The Poetical Works | Page 3

the ablest of French Canadian critics writes thus: "Gifted with a deep knowledge of the human heart, she finds in domestic life the subject of attractive pictures, full of delicacy and good taste, which she dramatizes with remarkable power. Her charm lies, not in any complication of intrigue or in problems hard to solve, but in a skilful working out of details, in incidents which fix the reader's attention, in the conception of her characters, in the painting of personal traits, in purity of thought, in?sweetness of sentiment, in beauty of style, in the harmony of the parts, and in the most scrupulous regard for morality." This is high praise, and it comes from high authority. We will simply add that, with a few necessary changes, it may also be applied to Mrs. Leprohon's poems.
From this imperfect sketch of Mrs. Leprohon's literary life it will be seen that she was no sluggard. But we would leave a wrong impression if we gave it to be understood that all her time was passed in the writing of either poems or tales. Far from it. They constituted but one phase in a life nobly, yet unostentatiously, consecrated to the duties of home, of society, of charity and of religion. Mrs. Leprohon was much more than either a poet or a novelist--she was, also, in the highest sense, a woman, a lady. Had she never written a verse of poetry or a page of prose, she would still have been lovingly remembered for what she was as wife, as mother, as friend. It is, in a great part, because they are associated with her in these more endearing aspects, that they are the true mental and moral offspring of her very self, that those who knew her will find in them so much to prize. Alas! these and loving memories, that can scarce be separated from them, are now all that is left of her. On the 20th of September, 1879, after a tedious illness, endured with Christian resignation, she passed away. She did not live to receive the reward that was her due on earth, but that which is above is hers, and her works live after her, and a memory that will not perish.
In conclusion, we will just allow ourselves to point out that, in connection with her comparatively early death, there is a touching interest attached to some of her poems, such, especially, as "The Parting Soul to her Guardian Angel" and "The Voices of the Death Chamber." In the former she says:
"Thy soft-breathed hopes with magic might?Have chased from my soul the shades of night.?Console the dear ones I part from now,?Who hang o'er my couch with pallid brow;?Tell them, we'll meet in yon shining sky,?And, Angel Guardian, I now can die."
And in the latter, which has all the vividness of an actual death-scene, as the husband and children from whom she must part are kneeling by the bed-side, the sufferer says:
"Oh! if earthly love could conquer?The mighty power of death,?His love would stay the current?Of my failing strength and breath;?And that voice whose loving fondness?Has been my earthly stay?Could half tempt me from the voices?That are calling me away."
But at last they come nearer and sound louder, till they "drown all sounds of mortal birth," and "in their wild triumphal?sweetness," lure her away from earth to Heaven.
SACRED POEMS
ABRAHAM'S SACRIFICE.
The noontide sun streamed brightly down?Moriah's mountain crest,?The golden blaze of his vivid rays?Tinged sacred Jordan's breast;?While towering palms and flowerets sweet,?Drooped low 'neath Syria's burning heat.
In the sunny glare of the sultry air?Toiled up the mountain side?The Patriarch sage in stately age,?And a youth in health's gay pride,?Bearing in eyes and in features fair?The stamp of his mother's beauty rare.
She had not known when one rosy dawn,?Ere they started on their way,?She had smoothed with care his clustering hair,?And knelt with him to pray,?That his father's hand and will alike?Were nerved at his young heart to strike.
The Heavenly Power that with such dower?Of love fills a mother's heart,?Ardent and pure, that can all endure,?Of her life itself a part,?Knew too well that love beyond all price?To ask of her such a sacrifice.
Though the noble boy with laughing joy?Had borne up the mountain road?The altar wood, which in mournful mood?His sire had helped to load,?Type of Him who dragged up Calvary,?The cross on which he was doomed to die.
The hot breath of noon began, full soon,?On his youthful frame to tell;?On the ivory brow, flushed, wearied now,?It laid its burning spell;?And listless--languid--he journeyed on,?The smiles from his lips and bright eyes gone.
Once did he say, on their toilsome way,?"Father, no victim is near,"?But with heavy sigh and tear-dimmed eye,?In accents sad though clear,?Abraham answered: "The Lord, our guide,?A fitting sacrifice will provide."
The altar made and the fuel laid,?Lo! the victim