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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sonnets and Other Verse, by W. M. MacKeracher
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Sonnets and Other Verse
+
+Author: W. M. MacKeracher
+
+Release Date: September 9, 2011 [EBook #37365]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+SONNETS
+
+AND OTHER VERSE
+
+
+BY
+
+W. M. MacKERACHER
+
+Author of "Canada, My Land"
+
+
+
+
+TORONTO
+
+WILLIAM BRIGGS
+
+1909
+
+
+
+
+Copyright, Canada, 1909, by
+
+W. M. MacKERACHER.
+
+
+
+
+  CONTENTS.
+
+  The Old and The New
+  How Many a Man!
+  The Saddest Thought
+  The House-Hunter
+  On Moving Into a New House
+  Literature
+  A Library
+  On Charles Lamb's Sonnet, "Work."
+  Work
+  The Joy of Creation
+  Adam
+  A Shallow Stream
+  A Faithful Preacher
+  A Wish Rebuked
+  The Sabbath
+  Milton
+  The Three Hundredth Anniversary of Milton's Birth
+  Burns
+  A Late Spring
+  Autumn
+  An Autumn Walk
+  November
+  November Sunshine
+  Short Days
+  The Beginning of Winter
+  The Winter and the Wilderness
+  The Immigrants
+  Wolfe
+  Montcalm
+  The Coming of Champlain
+  The Montagnais at Tadoussac
+  Champlain's First Winter and Spring in Quebec
+  Idleness
+  Success
+  The Exclusion of Asiatics
+  The People's Response to Heroism
+  An Aristocrat
+  In Warehouse and Office
+  H.M.S. "Dreadnought"
+  The Revolution in Russia
+  Tea's Apologia
+  A Wish
+  Alone with Nature
+  The Works of Man and the Works of Nature
+  A Day Redeemed
+  Outremont
+  The New Old Story
+  Recreation
+  Paestum
+  Rondeau: An April Day
+  Autumn
+  My Two Boys
+  My Old Classical Master
+  The Gold-Miners of British Columbia
+  War-ships in Port
+  On Finding a Copy of Burns's Poems in the House of an Ontario Farmer
+  The Ideal Preacher
+  The Wheel of Misfortune
+  Tim O'Gallagher
+
+
+
+
+  SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE.
+
+
+
+  THE OLD AND THE NEW.
+
+  Scorn not the Old; 'twas sacred in its day,
+    A truth overpowering error with its might,
+  A light dispelling darkness with its ray,
+    A victory won, an intermediate height,
+  Which seers untrammel'd by their creeds of yore,
+    Heroes and saints, triumphantly attained
+  With hard assail and tribulation sore,
+    That we might use the vantage-ground they gain'd.
+
+  Scorn not the Old; but hail and seize the New
+    With thrill'd intelligences, hearts that burn,
+  And such truth-seeking spirits that it, too,
+    May soon be superseded in its turn,
+  And men may ever, as the ages roll,
+  March onward toward the still receding goal.
+
+
+
+
+  HOW MANY A MAN!
+
+  How many a man of those I see around
+    Has cherished fair ideals in his youth,
+  And heard the spirit's call, and stood spellbound
+    Before the shrine of Beauty or of Truth,
+  And lived to see his fair ideals fade,
+    And feel a numbness creep upon his soul,
+  And sadly know himself no longer swayed
+    By rigorous Truth or Beauty's sweet control!
+
+  For some, alas! life's thread is almost spun;
+    Few, few and poor, the fibres that remain;
+  But yet, while life lasts, something may be done
+    To make the heavenly vision not in vain;
+  Yet, even yet, some triumph may be won,
+    Yea, loss itself be turned to precious gain.
+
+
+
+
+  THE SADDEST THOUGHT.
+
+  Sad is the wane of beauty to the fair,
+    Sad is the flux of fortune to the proud,
+  Sad is the look dejected lovers wear,
+    And sad is worth beneath detraction's cloud.
+  Sad is our youth's inexorable end,
+    Sad is the bankruptcy of fancy's wealth,
+  Sad is the last departure of a friend,
+    And sadder than most things is loss of health.
+
+  And yet more sad than these to think upon
+    Is this--the saddest thought beneath the sun--
+  Life, flowing like a river, almost gone
+    Into eternity, and nothing done.
+  Let me be spared that bootless last regret:
+  Let me work now; I may do something yet.
+
+
+
+
+  THE HOUSE-HUNTER.
+
+  As one who finds his house no longer fit,
+    Too narrow for his needs, in nothing right,
+  Wanting in every homelike requisite,
+    Devoid of beauty, barren of delight,
+  Goes forth from door to door and street to street,
+    With eager-eyed expectancy to find
+  A new abode for his convenience meet,
+    Spacious, commodious, fair, and to his mind;
+
+  So living souls recurrently outgrow
+    Their mental tenements; their tastes appear
+  Too sordid, and their aims too cramped and low.
+    And they keep moving onward year by year,
+  Each dwelling in its turn prepared to leave
+  For one more like the mansion they conceive.
+
+
+
+
+  ON MOVING INTO A NEW HOUSE.
+
+  Heaven bless this new abode; defend its doors
+    Against the entry of malignant sprites--
+    Gaunt Poverty, pale Sickness, Care that blights;
+  And o'er its thresholds, like the enchanted shores
+  Of faery isles, serene amid the roars
+    Of baffled seas, let in all fair delights
+    (Such as make happy days and restful nights)
+  To tread familiarly its charmed floors.
+
+  Within its walls let moderate Plenty reign,
+    And gracious Industry, and cheerful Health:
+    Plenish its chambers with Contentment's wealth,
+  Nor let high Joy its humble roof disdain;
+    Here let us make renewal of Love's lease,
+    And dwell with Piety, who dwells with Peace.
+
+
+
+
+  LITERATURE.
+
+  Here is a banquet-table of delights,
+    A sumptuous feast of true ambrosial food;
+  Here is a journey among goodly sights,
+    In choice society or solitude;
+  Here is a treasury of gems and gold--
+    Of purest gold and gems of brightest sheen;
+  Here is a landscape gloriously unroll'd,
+    Of heights sublime and pleasant vales between.
+
+  Here is the realm of Thought, diverse and wide,
+    To Genius and her sovereign sons assign'd;
+  The universal church, o'er which preside
+    The heaven-anointed hierarchy of mind
+  And spirit; the imperishable pride
+    And testament and promise of mankind.
