Hesperus Part 11

And as I thought and gazed, My soul, exultant, praised The Power to whom each mighty act and victory are due,

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For the saint-like Peace that smiled Like a heaven-gifted child, And for the air of quietude that steeped the distant view.

The sun looked down with pride, And scattered far and wide His beams of whitest glory till they flooded all the Plain; The hills their veils withdrew, Of white, and purplish blue, And reposed all green and smiling 'neath the shower of golden rain.

Oh, rare, divinest life Of Peace, compared with Strife!

Yours is the truest splendour, and the most enduring fame; All the glory ever reaped Where the fiends of battle leaped, Is harsh discord to the music of your undertoned acclaim.

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DEATH OF WOLFE.

"They run! they run!"--"Who run?" Not they Who faced that decimating fire As coolly as if human ire Were rooted from their hearts; _They_ run, while he who led the way So bravely on that glorious day, Burns for one word with keen desire Ere waning life departs!

"They run! they run!"--"_Who_ run?" he cried, As swiftly to his pallid brow, Like crimson sunlight upon snow, The anxious blood returned; "The French! the French!" a voice replied, When quickly paled life's ebbing tide, And though his words were weak and low His eye with valour burned.

"Thank G.o.d! I die in peace," he said; And calmly yielding up his breath, There trod the shadowy realms of death A good man and a brave; Through all the regions of the dead, Behold his spirit, spectre-led, Crowned with the amaranthine wreath That blooms not for the slave.

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BROCK.

OCTOBER 13TH, 1859.*

One voice, one people, one in heart And soul, and feeling, and desire!

Re-light the smouldering martial fire, Sound the mute trumpet, strike the lyre, The hero deed can not expire, The dead still play their part.

Raise high the monumental stone!

A nation's fealty is theirs, And we are the rejoicing heirs, The honored sons of sires whose cares We take upon us unawares, As freely as our own.

We boast not of the victory, But render homage, deep and just, To his--to their--immortal dust, Who proved so worthy of their trust No lofty pile nor sculptured bust Can herald their degree.

No tongue need blazon forth their fame-- The cheers that stir the sacred hill Are but mere promptings of the will That conquered then, that conquers still; And generations yet shall thrill At Brock's remembered name.

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Some souls are the Hesperides Heaven sends to guard the golden age, Illuming the historic page With records of their pilgrimage; True Martyr, Hero, Poet, Sage; And he was one of these.

Each in his lofty sphere sublime Sits crowned above the common throng, Wrestling with some Pythonic wrong, In prayer, in thunder, thought, or song; Briarcus-limbed, they sweep along, The Typhons of the time.

* The day of the inauguration of the new Monument on Queenston Heights.

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SONG FOR CANADA.

Sons of the race whose sires Aroused the martial flame That filled with smiles The triune Isles, Through all their heights of fame!

With hearts as brave as theirs, With hopes as strong and high, We'll ne'er disgrace The honoured race Whose deeds can never die., Let but the rash intruder dare To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would flame throughout the land.

Our lakes are deep and wide, Our fields and forests broad; With cheerful air We'll speed the share, And break the fruitful sod; Till blest with rural peace, Proud of our rustic toil, On hill and plain True kings we'll reign, The victors of the soil.

But let the rash intruder dare

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To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would light him from the land.

Health smiles with rosy face Amid our sunny dales, And torrents strong Fling hymn and song Through all the mossy vales; Our sons are living men, Our daughters fond and fair; A thousand isles Where Plenty smiles, Make glad the brow of Care.

But let the rash intruder dare To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would flame throughout the land.

And if in future years One wretch should turn and fly, Let weeping Fame Blot out his name From Freedom's hallowed sky; Or should our sons e'er prove A coward, traitor race,-- Just heaven! frown In thunder down, T' avenge the foul disgrace!

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But let the rash intruder dare To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would light him from the land.

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SONG--I'D BE A FAIRY KING.

Oh, I'd be a Fairy King, With my va.s.sals brave and bold; We'd hunt all day, Through the wildwood gay, In our guise of green and gold; And we'd lead such a merry, merry life, That the silly, toiling bee, Would have no sweet In its dull retreat, So rich as our frolic glee.

I'd be a Fairy King, With my va.s.sals brave and bold; We'd hunt all day, Through the wildwood gay, In our guise of green and gold.

At night, when the moon spake down, With her bland and pensive tone, The fairest Queen That ever was seen Would sit on my pearly throne; And we'd lead such a merry, merry life, That the stars would laugh in show'rs Of silver light, All the summer night, To the airs of the pa.s.sing Hours.

I'd be a Fairy King, With my va.s.sals brave and bold; We'd hunt all day Through the wildwood gay, In our guise of green and gold.

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We'd talk with the dainty flow'rs, And we'd chase the laughing brooks; My merry men, Through grove and glen, Would search for the mossy nooks; And we'd be such a merry, merry band, Such a lively-hearted throng, That life would seem But a silvery dream In the flowery Land of Song.

I'd be a Fairy King, With my va.s.sals brave and bold; We'd hunt all day, Through the wildwood gay, In our guise of green and gold.

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