Thomas Frederick Young

One night, while peaceful in my bed I lay, unwitting what befell, By Morpheus' arms clasped close,

He just had reached the time of life, When cares are felt by men, But when they're strong to bear them well, -

"Just forty years to-day, my dear, We sail'd from Irish waters, And bade farewell, with many a tear,

'Tis morning, and the meadows yet, Are wet with gracious drops of dew. Each blade of grass, and flow'r, is set

I hear the wintry wind again, I see the blinding snow, Pil'd high, by eddying winds, in heaps,

"Oh come," said I unto my love, "And let us view the setting sun, And watch the fleeting clouds above,

What subtle charm is in thy voice, That ever, when I hear its tone, My heart doth pleasantly rejoice,

Proverbs, Chap. xxxi. A woman pure, oh, who can find? Her price is dearer far than gold,

The grass is wet with heavy dew, The leaves have changed their bright green hue, To brighter red, or golden;

The waves are dashing on the shore, With wild, glad joy, I stand and view them; And, as they break with sullen roar,

While genius endows the sons of men With eloquence, or with poetic pen, It leaves them still the frailties of our frame,

Come now, my Muse, do thou inspire my pen, To sing, with worthy strain, my country's praise, But not to hide the faults within my ken,

In early days, when streams ran pure, Untainted from their spring, Unchok'd by sawmill dust, or logs,

Old father Time, his cruel scythe Has swung full oft around, Since last the merry Christmas, bells

The beauty of Israel is slain on thy mountains, The mighty are low, and how great is their fall, But tell not our grief in Gath, by the fountains,

Deep planted in the heart of man, Wherever you may go, Display hath fertile seeds, which sprout,

Farewell! and know, where'er I roam, My heart still turns to thee, From spacious halls, or trackless woods,

Where once the red deer, wolf or bear, Pursued by hardy Indian braves, Lay low, in cunning grove or lair,

The steamer Forfarshire, one morn Right gaily put to sea, From Hull, in merry England,

Fair Happiness, I've courted thee, And used each cunning art and wile, Which lovers use with maidens coy,

While love inspires, and friendship warms All hearts, in ev'ry state, High over thee, grim hatred storms,

Should man, with microscopic eye, View the details of Nature's plan, Into each nook and corner pry,

Thou green isle of sorrows, I think of thee daily, And sad are the thoughts that come into my brain, When here, to my home, o'er the wide, rolling ocean,

Is there room for the poet, fair Canada's sons. To live his strange life, and to warble his songs, To follow each current of thought as it runs,

Said Jane to John, "Come, let us wed, For know, dear John, I love you, And, by the bright stars overhead,

While poets sing in lofty strain, And ask where Rome and Carthage are, This humble village on the plain,

"What is life?" I asked a lad, As on with joyful bound, He went to join the merry troop,

When men of gentle lives depart, They leave behind no brilliant story Of fam'd exploits, to make men start

The war is o'er, and vict'ry crowns Our youthful soldiers brave, And back their homeward steps have turn'd,

Misguided man, thy turbid life This day in shameful death shall close, And thou shalt ne'er behold the sun,

'Tis wine that cheers the soul of man, With subtle and seductive flow; It warms the heart, as naught else can,

Thou source of bliss, thou cause of woe, Disturber of the mind of man, Wilt thou still calmly onward go,

'Tis not with glad fruition crown'd, We always feel our greatest joy; For pleasure often dwells around

One day I sat me down to write, And thought with might and main, But neither subject fit, nor thoughts,

There are mem'ries glad of the old school-house, Which throng around me still; And voices spoke in my youthful days,

I see the wild and dashing waves Break madly on the shore; With glee I watch their stately course,

Hail! joyous morn. Hail! happy day, That ushers in another year, Fraught with what sorrow, none can say,

Niagara, thou mighty flood. I've seen thee fall, I've heard thee roar, And on the frightful verges stood,