+
+
+
+
+  A LIBRARY.
+
+  As one, who, from an antechamber dim,
+    Is ushered suddenly to his surprise
+    Before a gathering of the great and wise,
+  Feels for the moment all his senses swim,
+  Then looks around him like a veteran grim
+    When peerless armies pass before his eyes,
+    Or Michael when he marshals in the skies
+  The embattled legions of the cherubim;
+
+  So shall the scholar pause within this door
+    With startled reverence, and proudly stand,
+      And feel that though the ages' flags are furled
+  By Time's rude breath, their spoils are here in store,
+    The riches of the race are at his hand,
+      And well-nigh all the glory of the world.
+
+
+
+
+  ON CHARLES LAMB'S SONNET, "WORK."
+
+  "Who first invented work?" asks Elia, he
+    Whose life to an ungenial task was wed,
+  And answers, "Satan"; but it could not be--
+    On idleness his foul ambition fed;
+  By idleness the heavenly domiciles
+    Were lost to him and all his idle crew;
+  In idleness he hatches all his wiles,
+    And mischief finds for idle hands to do.
+
+  His business ever was to scamp and shirk,
+    And scout the task that too ignoble seemed,
+  And in snug corners serpentlike to lurk
+    Where no one of his presence ever dreamed;
+  He never knew the zest of honest work,
+    Nor ever shall, or he would be redeemed.
+
+
+
+
+  WORK.
+
+  Not to the Arch-Idler be the honor given
+    Of first inventing work, but to his Lord,
+  Who made the light, the firmament of heaven,
+    And sun and moon and planets in accord,
+  The land and cattle on it, and the sea
+    And fish therein, and flying fowl in air,
+  And grass and herb and fair fruit-yielding tree,
+    And man, His own similitude to wear;
+
+  Whose works are old and yet for ever new,
+    Who all sustains with providential sway,
+  Whose Son, "My Father worketh hitherto
+    And I work," said, and ere He went away,
+  "Finished the work thou gavest me to do,"
+    And unto us, "Work ye while it is day."
+
+
+
+
+  THE JOY OF CREATION.
+
+  How must have thrilled the great Creator's mind
+    With radiant, glad and satisfying joy,
+  Ever new self-expressive forms to find
+    In those six days of rapturous employ!
+  How must He have delighted when He made
+    The stars, and meted ocean with His span,
+  And formed the insect and the tender blade,
+    And fashioned, after His own image, man!
+
+  And unto man such joy in his degree
+    He hath appointed, work of mind and hand,
+  To mould in forms of useful symmetry
+    Words, hues, wood, iron, stone, at his command
+  To toil upon the navigable sea
+    And ply his industry upon the land.
+
+
+
+
+  ADAM.
+
+  God made him, like the angels, innocent,
+    And made a garden marvellously fair,
+  With arbors green, sun-kissed and dew-besprent,
+    And fruits and flowers whose fragrance filled the air;
+  Where rivers four meandered with delight,
+    And in the soil were gleaming treasures laid,
+  Good gold and bdellium and the onyx bright;
+    And set therein the man whom He had made;
+
+  And proved to him by sad experience
+    That not in bowers of indolence, supine
+  On beds of ease, could ev'n Omnipotence
+    Work out in man His last and best design;
+  And in great love and wisdom drove him thence,
+    And cursed him with a blessing most benign.
+
+
+
+
+  A SHALLOW STREAM.
+
+  There is a stream to northward, thinly spread
+    Over a shelving, many-fissured shale,
+  That brawls and blusters in its shallow bed,
+    And ends its course inglorious in a swale.
+  Its babble stirs the laughter of the hills;
+    The rooted mountains mock its fume and fret;
+  And all the summer long the idle mills
+    Wait wearily with water-wheel unwet.
+
+  Let us not waste our lives in froth and foam
+    And unavailing vanity of noise;
+  "Still waters deepest run"--the ancient gnome
+    Pricks well our sham, conceited bubble-toys;
+  Who serve best here in God's great halidome
+    Have volume, depth, serenity and poise.
+
+
+
+
+  A FAITHFUL PREACHER.
+
+  Let no one say of Christ's Church, "Ichabod,"
+    Or deem her strength partaker of decay,
+    Or think her trumpet voices fail.  To-day
+  I saw a man who was a man of God,
+  His feet with gospel preparation shod,
+    The Spirit's quick and mighty weapon sway;
+    I heard him faithfully point out the way,
+  To him familiar, which the Master trod.
+
+  Intrepid, patient follower of the Lord,
+    While such as thou, obedient to His call,
+    Living epistles, known and read of all,
+  Proclaim the wonders of His sacred Word,
+  No sound of lamentation should be heard,
+    No shade of apprehension should appal.
+
+
+
+
+  A WISH REBUKED.
+
+  If one could have a hundred years to live,
+    After the settlement of youth's unrest,
+  A hundred years of vigorous life to give
+    To the pursuit of what he counted best,
+  A hundred summers, autumns, winters, springs,
+    To train and use the forces of his mind,
+  He might fulfil his fond imaginings,
+    And lift himself and benefit his kind.
+
+  O faint of heart, to whom this life appears
+    Too short for thy ambitious projects, He
+  Who plied His task in weakness and in tears
+    Along the countrysides of Galilee,
+  And blest the world for these two thousand years,
+    Did His incomparable work in three.
+
+
+
+
+  THE SABBATH.
+
+  Who, careless, would behold a goodly tree
+    Or noble palace stricken to decay?
+  Who would drop precious jewels in the sea
+    Or cast rare heirlooms on the trodden way?
+  Who, but a prodigal in wantonness,
+    Would waste his patrimony for swine's food?
+  Who would his birthright sell for pottage-mess
+    But a dull, sensual Esau, blind to good?
+
+  Our tree o'ershadowing the sons of care,
+    Our palace welcoming the weary guest,
+  Our precious jewel and our heirloom rare,
+    Our birthright and our patrimony blest,
+  Art thou, to guard and keep for ever fair,
+    Sweet Christian Sabbath-day of joy and rest.
+
+
+
+
+  MILTON.
+
+  Say not that England ever kingless was:
+    'Twixt Charles and Charles two royal men appear,--
+  Cromwell, to give her health with arms and laws,
+    And Milton, thou, to speak out loud and clear
+  For freedom of man's conscience and the state,
+    For England and her deeds before the world,
+  And for the victims of religious hate
+    From Alpine summits pitilessly hurl'd.
