The Poetical Works | Page 3

and of which the French translation has lately been
honored by a new edition. Of her merits as a novelist one of 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,