Canada and Other Poems | Page 8

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with scorn the white man's course
Of labour slow, but yet of wealth
the only source.
But still the patient white man plodded on,
He swung his axe, and
drove his horned team;
At times he felt despair, but soon 'twas gone,

And gladsome rays of hope would brightly gleam
To cheer his path,
like light on darken'd stream.
Some saw their hopes fulfill'd, some

sank to rest
Amid their toil, but, sinking, saw the beam
Of brighter
days, to make their children blest.
And give a rich reward to ev'ry
earnest guest.
These latter gaz'd on fertile fields, and saw,
The waving grain, where
stood the forest tree,
Where prowl'd the bear; or wolf, with hungry
maw,
Howl'd in the settlers' ears so dismally,
That children
crouch'd near to their mother's knee.
They saw, instead of plain,
bark-roof'd abode,
A mansion wide, the scene of youthful glee,
And
happy Age, now resting on his road,
To pay the debt, his sinning kind
so long hath ow'd.
The organ or piano sounds its tone,
Where late in darkness cried the
whip-poor-will,
Or gloomy owl's to whoo! to whoo! alone,
Came
from the glen, or darkly wooded hill,--
These sounds, untaught, and
unimprov'd in skill.
All round, where'er they look, they see a change,

By rolling lake, by river, mount or rill;
Wherever feet may walk, or
eyes may range,
There is a transformation pleasing, new and strange.
Schools, churches, built in costly, solid style,
Proclaim the fact that
here a higher life
Is liv'd than that of seeking all the while
For
wealth, and pow'r, amid ignoble strife,
Degrading unto husband, son
or wife.
The scholar's light, and blest religion's smile
Ennobles,
soothes and lends a joy to life--
A pow'r, which counteracts the
trickster's wile
And blunts the edge of slander undeserv'd and vile.
From where the fierce Atlantic waters rage,
Unto the mild Pacific's
fertile shore,
Small villages to cities rise and wage
A steady war;
but not a war of gore--
A friendly rivalry exists, no more,
Save in
the far North-West, where savage clan
Ungrateful rise, and make a
serious sore,
Whose pains increas'd, as eastward far it ran,
And
plac'd the British race beneath the Frenchman's ban.
But quickly, let us hope, the time may come,
When peacefully the

British flag shall wave,
And when the rebels' terrorizing drum
Shall
be as still as Kiel's rebel grave,
O'er the wide land, whose sides two
oceans lave;
When demagogues of party shall retire,
Or curb their
selfish zeal, their land to save
From factious feuds and savage rebel
fire.
And all that tends to raise the patriot's scorn and ire.
From ocean unto ocean runs a band,
A double band of hard and
gleaming steel;
It binds in one this fertile, mighty land,
In bonds
which all should recognize and feel,
If anxious to promote their
country's weal.
A bond which Nature's sympathetic law
Should
fasten on our hearts with solid seal,
Which factious feuds should ne'er
asunder draw,
Nor wily traitors cut, by selfish treason's saw.
The strange, stupendous, magic power of steam,
In works, is great as
fam'd Aladdin's ring,
It carries men o'er miles of land and stream,

And maketh loom and forge, with labour sing,
And o'er the land, a
busy air doth fling.
That fluid, too, that none can well define,
In
active life hath wrought a wondrous thing.
It speeds our words with
lightning flash or sign,
And maketh glorious light from midnight's
darkness
shine.
Then to our country's future we may gaze
With gladden'd eyes, and
hearts with hope aglow,
That our young country still its head will
raise,
And stand 'mid nations, in the foremost row,
High honour'd
there, and honour'd not for show--
For solid worth, and lasting pow'r
and fame
Will be her portion, if her footsteps go
In duty's path, and
if the ruddy flame
Of honor shines within, and keeps away all shame.

YOUTHFUL FANCIES.
The morning of a gladsome day in spring
Had scarce its freshness
brought to weary men,
When, o'er the meadows wet, a boy did sing,

And whistled o'er a tune, and carroll'd-it, again,
In youthful

happiness unconscious then
Of aught which time might bring, of pain
or woe,
But careless, pitching stones in bog or fen,
It seem'd as if he
buried there, also,
All worldly cares, so blithely did he onward go.
And yet he was no careless, heedless boy,
Who thought but of the
present time alone.
Of future years he thought, but with such joy,

His thoughts but pleasure gave, nor caused a groan
From out the
breast that claim'd them as its own;
His thoughts were of the future,
fair and bright,
And fresh from his unburden'd heart, alone,

Untarnish'd by the hard and glaring light,
By which he yet might see
with such a diff'rent sight.
A picture of the blissful future, he
Had gaily painted in his youthful
mind,
And thought no color there too bright to be
An image of his
share from fortune kind,
Which she, in future years, would give so
free,
To him, the lucky sailor on life's sea.
He thought of honor,
happiness and fame,
As he went gaily o'er the dewy lea,
And to his
mind no thought of failure came,
To win a prize of worth, in life's
tremendous game.
He heard his parents, brothers, sisters,