Canada and Other Poems | Page 7

beauteous array,
Delight us, and amaze us.
We see the trees in beauty clad,
But still that beauty makes us sad,

E'en while we may admire,
For death has caus'd that sudden bloom

Stern death, the tenant of the tomb,
Or funereal pyre.

The ruthless, bitter, biting air
Hath dried the life which flourish'd
there,
Throughout the warmer seasons;
The nourishment hath ceas'd
to flow
Through veins, where once it us'd to go--
Hath ceas'd for
diff'rent reasons.
And soon the leaves will strew the ground,
And whirl with rustling
ardor round,
Or lie in heaps together,
Their hues of red, of brown,
of gold,
Will blacken, as they change to mould
By action of the
weather.
But leaves will grow where once they grew,
Will bud, and bloom,
and perish too,
The same as all the others,
As we through youth,
and joy, and grief,
Must find at last a sure relief,
As did our many
brothers.
Like in the leaf, no life-blood flows,
When frosts of death the
fountain close,
From which it flow'd, to nourish.
And like the leaf,
another spring
Around us shall her gladness fling;
Another life shall
flourish.
Our bodies turn to dust or mould.
As lifeless as the rocks, and cold,

But life's fair Tree is living.
And fadeless green leaves we shall be,

Because the Fountain of that Tree
Eternal life is giving.

CHRISTMAS.
Old father Time, his cruel scythe
Has swung full oft around,
Since
last the merry Christmas, bells
Rang out their cheerful sound.
With
cruel vigor he has held
His great, impartial sway,
And many
thousands mown to earth,
Who saw last Christmas day.
For some have left this world for aye,
Who dwelt with us last year;

Glad voices heard amongst us then,
We never more shall hear.
But
still we'll build our Christmas fires,
And sing our Christmas songs,


And for one day forget our griefs,
Our failures and our wrongs.
Then ring, ye joyful bells, ring out;
Ye crashing cymbals fall;
And
for old Christmas, hale and stout,
Sound up, ye harps and all.
Let
music's loud and sweetest strain
Beat from our hearts each ill;
Let
thoughts of those assuage our pain,
Who are around us still.
Oh, winsome maid, oh, hearty youth,
I urge you on to glee,
For, in
your innocence and truth,
You all are dear to me.
Nor youth, nor
age should cherish gloom,
And voices oft should sing,
So give the
gladsome voices room,
And let the joy-bells ring.

CANADA.
Come now, my Muse, do thou inspire my pen,
To sing, with worthy
strain, my country's praise,
But not to hide the faults within my ken,

By tricks of art, or studied, verbal maze,
To play on him who reads
with careless gaze,
To whom each thought upon a printed page.
Is
gospel truth, nor e'er with wile betrays;
From this, oh, steer me clear,
nor let the rage
Of prejudic'd and narrow minds, my thoughts engage.
Oh, Canada! the land where first I saw
The blue of heav'n, and
bursting light of day,
Where breezes warm and mild, and breezes raw,

First o'er my boyhood's eager face did play,
As o'er the hills I
stepp'd my joyful way.
Held by a loving hand, I went along
Thro'
shelter'd wood, or by some shaded bay,
And ever, as I went, I sang a
song,
With sylvan joy, amid a sylvan throng.
For birds and bees, and e'en the flowers, did sing
Their cheerful songs,
with voices pure and sweet;
Their notes were silent, yet those notes
did bring
A soothing balm, amid a calm retreat.
Protected from the
sun's relentless heat.
Oh, wearied men, could ye but once divine

The healing pow'r of some lone country seat,

You would not strive to

drown your care in wine,
Or vainly seek relief, in any lustful line.
But this is not a moralizing lay,
Of Canada I sing, and her alone,

Her varied progress, every passing day,
Her faults, for which, in time,
she must atone,
By nature's law, in every clime and zone,
Then
what are the peculiar, common claims,
Our country has with nations
larger grown,
And the superior things she classes as her own.
First let us take her climate; who will not
Say she is favour'd there
o'er other lands?
The winter's cold, indeed, and summer's hot,
But
in a robust health the native stands,
So keen to work with brain, or
use his hands.
Where, let me ask, between the distant poles
Is there
a clime so mod'rate in demands,
Where men are not compell'd to live
like moles,
Nor drop with heat on burning, barren, sandy knolls.
A hardy, energetic, toilsome race,
Is raised within this favourable
clime,
In physical and mental power apace
With those of any land,
and any time,
Save in the golden age, that age of thought sublime;

But, what I mean is this: that her own men
Do act their parts, they
reason or they rhyme
Within their bounds, with keen, far-reaching
ken,
For those who late have left the axe to wield the pen.
Yes, left the axe, whose skilful, cleaving stroke
Hew'd out a home
from 'mid the forest wild,
Where grew the maple and the lofty oak,

Where liv'd the dusky colour'd forest child,
So sternly fierce in war,
in peace so mild;
Yes, here the settler met with Nature's force;

Quite unsubdued, she look'd around and smil'd,
And seem'd to