Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Dear mother, dry those flowing tears, They grieve me much to see; And calm, oh! calm thine anxious fears -

Come to the casement, we'll watch the snow Softly descending on earth below, Fairer and whiter than spotless down

The rose-tints have faded from out of the West, From the Mountain's high peak, from the river's broad breast. And, silently shadowing valley and rill,

Thou art home at last, my darling one, Flushed and tired with thy play, From morning dawn until setting sun

Say, art thou angry? words unkind Have fallen upon thine ear, Thy spirit hath been wounded too

"Child of my love, why wearest thou That pensive look and thoughtful brow? Can'st gaze abroad on this world so fair

Why turn from me thus with such petulant pride, When I ask thee, sweet Edith, to be my bride; When I offer the gift of heart fond and true,

"Oh, Earth, where is the mantle of pleasant emerald dye That robed thee in sweet summer-time, and gladdened heart and eye, Adorned with blooming roses, graceful ferns and blossoms sweet,

The following verses were suggested by a touching ceremony which lately took place in the chapel of the Congregation Convent, Notre Dame, Montreal, the beloved Institution in which the happy days of my girlhood were passed. The ceremony in question was the renewal of her vows by the Venerable Mother Superior, just fifty years from the date of her first profession, which was made at the early age of fifteen. In the world, in the few rare instances in which both bride and bridegroom live to witness the fiftieth anniversary of their union, the "golden wedding," as it is usually called, is generally celebrated with great pomp and rejoicing; tis but just, then, that in religion, the faithful spouses of the Saviour should welcome with equal satisfaction the anniversary of the epoch which witnessed the mystical union contracted with their Heavenly Bridegroom. Montreal, Sept. 28, 1859. On a golden autumn morning,

Oh! gladly do we welcome thee, Fair pleasant month of May; Month which we've eager longed to see,

Hush! speak in accents soft and low, And treat with careful stealth Thro' that rich curtained room which tells

The noontide sun streamed brightly down Moriah's mountain crest, The golden blaze of his vivid rays

Silence now reigns in the corridors wide, The stately rooms of that mansion of pride; The music is hushed, the revellers gone,

By the side of a silvery streamlet, That flowed through meadows green, Lay a youth on the verge of manhood

How hushed and still are earth and air, How languid 'neath the sun's fierce ray - Drooping and faint - the flowrets fair,

Darkly falls the autumn twilight, rustles by the crisp leaf sere, Sadly wail the lonely night-winds, sweeping sea-ward, chill and drear, Sullen dash the restless waters 'gainst a bleak and rock-bound shore,

Glitt'ring balls and thoughtless revels Fill up now each misspent night - 'Tis the reign of pride and folly,

"Oh! Autumn winds, what means this plaintive wailing Around the quiet homestead where we dwell? Whence come ye, say, and what the story mournful

'Twas near the close of the dying year, And December's winds blew cold and drear, Driving the snow and sharp blinding sleet

With buoyant heart he left his home for that bright wond'rous land Where gold ore gleams in countless mines, and gold dust strews the sand; And youth's dear ties were riven all, for as wild, as vain, a dream

A glorious pageant filled the church of the proud old city of Rheims, One such as poet artists choose to form their loftiest themes: There France beheld her proudest sons grouped in a glittering ring,

I. Come tell me some olden story Of Knight or Paladin,

Among the haughtiest of her sex, in noble, quiet pride, Cornelia stood, with mien that seemed their folly vain to chide: No jewels sparkled on her brow, so high, so purely fair,

Another pang for Southern hearts, That of late so oft have bled, Another name to add to the roll

"The heart knoweth its own bitterness" The heart hath its moments of hopeless gloom, As rayless as is the dark night of the tomb;

I. Mine eye is weary of the plains Of verdure vast and wide

Yes, leave my side to flirt with Maude, To gaze into her eyes, To whisper in her ear sweet words,

"Beloved! thou'rt gazing with thoughtful look On those flowers of brilliant hue, Blushing in spring tide freshness and bloom,

The snow-flakes were softly falling Adown on the landscape white, When the violet eyes of my first born

To all my fond rhapsodies, Charley, You have wearily listened, I fear; As yet not an answer you've given

