping well Beneath their quilt of snow; How they can breathe I cannot tell,

My sweet primrose with thy open face, And with fringe-like leaves, without a trace Of coarseness, either in flower or stem,

I would not cherish a wish or thought Displeasing, Lord, to Thee; Thy will is good, and with wisdom fraught,

We strolled down by the river side, My sister Nell and I, To watch the waters onward glide,

Upon the "table-rock" I stand, And gaze into the depths profound, In ecstacy at sights so grand,

"Mamma, what noises do I hear? They keep me wide awake." "The chirping crickets, little dear;

Some men there are who stand so straight, So equipoised, that others' fate Seems to depend on their behest;

My greatest grief is not my own; That often proves a blessing, For in my grief God's care is shown,

An artist skilled beyond the sons of men With pleasure scanned the pictures on the wall, Rare works of art, each one pronounced a gem,

A Prize Birthday Poem, 1885. We do not sing of vast domain-- Empires as vast as ours are seen,

A group of mounted officers Ride up and fall in line; Their gleaming swords hang at their sides,

The hills are clad in purple and in gold, The ripened maize is gathered in the shock, The frost has kissed the nuts, their shells unfold,

I saw her first when she was old, Her form devoid of grace; Her locks that once were yellow gold

A stately church by pious hands erected long ago, Was found to lack a vesper bell, by which the poor might know The hour of prayer, the hour of mass, and who had lately died,

Each human life with mysteries is replete; They press upon us in its early dawn, And multiply apace as years roll on,

Five hundred years have nearly passed away Since that glad morn, when o'er fair Bethl'hem's plain A light resplendent as the glow of day,

The waters of the Big Bear creek Glide slowly on their way; The western lakes they surely seek,

The winter through I lay asleep, Unconscious and unseen; The howling winds disturbed me not,

A grand stairway do these clouds appear As they heavenward rise, tier upon tier, With clearly-marked space of blue between,

Looking o'er this written page, Many blurs and blots are seen; Crooked strokes, at every stage--

The end we sought is not attained, But wisdom has been won, And thus a higher goal is gained.

Some flowers are brighter far in hue Than others by their side, But God baptizes all with dew,

Feathery frost on the window-pane, Who placed you there? "I cannot explain," Each little feather at once replied;

The grandest theme for tongue, or pen, Is not the heavens supernal; Nor mighty deeds of God-like men,

Heroic deeds in every age Command the world's esteem; Each finds a place in history's page,

The highest goal is not success, If that be made the aim; But faithfulness, tho' counted less,

Look down, ye Alleghenies, into the Conemaugh vale, And see the rising waters, and hear the bitter wail; The swollen streams now empty their contents in the lake,

'Tis said, long since an angel came to earth, Sent by his Lord, to help with loving hand A suffering one, afflicted from his birth.

Exquisite mosses, so lovely and green, Covering the rocks with emerald sheen; Hiding the scars which convulsions have made;

The leaf is faded, and decayed the flower, The birds have ceased to sing in wayside bower, The babbling brook is silenced by the cold,

Perfection ever is the price of toil. Of marchings long, and hardships by the way, Of burdens borne, oft in the heat of day,

The Shah Jehan sat with his much-loved wife, The Empress Mahal, one hot summer day, In a cool arbor far from courtly strife,

This lovely lily, so pure and white, Seems covered o'er with celestial light; As if it grew on the "Tree of Life,"

True laureate of the Anglo-Saxon race, Whose words have won the hearts of young and old; So free from cant, and yet replete with grace,

In the courts of truth tread softly, Though your tread be firm and bold; Your steps may awaken echoes,

He loves not much who loves not honor more; If men lack this then love must lack as well; If this possessed no tongue love's depths can tell;

Doomed to decay are all things here; Whate'er their form or worth, Color and beauty disappear,

As fought the Paladins of old, With gleaming swords and spirit bold, To thwart the schemes of base Lothar,

The words we speak on the empty air, Are never lost, but recorded there; The process we may not comprehend,

O harass not a driven leaf, Nor stubble dry in wrath pursue; A life so brief load not with grief,