W. M. MacKeracher

I rose, and idly sauntered to the pane, And on the March-bleak mountain bent my look; And standing there a sad review I took

Let no one say of Christ's Church, "Ichabod," Or deem her strength partaker of decay, Or think her trumpet voices fail. To-day

Twelve weeks had passed - how slowly! - day by day, Since formal, dull Sir Calendar had bowed Old Winter from the scene, and cried, "Make way!

As one, who, from an antechamber dim, Is ushered suddenly to his surprise Before a gathering of the great and wise,

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I sauntered weak and weary From a jovial fellow-student's room upon another floor; As I sauntered, sadder, sicker, suddenly I heard a snicker,

Has the last farewell been spoken? Have I ta'en the parting token From thy lips so sweet?

There is a stream to northward, thinly spread Over a shelving, many-fissured shale, That brawls and blusters in its shallow bed,

Written In Montreal. Often, when the sun is sinking O'er the mountain's glowing crest,

Next morning in the Park I took a stroll. A walk upon Mount Royal is a thing, Glorious at any time, but most of all

If one could have a hundred years to live, After the settlement of youth's unrest, A hundred years of vigorous life to give

When my time comes to quit this pleasing scene, And drop from out the busy life of men; When I shall cease to be where I have been

God made him, like the angels, innocent, And made a garden marvellously fair, With arbors green, sun-kissed and dew-besprent,

Ah! happy was I yesternight I trod the paths of love Within Elysian fields of bliss,

The rain came suddenly, and to the shore I paddled, and took refuge in the wood, And, leaning on my paddle, there I stood

Her fair companions she outshone, As this or that transcendent star Makes all its sister orbs look wan

Adown the track that skirts the shallow stream I wandered with blank mind; a bypath drew My aimless steps aside, and, ere I knew,

The English soil! - 'tis hallowed ground: Its restless children roam The world, but they have never found

From shy expectancy to burgeoning, From burgeoning to ripeness and decline, The seasons run their various course and bring

The Year, an aged holy priest, In gorgeous vestments clad, Now celebrates the solemn feast

And now 'tis time for Harvest. Hark! and lo, With ringing sound of full melodious horn, Over yon eastern hill-top all aglow, -

We read his life of poverty and bane, From weakness, folly, error, not exempt, And turn aside with a depressing pain -

At Paardeberg they fell, Within the Orange State; They did their duty well;

There may be more enchanting climes Within a southern zone; There may be eastern Edens deckt

Although I'm not unduly proud, Inordinately vain, But humble, as will be allowed,

(From the prose of Parkman.) I. THE WINTER. September bade the sail of Pontgrav'

Could I but strike - a sweeter note Than all from virgin choirs that float, Or harps with cords of gold;

And hath he not whereof he needs must sing? And hath he not whereof he well may boast? - He from whose kin so many a one did spring

What news to all alike brings startling sorrow? And he is dead, the vigorous chieftain dead? Nor e'en for him would death still brook to-morrow?

Rejoice, O Canada, rejoice, On this thy natal day; In East and West lift up thy voice,

Where the purple-vestured mountains Bear their summits crowned with snow, Haughty lords of all the riches

This is the day whereon, confederate In union, was our national'ty born, - A four-walled temple beautiful and great,

to -----. E'en the fair orb on which I gaze Suggests thy radiance by its rays:

The purple lilac with the dark green leaves A subtle perfume spreads o'er fields wherein The meadow-lark with clear full singing cleaves

Northland of our birth and rearing, Bound to us by ties endearing, - Forward ever, nothing fearing!