Other harvests there are than those that lie Glowing and ripe 'neath an autumn sky, Awaiting the sickle keen,

The world had chafed his spirit proud By its wearing, crushing strife, The censure of the thoughtless crowd

The earth was flooded in the amber haze That renders so lovely our autumn days, The dying leaves softly fluttered down,

He stood on the wood-crowned summit Of our mountain's regal height, And gazed on the scene before him,

How busily those little fingers soft That within mine own are clasped so oft Have been, throughout this bright summer day,

In the hour of grief and sorrow, When my heart is full of care, Seeking sadly hope to borrow

Around the castle turrets fiercely moaned the autumn blast, And within the old lords daughter seemed dying, dying fast; While o'er her couch in frenzied grief the stricken father bent,

It will be in the recollection of many of our readers that during the famine years of 1847 and 1848 there was an unusual emigration from Ireland to Canada and the United States. Numbers of those who thus left their native land expired from ship fever, caused by utter exhaustion, before they reached the American continent; others only arrived there to die of that fatal disease. The Canadian Government made extensive efforts to save the lives of the poor emigrants. A large proportion were spared, but at Montreal, where the Government erected temporary hospitals, on an immense scale, upwards of 6000 of these poor people died. Their remains were interred close to the hospitals, at a place that is now mainly covered with railway buildings, and in close proximity to the point whence the Victoria Bridge projects into the St. Lawrence. All traces of the sad events of that disastrous period would have been obliterated but for the warm and reverential impulses of Mr. James Hodges, the engineer and representative of Messrs. Peto, Brassey & Betts in Canada. Through his instrumentality, and by his encouragement, the workmen at the bridge came to the determination of erecting a monument on the spot where the poor Irish emigrants were interred. An enormous granite boulder, of a rough conical shape, weighing 30 tons, was dug up in the vicinity, and was placed on a base of cut stone masonry, twelve feet square by six feet high. The stone bears the following inscription: "To preserve from desecration the remains of 6000 emigrants who died from ship fever in 1847 and 1848 this monument is erected by workmen in the employment of Messrs. Peto, Brassey, & Betts, engaged in the construction of the Victoria Bridge, 1859." Several addresses were delivered on the occasion, and in the course of that made by the Bishop of Montreal he alluded in feeling terms to the many good deeds for which the Dame of his friend, Mr. James Hodges, will be gratefully remembered in Canada. Thanks to the latter, the plot of ground on which the monument is raised is set apart for ever, so that the remains of those interred there will henceforth be sacred from any irreverent treatment. THE EMIGRANTS' MONUMENT AT POINT ST. CHARLES. A kindly thought, a generous deed,

The moon from solemn azure sky Looked down on earth below, And coldly her wan light fell alike

I sit by the fire musing, With sad and downcast eye, And my laden breast gives utt'rance

O aptly named, Illustrious One! Thou art that flower fair That filled this vast and changeful world

Of many gifts bestowed on earth To cheer a lonely hour, Oh is there one of equal worth

Faded and pale their beauty, vanished their early bloom, Their folded leaves emit alone a sweet though faint perfume, But, oh! than brightest bud or flower to me are they more dear,

In Memoriam. Grief reigns now within the convent walls, And sadly float through its silent halls

I have passed the day 'mid the forest gay, In its gorgeous autumn dyes, Its tints as bright and as fair to the sight

Lonely and silent and calm it lies 'Neath rosy dawn or midnight skies; So densely peopled, yet so still,

Close beside the crystal waters of Jacob's far-famed well, Whose dewy coolness gratefully upon the parched air fell, Reflecting back the bright hot heavens within its waveless breast,

With what a flood of wondrous thoughts Each Christian breast must swell When, wandering back through ages past,

My simple story is of those times ere the magic power of steam First whirled the traveller o'er the plains with the swiftness of a dream, Reducing to a few days' time the journey of many a week,

* Won by the "Allies" during the Crimean war though with great losses in killed and wounded. Rejoice! the fearful day is o'er For the victors and the slain;

'Neath the radiance faint of the starlit sky The gleaming snow-drifts lay wide and high; O'er hill and dell stretched a mantle white,

