The Poetical Works | Page 8

from so close a tie?
No, my guardian angel, I cannot
die!
Angel--
Poor child of earth! how closely clings
Thy heart to earth
and to earthly things!
Wilt thou still revolt if I whisper low
That thy
Father in Heaven wills it so--
Wills that with Him thou should'st
henceforth dwell,
To pray for those whom thou lovest so well,
Till
a time shall come when you'll meet again,
To forget for ever life's
grief and pain?
Soul--
Spirit, thy words have a potent power
O'er my sinking heart
in this awful hour,
And 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, Saviour tender, now let me
die!
ASH-WEDNESDAY.
Glitt'ring balls and thoughtless revels
Fill up now each misspent
night--

'Tis the reign of pride and folly,
The Carnival is at its height.

Every thought for siren pleasure,
And its sinful, feverish mirth;


Who can find one moment's leisure
For aught else save things of
earth?
But, see, sudden stillness falling
O'er those revels, late so loud,
And
a hush comes quickly over
All the maddened giddy crowd,
For a
voice from out our churches
Has proclaimed in words that burn:

"Only dust art thou, proud mortal,
And to dust shall thou return!"
And, behold, Religion scatters
Dust and ashes on each brow;
Thus
replacing gem and flower
With that lowly symbol now:
On the
forehead fair of beauty,
And on manhood's front of pride,
Rich and
poor and spirit weary--
All receive it, side by side.
And the hearts that throbbed so wildly
For vain pleasure's dreams
alone,
For its gilded gauds and follies,
Now at length have calmer
grown.
Oh! that voice with heavenly power
Through each restless
breast hath thrilled,
And our churches, late so lonely,
Now with
contrite hearts are filled.
Fair and lovely are our altars
With their starry tapers bright,
With
dim clouds of fragrant incense,
Fair young choristers in white,
And
the dying gleam of day-light,
With its blushing crimson glow,

Streaming through the lofty casement
On the kneeling crowd below.
Tis an hour of golden promise
For the hearts that secret burn
With
contrite and anxious wishes
To the Father to return;
For a Saviour,
full of mercy,
On His altar-throne is there,
Waiting but that they
should ask Him,
For response to whispered prayer.
THE WHITE CANOE.
A LEGEND OF NIAGARA FALLS.
In days long gone by it was the custom of the Indian warriors of the
forest to assemble at the Great Cataract and offer a human sacrifice to

the Spirit of the Falls. The offering consisted of a white canoe, full of
ripe fruits and blooming flowers, which was paddled over the terrible
cliff by the fairest girl of the tribe. It was counted an honor not only by
the tribe to whose lot it fell to make the costly sacrifice, but even by the
doomed maiden herself. The only daughter of a widowed Chief of the
Seneca Indians was chosen as a sacrificial offering to the Spirit of
Niagara. Tolonga, the Great Elk, was bravest among the warriors, and
devotedly attached to his child, but, when the lot fell on her, he crushed
down in the pride of Indian endurance the
feelings of grief that filled
his bosom. The eventful night arrived. The moon arose and shone
brightly down oh the turmoil of Niagara, when the White Canoe and its
precious freight glided from the bank and swept out into the dread rapid.
The young girl calmly steered towards the centre of the stream, when
suddenly another canoe shot forth upon the water and, under the strong
impulse of the Seneca Chief, flew like an arrow to destruction. It
overtook the first; the eyes of father and child met in a parting gaze of
love, and then they plunged together over the Cataract into Eternity.
THE WHITE CANOE.
A Legend of Niagara Falls
A CANTATA.
MINAHITA, Indian Maiden.
OREIKA, Her Friend.
TOLONGA,
Minahita's Father.
DOLBREKA, Indian Chief.
I.
Chorus.
In summer's rare beauty the earth is arrayed,
Gay flowers are
blooming on hill-side and glade,
Embalming the air with sweet subtle
perfume,
Enriching the earth with their beautiful bloom;
The moss,
like green velvet, yields soft 'neath the tread,
The forest trees wave in
luxuriance o'er head,
Whilst fresh dawning beauties of sky, wood and
plain,
Proclaim that fair summer is with us again.
Let the choice,

then, be made of the thrice-favored one
Whom Niagara's Spirit will
soon call his own!
At morn, when the sun wakes refulgent on high

In billows of gold, hooding earth, sea and sky,
How glorious the
music that welcomes his rays,
One loud choral song of rejoicing and
praise:
The clear notes of birds and the soft rustling breeze
The
murmur of waters, the sighing of trees,
And the thousand sweet
voices, so tender and gay,
That haunt our old woods through the
bright summer day.
Let the choice, then, be made of the
thrice-favored one
Whom Niagara's Spirit will soon call his own!
DOLBREKA.
Ah! yes, the time and hour have come
To choose a fitting bride
For
that Spirit who from his