Verses and Rhymes By the Way Part 21

In painted plumed array, Hot, panting for the fray, Our paddles beat the spray Of the wild water.

Shot through the rapids white, The war cry of our might, Rose as we flashed in sight, Eager for slaughter

Then scouting watchers run, Then loud alarm of drum, Shouts of, "The foe! they come,"

Rung through the forest.

Then we, three hundred strong, Burning with sense of wrong, Raised our loud battle song, Sounding the onset.

From the old fort there broke, Volleying flame and smoke, And the loud echoes woke With pale face thunder.

And shot in torrents fell, As if the hottest h.e.l.l, Of which the black robes tell; Opened in wonder,

Woe to the white race, woe!

Wild we dashed at the foe, Showering blow on blow On their defences We with our bosoms bare, Surged up against their lair; They in a brave despair, Behind their fences,

Belched out a fiery hail Like leaves in autumn pale, Fell we before that gale In the death heaping.

Till the young gra.s.s grew red With the blood blanket spread, Under Iroquois dead, In glory sleeping.

Sank down the big round sun, And the red fight was done, To be again begun In the grey dawning; Remained there but twenty two, With whom we had to do, Of that devoted few For whom death was yawning.

Charged we at the fort again, Axes crashed through heart and brain, Heaps on heaps fell our slain The red price paying.

We fell as leaves before the gale, But of the faces pale, None lived to tell the tale Of that grim slaying.

The fort was taken at last, Blood and fire mingling fast, Death's bitterness was past, For none were breathing.

Where lay our enemies, Side by side were swart allies, Brave and pale-face mingled, lies Christian and heathen.

This feat of arms that gave Unto these bravest brave, Death and a b.l.o.o.d.y grave, Is told in story.

All the valour and the might, Of the pale-face in the fight, When the story's told aright, We will share the glory.

A SATIRE.

A HUMBLE IMITATION.

The rage for writing has spread far and wide, Letters on letters now are multiplied, And every mortal, who can hold a pen, Aspires in haste to teach his fellow men.

Paper in wasted reams, and seas of ink.

Prove how they write who never learned to think; Some who have talents--some who have not sense; Some who to decency make no pretence; But, skilled in arts which better men deceive, They spread the slander which they don't believe.

A towns.h.i.+p turned to scribblers is a sight!

Venting their malice all in black and white, And with, apparently, no other aim Than merely to be foaming out their shame.

--My own, my beautiful, my pride, I must lament where strangers will deride, O'er thy degenerate sons whose strife and hate Will make thee as a desert desolate Men of gray hairs are not ashamed to strive From house to house to keep the flame alive, Whispering, inventing, without rest or pause, With a "zeal worthy of a better cause."

Drilling low agents, teaching them to fly, And spread on every fence the last new lie.

Oh that it were with us as in the past, And that our peace had been ordained to last When kindness reigned and angry pa.s.sions slept, E'er hatred's serpent to our Eden crept, Are these the same or of a different race From those who made this spot a pleasant place, When cheerful toil, mingled with praise and prayer.

Wealth without pride and plenty without care, When comely matrons wore the homespun suit, And moca.s.sons encased his wors.h.i.+p's foot No brawling then disturbed the quiet air, No drunkard's ravings, and no swearer's prayer The G.o.dly fathers all are pa.s.sed away, Gone to their rest before the evil day The sons serve other G.o.ds, bow at their shrine, Of the bright dollar or the gloomy pine While envy, jealousy, and low purse pride Those who were loving brethren now divide, Like fabled pismires how the scrambling race, For the small honours of a country place And thou, who hast a spark of nature's fire, What are thy aims son of a G.o.dly sire?

Thy good right hand, and calculating brain, Have given thee wealth with honour in its train Others may strive with anxious cares and fears, Thou hast much goods laid up for many years, Wilt thou forget the line from which thou'rt sprung?

Deem rich men always right and poor men wrong?

Forget thy early friends and bearing free?

When thou art angry have no charity?

Shall wealth, not worth and vulgar pomp and show, Be the sum total of all good below?

Shall we, then, cease for innate worth to scan?

Look to the new made coat and not the man?

Those who are raised in such an atmosphere Are they who have the ever-ready sneer At honest poverty, and at the road To competence which their own fathers trod If men of worth will stoop among the vain, We turn from them with sorrow and with pain Man may repent, reform, his steps retrace, But is there renovation for a place?

Will a community forego their strife, Bury the tomahawk and scalping knife?

Will pride, and will self interest prevail, Where reason and where revelation fail Like cause makes like effect, abroad, at home-- In this small towns.h.i.+p as in Greece or Rome.

One motto is my moral, true and sad, Whom the G.o.ds would destroy they first make mad

JUVENILE VERSES.

ON THE BIRTH OF ALBERT EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES

Sing and rejoice, With heart and voice, An heir is born to the British Crown, A royal son, A princely one, One born to glory and renown.

A nation's mirth Rose at his birth, On every side great joy prevails, The nation's joy, The royal boy, Our dear Queen's infant, Prince of Wales,

With gladness we Rejoiced to see A virgin wear Britannia's crown, Then hailed the bride, By Albert's side, And saw her look benignly down.

And now with joy We hail thee boy, Heir of thy royal mother's fame, And see our Isle With rapture smile, Resounding Albert Edward's name Edward, a name Of deathless fame, A name each British bosom hails, That name we see Revived in thee, Another Edward Prince of Wales.

O blessings rest With kisses prest, On that sweet infant bud that grows, An early flower, One born to power, A scion of the royal rose.

Our bosoms burn, To thee we turn, In willing homage bend the knee; Hope of our Isle, We see thee smile, Edward the hero hail in thee.

We pray for thee, Our king to be, The greatest prince the world e'er saw.

May the great King His blessings bring, And be His Book of life thy law.

May G.o.d above, In boundless love, Guard thee and keep thee as his own, And bless thee so, That thou mayest grow Up to support thy mother's throne.

May glory s.h.i.+ne, And grace combine, Pure as thy father's life be thine.

Mayest thou be strong Against all wrong, And be a Prince by Right Divine.

May future days Record the praise Of our Victoria's royal son.

May all the earth Hear of his worth, And of the greatness he has won.

Innocent babe, In cradle laid, Unconscious cause of all this joy, Each Briton's prayer, For Britain's heir, Is "Angels guard thee, royal boy."

GRACE HILL, NOV., 1840.

THE BIBLE.

WRITTEN TO ---- WITH ONE.