+
+  Thou wast a Champion of Liberty:
+    In fair Italian cities thou had'st heard
+  Her voice upon the north wind summon thee,
+    And, like another Moses, had'st preferr'd
+  Affliction with thy brethren to the lure
+  Of beauty, art and cultur'd ease secure.
+
+
+
+
+  THE THREE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF MILTON'S BIRTH.
+
+  (December 9th, 1908.)
+
+  "There was a man sent from God, whose name was John."
+
+  Three hundred years have left their telltale rings
+    Upon the tree of Time since he appeared--
+    Milton (to be remembered and revered);
+  Whose spirit mounted on seraphic wings;
+  Who saw, though blind, extraordinary things;
+    Who wrought in obloquy, and persevered,
+    And, Orpheus-like, with his great music reared
+  A monument surpassing those of kings.
+
+  Three hundred years, courageous, lofty soul,
+    Hast thou by precept and example taught
+    Thy lesson.  Have we learned it as we ought?
+  Have we moved upward, nearer to the goal?
+    Yea, somewhat have we learned; be with us still,
+    And teach us Man's high function to fulfil.
+
+
+
+
+  BURNS.
+
+  We read his life of poverty and bane,
+    From weakness, folly, error, not exempt,
+  And turn aside with a depressing pain--
+    Compassion tinged with something like contempt.
+  We read his work, and see his human heart,
+    His manly mind, his true, if thwarted, will,
+  And all that's noblest in us takes his part,
+    And shames our former verdict, will or nill.
+
+  His was a fiery spirit that unbound
+    Men's fetters, sometimes leading him astray;
+  He was a seed that fell into the ground
+    And brought forth fruit; he cast himself away
+  Like bread upon the waters, and was found
+    To nourish worth in many an after day.
+
+
+
+
+  A LATE SPRING.
+
+  Twelve weeks had passed--how slowly!--day by day,
+    Since formal, dull Sir Calendar had bowed
+  Old Winter from the scene, and cried, "Make way!
+    The Spring, the Spring!" and still a sullen cloud
+  Obscured the sky, and the north wind blew chill;
+    When lo, one morn the miracle began;
+  A Presence brooded over vale and hill,
+    And through all life a quickening impulse ran.
+
+  Long-hushed, forgotten melodies awoke
+    Within my soul; the rapture of the boy
+  Refilled me; o'er my arid being broke
+    A brimming tide of elemental joy
+  From primal deeps; and all my happy springs
+  Came back to me--I was the peer of kings!
+
+
+
+
+  AUTUMN.
+
+  From shy expectancy to burgeoning,
+    From burgeoning to ripeness and decline,
+  The seasons run their various course and bring
+    Again at last the sober days benign.
+  And spring's pied garland, worn for Beauty's sake,
+    And summer's crown of pride, less fair appear
+  Than the subdued, enchanted tints that make
+    The aureole of the senescent year.
+
+  So grows the good man old--meek, glad, sublime;
+    More lovely than in all his youthful bloom,
+  Grander than in the vigor of his prime,
+    He lights with radiance life's autumnal gloom,
+  And through the fading avenue of Time
+    Walks in triumphal glory to his tomb.
+
+
+
+
+  AN AUTUMN WALK.
+
+  Adown the track that skirts the shallow stream
+    I wandered with blank mind; a bypath drew
+    My aimless steps aside, and, ere I knew,
+  The forest closed around me like a dream.
+  The gold-strewn sward, the horizontal gleam
+    Of the low sun, pouring its splendors through
+    The far-withdrawing vistas, filled the view,
+  And everlasting beauty was supreme.
+
+  I knew not past or future; 'twas a mood
+    Transcending time and taking in the whole.
+  I was both young and old; my lost childhood,
+    Years yet unlived, were gathered round one goal;
+  And death was there familiar.  Long I stood,
+    And in eternity renewed my soul.
+
+
+
+
+  NOVEMBER.
+
+  Sombre November, least belov'd of all
+    The months that make the pleasurable year,
+  Too late for the resplendence of the fall,
+    Too soon for Christmas-bringing winter's cheer;
+  Ignoble interregnum following
+    The golden cycle of a good queen's reign,
+  Before her heir, proclaimed already king,
+    Has come of age to rule in her domain;
+
+  We do not praise you; many a dreary day
+    Impatiently we chide your laggard pace;
+  Backward we look, and forward, and we say:
+    The queen was kind and fair of form and face;
+  The king is stern, but clad in brave array:
+    God save His Majesty and send him grace.
+
+
+
+
+  NOVEMBER SUNSHINE.
+
+  O affluent Sun, unwilling to abate
+    Thy bounteous hospitality benign,
+  Whenas we deemed the banquet o'er, thy great
+    Gold flagon brims again with amber wine;
+  Whenas we thought t' have seen on plain and hill
+    Thy euthanasia in October's haze,
+  The blessing of thy light, unstinted still,
+    Irradiates the drear November days.
+
+  Naught can discourage thee, O thurifer
+    Of gladness to the else benighted face
+  Of the misfeatured earth; fit minister
+    Of Him whose love illumines every place,
+  Who pours His mercy forth without demur
+    Over the sins and sorrows of our race.
+
+
+
+
+  SHORT DAYS.
+
+  Now is the Sun, erst spendthrift of his rays
+    And lavish of his largesses of light,
+  Become a miser in his latter days,
+    An avaricious dotard, alter'd quite.
+  Is he the same that all the summer long
+    Strew'd with ungrudging hand his gleaming gold?
+  Can such ill grace to high estate belong?
+    Can bright be dim? can warm so soon be cold?
+
+  Ay, but he goes his parsimonious way,
+    And hoards his shining treasures from the view,
+  And garners up his riches 'gainst the day
+    When Earth, the prodigal, shall beg anew;
+  Then to her need he'll give no niggard dole,
+  But wealth incalculable, heart and soul.
+
+
+
+
+  THE BEGINNING OF WINTER.
+
+  Now are the trees all ruefully bereft
+    Of their brave liveries of green and gold,
+  No shred of all their pleasant raiment left
+    To shield them from the wind and nipping cold.
+  Now is the grass all withered up and dead,
+    And shrouded in its cerement of the snow;
+  Now the enfeebled Sun goes soon to bed,
+    And rises late and carries his head low.
