Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

PART I Away up on the River aux Lievres, That is foaming and surging always,

(CLARISSA HARLOW) Seek not to calm my grief, To stay the falling tear;

With noiseless footstep, like the white-robed snow, The old year with closed record steals away; Record of gladness, suffering, joy, and woe,

The rage for writing has spread far and wide, Letters on letters now are multiplied, And every mortal, who can hold a pen,

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,

Gather, oh gather! gather, oh gather On with the philabeg every man And up with the bonnet and badge of your father,

(P McD) We waited for him, and the anxious days Melted to years and floated slowly by

O thou wild rantin' wicked wit; Are thy works, thy fame livin' yet? Will thae daft people never quit

Oh Allumette, hemmed with thy fringe of pine, Watched over by thy mountains far away, Thy waters have been troubled oftentime,

(Job iii. 26) It was not that I lived a life of ease, Quiet, secure, apart from every care;

We little children join to praise The Holy Child of endless days. The Lord of glory undefiled

(Noel.) By the sad fellowship of human suffering, By the bereavements that are thine and mine,

The incident related in the following lines occurred thus:--At a meeting of Presbytery appointed to deal with the case of the Reverend David Macrae, of Gourock, Scotland, one of the members of the Court had stolen out to enjoy his pipe and the quiet of his own thoughts for a few minutes before engaging in the strife of debate, when he was accosted by a stranger, woefully dilapidated, who asked him with great earnestness if he would tell him where he could see Mr. Macrae, as he was most anxious to have some conversation with him. "Do you know, sir," said this poor, ruined one, "that on the doctrine of future punishment Mr. Macrae and I are in perfect accord, and I am very desirous to tender him my cordial sympathy and support. I esteem it my duty to do what I can to comfort and cheer this young and courageous minister of the Gospel, in the cruel and unjust persecution to which he is being subjected." The Presbytery with one accord in one place, Were met to consider and speak on the case

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

(Mr Norman Dewar, commission merchant, a native of Glengarry, Canada who had been assisting Captain McCabe as commissary of the Memphis Relief Committee, died of yellow fever after three days illness A brave and gentle nature, he was loved by a host of friends and will long be remembered as among the noblest of the band of gallant men who during this fearful epidemic died at the post of duty) Far away from stricken Memphis Came the tidings sad and sure

In the Capitol is mourning, Mourning and woe this day, For a nation's heart is throbbing--

We came to the dividing line, Then he passed over and I am here, Sad and sore is this heart of mine

I have not wept for Edgar, as a mother Weeps for the tender lamb she lays to rest; And yet it cannot be that any other

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,

A Prize Poem. I know Canada is fair to see, and pleasant; it is well On the banks of its broad river 'neath the maple trees to dwell;

My brother George has gone from me, Far away o'er the trackless sea. His gladdening voice I hear not now,

In leaving us, whom thou hast governed well Holding the helm of state through all these years The land at large unites in a farewell

(A. S.) 1845. We met--he was a stranger, His foot was free to roam;

Beside the open window she is lying, Through which comes softly in the balmy air, And fans her wasted cheek; but slowly dying,

Mournfully, mournfully All around me are crying, For my dark-eyed baby boy

The heavens look down with chilly frown, The sun blinks oot wi' watery e'e, The drift flies fast upon the blast,

(To Miss E E.) I cannot write, my tears are flowing fast, Yet weeping is unnatural to me;

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,

There is a gladness over all the earth, For summer is abroad in breezy mirth, Nature rejoices and the heavens are glad,

In the midst of Life we are in Death. What is it that has stilled the usual hurry, Checking the eager tread of rapid feet?

