Canada and Other Poems | Page 6

throng;
The woods are vocal, with the strife
Of friendly rivalry, in
song.
But 'tis the Sabbath morn, and now
Are heard no sounds of
industry,
Save milk-maid, calling to her cow,
Or buzzing of the
toilsome bee.
Or save, perhaps, the gentle neigh
Of horses, answering the call,

For mother, father, child to-day
Must hear the holy words, that fall

From lips, that pray with them, and preach
To them, the old, old
words of cheer.
They must receive the sounds, that teach
Those
solemn truths, they love to hear.
But now, the sun's increasing heat
Hath dried the dew, and warm'd
the air;
The feather'd songsters now retreat,
Fann'd by the sun's
relentless glare.
The morning service now is o'er,
The pastor, kindly
greeted too,
And, after greetings at the door,
They all their
homeward way pursue.

JOHN AND JANE.
Said Jane to John, "Come, let us wed,
For know, dear John, I love
you,
And, by the bright stars overhead,
There's none I place above
you."
"I doubt it not," said John, "and I
Reciprocate the feeling,
And here,
with one despairing cry,
I kneel, and love you, kneeling."
"Then why, dear John, do you despair,
If you do love so madly?"

"Because," said John, "my pocket there
Is slim, and furnish'd badly."

"Oh, that is naught," said Jane, with glee,
"I'd marry you to-morrow,

And live on bread, and water free,
Without one grain of sorrow."
"All right," said John, "I'm with you there,
Old Logan's charming
daughter,
You'll get the bread, the work to share,
And I will get the
water."

THINGS MYSTERIOUS.
This earth's a mystery profound,
Its movements, make, and changes
all--
A mystery which none can sound,
Who dwell upon the
whirling ball.
And deeper far than all the rest,
Is man; a mystery unsolved
Since
the first heave of ocean's breast,
Since the first course our earth
revolv'd.
His thoughts, and e'en his actions too,
Possess a subtle meaning,
when
That meaning others may construe,
As plain and open to their
ken.
There is a place in every heart,
As secret as the silent tomb,
Where
others have no lot nor part,
Where none may gaze, where none may
room.
It seemeth strange, that flesh and blood
Should hold such ghostly,
hellish things,
And also things supremely good,
Which might not
shame an angel's wings.
Yet so it is, for ev'ry throb
That man's pulsating bosom gives,
And
ev'ry smile, and ev'ry sob
Speaks of a mystery that lives.
There is a tale in ev'ry flow'r,
Which none may whisper, none may
tell,
A secret thing in ev'ry bower,
Which ev'ry tenant hideth well.

There is a tale of joy and woe,
Round ev'ry hearth, in ev'ry land,

Which ne'er may ever further go,
Than round that humble, home-like
band.
And shall we seek to draw the screen
Which hides the good, and eke
the ill?
No, it is better far, I ween,
To let them keep in hiding still.
For unknown good is virtue still,
And virtue shows a richer bloom,

As violet, or daffodil,
When growing 'mid the grass or broom.
And he who hides within his heart
A secret sin, all unconfess'd
To
God or man, no glossing art
"Can quiet the distracting guest."

THE PINE TREE.
The wind last night was wild and strong,
It shriek'd, it whistl'd and it
roar'd,
And went with whirl and swoop along,
'Mid falling trees and
crashing board.
The timbers creak'd, the rafters sway'd,
And e'en some roofs,
upheav'd and torn,
Came crashing to the earth, and laid
Before the
view, upon the morn.
The air seem'd like some monstrous thing,
By its uncurbed passion
held;
Like dreadful dragon on the wing,
So horribly it scream'd and
yell'd.
Now venting a triumphant shout,
And ever and anon a groan,
Like
fiend from prison lately out,
Or like unhappy chain'd one's moan.
There was a lofty pine I knew;
Each morn and eve I passed it by;

To such a lofty height it grew,
It caught at once each passing eye.
It stood alone, and proudly stood,
With straight, and clean, and lofty

stem;
All other trees it seemed to view,
As though it scorn'd to live
with them.
Full many a winter's snow had whirl'd
About its base, and settl'd there,

And many an autumn mist had curl'd
About its head, so high in air.
Full many a blast had spent, in vain,
Its force, for, ever like a rock,

It stood each persevering strain,
And long defied the tempest's shock.
But yesternight it crashing fell,
And now, this morn, I see it lie.
I
knew the brave old tree so well,
A tear almost bedims my eye.
But brave old trees, like brave old men,
Must feel at last the fatal
stroke,
That dashest them to earth again,
Tho' lofty pine, or mighty
oak.
I'll miss, old tree, thy lofty stem
Outlin'd against the distant sky,
But
'tis no gain to fret for them--
For men, or trees, that fall and die.

AUTUMN.
The grass is wet with heavy dew,
The leaves have changed their
bright green hue,
To brighter red, or golden;
The morning sun
shines with a glow,
As bright and pure as long ago,
In time ye left
the olden.
One tree is cloth'd with scarlet dress,
And one, with brown leaf'd
loveliness,
Delights the eye that gazes;
While others varied tints
display,
But all, in