+
+  Now is the night magnificent to view
+    When the Queen Moon appears with cloudless brow;
+  Now are our spirits cleans'd and born anew
+    In the clear, quickening atmosphere; and now
+  We re-make home, and find our hearts' desire
+  In common talk before the cheerful fire.
+
+
+
+
+  THE WINTER AND THE WILDERNESS.
+
+  When we who dwell within this province old,
+    Cloven in twain by the great river's tide,
+  Gird at inhospitable winter's cold,
+    And rue the downfall of fair summer's pride;
+  Or turn our eyes from gazing on the vales
+    Of lavish verdure and abundant fruit,
+  To those rough wastes where Nature ever fails,
+    And tillage spurns a profitless pursuit;
+
+  Let us recall that sentence from the hand
+    Of history's father, laying down his pen,--
+  Those words of Cyrus, which he made to stand
+    To all his work as moral and amen;
+  'Tis not the richest and most fertile land
+    That always bears the noblest breed of men.[1]
+
+
+[1] "Although the work seems unfinished, it concludes with a sentence
+which cannot have been placed casually at the end, viz., that, as the
+great Cyrus was supposed to have said, 'It is not always the richest
+and most fertile country which produces the most valiant
+men.'"--_Commentary on the Work of Herodotus_.
+
+
+
+
+  THE IMMIGRANTS.
+
+  From lands where old abuses sit entrenched
+    And stern restriction thwarts aspiring merit,
+  And by gaunt men a meagre dole is wrenched
+    From the unkind conditions they inherit;
+  From teeming cities where the ceaseless moan
+    Of want is burthen to the traffic's hum,
+  From shrouded mills, and fields they ne'er might own,
+    From servitude and blank despair, they come.
+
+  And every ship that sails across the foam,
+    And every train that rushes from the sea,
+  And every sun that brightens heaven's dome,
+    And every breeze that stirs the leafing tree,
+  Sings to the pilgrims a glad song of home,
+    With freedom, joy and opportunity.
+
+
+
+
+  WOLFE.
+
+"I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec
+to-morrow."--_Wolfe, on hearing Gray's "Elegy" read the night before
+the capture of Quebec_.
+
+  Thou need'st no marble monuments to keep
+    Thy fame immortal and thy memory
+  An inspiration to make pulses leap
+    And resolution spring to mastery.
+  Thou need'st no gilded tablets on the walls
+    Of cities, no imposing sepulchre,
+  Imperishable Wolfe, whose name recalls
+    The flower of kings, who bore Excalibur.
+
+  The ultimate dispensers of renown,
+    The poets, shall accord thee honor fit,
+  And add fresh laurels ever to thy crown,
+    High-minded hero, who hadst rather writ
+  Those lines of one to every poet dear
+    Than take the fortress of a hemisphere.
+
+
+
+
+  MONTCALM.
+
+"Ce n'est rien, ce n'est rien; ne vous affligez pas pour moi, mes
+bonnes amies."
+
+  Montcalm, calm mount, thou didst not faint nor fail
+    At that fierce volley from thy foemen near,
+  Nor at the charge's deafening prelude quail,--
+    The Highland slogan and the Saxon cheer.
+  But thou, even thou, couldst not withstand the shock
+    That broke and bore precipitately on
+  Tried regiments, La Sarre and Languedoc,
+    Bearn, Guienne and Royal Roussillon.
+
+  Thou couldst but fight as heroes e'er have fought,
+    With that high self-devotion which transcends
+  Vain-glorious victory: "'Tis naught, 'tis naught;
+    Fret not yourselves on my account, good friends,"
+  Yet 'twas thy mortal wound.  Such words express
+  True chivalry and Christlike nobleness.
+
+
+
+
+  THE COMING OF CHAMPLAIN.
+
+  (From the prose of Parkman.)
+
+  Up the St. Lawrence with well-weather'd sails
+    A lonely vessel clove its foaming track.
+  None hail'd its coming; the white floundering whales
+    Disported in the Bay of Tadoussac;
+  The wild duck div'd before its figured prow;
+    The painted savage spied it from the shore,
+  And dream'd not that his reign was ended now,--
+    That that strange ship a new Aeneas bore,
+
+  Whose pale-fac'd inconsiderable band
+    Were pioneers of an aggressive host
+  Of thousands, millions, filling all the land,
+    And 'stablishing therein from coast to coast
+  This civil state, with cities, temples, marts,
+  Schools, laws and peaceful industries and arts.
+
+
+
+
+  THE MONTAGNAIS AT TADOUSSAC.
+
+  (From the prose of Parkman.)
+
+  The lodges of the Montagnais were there,
+    Who reaped the harvest of the woods and rocks--
+  Skins of the moose and cariboo and bear,
+    Fur of the beaver, marten, otter, fox.
+  From where the shivering nomad lurks among
+    The stunted forests south of Hudson's Bay
+  They piloted their frail canoes along
+    By many a tributary's devious way;
+
+  Then between mountains stern as Teneriffe
+    Their confluent flotillas glided down
+  The Saguenay, and pass'd beneath the cliff
+    Whose shaggy brows athwart the zenith frown,
+  And reach'd the Bay of Trinity, dark, lone,
+    And silent as the tide of Acheron.
+
+
+
+
+  CHAMPLAIN'S FIRST WINTER AND SPRING IN QUEBEC.
+
+  (From the prose of Parkman.)
+
+  I. THE WINTER.
+
+  September bade the sail of Pontgrave
+  Godspeed, and smil'd upon the infant nation;
+  October deckt the shores and hills with "gay
+  Prognostics of approaching desolation."
+  Ere long the forest, steep'd in golden gloom,
+  Dropt rustling down its shrivel'd festal dress,
+  And chill November, sombre as the tomb,
+  Sank on the vast primeval wilderness.
+
+  Inexorable winter's iron vice
+  Gript hard the land, funereal with snow;
+  The stream was fill'd with grinding drifts of ice;
+  A fell disease laid twenty Frenchmen low
+  In death, and left the dauntless leader eight
+  With whom to hold the New World's fortress gate.
+
+
+  II. THE SPRING.