A man is not what oft he seems, On this terrestrial sphere, No pow'r to wield, no honor'd place,

Keep pure the thoughts within thy mind, For they to actions turn, Which succor want, or pity woe,

One hundred years have come and gone, Since thy brave spirit came to earth, Since Scotland saw thy genius dawn,

Of all the poison plants that grow, And flourish in the human breast, No other plant, perhaps, hath so

The chilly days of March are here, The raw, cold winds are blowing; All nature now, is bleak and drear,

How few there are who know the pure delight, The chaste influence, and the solace sweet, Of walking forth to see the glorious sight,

'Mid forces all, that work unseen, And cheer or warm the human breast, Thou, Sympathy, hath ever been,

The greatest glory consists, not in never falling, but in getting up every time you fall. - CONFUCIUS. The raging force of passion's storm, Say who can check at will.

God of the harvest, once again Our joyful tones we raise, For all Thy goodness, day by day,

Why value ye the diamond, and The pearl from Ceylon's balmy shore, When stones unnumber'd strew the land,

The fisherman's wife stood on the beach. One chilly April day, And far out on the lake she look'd,

When hill and dale, long years ago, Lay clad in nature's dress, And flourish'd the primeval pomp

When wooded hill, and grassy plain, With nature's beauties, gaily dress'd, Lay calm beneath the red man's reign,

Where craggy hills round Madoc rise, With scenic grandeur bold, Where frowning rocks, from wooded heights,

The wind last night was wild and strong, It shriek'd, it whistl'd and it roar'd, And went with whirl and swoop along,

With patient toil, from day to day, The printed page he scann'd, The page of learned book, or sheet

His step was light, and his looks as bright As the beams of the morning sun, And his boyish dreams, as the rippling streams

Say, sadden'd mortal, thou who goest along With look so weary, and with step so slow, Why trillest thou no blithe and cheerful song,

The sky was dark with threat'ning clouds, And fiercely on the raging sea, The roaring tempest wilder swept,

Oh, the truant boy to the woods has gone, And you ne'er, alas, can find him, He's strapp'd his empty school bag on,

This earth's a mystery profound, Its movements, make, and changes all - A mystery which none can sound,

The land of poetry and mirth, Of orators and statesmen, too, To one more genial, ne'er gave birth,

The blight of life, the demon, Thought - BYRON. With demon's shriek or angel's voice, 'Mid hellish gloom, or heav'nly light,

These lines, which on this leaf I write, I trace with friendly thoughts of thee, And hope, when o'er this page you glance,

Imprison'd songster, thou for me Hath warbl'd many a cheerful lay, Thy songs, so sweetly glad and free,

In years to come, when looking o'er These lines I've penn'd for thee, I trust that thou shalt ne'er have cause

The youthful joys of vanish'd years, The joys e'en now we share, Have something of a sacred bliss,

E ach wish, my fairest child, I pen, F or thee I write with earnest heart; F or who shall say, that ere, again,

Go, little girl, your course pursue, On life's rough ocean safely glide, May want nor woe e'er visit you,

Short is the time, my friend, since I First heard thy voice, first saw thy face, And yet, the days in gliding by,

G o on your way, my youthful friend, E arth's joys and woes to feel, O 'er rough and smooth, your course will tend,

My friend of days, but not of years, With kindly heart these lines I trace, To tell you of a kindly wish,

In tracing here these lines, my friend, Which spring from friendly heart, I here record an earnest wish,

Memories of happy school-days, In which we view the years gone by, Long they last, and long they cheer us -

OH brothers, friends, down by the sea, We can thy voices hear, And painful is their tone, and free,

I've had my share of bright employ, My share of pain and blame, But thro' it all, I've thought, with joy,

Ye patriot sons of Canada, Whate'er your race or creed, Arise, your country claims you now,

The morning of a gladsome day in spring Had scarce its freshness brought to weary men, When, o'er the meadows wet, a boy did sing,