Canada And Other Poems Part 7

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 wafted the news of thy trouble and pain.

Oh, Erin! I love thee in spite of thine errors, And now for thee, Erin, my heart is forlorn, Disturb'd as thou art by such various terrors, Thou beautiful isle, where my kindred were born.

E'en now, in my thoughts, I can climb thy steep mountains, Or roam through thy valleys, where green shamrocks grow, Or over thy meadows, where hedges of hawthorn Stand gracefully clipp'd, an impa.s.sable row.

And I see the thatch'd cottage, where often, the stranger, With kind word of welcome, is met at the door; The castle or tow'r, a shelter from danger, When foemen invaded thy sea-beaten sh.o.r.e.

Oh, Erin, I roam, in my thoughts, by thy rivers, I stand by thy lakes, in delight at the view, And ever I pray for the time, that delivers This nation from strife, and from misery, too.

From Shannon's green banks unto Erne's limpid waters, I've travell'd in thought, while this was my pray'r: That sons of Fermanagh, and Limerick's daughters.

Should join in a union of loyalty, there.

For what loyal maid, from the banks of the Shannon, Or what Irish lad, from the slopes of the Bann, Would not dread the day, when the boom of the cannon Should speak of destruction and death, from the van?

And what loyal son of old Ireland's glory, From Cork's cove of beauty, to Foyle's distant sh.o.r.e, Would not mourn the day, when, cold, lifeless and gory, Brave forms downfallen, should rise never more?

And who would not hail, throughout Erin's dominion, The time when Religion's bright form should arise, And sail o'er the land; with her blest, healing pinion, And bring to all hearts the truth in one guise?

And then, in his home, afar o'er the ocean, Or by the turf fire, upon Erin's old sod, Each Irishman, kneeling in humble devotion, Would love all his brothers, while praying to G.o.d.

Oh Erin, mavourneen! Let Love's joyous fingers Strike out from your harps, one glad, resonant strain, And, if one discordant, harsh, jarring note lingers, Oh, strike for your country, together again!

And then, when your hands and your hearts are united, When you kneel at one shrine, when you bow to one law.

With a sea of glad brightness, your isle shall be lighted, While thunders the chorus, of Erin-go-bragh.

BY THE LAKE.

The waves are das.h.i.+ng on the sh.o.r.e, With wild, glad joy, I stand and view them; And, as they break with sullen roar, My heart responds with gladness, to them.

They've pow'r to thrill the human soul, As on the sh.o.r.e they break so madly, The spirit, bounding, hears their roll, And speaks responsive, wildly, gladly.

The heart, with proud, defiant beats, Re-echoes the triumphant roar, And, as each wave its course retreats, The pulse retires to beat once more.

The gull screams wildly o'er the waves, Defiant in its stormy glee; It screams, perchance, o'er wat'ry graves And recks not, heeds not, nor do we.

But comes a time, when waves and wind, In restful quietude remain, A change then comes upon the mind, And stormy pa.s.sion's recent reign.

The gull sails softly thro' the air, For all is calm and still below; Peace, blessed peace is ev'rywhere, And all regret the recent throe.

The man, remorseful, thinks of how Defiant thoughts reign'd wild and high, The waves are mourning, sobbing now, In peace, but yet in agony.

LOUIS RIEL.

Misguided man, thy turbid life This day in shameful death shall close, And thou shalt ne'er behold the sun, That in thy sight, this morn, arose.

The moon, which yestere'en so clear, Shone thro' thy cell's small window pane-- No more shalt thou behold its light, Or see its chasten'd rays, again.

No more thy voice, 'mong savage hordes, Shall sound, with baneful, potent spell, To make them rise with savage force, And 'gainst their country's laws, rebel.

And thou art calm in trustful hope, And conscience gives thee little pain, 'Tis strange, but man's a myst'ry deep, Unsolv'd in finite thought's domain.

The scaffold's there, and thou art firm; Thou walkest forth upon it now; The thoughts within thy breast are hid, But calm and peaceful is thy brow.

The man of G.o.d, thy faithful friend Of brighter days, and happier years, Upon thy cheek, with holy lips, A kiss imprints, 'mid blinding tears.

The priest and thou art praying now, For thy poor soul, before 'tis gone, When suddenly, with cras.h.i.+ng force, The door descends--the bolt is drawn.

And what can be the pray'r of those, Who learn'd with awe thy dreadful death?

It is that thou G.o.d's mercy found, Before thou yielded up thy breath.

It is that thou that mercy found, Which thou to others never gave; That thy rebellious, restless soul, A pardon found, beyond the grave.

Man's justice had to take its course, And tie the fatal hempen knot, For vengeance cried from out the ground, Where lay the blood of murder'd Scott.

But who shall say e'en such a cry Did drown the voice of pard'ning love, Which comes to sins of deepest dye, From Him who died, but reigns above?

LINES ON THE NORTH-WEST REBELLION.

The war is o'er, and vict'ry crowns Our youthful soldiers brave, And back their homeward steps have turn'd, Save those who found their grave; Save those whom rebel bullets fell'd, Whose martial souls have gone, Whose bodies rest beneath the plains Of wide Saskatchewan.

Sleep on, brave hearts! Nor bugle sound, Nor beat of martial drum Shall make you spring to arms again, And to your comrades come.

Sleep on, brave hearts! Nor western storm, Nor rebel b.a.l.l.s you'll feel; You fought the last campaign of life, And fought it well, with Riel.

And others wounded in the strife, Their valor still will burn, And to the b.l.o.o.d.y field again, Their spirits brave return; Tho' maim'd, and bruis'd, and battle worn, Their names are honor'd here, Next to the names of those who fought, And found a b.l.o.o.d.y bier.

Oh, British troops are brave, To charge the foreign guns, And British spirit shows itself In our young country's sons.

Long, long may truth and valor strong, Inspire Canadian hearts, To meet with steady bravery, All rebel b.a.l.l.s and darts;

To meet all foreign foes, or quell The sinful rebel's pride, And teach that right must yet prevail, That justice must preside; That law must ne'er be set at naught, By selfish cliques or elans, That right must ne'er give way to might, That liberty is man's.

THE TEACHER.

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, Why whistlest thou that tune, so sad and low?

What trouble weighs thee down, what sorrow sore Lies heavy on thy yet so youthful breast?

Sure fortune yet holds wide for thee her door; Sure fame and joy yet wait thy earnest quest.

Why, know'st thou not the birds for thee do sing, The flow'rs for thee with perfum'd beauty grow, With melody for thee the wild birds sing, With rippling laugh, the cheerful streamlets flow?

Then why, my friend, once more I ask of thee, Why shows thy face so much unrest and pain?

What painful phase of life dost thou still see?

What sad, sad woe, doth in thy heart remain?