  TORONTO 1891 Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada DEDICATION. To Thee, whose cheering words have urged me on When fainting heart advised me to stay My halting pen, and leave my task undone: To Thee, I humbly dedicate this lay. Strong, womanly heart! whose long-enduring pain Has not sufficed to rend thy faith in twain, But rather teaches thee to sympathise With those whose path through pain and darkness lies Thyself forgetting, if but thou canst be Of aid to others in adversity; The helpful word, the approbative smile From thee have ever greeted me, the while None other cheered. Then let this tribute be A token of my gratitude to Thee. That the greatest of thy statesmen Dares not question her decree, But in meek humiliation Bows to her, abjuring thee. Rise, Canadians! and boldly Thrust the Serpent from your land; And should any strive to help her, Crush them with your martial hand. Rise unanimous, and fear not In your country's cause to fight; Better bloodshed than surrender To the wily Serpent's might. Hurl from power the men who basely Truckle to the Serpent's will; Cast them out and call on others— Truer men—their place to fill. Men whose chiefest aim shall be to Fight for Canada and home— Men who will not bow before the Dictates of the Church of Rome. Canada, the time approaches, And is even now at hand— Wilt thou choose that Rome or England Thine allegiance shall command? Silent yet fiercely the battle is raging; Blood is not flowing, but poison is spread; Freedom and slavery madly are waging A war that will last till its cause shall be dead. Canada, thine is the field of the battle, Nor would the conflict be long or severe, Were not thy statesmen, "like dumb, driven cattle," Led by emolument, daunted by fear. Slowly advances the Jesuit faction, Crafty and subtle the means they employ. Protestants fight, but uncertain their action— Party dissensions their power destroy. Love of their country still loudly professing, On to the conflict divided they go. Firmest allegiance to Britain confessing, Still disunited they fight with her foe. Canada, these are the men who defend thee— These the brave soldiers who fight in thy name: Fierce is the struggle, but soon will the end be; And Leo shall lead thee to glory and fame! A Response to "Courage," by Celia Thaxter. You have said that there is not a fear Or a doubt that oppresses your soul, That your faith is so strong That it bears you along, Ever holding you in its control. 'Tis a comfort to know there is one Whose allegiance cannot be denied, But I fain would enquire, (For your faith is far high'r Than is mine): Have you ever been tried? Have you sought to aspire to a life Higher far than the one that is past? Have you laboured through years, By your hopes crushing fears, But to meet disappointment at last? Have the friends who should love you the best, In your absence forgotten that love, And refused to impart To your grief-stricken heart All the solace their kindness would prove? Has the world misconstrued your intents, And endeavoured to sully your fame? Has the venomous tongue With its calumny stung Your proud heart, and dishonoured your name? I desire not to "chide" you nor "vex," But I ask you to answer me now; Did the torturing pain Of a love that is vain Ever furrow your heart like a plough? Have you loved with so fervent a love That, when failure and hopelessness came, All the torments of hell In your breast seemed to dwell, Scorching courage and faith in their flame? One of these may have fall'n to your lot; What if all were apportioned to me? Could I then "lift my head," Nor a single tear shed?— Has such faith been allotted to thee? I have sought to be true to my God, I have sought to be faithful as you; But such "tumult and strife" Have embittered my life That I am not so faultlessly true. When the path of my life Lay through trouble and strife, And temptation encompassed me round, As a light in the shade Thou wast sent to mine aid; And a harbour of refuge was found. I beheld in thine eye, As a beam from on high, The ray of compassion revealed; And I turned in relief From the Valley of Grief; I turned to be strengthened and healed. In the words that you breathed All my sorrow was sheathed, And peace, like a dove, settled down. And the calm of your presence, Like mercy's pure essence, Recaptured the faith that had flown. Since then, if perplexed, If harassed or vexed, If tempted, afflicted or tried, I have sought thee to cheer, Thou hast ever been near To comfort, to soothe and to guide. Thus a thrill of affection Must greet the reflection That thou hast considered my needs; And my heart can but move With a reverent love As I ponder thy merciful deeds. Though feeble and weak Are the words that I speak, Such gratitude wells in my soul, That I dare not express What I fain would confess, Lest my pen should escape my control. Yet these measures restrained Will have surely attained The purpose that caused them to be, If of all that I feel They should chance to reveal But