How oft I've longed to gaze on thee, Thou proud and mighty deep! Thy vast horizon, boundless, free,

It is now two hundred years and more Since first set foot on Canadian shore That saint-like heroine, fair and pure,

"Open the coffin and shroud until I look on the dead again Ere we place her in Grenada's vaults,

'Tis midnight, and solemn darkness broods In a lonely, sacred fane - The church of Our Lady of Montserrat,

He sat by the dusty way-side, With weary, hopeless mien, On his furrowed brow the traces

O say, dear sister, are you coming Forth to the fields with me? The very air is gaily ringing

She stands in front of her mirror With bright and joyous air, Smoothes out with a skilful hand

Buried in childhood's cloudless dreams, a fair-haired nursling lay, A soft smile hovered round the lips as if still oped to pray; And then a vision came to him, of beauty, strange and mild,

Fair as a wreath of fresh spring flowers, a band of maidens lay On the velvet sward - enjoying the golden summer day; And many a ringing silv'ry laugh on the calm air clearly fell,

The clouds that promise a glorious morrow Are fading slowly, one by one; The earth no more bright rays may borrow

Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale! No sobs - no grieving now: No burning tears must thou let fall

All hail to thee, noble and generous Land! With thy prairies boundless and wide, Thy mountains that tower like sentinels grand,

Earnest and sad the solemn tale That the sighing winds give back, Scatt'ring the leaves with mournful wail

'Twas a wild and stormy sunset, changing tints of lurid red Flooded mountain top and valley and the low clouds overhead; And the rays streamed through the windows of a building stately, high,

"Father!" a youthful hero said, bending his lofty brow "On the world wide I must go forth - then bless me, bless me, now! And, ere I shall return oh say, what goal must I have won -

The place is fair and tranquil, Judaea's cloudless sky Smiles down on distant mountain, on glade and valley nigh, And odorous winds bring fragrance from palm-tops darkly green,

Upon his sculptured judgment throne the Roman Ruler sate; His glittering minions stood around in all their gorgeous state; But proud as were the noble names that flashed upon each shield -

"Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day, That cost thy life, my gallant grey!" - Scott The Hunter stooped o'er his dying steed

The dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre, The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their vengeful ire. It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude,

Throughout the country for many a mile There is not a nobler, statelier pile Than ivy crowned Rathmore Hall;

O Madonna, pure and holy, From sin's dark stain ever free, Refuge of the sinner lowly,

Well have Canadians chosen thee As the emblem of their land, Thou noble, spreading maple tree,

On proud Mount Royal's Eastern side, In view of St. Lawrence's silver tide, Are two stone towers of masonry rude,

(Written during sickness). Soul - Oh! say must I leave this world of light

Softly the sunbeams gleamed athwart the Temple proud and high - Built up by Israel's wisest to the Lord of earth and sky - Lighting its gorgeous fretted roof, and every sacred fold

* In process of demolition when this poem was written. The Recollect Friars purchased the ground on which the church in question was built in 1692, and on it they constructed a temporary chapel. The actual edifice, however, was not erected till about the year 1706. The order is now extinct. After the conquest their property was confiscated by the Government, and subsequently exchanged for St. Helen's Island, then belonging to Baron Grant. For a time the Recollect Church served as a place of worship for both Protestants and Catholics, and for many years was exclusively devoted to the use of the Irish Catholics. Quickly are crumbling the old gray walls, Soon the last stone will be gone,

Few poets yet in praise of thee Have tuned a passing lay, Yet art thou rich in beauties stern,

'Tis no wild and wond'rous legend, but a simple pious tale Of a gentle shepherd maiden, dwelling in Italian vale, Near where Arno's glittering waters like the sunbeams flash and play

The day was o'er, and in their tent the weaned victors met, In wine and social gaiety the carnage to forget. The merry laugh and sparkling jest, the pleasant tale were there -

'Twas not a palace proud and fair He chose for His first home; No dazz'ling pile of grandeur rare,

Friends! do you see in yon sunset sky, That cloud of crimson bright? Soon will its gorgeous colors die