God of mercy without measure! God of all-embracing love! Show'ring in Thy gracious pleasure

We see our Father's hand in all around; In summer's sun, and in cold winter's snow, In leafy wood, on grassy-covered ground,

Titanic craft of many thousand tons, A smaller Britain free to come and go, Relying on thy ten terrific guns

The fickle sun that had the earth caress'd And quickened all her amorous desire, And brought fresh roses to adorn her breast,

Oh! why should sorrow wound the heart, And rob the soul of rest? Why is misfortune's bitter dart

How many a man of those I see around Has cherished fair ideals in his youth, And heard the spirit's call, and stood spellbound

The street was brisk, an animated scene, And every man was on some business bent, Absorbed in some employment or intent,

But now the Summer hastens to its close, And soon will Song a different aspect wear, Sweeping terrific, clad in ghostly snows,

Now is the time when swallows twitter round, And robin redbreasts carol in the trees, When the grass grows very green on lower ground,

I halted at the margin of the wood, For tortuous was the path, and overhead Low branches hung, and roots and fragments rude

How can the man whose uneventful days, Each like the other, are obscurely spent Amid the mill's dead products, keep his gaze

Come, Summer, come, nor in the south delay; We do thee honor with a longer day; We prize thee more, we better know thy worth;

Know'st thou the land where the pious and bold Beared Christianity's emblem of old, And civilization's beneficent reign

The snow lies pure and peaceful on the ground, Serenely smiles the azure sky o'erhead: The Sabbath spirit dwells on all around,

With beauty and grace that greet the eye, How pleasing 'tis to trace, Within, the beauty of holiness, -

Here is a banquet-table of delights, A sumptuous feast of true ambrosial food; Here is a journey among goodly sights,

Say not that England ever kingless was: 'Twixt Charles and Charles two royal men appear, - Cromwell, to give her health with arms and laws,

"Ce n'est rien, ce n'est rien; ne vous affligez pas pour moi, mes bonnes amies." Montcalm, calm mount, thou didst not faint nor fail At that fierce volley from thy foemen near,

(Written in Winter.) All clad in rich hiemal robes By blasts of Boreas plied,

(Written in Winter.) By thee, fair City, is Mount Royal based, Which, though its inward fires are extinct,

Worthless, the man who works - he knows not why, Whom naught inspires to his puny plan, Who seeming plays his part instinctively:

"My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day." - Southey.

Ever hail'd with delight when my memory strays O'er the various scenes of my juvenile days, Do you mind if I sing a poor song in your praise,

The demoiselles of sunny France Have gaiety and grace; Britannia's maids a tender glance,

To some the heavenly Father good Has given raiment rich and fine, And tables spread with dainty food,

O Dorothy, sweet Dorothy, You make my heart rejoice; Your presence is like Arcady,

It's the Emerald Isle is the beautiful land: There's nothing too good for the Irish. O'er the whole of it, Nature, at heaven's command,

O affluent Sun, unwilling to abate Thy bounteous hospitality benign, Whenas we deemed the banquet o'er, thy great

Sombre November, least belov'd of all The months that make the pleasurable year, Too late for the resplendence of the fall,

(Title of a French-Canadian song.) O Canada, my country and my love, Held in my heart all other lands above;

Thee best of leaves I love, In forest or in grove, O Maple Leaf;

Oh! the sickening sensation! Oh! the burning agitation In my soul!

"Who first invented work?" asks Elia, he Whose life to an ungenial task was wed, And answers, "Satan"; but it could not be -

Large Book, with heavy covers worn and old, Bearing clear proof of usage and of years, Thine edges yellow with their faded gold,

Heaven bless this new abode; defend its doors Against the entry of malignant sprites - Gaunt Poverty, pale Sickness, Care that blights;

Father! How precious is that name to me! Name rendered sacred e'en by earthly ties, How full of vaster meaning when applied

Far stretched the landscape, fair, without a flaw, Down to one silver sheet, some stream or cloud, Through glamorous mists. Midway, an engine ploughed

Paestum, your temples and your streets Have been restored to view; Your fadeless Grecian beauty greets

How often, Lord, when 'tis Thy will To use the chastening rod, My soul, possessed of passions ill,

If gently falls the small, soft, lazy rain, To indoor industries he shrewdly steals; And in the barn from some neglected grain

Give me a cottage embower'd in trees, Far from the press and the din of the town; There let me loiter and live at my ease,

