The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales in Verse Part 55

Full of hope and joyous feelings, never dreaming of a blight To prospects of enjoyment that awaited their return, Where the smiles of wives and children make true love the brighter burn.

In such a happy state of mind they to Toronto went, And accomplished all their objects in the time which had been spent.

Now, with still lighter hearts they make for home again, And in the cars meet many of their traveling fellow men.

Drawn by the snorting Iron Horse along the track they flew, What danger might be lurking near was hidden from their view.

On, on, still on they went to a bridged precipice, When the Bridge gave way and all were hurled into the dread abyss!

The locomotive like a demon took first the fatal leap, Dragging the human-freighted cars with speed into the deep One plunged with him beneath the dark and icy wave, And one stood upright on its end, as if some few to save.

Oh, my soul shrinks back with horror from dwelling on the scene Which met the gaze of anxious friends who to that place have been.

I'd rather dwell upon the fact that Death to some was Life; That they have gained by having done so soon with earthly strife.

What thoughts filled all the bosoms of that mixed devoted band Is only known to G.o.d Most High, who, in his mighty hand Holds all our life and breath as his own most sovereign gift, And who alone can mortals s.h.i.+eld from such destruction swift.

O, I know that some there died who had tasted of his grace, And sudden death to them was summons to the place Prepared by Jesus for his Saints in the mansions of the Blest, And they now are drinking of the sweets of Everlasting Rest.

Amongst these we gladly number the three* whom we have lost, In sympathy with the bereaved would try to count the cost; But oh, 'twould prove a fruitless task; then, while we feel so sore, Let us humbly bow our hearts to G.o.d and wors.h.i.+p and adore.

*Mr. and Mrs. John Russell and Mr. Secord, who were well known as consistent Christians by all who had the pleasure of their acquaintance. All left large families and a numerous circle of friends to mourn their shocking and untimely end.

TRIBUTARY STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LAYc.o.c.k, WHO WAS ACCIDENTALLY KILLED WHILE ON A PROFESSIONAL JOURNEY, DECEMBER 10, 1857.

Tumultuous feelings like a torrent rush Athwart my soul and bear my spirit down.

Pent up awhile they from my bosom gush In such wild measure as I scarce have known.

For one I loved as friend for many years Has met a shocking end in Manhood's prime!

And this dire stroke prospective pleasure sears, As gra.s.s is scorched by Sol in torrid clime.

Living as neighbors, Friends.h.i.+p's sacred bond Grew stronger every time we visits paid.

He, undeterred by business would respond To my desire, and list the songs I made.

Oft at such times he has my Mentor proved, Doing his best to aid me in my Art, By prudent counsel which I dearly loved, Proceeding as it did from kindly heart.

Now with bold hand I strike my rude harp's strings, And sing a funeral dirge o'er his sad bier.

Up, up, my Muse, and sail aloft on wings Of tuneful pathos while I shed a tear.

No more shall this kind friend thy efforts guide, Listening thy mournful or thy joyous strains.

Death suddenly has torn him from the side Of her he loved, who shared his joys and pains.

And I no more on Earth shall see his face, Or hear his praise or censure of my songs, Nor yet will he most critically trace What of true poesy to them belongs.

No more will he, well pleased, sweet music bring From our melodeon, while we join in praise.

His soul untrammeled now on high will sing In G.o.d's pure wors.h.i.+p and angelic lays.

His frame, too weakly for his ardent soul, Will feel fatigue no more by night or day.

But then no more he'll take with me a stroll By our fine stream, soft murmuring on its way.

Nor yet, with pleasure great, hold deep discourse On many subjects dear alike to both: Tracing the stream of Truth up to its Source, To do which fully he was nothing loth.

No more will he to an attentive throng Give well-timed lectures for his Country's weal; Yet his remembrances will live among Those whom his conduct taught his worth to feel.

Ah me! that it should e'er have been my lot To sing in soul-wrung anguish this sad strain!

For, while his friends.h.i.+p will not be forgot, I long may wait to find such friend again.

BRANTFORD, December 12, 1857.

SONG OF THE CANADIAN CRADLER.

1858.

With my cradle scythe, feeling brisk and blithe, In the breeze-tempered heat of this fine day; I'll haste to the field with the wheaten yield, And there will I manfully cut my way.

Now in all my walks, with broad, rapid strokes; I bring down the waving grain quite low.

Every sweep I try seems to make it sigh, But cheerful on, and still on I go.

I heed not the sweat, making my clothes wet, The toil and care will be well repaid; For this golden store drives want from my door, And the surplus is farmers' profit made.

Binder now keep pace, for this hard-run race Will tell on the field ere night come in; And rest will be sweet in our plain retreat, Until a new day with its toil begin.

O, I think I see with exhuberant glee, The _shocks_ in good order standing round, And well-laden teams in my bright day-dreams, Are now trotting briskly over the ground.

Then hasten the day when our grain and hay Well secured beneath our good barn dome-- Will inspire our hearts to perform their parts In the cherished joy of Harvest Home.

STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. B. HOWARD AND HIS FAMILY AS A TRIBUTE OF RESPECT ON THEIR DEPARTURE FROM BRANTFORD, AUGUST, 1858.

Howard, thy fervid Christian zeal, Combined with large amount of love, So blessed to bonny Brantford's weal, So truly owned by G.o.d above, Lead me, ere from our midst thou move With those who form thy family, To seek a.s.sistance from that Dove-- Inspirer of true Poesy,

That I may sing a well-timed lay; One which may thy best feelings suit, And thou may'st read when far away With pleasure, as the genuine fruit Of well-spent years that are not mute, But which have spoke in loudest tone To some who have been most astute, As I in truth would frankly own.

They've told us of a work begun Amongst thy people, brought quite low By worldliness, which Saints should shun If G.o.d's pure will they seek to know, Or wish in safety's path to go.

Thou foundest them in this sad state And to the yoke thy neck didst bow With ardor, for thy soul was great.

Satan, no doubt, with jealous eye Watched keenly for thy halting then; But thy Redeemer, ever nigh, Made much of his dread malice vain.

He spake the word and wicked men Fell down before the high-raised Cross, And forthwith steadily refrain From pleasures now viewed but as dross.

Backsliding Christians trembling came To that blest place--neglected long, And there rekindled wors.h.i.+p's flame, And freely owned they had been wrong.

Then, feeling sense of pardon strong, Afresh they family altars raise-- On which to offer sacred Song, And join sweet prayer to grateful praise.