Canada and Other Poems | Page 3

run.
The winsome maids with willing hearts,
In youthful beauty all aglow,

Right cheerfully perform their parts
Where duty's voice may bid
them go.
Oh, may their graceful figures long
Their youthful energy retain,

And may they meet no heartless wrong,
To fill their gentle souls with
pain.
As yet there is no village bell,
Save that which rings the call to school,

Where festive youth drink at the well
Which flows from
knowledge' sparkling pool.
And yet, whene'er the Sabbath comes,
Or week night held for praise
and prayer,
No need for signal bells and drums,
Each knows the
time, and he is there.
There is the daughter, there the son,
To kneel in humble prayer to
God,
And those whose race is well-nigh run,
Who humbly kiss the
chast'ning rod.
Oh, blest content, and lowly life
That blunts Ambition's biting sting

Unknown to thee the bitter strife,
Which proud refinements often
bring.

IS THERE ROOM FOR THE POET?
Is there room for the poet, fair Canada's sons.
To live his strange life,
and to warble his songs,
To follow each current of thought as it runs,

And to sing of your victories, glories and wrongs?

Is there room for the poet, ye senators grave?
Ye orators, statesmen
and law-makers, say;
May he of the calling so gentle e'er crave

Your patronage, and of your kindness a ray?
Ye toilers in cities, ye workers in fields,
Who handle the hammer, the
pen or the plow,
Can the poet implicitly trust, as he yields
His heart,
and his hopes, and his name to you now?
Wilt thou pardon his follies, forgive him his faults
In manners, in
habits, in distance and time?
For when on his charger, Pegasus, he
vaults,
He rises o'er reason's safe, temperate clime.
He will sing of his country, his people and thine,
Exalt, if you aid him,
your honor and fame.
Your sympathy, acting like purest of wine,

Will urge him to joyously sing of your name.
His case is peculiar, stern fate has been hard,
His body unfitted for
labours of men,
His mind, with the sensitive make of the bard,

Unfitted for aught, but the work of the pen.
He singeth, but yet he must live, as he sings;
He hath wants of the
earth, that must be supplied;
And tho' 'tis an off'ring most humble he
brings,
He hopes that your favors will not be denied.
Our country is young, let us early instil
Deep into the minds of the
youthful and fair,
The greatness of virtue, uprightness and will,
And
the poet will help you to 'stablish them there.
Be it his to proclaim, e'en tho' rudely, in measure,
The rights of his
country, her honour, renown;
To sing of whatever his people may
treasure,
In court or in camp, in the country or town.

MAN AND HIS PLEASURES.

'Tis not with glad fruition crown'd,
We always feel our greatest joy;

For pleasure often dwells around
The heart that hopes, and knows
no cloy.
We wait, we watch, we think, we plan
To catch the pleasure ere it
flies,
But when 'tis caught, for which we ran,
It often droops,
perchance, it dies.
In truth the non-possession oft'
Creates the chief, the only charm,

Of that, which, once obtain'd, is scoff'd,
And oft' receiv'd with vex'd
alarm.
The mind of man is strange and deep,
Deceiving others and himself;

Its wiles would make an angel weep,
In strife for praise, for power
and pelf.
Strange mixture of the good and ill,
He strives continually to bend

Those qualities, with wondrous skill,
To meet in one, which never
blend.

DAVID'S LAMENTATION OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN.
The beauty of Israel is slain on thy mountains,
The mighty are low,
and how great is their fall,
But tell not our grief in Gath, by the
fountains,
And publish it not within Askelon's wall,
Lest the
Philistines' daughters shall mock at our
sorrow,
And triumph in
gladness o'er us in our pain,
And sound all their timbrels and harps on
the morrow,
While here we are sore, in lamenting our slain.
Oh! Gilboa's mountains, from now and forever,
Let moisture, which
falleth as rain, or as dew,
Come down on thy parch'd, burning
summits, oh, never,
For the shield of the mighty is cast upon you.

From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the
highest,
The bow of
fair Jonathan never did quail,
And the sword of his father, in danger

the highest,
Went forth to brave deeds, like the sweep of the gale.
O Saul thou anointed! and Jonathan, brother!
In life ye were pleasant
and lovely to see;
And still in your death ye are lovely together,

Tho' great is my grief, and my sorrow, for thee.
Ye were swifter than
eagles, ye heaven anointed,
And stronger than lions, thou glorious
pair,
Bur sad was the day, that Jehovah appointed,
To humble your
strength, and your bravery, there.
Oh, weep o'er the fallen, fair Israel's daughters!
He cloth'd you in
scarlet, and deck'd you with gold,
Then shed ye your tears, until their
sad waters
Shall moisten the tomb, where now he is cold;
I'm sad
for thee, Jonathan, more than my brother,
So kindly and gentle, so
faithful and free,
I lov'd thee, as never I shall love