The tree, with its leaves in luxuriance shading My path in the tune-yielding time of the year, Now sighs in its dirge, while its foliage, fading,

Mourn, mourn, ye spirits of the brave, for glories passed away; Mourn that the sceptre of your king should own a stranger's sway; Mourn that the crown, which graced his brow by sovereign right divine,

An April day, when skies are blue, And earth rejoices to renew Her vernal youth by lawn and lea,

(Translated from Homer.) And when th'opposing ranks in conflict closed, Shield rang on shield and rattled lance on lance,

Where are those days, O Caledon, So glorious and bright, In which thy star resplendent shone

Parted cruelly from thee, What, Oh! what is life to me? 'Tis the morn without the lark;

Now is the Sun, erst spendthrift of his rays And lavish of his largesses of light, Become a miser in his latter days,

When conquering Summer stalks the street, His eyes are eyes of fire, The pavement burns beneath his feet,

(From the French of Isidore Bedard.) O soil Canadian, cherished earth, The brave, the noble, peopled thee;

to ----- Sometimes my heart by cruel care opprest Faints from the weight of woe upon my breast,

Journeying through a desert, waste and drear, Exhausted and disheartened by his way, So hard and parched, unchanged from day to day,

I was enveloped in black clouds of woe, Woven o'er my vision by dark-veiled Despair; I breathed the poison of the midnight air,

Stay of the church and pillar of the state! Who alway did'st to wrong thy voice oppose, And strong hast striven corruption to expose,

Divinely strong and beautiful in soul! With more than melody of mortal voice! The free thy spirit's majesty extol,

I cannot loiter on my way, The ice is drifting through Belle Isle, And far to seaward by Cape Ray

'Tis true, in midst of all, there may arise For man's society a sudden thirst, A sense of hopeless vacancy which dries

What is success? In mad soul-suicide The world's vain spoils rapaciously to seize, To pamper the base appetite of pride,

Loved by a host from Noah's days till now, Extolled by bards in many a glowing line, My purple rival of the mantling brow

There is a valley where the wheat fields wave In autumn like a gold ymolten sea; There is a river whose cool waters lave

Now are the trees all ruefully bereft Of their brave liveries of green and gold, No shred of all their pleasant raiment left

(From the prose of Parkman.) Up the St. Lawrence with well-weather'd sails A lonely vessel clove its foaming track.

He bent above our darling's bed When her life was ebbing low, And in his serious look we read

Is our renown'd Dominion then so small As not to hold this new inhabitant? Or are her means so pitiably scant

NOTE. - The following is an attempt to render in verse the passionate words of a young officer in the Indian service, who had fallen a prey to the ravages of the fever. The fever burns from morn till eve; I toss upon my bed;

They come not from the sunny, sunny south, Nor from the Arctic region, Nor from the east, the busy, busy east,

As one who finds his house no longer fit, Too narrow for his needs, in nothing right, Wanting in every homelike requisite,

It was back in Renfrew County, near the Opeongo line, Where the land's all hills and hollows and the hills are clothed with pine, And in the wooded valleys little lakes shine here and there

From lands where old abuses sit entrenched And stern restriction thwarts aspiring merit, And by gaunt men a meagre dole is wrenched

How must have thrilled the great Creator's mind With radiant, glad and satisfying joy, Ever new self-expressive forms to find

There's a race, or a part of a race, if you will, Of renown prehistoric, and vigorous still, Who back from their fastnesses scornfully hurl'd

(From the prose of Parkman.) The lodges of the Montagnais were there, Who reaped the harvest of the woods and rocks -

Hard by an ancient mansion stood an oak; For centuries, 'twas said, it had been there: The old towers crumbled 'neath decay's slow stroke,

A tremor, a quiver, Through her ran As over the river

A woman on an empire's throne Has sat in queenly pride, And swayed the sceptre of her power

I swear by the holy Virgin, I swear by her Son divine, I swear by the throne of the Mighty,