a hint, in a whisper, to thee. You wrong me, Kate, you wrong me In harbouring the thought That he who loves so fondly Would injure thee in aught. The pang that I must feel, Kate, When dark suspicion lurks Within thy breast, is real, Kate, And mischievously works. The tone with doubt inflected, The calm, reproachful look, The name of one suspected In light arraignment spoke; These, these enforce the heart-ache, And instigate the strife, And these, in chiefest part, take The joy from out my life. For bright within my soul, dear, On Love's unsullied throne, With absolute control, dear, Thou reignest Queen alone. With reverence I chose thee, With pride I placed thee there; And none did e'er oppose thee, And none shall ever dare. All womankind shall merit A just regard from me, And all the sex inherit A claim to courtesy; But none has ever claimed me Her vassal, slave or thrall, For Kate, my heart has named thee The sceptred Queen of all. Then trust me, Kate, oh! trust me, In absence, far or near, And judge me not unjustly, But hold my promise dear. Will not my word content thee? I cannot give thee more: Oh Kate, my Kate, repent thee, And love me as before! I know a maiden, scarce thirteen, A sweet and gentle maid, With dignified and graceful mien, And manner calm and staid. But I've seen her, when none but her parents are nigh, When her spirits are flowing exuberantly, With her feet tossing high, while her arms in accordance, Are wildly upraised in the Fling or the Sword-dance. I know a maid whose hazel eye Outshines the light gazelle's, And hid beneath its brilliancy, A pensive shadow dwells. But I've seen it illumed with a mischievous light, Which the sparkles displayed in the meteor's flight Cannot meet, as her laughter reverberates round, And merrily echo responds to the sound. I know a maid whose accents mild, And words of sober sense, Declare her woman more than child, Yet mark her innocence. But I've heard her repeating the quip or the joke, While merriment shone in her eyes as she spoke, As, with skill that is seldom excelled on the stage, She worthily mimicked the actor or sage. I know a maid, a loving maid, Whose quiet, gentle ways, In look, in voice, in act displayed, Must bring her love and praise. But I know that when nimbly she's tripping the dance, When her eyes sparkle bright with a mischievous glance, When her sallies of innocent wit shall outpour, She will capture the hearts that were callous before. So you think you will be a Scotch lassie; The braw Hieland lad in a kilt Has taken your fancy, dear, has he? And you, too, would be clad in a "tilt." Well, not one will gainsay you nor blame you, For your wishes are ever fulfilt; And how proudly your father will claim you, When arrayed in a tartan and "tilt"! And your mother will certainly further The hopes that her Ethel has built; You have only to ask to ensure their Fulfilment concerning the "tilt." And I—(Oh! I know I don't count, dear, And for speaking acknowledge my guilt, For my wishes to nothing amount, dear,) I would rather you hadn't a "tilt." For although thou wilt take us by storm, dear, Looking sweet, as thou certainly wilt, Yet, you know, it is very bad form, dear, And not English to wish for a "tilt." And I thought, (but of course was mistaken, For my hopes lie around me all spilt), That my Ethel would never awaken To sigh for a Hielander's "tilt." None the less will I try to be glad then, Nor let courtesy play me the jilt; Though I know that my heart will be sad when Little Ethel is wearing her "tilt". Dear little Ethel, Child that I love, Come, as an angel, Down from above. Golden-rayed tresses, Shining and bright, Inviting caresses, Mirroring light. Eyes blue and tender, Beaming with joy. Who would offend her? Who would annoy? Ripple thy laughter! Bubble thy glee! Loud will the rafter Echo to thee. Clinging to mother, Set on her knee; She has no other Dearer than thee. Slave thou hast bound her; Nestles thine arm, Twining around her, Telling thy charm. Innocent speeches Silencing strife; Hallowed each is: Pearls of a life. Come, come and kiss me, Child of my heart. Oh! I would miss thee Were we to part. God in His mercy Shelter my dove, Dear little Ethel, Child that I love. (In imitation of A. Lindsay Gordon.) Well, Douglas, I'm sorry you've got to be homing, Though I grant it's unwise to continue your roaming, But the evening's to spare ere you drop me astern, So come up to my room and indulge in a yarn. Here's tobacco in plenty—"Gold Flake," very good; No "Birdseye," or "Honeydew," that's understood. But this isn't bad, though a stranger to you— (Here is Dick: Bring up ginger and whiskey for two). And now take a seat, there are two, as you see, The red rocker for you and the other for me. Don't demur, for no guests will arrive, I am sure; If they do, why there's room on the bed or the floor. So you're going to England again. Well, your visit Has nigh made me homesick—no miracle, is it? I was born there, and there I was nurtured and bred, And I love the old land. (There's