+
+  The purgatory pass'd--the stalactites
+    That fring'd the cliffs fell crashing to the earth;
+  With clamor shrill the wild geese skimm'd the heights,
+    In airy navies sailing to the north;
+  The bluebirds chirrup'd in the naked woods,
+    The water-willows donn'd their downy blooms,
+  The trim swamp-maple blush'd with ruddy buds,
+    The forest-ash hung out its sable plumes.
+
+  The shad-bush gleam'd a wreath of purest snow,
+    The white stars of the bloodroot peep'd from folds
+  Of rotting leaves, and in the meadows low
+    Shone saffron spots, the gay marsh-marigolds.
+  May made all green, and on the fifth of June
+    A sail appeared, with succor none too soon.
+
+
+
+
+  IDLENESS.
+
+  The street was brisk, an animated scene,
+    And every man was on some business bent,
+    Absorbed in some employment or intent,
+  Pre-occupied, intelligent and keen.
+  True, some were dwarf'd and some were pale and lean.
+    But to the sorriest visage Labor lent
+    A light, transfiguring with her sacrament
+  The abject countenance and slavish mien.
+
+  But one--he shambled aimlessly along
+    Asham'd, and shrunk from the abstracted ken
+      Of passers-by with conscience-struck recoil,
+  A pariah, a leper in the throng,
+    An alien from the commonwealth of men,
+      A stranger to the covenant of toil.
+
+
+
+
+  SUCCESS.
+
+  What is success?  In mad soul-suicide
+    The world's vain spoils rapaciously to seize,
+  To pamper the base appetite of pride,
+    And live a lord in luxury and ease?
+  Is this success, whereof so many prate?--
+    To have the Midas-touch that turns to gold
+  Earth's common blessings? to accumulate,
+    And in accumulation to grow old?
+
+  Nay, but to see and undertake with zest
+    The good most in agreement with our powers,
+  To strive, if need be, for the second best,
+    But still to strive, and glean the golden hours,
+  With eyes for nature, and a mind for truth,
+  And the brave, loving, joyous heart of youth.
+
+
+
+
+  THE EXCLUSION OF ASIATICS.
+
+  Is our renown'd Dominion then so small
+    As not to hold this new inhabitant?
+    Or are her means so pitiably scant
+  As not to yield a livelihood to all?
+  Or are we lesser men, foredoom'd to thrall?
+    Or so much better than the immigrant
+    That we should make our hearts as adamant
+  And guard against defilement with a wall?
+
+  Nay, but our land is large and rich enough
+    For us and ours and millions more--her need
+      Is working men; she cries to let them in.
+  Nor can we fear; our race is not the stuff
+    Servants are made of, but a royal seed,
+      And Christian, owning all mankind as kin.
+
+
+
+
+  THE PEOPLE'S RESPONSE TO HEROISM.
+
+  Our hearts are set on pleasure and on gain.
+    Fine clothes, fair houses, more and daintier bread;
+  We have no strivings, and no hunger-pain
+    For spiritual food; our souls are dead.
+  So judged I till the day when news was rife
+    Of fire besieging scholars and their dames,
+  And bravely one gave up her own fair life
+    In saving the most helpless from the flames.
+
+  Then when I heard the instantaneous cheer
+    That broke with sobbing undertones from all
+  The multitude, and watched them drawing near,
+    Stricken and mute, around her funeral pall
+  In grief and exultation, I confest
+  My judgment erred,--we know and love the best.
+
+
+
+
+  AN ARISTOCRAT.
+
+  Her fair companions she outshone,
+    As this or that transcendent star
+  Makes all its sister orbs look wan
+    And dim and lustreless and far.
+
+  Her charm impressed the fleeting glance,
+    But chiefly the reflective mind;
+  A century's inheritance,
+    By carefull'st nurture still refined.
+
+  Devotions, manners, hopes that were,
+    Ideals high, traditions fine,
+  Were felt to culminate in her,
+    The efflorescence of her line.
+
+  What time and cost conspired to trace
+  Her lineaments of perfect grace!
+
+
+
+
+  IN WAREHOUSE AND OFFICE.
+
+  How can the man whose uneventful days,
+    Each like the other, are obscurely spent
+  Amid the mill's dead products, keep his gaze
+    Upon a lofty goal serenely bent?
+  Or he who sedulously tells and groups
+    Their minted shadows with deft finger-tips?
+  Or who above the shadow's shadow stoops,
+    And dips his pen and writes, and writes and dips?
+
+  How can he?  Yet some such have been and are,
+    Prophets and seers in deed, if not in word,
+  And poets of a faery land afar,
+    By incommunicable music stirred;
+  Feasting the soul apart with what it craves,
+  Their occupation's masters, not its slaves.
+
+
+
+
+  H. M. S. "DREADNOUGHT."
+
+  Titanic craft of many thousand tons,
+    A smaller Britain free to come and go,
+  Relying on thy ten terrific guns
+    To daunt afar the most presumptuous foe;
+  Thick-panoplied with plates of hardened steel,
+    Equipped with all the engin'ry of death,
+  Unrivalled swiftness in thy massive keel,
+    Annihilation latent in thy breath.
+
+  "Dreadnought" thy name.  And yet, for all thy size
+    And strength, the ocean might engulf thy prow,
+  Or the swift red torpedo of the skies,
+    The lightning, blast thy boast-emblazoned brow;
+  Thou hast thy use, but Britain's sons were wise
+    To put their trust in better things than thou.
+
+
+
+
+  THE REVOLUTION IN RUSSIA.
+
+  From Lapland to the land of Tamerlane,
+    Kamchatka to the confines of the Turk,
+  The spirit tyrants never can restrain
+    When once awake is mightily at work.
+  Liberty, frantic with a fearful hope,
+    Out of long darkness suddenly arisen,
+  Maddens the dull half-human herds who grope
+    And rend the bars of their ancestral prison.
+
+  Over the wan lone steppe her couriers speed,
+    The secret forest echoes her command,
+  She smites the sword that made her children bleed,
+    And Death and Havoc hold the famished land.
+  But God overrules, and oft man's greatest good
+  Is won through nights of dread and days of blood.
+
+
+
+
+  TEA'S APOLOGIA.
+
+  Loved by a host from Noah's days till now,
+    Extolled by bards in many a glowing line,
+  My purple rival of the mantling brow
+    May laugh to scorn this swarthy face of mine.
+  I care not: many a weary pain I cure;
+    Cold, heat and thirst I harmlessly abate;
+  I bless the weak, the aged and the poor;
+    And I have known the favor of the great.