Scorn not the Old; 'twas sacred in its day, A truth overpowering error with its might, A light dispelling darkness with its ray,

A man he was of Scottish race, And ancient Scottish name; Of common mould, but lofty mien,

The old year is dying, Its last hour is hieing Over the verge;

NOTE: - The tale is told a few years after the massacre of Glencoe, by a wandering bard, who had formerly been piper to MacDonald of Glencoe, but had escaped the fate of his kinsmen. I tell a tale of woful tragedy, Resulting from that fearful infamy;

It's very disagreeable to sit here in the cold, And a sinful waste of time - ah, well, it's too late now to scold; I'll think about my sermon and my prayers for Sunday next,

Our hearts are set on pleasure and on gain. Fine clothes, fair houses, more and daintier bread; We have no strivings, and no hunger-pain

Lord, I am weak and worthless, better fit To grovel in the dust, a worm of earth, Than wear Thy holy image, which I do

In a notable college the story is told 'Twill bear repetition, although somewhat old That, at some unauthenticate date in the past

Why should we leave the soil our fathers cleared, And lifelong tilled with patient, loving hands? Why should we leave the homes our fathers reared,

From Lapland to the land of Tamerlane, Kamchatka to the confines of the Turk, The spirit tyrants never can restrain

The roarin' game, the roarin' game, From Scotland's bonnie land it came, The land of loch and firth and ben,

Who, careless, would behold a goodly tree Or noble palace stricken to decay? Who would drop precious jewels in the sea

Sad is the wane of beauty to the fair, Sad is the flux of fortune to the proud, Sad is the look dejected lovers wear,

That no Scotsman is perfect, we freely confess, Nor has been since the time of the fall; Yet we think, notwithstanding and nevertheless,

I am arrayed in light and shade, A free-born spirit of air; A fanciful theme like a twilight dream,

Though like Ulysses, fam'd of old, I travell'd, or the wandering Jew, No nobler sight could I behold

(December 9th, 1908.) "There was a man sent from God, whose name was John." Three hundred years have left their telltale rings

O m'sieu, doan you hask me ma story, doan hask me how dis was happenn; Dat's one beeg black hole on ma life, w'ere I doan want to look on some more.... Well, he's coom joos' so well for to tole you, all tak' beet tabac firs' and den

Man's works grow stale to man: the years destroy The charm they once possessed; the city tires; The terraces, the domes, the dazzling spires

My name is Tim O'Gallagher, - there's Oirish in that same; My parients from the Imerald Oisle beyant the ocean came; My father came from Donegal, my mother came from Clare;

Fair one! embodiment of Loveliness! Angelic beauty beams upon thy countenance, And from its image of Lucretian purity

Beauty, beloved of all gentle hearts And pure, and cherished of the gifted tribe Whose skill to canvas and even stone imparts

Suggested on returning home for my holidays by an old portrait of the poet, which hangs in my room. Old friend! - I always loved thee; In childhood's early days,

Dreary and dismal and dark Is the night of life to me, With nothing but clouds in the heaven above,

Thou art the belonging blest Of the maid I love the best: Gardened in some tropic grove,

When the toils of the day are done, When its trials and cares are o'er; When the forces of mind and body are run,

"Give me of your fruit, banana! Of your yellow fruit, banana! Growing on the tropic islands,

The playful way thy wanton hair Was tossing in the wind; Thy girlish, vain vexation

Vain transient World, what charms are thine? And what do mortals in thee see, That they should worship at thy shrine,

to -----. Hither led by fancy's hand, Once again I seem to stand

The tread of arm'd mariners is in our streets to-day, An Empire's pulse is beating in the march of this array. From western woods, and Celtic hills, and homely Saxon shires,

"I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec to-morrow." - Wolfe, on hearing Gray's "Elegy" read the night before the capture of Quebec. Thou need'st no marble monuments to keep Thy fame immortal and thy memory

Not to the Arch-Idler be the honor given Of first inventing work, but to his Lord, Who made the light, the firmament of heaven,