(ISABELLA STEWART) Heart of mine, by thy quick beating, Thou knowest Isabel is near,

Who is the maid with silken hair By clear Maine Water roaming? For the fairy Queen is not so fair

(WALTER AND FREDDIE.) From morn to eve, from evening unto morning, I mourn and cannot rest;

They will place a bridal wreath, maiden, To crown all your shining hair; The mist-like cloud of the bridal veil

We honour Brother Jonathan, For what he has done and dared; Nobly and firmly he hath stood

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,

Is it well with the child? and she answered, it is well. If earth's weariness for rest is changed, Rest on the far off shore,

So friend of mine 'tis thy birthday morn, And friends with fair gifts around thee come, Outside the circle I stand forlorn,

Mary, ah me! gentle Mary, Can it be you're lying there, Pale and still, and cold as marble,

He lay on my breast so sweet and fair, I fondly fancied his home was there, Nor thought that the eyes of merry blue,

It was in the early morning Of life, and of hope to me, I sat on a grassy hillside

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;

Sing and rejoice, With heart and voice, An heir is born to the British Crown,

(ORSON GROUT), One of the victims of the Southern Prisons. Sit by me comrade, thou and I have stood

Hail! to the city sitting as a queen Enthroned a cataract on either hand, The voice of many waters in her ears,

Thou art, and, therefore, Thou art near, oh God! Thick darkness covers me, I cannot see; Is this the Shepherd's crook, or the correcting rod,

I sit by the fire in the gloaming, In the depths of my easy chair, And I ponder, as old men ponder,

ELIZABETH TO WALTER He has come and he has gone, Meeting, parting, both are o'er;

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,

(From the "Globe.") October's leaf was sere; The day was dark and drear.

The night was bright and beautiful, The dew was on the flower, The stars were keeping watch, it was

The book of life to thee is given, To warn of death, to guide to Heaven. Wanderer on the wild astray,

I, Louis Marin, mariner, born on the Breton coast, Must pass from earth away, And, because wild remorse

I, an Iroquois brave, Speak from my forest grave, Where by Utawa's wave

"One is not." Have you seen the beautiful Allumette, The magnificent pine-fringed lake,

When my heart was sad and lonely, And had closed its inmost cell Over the impulsive feelings

From Carlisle. The young Prince of Anhalt Dessau, The Dowager's only son,

The Rev Mr Young was one stormy day visiting one of his people, an old man, who lived in great poverty in a lonely cottage a few miles from Jedsburg. He found him sitting with his Bible open upon his knees, but in outward circumstances of great discomfort, the snow drifting in through the roof and under the door, and scarcely any fire in the hearth. "What are you about to day, John?" asked Mr Young on entering "Ah, sir," said John, "I am sitting under His shadow with great delight." They only see the snow heaped on the moor, The bare trees shivering in the winter's breath,

(I have borrowed thy pattern, dear Hood, to cut out our mourning garments.) With garments for sorrow torn, With eyelids heavy and red,

I am glad when men of genius Array a common thought, In imperishable beauty

(J. M. D.) I thank Thee Father that I feel Thee near, That it is hand of Thine that s raised to smite,

Let mirth and joy a season reign And sorrow flee away Sadness were perfect sin it is

Sister, sweet sister, years have passed away, Since first, 'mid warm hearts, sunny, frank and true, I commenced rhyming on thy natal day,

First of women, best of friends Take what a village rhymer sends, A tear wet trifle sent to tell

Dear love, life has dewy mornings, And the shadeless blaze of noon, Flowers, that we stop to gather,

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,

I often thought to write to thee, what time I almost fancied heaven-born, genius mine, And fondly hoped my island harp to wake,

(ISABELLA STEWART) Since ere I left my native isle, My childhood's home, life's happy smile

Dear Jane you say you will gather flowers To win if you may a verse from me Can you bring to me those brillant hours

It is not very long since first we met, Thy path and mine lay very far apart; We are not of one nation, dear one, yet

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

Dearest of all, whose tenderness could rise To share all sorrow and to soothe all pain; The blessings breathed for thee with weeping eyes

Adieu! Adieu! may angels guard thee, Hovering near thee night and day, For all thy good deeds God reward thee,

Come forth, O rain! from thy cool, distant hall, And lave the parched brow of the feverish earth, The little drooping flow'rets on thee call,

'At last he is dead' So the wondering, horror-struck neighbours said, A skilful touch of his knife

(Mary Maud.) O friends, I cannot comfort, but will share with you your grieving, In the valley of the shadow where you sit in helpless tears;

You are coming home with the breath of spring Flying home to a love-lined nest, Most loving care hath made it fair

On Jordan's banks gathered an eager crowd, The Royal city poured its dwellers out; The vintage was untouched in Ephraim;

Sons of the bright, green island, Gathered by the pine-fringed lake, In honour of his memory,