Canada and Other Poems | Page 6

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 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