a match overhead). It is four years ago, more than that, since I started Away from my home. Well, I'm not chicken-hearted, But your accent, your manner, the things you have said, Have just taken me back to the life I once led. And it seems there's a canker that Time will not heal, Though I certainly thought that I never should feel Its soreness again. I had settled down here, Thinking happiness mine, till your lordship drew near. And now, with your talk of the land of my birth, All those sad recollections you rudely unearth. Don't apologise, man, for I'm glad it is so, There's a joy in the grief that I wouldn't forego. There's a joy in remembering all that has been, And recalling the pleasures that once I have seen; And if bitterness follows, I'm ready to suffer, For this morsel is sweet though the next may be tougher. Let the fool in his folly anticipate sorrow, I, for one, will refuse to take thought for the morrow. There is joy in our life if we will but enjoy it; But the most of us do what we can to destroy it. For we fume and we worry and fret ourselves thin By regret for what might be or what might have been; And the blessings of life we incessantly miss By ignoring entirely the pleasure that is. You have taught me a lesson; though little you thought Or intended to do it, the lesson is taught. By your actions, not words, have I learned to be wise, To embrace every joy, every sorrow despise. Did I say that I thought there was happiness here? I was wrong, for I know it; 'tis perfectly clear. If you'll listen a bit, take your pipe up again And continue your smoke, I will try to explain. To begin with, the land I've adopted as mine Has a place in my heart, a peculiar shrine. And my love for the country is true and sincere; If I can't live in England I wish to live here. Then, I freely confess, if my way has been hard, And my path somewhat rough, still I have my reward. Let my rung on life's ladder be low as it may, I have fought single-handed each step of the way. It is well to have fortune, mayhap it is well In the tents of the noble and titled to dwell; But the man who has builded his home with his hand Is the happiest man in the happiest land. Let milord and milady inherit their wealth, I am legatee only of vigor and health; Every cent that I own has been earned by the sweat Of my brow, and I'm proud to acknowledge it yet. There's a happiness here every other beyond, Except one: to be bound in the mystical bond Which is woven with throbs of the heart that is true, And the glances of eyes of a love-lightened hue. And, perchance, even I may have tasted the bliss That is found in the warmth of the soul-inspired kiss; And it may have been mine—But I travel too fast. It is time that the cobbler returned to his last. But your silence has been philosophic and deep, And I hope you've enjoyed—why, the man is asleep! Only closing your eyes? Well, perhaps that will do To tell the marines, but it's grossly untrue. I was speaking of England? Undoubtedly so, So I was, but it's just twenty minutes ago. I've been talking since then in a serious strain, And perhaps 'tis as well that I've spoken in vain. Don't apologise. What, is it time for your train? Well, Douglas, then here's to our meeting again And meanwhile, old man, don't forget the pedantic And long-winded fellow across the Atlantic. 'Tis Christmas day; the bells ring out The joyous tidings far and near, And children hail with gladsome shout The merry sound of Christmas cheer. 'Tis Christmas day, the children's day, When He was born a little child, To take Creation's sin away, And purify the Truth defiled. He taught the world to walk by faith, And, lest their feet should go astray, He trod Himself the faithful path, And showed His followers the way. He taught a Hope to all oppressed By Sorrow's weight or Sin's remorse; Himself the contrite sinner blessed, To give His words a greater force. Oh! ye who tread in Trial's way, Nor scarce can murmuring resist, Remember, on His natal day, The faithful suffering of Christ. And ye, whose thoughts in memory trace A darkened life of wrongful deeds, Look up and see His kindly face, Who now for your allegiance pleads. Oh! Christians, to your name be true, Cast all your faithlessness away, And let your hope be born anew On this, your Saviour's natal day. From afar, in the dead of night, By the moon's dim, uncertain light, To salute thee with loving rite, I come, sweetheart, I come. Oh! refuse not to hear my lay; From the depths of my soul I pray. Let my accents my love betray To thee, sweetheart, to thee. As I sing in the shade below, As the words of my greeting flow, I am thrilled with the fervent glow Of love, sweetheart, of love. I have come from the silent moor, In the still of the midnight hour; I have come by my passion's power For thee, sweetheart, for thee. Then awake from thy slumbers light; Ere he speed on his homeward flight, Bid thy lover a last good-night. Good-night, sweetheart, good-night! |
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