The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales in Verse Part 40

Let none imagine they e'er built on this A hope of endless happiness in heaven.

They deemed it right all men should bow submiss To His Authority, whose life was given For sinners vile; that they might not be driven Away from Him to dwell in endless woe.

This oft has cheered them on as they have striven To lead their fellow men G.o.d's truth to know; And every day its power did their behavior show.

XII.

The Spring is past and Summer's heat has fled.

United diligence hath well supplied A plenteous store of more than needful bread, For they have some choice luxuries beside, By which means different tastes were gratified.

The snug ten acre field with wheat is sown, And looks most promising. Should naught betide To hurt their present prospects this alone Will well repay them for the hards.h.i.+ps they have known.

XIII.

And now the necessary steps are taken To s.h.i.+eld the cattle from dread Winter's rage.

Necessity--stern master--does awaken Their full inventive powers, and they engage With ready ardor pens and sheds to wage; And in the absence of commodious barn, They stack with care their straw, and thus are sage Compared with many whom no dangers warn, And who, though often suffering, will not stoop to learn.

XIV.

A good supply of hard wood they obtain, To serve them through the season drawing near, When rude King Frost will hold tyrranic reign, Making the country desolate and drear.

But in those woods they have small cause for fear From Winter's howling, fearful, bitter blasts, For they have fuel in abundance near, And the huge wood file constant comfort casts Into the snug log house long as the season lasts.

XV.

All these arrangements made, the Pastor felt He had more leisure now to walk abroad; And in the gorgeous woods he often knelt In fervent prayer before his Father, G.o.d.

For miles around his feet have pressed the sod Which ne'er was turned by plow up to the sun-- Wilds that the foot of white man seldom trod, And where no clearance had as yet begun: Where he could sit and watch some charming brooklet run.

XVI.

Or now and then would wander near the side Of that majestic Lake, whose isles, tree clad And decked in Autumn's tints, appeared to ride With all their splendors quite elate and glad On Huron's silvery surface. Such scenes had A powerful charm to one of GOODWORTH'S mind.

They would indeed, if aught had made him sad, Often dispel his gloom and leave behind Precious remembrances of an enduring kind.

XVII.

This was no marvel for his soul was filled With true poetic fire; and oft sweet song Of purest praise spontaneously has welled From his enraptured heart. Then he would long To leave a world where misery and wrong So much prevail, but yet content to stay And sere his master, his poor saints among; Would try to save those led from G.o.d astray, That he might aid Christ's cause while it is called "To-day."

XVIII.

Amidst such scenery he would sometimes take In haste his pencil, that he might note down Such thought as gus.h.i.+ng from their fountain make The truest poetry that man has known.

A specimen or two will now be shown Ere I proceed with my unlettered tale.

If I mistake not they have all been drawn From Nature's store, and if so should not fail To claim our deep respect while they our minds regale.

PASTOR'S AUTUMNAL SONG.

Sweet Nature in grandeur Autumnal lies still, And I stand all entranced mid the gorgeous display, While the sun brightly sets o'er yon westermost hill, And soft twilight succeeds to a most balmy day.

It is sweet in our woods a free ranger to wander, And view the bright tints the frost makes on the leaves; To watch day by day, as the colors grow grander, And its garb evanescent each tall tree receives.

'Tis here that I feel my breast heave with emotion, While reflections arise in its deepest recess; And these in their turn fill my soul with devotion, As I trace the Kind Hand for my aid in distress.

These all are thy works, O, Thou glorious Being!

Thou art the great Limner with whom none can vie; Yet dim are the splendors as night comes, fast fleeing, Compared with the glories around Thee on high.

Amidst this array comes the solemn thought stealing, That these glowing colors will soon pa.s.s away.

Each rude blast of wind seems a pa.s.sing bell pealing, And loudly is calling all Christians to pray.

For full preparation, ere Death comes to call them To lay all earth's cares and sweet pleasures aside; That they may be happy whatever befall them, Still trusting in Jesus, the Lamb who hath died.

HIS SONG TO A RILL.

Swiftly flowing, gentle Rill, Murm'ring softly down this hill, Oft I list thy charming voice, At the bright and early morn, As the Sun comes from the East, While his beams these scenes adorn, To furnish minds like mine a feast.

Sweetly musical, pure Rill, Thou dost me with pleasure fill.

As I note thy varied charms Dulcet sounds fall on my ear, Soothing much a saddened heart; Easing me of grief and fear, Till I grieve from thee to part.

Modest, una.s.suming Rill, Thou art formed by matchless skill.

Grace and beauty are displayed In thy ever-smiling face And the objects which surround This thy home; where I can trace Traits to make this hallowed ground.

Lively, joyous, trickling Rill!

As I gaze upon thee still, Wanders back my mind afar To those haunts of boyish days, When my young and ardent soul Warbled forth its earnest lays, Gladly following Nature's call.

Glittering, dancing, pearly Rill!

Thou dost well thy Maker's will In regarding his behest.

Teaching Christians all the way They must take to please their G.o.d; Lest in dangerous paths they stray, And bring upon themselves his Rod.

Swiftly flowing, gentle Rill, Murm'ring softly down this hill, I must bid thee now farewell; Other scenes my presence claim.

My dear Master's work demands What will bring no earthly fame-- The labor of my heart and hands.

XIX.

Upon these songs no farther I comment; They speak a language dear unto my soul; And I could dwell through all my life content To gaze on Nature, who doth never pall A mind well tuned to listen to the call Of her pure minstrelsy, which yields delight Unmixed, enduring, as the seasons roll In quick succession, hymning forth the Might Of their All-wise Creator, who doth all things right.

XX.

'Tis "Indian Summer," and the sun looks down As if afraid to show his blazing face.

And now the woods a.s.sume a darker brown, While in the weather there is not a trace Of Summer's ardent heat that doth unbrace The nerves of most, and makes one long to feel The cooling breeze as Winter comes apace To scatter forest leaves with savage zeal, Which do the narrow wood-paths by their fall conceal.

XXI.

And now the copious rains come pouring down, Filling the creeks and swamps and rivers full; Or in the woods or in the growing town, Things wear an aspect truly dark and dull.

Through deep, stiff mud the stoutest oxen pull With much ado the very smallest load; While many a blow across his patient skull Urges the meek ox slowly on the road, Tiring the settler out ere he reach his abode.

XXII.

Anon the angry northwest winds arise, Bringing dark scowling clouds full fraught with snow.