'Neath the olives of Samaria, in far-famed Galilee, Where dark green vines are mirrored in a placid silver sea, 'Mid scenes of tranquil beauty, glowing sun-sets, rosy dawn,

Amid the flowers of a garden glade A lovely rose tree smiled, And the sunbeams shone, the zephyrs played,

In the far green depths of the forest glade, Where the hunter's footsteps but rarely strayed, Was a darksome dell, possessed, 'twas said,

Bright glittering lights are gleaming in yonder mansion proud, And within its walls are gathered a gemmed and jewelled crowd; Robes of airy gauze and satin, diamonds and rubies bright,

Soft and holy Vesper Hour - Precursor of the night - How I love thy soothing power,

"O maiden, peerless, come dwell with me, And bright shall I render thy destiny: Thou shalt leave thy cot by the green hillside,

The night lamp is faintly gleaming Within my chamber still, And the heavy shades of midnight

What does time whisper, youth gay and light, While thinning thy locks, silken and bright, While paling thy soft cheek's roseate dye,

In days long gone by it was the custom of the Indian warriors of the forest to assemble at the Great Cataract and offer a human sacrifice to the Spirit of the Falls. The offering consisted of a white canoe, full of ripe fruits and blooming flowers, which was paddled over the terrible cliff by the fairest girl of the tribe. It was counted an honor not only by the tribe to whose lot it fell to make the costly sacrifice, but even by the doomed maiden herself. The only daughter of a widowed Chief of the Seneca Indians was chosen as a sacrificial offering to the Spirit of Niagara. Tolonga, the Great Elk, was bravest among the warriors, and devotedly attached to his child, but, when the lot fell on her, he crushed down in the pride of Indian endurance the feelings of grief that filled his bosom. The eventful night arrived. The moon arose and shone brightly down oh the turmoil of Niagara, when the White Canoe and its precious freight glided from the bank and swept out into the dread rapid. The young girl calmly steered towards the centre of the stream, when suddenly another canoe shot forth upon the water and, under the strong impulse of the Seneca Chief, flew like an arrow to destruction. It overtook the first; the eyes of father and child met in a parting gaze of love, and then they plunged together over the Cataract into Eternity. THE WHITE CANOE. A Legend of Niagara Falls

"Child of the Woods, bred in leafy dell, See the palace home in which I dwell, With its lofty walls and casements wide,

"Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden, Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array, Where the green earth with sunshine and fragrance is laden,

In a fair and sunny forest glade O'erarched with chesnuts old, Through which the radiant sunbeams made

'Mid silken cushions, richly wrought, a young Greek girl reclined, And fairer form the harem's walls had ne'er before enshrined; 'Mid all the young and lovely ones who round her clustered there,

The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung around, But the rites were o'er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound; Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer,

They grew together side by side, They filled one house with glee Their graves are severed far and wide -

Whilst others give thee wond'rous toys, Or jewels rich and rare, I bring but flowers - more meet are they

Gentle Lily with this Album my warmest wishes take, I know its pages oft thou'lt ope and prize it for my sake, For, though a trifling offering, it bears the magic spell

Young mother! proudly throbs thine heart, and well may it rejoice, Well may'st thou raise to Heaven above in grateful prayer thy voice: A gift hath been bestowed on thee, a gift of priceless worth,

Fair tiny rosebud! what a tide Of hidden joy, o'erpow'ring, deep, Of grateful love, of woman's pride,

I leave for thee, beloved one, The home and friends of youth, Trusting my hopes, my happiness,

Warriors true, 'tis no false glory For which now you peril life, - For no worthless aim unholy,

Oh, Villa Maria, thrice favored spot, Unclouded sunshine is still thy lot Since first, 'neath thy mortal old,

Virgin of Bethlehem! spouse of the Holy One! Star of the pilgrim on life's stormy sea! Humbler thy lot was than this world's most lowly one,

We welcome thy coming, bright, sunny Spring, To this snow-clad land of ours, For sunshine and music surround thy steps,

Written during the Civil War in the United States. O when will it end, this appalling strife, With its reckless waste of human life,

Nay tell me not that, with shivering fear, You shrink from the thought of wintering here; That the cold intense of our winter-time