Canada and Other Poems | Page 3

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 another,?And thou hadst a wonderful love unto me.
The mighty have fallen, their weapons have perish'd!?And, slain in high places, so low lies the brave;?No more I shall gaze on the face that I cherish'd.

THE DIAMOND AND THE PEBBLE.
Why value ye the diamond, and?The pearl from Ceylon's balmy shore,?When stones unnumber'd strew the land,?And in the sea are millions more??Why treasure ye each silver bar,?And watch, with Argus eye, your gold,?When lead and iron, near and far,?Are strewn beneath the rocks and mould.
Ye prize those shining gems, because?Their sparkling beauty cheers the eye,?And,