+
+  I've cheered the minds of mighty poets gone;
+    Philosophers have owned my solace true;
+  Shy Cowper was my sweet Anacreon;
+    Keen Hazlitt craved "whole goblets" of my brew;
+  De Quincey praised my stimulating draught;
+  What cups of me old Doctor Johnson quaffed!
+
+
+
+
+  A WISH.
+
+  When my time comes to quit this pleasing scene,
+    And drop from out the busy life of men;
+  When I shall cease to be where I have been
+    So willingly, and ne'er may be again;
+  When my abandoned tabernacle's dust
+    With dust is laid, and I am counted dead;
+  Ere I am quite forgotten, as I must
+    Be in a little while, let this be said:
+
+  He loved this good God's world, the night and day,
+    Men, women, children (these he loved the best);
+  Pictures and books he loved, and work and play,
+    Music and silence, soberness and jest;
+  His mind was open, and his heart was gay;
+    Green be his grave, and peaceful be his rest!
+
+
+
+
+  ALONE WITH NATURE.
+
+  The rain came suddenly, and to the shore
+    I paddled, and took refuge in the wood,
+    And, leaning on my paddle, there I stood
+  In mild contentment watching the downpour,
+  Feeling as oft I have felt heretofore,
+    Rooted in nature, that supremest mood
+    When all the strength, the peace, of solitude,
+  Sink into and pervade the being's core.
+
+  And I have thought, if man could but abate
+    His need of human fellowship, and find
+      Himself through Nature, healing with her balm
+  The world's sharp wounds, and growing in her state,
+    What might and greatness, majesty of mind,
+      Sublimity of soul and Godlike calm!
+
+
+
+
+  THE WORKS OF MAN AND OF NATURE.
+
+  Man's works grow stale to man: the years destroy
+    The charm they once possessed; the city tires;
+    The terraces, the domes, the dazzling spires
+  Are in the main but an attractive toy--
+  They please the man not as they pleased the boy;
+    And he returns to Nature, and requires
+    To warm his soul at her old altar fires,
+  To drink from her perpetual fount of joy.
+
+  It is that man and all the works of man
+    Prepare to pass away; he may depend
+      On naught but what he found her stores among;
+  But she, she changes not, nor ever can;
+    He knows she will be faithful to the end,
+      For ever beautiful, for ever young.
+
+
+
+
+  A DAY REDEEMED.
+
+  I rose, and idly sauntered to the pane,
+    And on the March-bleak mountain bent my look;
+    And standing there a sad review I took
+  Of what the day had brought me.  What the gain
+  To Wisdom's store?  What holds had Knowledge ta'en?
+    I mused upon the lightly-handled book,
+    The erring thought, and felt a stern rebuke:
+  "Alas, alas! the day hath been in vain!"
+
+  But as I gazed upon the upper blue,
+    With many a twining jasper ridge up-ploughed,
+  Sudden, up-soaring, swung upon my view
+    A molten, rolling, sunset-laden cloud:
+  My spirit stood, and caught its glorious hue--
+    "Not lost the day!" it, leaping, cried aloud.
+
+
+
+
+  OUTREMONT.
+
+  Far stretched the landscape, fair, without a flaw,
+    Down to one silver sheet, some stream or cloud,
+    Through glamorous mists.  Midway, an engine ploughed
+  Across the scene.  In meditative awe
+  I stood and gazed, absorbed in what I saw,
+    Till sweet-breathed Evening came, the pensive-browed,
+    And creeping from the city, spread her shroud
+  Over the sunlit slopes of Outremont.
+
+  Soon the mild Indian summer will be past,
+    November's mists soon flee December's snows;
+  The trees may perish, and the winter's blast
+    Wreck the tall windmills; these weak eyes may close;
+  But ever will that scene continue fast
+    Fixed in my soul, where richer still it grows.
+
+
+
+
+  THE NEW OLD STORY.
+
+  Hard by an ancient mansion stood an oak;
+    For centuries, 'twas said, it had been there:
+  The old towers crumbled 'neath decay's slow stroke,
+    While, hall by hall, upgrew a palace fair;
+  Lives and momentous eras waxed and waned,
+    Old barons died, and barons young and gay
+  Ruled in their stead, and still the oak remained,
+    And each new spring seemed older not a day.
+
+  The vesture of the spirit of mankind,--
+    Forms and beliefs, like meteors, rise and set;
+  The spirit too doth change; but o'er the mind
+    This old Evangel holds young lordship yet;
+  And here among Canadian snows we bring
+  Each Christmastide our tribute to the King.
+
+
+
+
+  RECREATION.
+
+  Give me a cottage embower'd in trees,
+    Far from the press and the din of the town;
+  There let me loiter and live at my ease,
+    Happier far than the King with his crown.
+
+  There let the music that's sweeter than words
+    Waken my soul's inarticulate song,
+  Murmur of zephyrs and warbling of birds,
+    Babble of waters that hurry along.
+
+  Under the shade of the maple and beech
+    Let me in tranquil contentment recline,
+  Learning what nature and solitude teach,
+    Charming philosophy, human, divine;
+
+  Finding how trivial the myriad things
+    Life is concern'd with, to seek or to shun;
+  Seeing the sources whence blessedness springs,
+    Gathering strength for the work to be done.
+
+
+
+
+  PAESTUM.
+
+  Paestum, your temples and your streets
+    Have been restored to view;
+  Your fadeless Grecian beauty greets
+    The eyes of men anew.
+
+  But where are all your roses now--
+    Those wonderful delights
+  That made such garlands for the brow
+    Of your fair Sybarites?
+
+  They in your time were more renown'd,
+    And dearer to your heart,
+  Than these fine works which mark the bound
+    And highest reach of art.
+
+  We'd see you as you look'd of old;
+    Though column, arch and wall
+  Were worth a kingdom to behold,
+    One rose would shame them all.
+
+
+
+
+  RONDEAU: AN APRIL DAY.
+
+  An April day, when skies are blue,
+  And earth rejoices to renew
+    Her vernal youth by lawn and lea,
+    And sap mounts upward in the tree,
+  And ruddy buds come bursting through;
+
+  When violets of tender hue
+  And trilliums keep the morning dew
+    Through all the sweet forenoon--give me
+              An April day;
+
+  When surly Winter's roystering crew
+  Have said the last of their adieux,
+    And left the fettered river free,
+    And buoyant hope and ecstasy
+  Of life awake, my wants are few--
+              An April day.
