Canada And Other Poems Part 4

And shall we seek to draw the screen Which hides the good, and eke the ill?

No, it is better far, I ween, To let them keep in hiding still.

For unknown good is virtue still, And virtue shows a richer bloom, As violet, or daffodil, When growing 'mid the gra.s.s or broom.

And he who hides within his heart A secret sin, all unconfess'd To G.o.d or man, no glossing art "Can quiet the distracting guest."

THE PINE TREE.

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, 'Mid falling trees and cras.h.i.+ng board.

The timbers creak'd, the rafters sway'd, And e'en some roofs, upheav'd and torn, Came cras.h.i.+ng to the earth, and laid Before the view, upon the morn.

The air seem'd like some monstrous thing, By its uncurbed pa.s.sion held; Like dreadful dragon on the wing, So horribly it scream'd and yell'd.

Now venting a triumphant shout, And ever and anon a groan, Like fiend from prison lately out, Or like unhappy chain'd one's moan.

There was a lofty pine I knew; Each morn and eve I pa.s.sed it by; To such a lofty height it grew, It caught at once each pa.s.sing eye.

It stood alone, and proudly stood, With straight, and clean, and lofty stem; All other trees it seemed to view, As though it scorn'd to live with them.

Full many a winter's snow had whirl'd About its base, and settl'd there, And many an autumn mist had curl'd About its head, so high in air.

Full many a blast had spent, in vain, Its force, for, ever like a rock, It stood each persevering strain, And long defied the tempest's shock.

But yesternight it cras.h.i.+ng fell, And now, this morn, I see it lie.

I knew the brave old tree so well, A tear almost bedims my eye.

But brave old trees, like brave old men, Must feel at last the fatal stroke, That dashest them to earth again, Tho' lofty pine, or mighty oak.

I'll miss, old tree, thy lofty stem Outlin'd against the distant sky, But 'tis no gain to fret for them-- For men, or trees, that fall and die.

AUTUMN.

The gra.s.s is wet with heavy dew, The leaves have changed their bright green hue, To brighter red, or golden; The morning sun s.h.i.+nes with a glow, As bright and pure as long ago, In time ye left the olden.

One tree is cloth'd with scarlet dress, And one, with brown leaf'd loveliness, Delights the eye that gazes; While others varied tints display, But all, in beauteous array, Delight us, and amaze us.

We see the trees in beauty clad, But still that beauty makes us sad, E'en while we may admire, For death has caus'd that sudden bloom Stern death, the tenant of the tomb, Or funereal pyre.

The ruthless, bitter, biting air Hath dried the life which flourish'd there, Throughout the warmer seasons; The nourishment hath ceas'd to flow Through veins, where once it us'd to go-- Hath ceas'd for diff'rent reasons.

And soon the leaves will strew the ground, And whirl with rustling ardor round, Or lie in heaps together, Their hues of red, of brown, of gold, Will blacken, as they change to mould By action of the weather.

But leaves will grow where once they grew, Will bud, and bloom, and perish too, The same as all the others, As we through youth, and joy, and grief, Must find at last a sure relief, As did our many brothers.

Like in the leaf, no life-blood flows, When frosts of death the fountain close, From which it flow'd, to nourish.

And like the leaf, another spring Around us shall her gladness fling; Another life shall flourish.

Our bodies turn to dust or mould.

As lifeless as the rocks, and cold, But life's fair Tree is living.

And fadeless green leaves we shall be, Because the Fountain of that Tree Eternal life is giving.

CHRISTMAS.

Old father Time, his cruel scythe Has swung full oft around, Since last the merry Christmas, bells Rang out their cheerful sound.

With cruel vigor he has held His great, impartial sway, And many thousands mown to earth, Who saw last Christmas day.

For some have left this world for aye, Who dwelt with us last year; Glad voices heard amongst us then, We never more shall hear.

But still we'll build our Christmas fires, And sing our Christmas songs, And for one day forget our griefs, Our failures and our wrongs.

Then ring, ye joyful bells, ring out; Ye cras.h.i.+ng cymbals fall; And for old Christmas, hale and stout, Sound up, ye harps and all.

Let music's loud and sweetest strain Beat from our hearts each ill; Let thoughts of those a.s.suage our pain, Who are around us still.

Oh, winsome maid, oh, hearty youth, I urge you on to glee, For, in your innocence and truth, You all are dear to me.

Nor youth, nor age should cherish gloom, And voices oft should sing, So give the gladsome voices room, And let the joy-bells ring.

CANADA.

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, By tricks of art, or studied, verbal maze, To play on him who reads with careless gaze, To whom each thought upon a printed page.

Is gospel truth, nor e'er with wile betrays; From this, oh, steer me clear, nor let the rage Of prejudic'd and narrow minds, my thoughts engage.

Oh, Canada! the land where first I saw The blue of heav'n, and bursting light of day, Where breezes warm and mild, and breezes raw, First o'er my boyhood's eager face did play, As o'er the hills I stepp'd my joyful way.

Held by a loving hand, I went along Thro' shelter'd wood, or by some shaded bay, And ever, as I went, I sang a song, With sylvan joy, amid a sylvan throng.

For birds and bees, and e'en the flowers, did sing Their cheerful songs, with voices pure and sweet; Their notes were silent, yet those notes did bring A soothing balm, amid a calm retreat.

Protected from the sun's relentless heat.

Oh, wearied men, could ye but once divine The healing pow'r of some lone country seat, You would not strive to drown your care in wine, Or vainly seek relief, in any l.u.s.tful line.

But this is not a moralizing lay, Of Canada I sing, and her alone, Her varied progress, every pa.s.sing day, Her faults, for which, in time, she must atone, By nature's law, in every clime and zone, Then what are the peculiar, common claims, Our country has with nations larger grown, And the superior things she cla.s.ses as her own.

First let us take her climate; who will not Say she is favour'd there o'er other lands?

The winter's cold, indeed, and summer's hot, But in a robust health the native stands, So keen to work with brain, or use his hands.

Where, let me ask, between the distant poles Is there a clime so mod'rate in demands, Where men are not compell'd to live like moles, Nor drop with heat on burning, barren, sandy knolls.

A hardy, energetic, toilsome race, Is raised within this favourable clime, In physical and mental power apace With those of any land, and any time, Save in the golden age, that age of thought sublime; But, what I mean is this: that her own men Do act their parts, they reason or they rhyme Within their bounds, with keen, far-reaching ken, For those who late have left the axe to wield the pen.

Yes, left the axe, whose skilful, cleaving stroke Hew'd out a home from 'mid the forest wild, Where grew the maple and the lofty oak, Where liv'd the dusky colour'd forest child, So sternly fierce in war, in peace so mild; Yes, here the settler met with Nature's force; Quite unsubdued, she look'd around and smil'd, And seem'd to view with scorn the white man's course Of labour slow, but yet of wealth the only source.

But still the patient white man plodded on, He swung his axe, and drove his horned team; At times he felt despair, but soon 'twas gone, And gladsome rays of hope would brightly gleam To cheer his path, like light on darken'd stream.

Some saw their hopes fulfill'd, some sank to rest Amid their toil, but, sinking, saw the beam Of brighter days, to make their children blest.

And give a rich reward to ev'ry earnest guest.