+
+
+
+
+  AUTUMN.
+
+  The Year, an aged holy priest,
+    In gorgeous vestments clad,
+  Now celebrates the solemn feast
+    Of Autumn, sweet and sad.
+
+  The Sun, a contrite thurifer
+    After his garish days,
+  Through lessening arch, a wavy blur,
+    His burnish'd censer sways.
+
+  The Earth,--an altar all afire
+    Her hecatombs to claim,
+  Shoots upward many a golden spire
+    And crimson tongue of flame.
+
+  Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd
+    In Midian's land to view
+  The bush that unconsuming burn'd,
+    I pause--and worship, too.
+
+
+
+
+  MY TWO BOYS.
+
+  To some the heavenly Father good
+    Has given raiment rich and fine,
+  And tables spread with dainty food,
+    And jewels rare that brightly shine.
+
+  To some He's given gold that buys
+    Immunity from petty care,
+  Freedom and leisure and the prize
+    Of pleasing books and pictures fair.
+
+  To some He's given wide domains
+    And high estate and tranquil ease,
+  And homes where all refinement reigns
+    And everything combines to please.
+
+  To some He's given minds to know
+    The what and how, the where and when;
+  To some, a genius that can throw
+    A light upon the hearts of men.
+
+  To some He's given fortunes free
+    From sorrows and replete with joys;
+  To some, a thousand friends; to me
+    He's given my two little boys.
+
+
+
+
+  MY OLD CLASSICAL MASTER.
+
+  Ever hail'd with delight when my memory strays
+  O'er the various scenes of my juvenile days,
+  Do you mind if I sing a poor song in your praise,
+            My jolly old classical master?
+
+  You were kind--over-lenient, 'twas rumor'd, to rule--
+  And so learn'd, though the blithest of all in the school,
+  'Twas your pupil's own fault if he left you a fool,
+            My jolly old classical master.
+
+  "Polumetis Odusseus" you brought back to life,
+  "Xanthos Menelaos" recalled to the strife:
+  You knew more about Homer than Homer's own wife,
+            My jolly old classical master.
+
+  You could sever each classical Gordian knot,
+  Each "crux criticorum" explain on the spot;
+  We preferr'd your opinion to Liddell and Scott,
+            My jolly old classical master.
+
+  To you "Arma virumque," "All Gaul" and the rest
+  Were a snap of the fingers, a plaything, a jest,
+  Even Horace mere English--you lik'd Horace best,
+            My jolly old classical master.
+
+  We esteemed you a marvel in Latin and Greek,
+  An Erasmus, a Bentley, a Person, a freak;
+  And for all sorts of knowledge we held you unique,
+            My jolly old classical master.
+
+  You brought forth from your treasury things new and old,
+  Philosophical gems, oratorical gold;
+  And how many a capital story you told,
+            My jolly old classical master!
+
+  Your devotion to learning, whole-hearted and pure,
+  Your fine critical relish of literature,
+  And your gay disposition, had charms to allure,
+            My jolly old classical master.
+
+  Here's a health to you, sir, from a thousand old boys,
+  Who once plagu'd you with nonsense and tried you with noise,
+  But who learn'd from you, lov'd you, and wish you all joys,
+            My jolly old classical master.
+
+  May your mien be still jovial, your mind be still bright,
+  May your wit be still sprightly, your heart be still light,
+  And long, long may it be ere your spirit takes flight,
+            My jolly old classical master.
+
+
+
+
+  THE GOLD-MINERS OF BRITISH COLUMBIA.
+
+  They come not from the sunny, sunny south,
+    Nor from the Arctic region,
+  Nor from the east, the busy, busy east,
+    The where man's name is legion;
+  But they come from the west, the rugged, rugged west,
+    From the world's remotest edges;
+  And their pockets they are filled with the yellow, yellow gold
+    That they mined in the mountain ledges.
+
+  CHORUS--
+
+      Then, hey, lads, hey, for the mining man so bold,
+        Who comes from the world's far edges!
+      And hey for the gold, the yellow, yellow gold,
+        That is stored in the mountain ledges!
+
+  They basked not, they, in balmy tropic shade,
+    'Neath orange tree and banyan;
+  But braved the bush, the torrent and the steep,
+    By gorge and gulch and canyon.
+  They would not be held back in cities over desks,
+    Or among the homestead hedges;
+  So their pockets now are filled with the yellow, yellow gold
+    That they mined in the mountain ledges.
+
+  They left their homes, their loved ones all behind,
+    Forsook kind friend and neighbor,
+  And went to seek the thing of greatest worth,
+    For gold, rare gold, to labor.
+  Oh! they bled the old earth--they opened up her veins
+    With their picks and drills and sledges;
+  And their pockets now are filled with the yellow, yellow gold
+    That they mined in the mountain ledges.
+
+
+
+
+  WAR-SHIPS IN PORT.
+
+  The tread of armed mariners is in our streets to-day,
+  An Empire's pulse is beating in the march of this array.
+  From western woods, and Celtic hills, and homely Saxon shires,
+  They sailed beneath the "meteor flag," the emblem of our sires;
+  And for the glory that has been, the pride that yet may be,
+  We hail them in the sacred names of home and liberty,
+  And know that not on sea or land more dauntless hearts there are
+  Than the hearts of these bold seamen from the English men-of-war.
+
+  Trafalgar's fame-crowned hero stands, encarved in storied stone,
+  And from his place of honor looks in silence and alone:
+  But no, to-day his spirit lives, and walks the crowded way;
+  For us Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher and Howard live to-day;
+  For us from many a page of eld, 'mid war and tempest blast,
+  A thousand thousand valiant forms come trooping from the past,
+  And say, "Forget not us to-day, we have a part with these,
+  The 'sea-dogs' of old England, the 'Mistress of the Seas.'"
+
+  No, no, ye gruff old heroes, ye can never be forgot;
+  The memory of your prowess will outlive the storm, the shot
+  Destruction pours impartially on common and sublime,
+  And scorn the volleying years that mount the battery of time;
+  For far above this tide of war your worth is written clear
+  On fame's bright rock of adamant, imperishable here;
+  Your names may be recorded not, your graves be 'neath the keel,
+  But many a million English hearts some love for you shall feel.
+
+  Five grim old ocean-buffeters, stern ploughshares of the deep,
+  Have come to visit us of those whose duty 'tis to keep,
+  With the old lion's courage and the young eagle's ken,
+  Their sleepless watch upon the sea that skirts this world of men:
+  And if again in stately pride their lordly forms they bear
+  Upon the ample bosom of our noble stream, whene'er
+  From massive prow impregnable their peaceful anchor falls,
+  We'll hail old England's hearts of steel who man her iron walls.
+
+
+
+
+  ON FINDING A COPY OF BURNS'S POEMS IN
+    THE HOUSE OF AN ONTARIO FARMER.
+
+  Large Book, with heavy covers worn and old,
+    Bearing clear proof of usage and of years,
+  Thine edges yellow with their faded gold,
+    Thy leaves with fingers stained--perchance with tears;
+
+  How oft thy venerable page has felt
+    The hardened hands of honorable toil!
+  How oft thy simple song had power to melt
+    The hearts of the rude tillers of the soil!
+
+  How oft has fancy borne them back to see
+    The Scottish peasant at his work, and thou
+  Hast made them feel the grandeur of the free
+    And independent follower of the plough!
+
+  What careth he that his proud name hath peal'd
+    From shore to shore since his new race began,
+  In humble cot and "histie stibble field"
+    Who doth "preserve the dignity of man"?
+
+  With reverent hands I lay aside the tome,
+    And to my longing heart content returns,
+  And in the stranger's house I am at home,
+    For thou dost make us brothers, Robert Burns.
+
+  And thou, old Book, go down from sire to son;
+    Repeat the pathos of the poet's life;
+  Sing the sweet song of him who fought and won
+    The outward struggle and the inward strife.
+
+  Go down, grand Book, from hoary sire to son;
+    Keep by the Book of books thy wonted place;
+  Tell what a son of man hath felt and done,
+    And make of us and ours a noble race,--
+
+  A race to scorn the sordid greed of gold,
+    To spurn the spurious and contemn the base,
+  Despise the shams that may be bought and sold,--
+    A race of brothers and of men,--a race
+
+  To usher in the long-expected time
+    Good men have sought and prophets have foretold,
+  When this bright world shall be the happy clime
+    Of brotherhood and peace, when men shall mould
+
+  Their lives like His who walked in Palestine;
+    The truly human manhood thou dost show,
+  Leading them upward to the pure divine
+    Nature of God made manifest below.
+
+
+
+
+  THE IDEAL PREACHER.
+
+  It was back in Renfrew County, near the Opeongo line,
+  Where the land's all hills and hollows and the hills are clothed
+        with pine,
+  And in the wooded valleys little lakes shine here and there
+  Like jewels in the masses of a lovely woman's hair;
+  Where the York branch, by a channel ripped through rugged rocks
+        and sand,
+  Sweeps to join the Madawaska, speeding downward to the Grand;
+  Where the landscape glows with beauty, like a halo shed abroad,
+  And the face of nature mirrors back the unseen face of God.
+
+  I was weary with my journey, and with difficulty strove
+  To keep myself awake at first, as, sitting by the stove
+  In old William Rankin's shanty, I attended as I might
+  To the pioneer backwoodsman's tales far on into the night;
+  But William talked until the need of sleep one quite forgot,
+  Not stopping but to stir the fire, which kept the stove red-hot;
+  For the wind was raw and cold without, although the month of May:
+  Up north the winter struggles hard before it yields its sway;
+  And the snow is in the forests, and the ice is in the lakes,
+  And the frost is in the seedland oft when sunny June awakes.
+
+  He talked of camps in winter time, of river drives in spring,
+  Of discords in the settlement,--in fact, of everything;
+  He told of one good elder who'd been eaten by a bear,
+  And wondered that a beast of prey should eat a man of pray'r;
+  Of beast, from wolf to porcupine, killed with gun, axe and fork,
+  And, finally, of college men who did not pine for pork.
+  "But yet among them students," said the bushman, "there wuz one
+  As hit me an' the settlement as fair as any gun.
+
+  "O' course, he wa'nt no buster, hed no shinin' gifts o' speech;
+  But jis' as reg'lar he could give some pointers how to preach.
+  He talked straight on like tellin' yarns--more heart, I'd say, 'an head;
+  But somehow people felt he meant 'bout every word he said.
+  He wa'n't chuck full o' larnin' from the peelin' to the core;--
+  Leastwise, he wa'n't the kind they call a college batch-o'-lore;
+  He'd no degree, the schoolma'am said,--though soon he let 'em see
+  That o' certain sterlin' qualities he had a great degree,--
+  Leastwise he hed no letters till the hind end o' his name,--
+  But, preacher, say, you don't set much importance by them same?--
+  Y' may hev titles o' y'r own, an' think I'm speakin' bold;
+  But there's that bob-tailed nag o' mine, the chestnut three-year-old;
+  It's true she can't make such a swish, to scare away the flies,
+  But if y'd see her cover ground, y'd scarce believe y'r eyes.
+
+  "O' course, he hed his enemies,--you preachers alluz hez,--
+  But 'twa'n't no use their tellin' us he wa'n't the stuff, I gez;
+  An' after while they closed right up an' looked like,--it wuz fun,--
+  When they seed the way he 'sisted out ol' Game-leg Templeton.
+  O' course, y' knows ol' Templeton,--twuz him as druv y' in;
+  Y' noticed, maybe, how he limped, and sort o' saved his shin.
+  He's run the mail through fair and foul 'tween this and Cumbermere,
+  And faithful served Her Majesty fur nigh on twenty year.
+
+  "The preacher stayed with Templeton, the same's you're stay'n' with me,
+  On a new clearance back o' this, which, course, y' didn't see.
+  An' one day on a visit tour the chap wuz startin' out
+  In the way o' Little Carlow,--twuz good twelve mile round about,--
+  An' in the bush he'd lose hisself, as everybody knowed:
+  'I'll take the axe,' says Templeton, 'an' go an' blaze a road.
+  It's only three mile through the bush.'  An' so they started in,
+  Quite happy like,--men never knows when troubles will begin.
+  'Bout noon,--the folks was in the house a eatin' o' their snack,--
+  The chap comes home with Templeton a-hangin' on his back.
+
+  "The call wuz close fur Templeton, who'd somehow missed his stroke;
+  He alluz swung a heavy blow, an' the bone wuz well-nigh broke;
+  An' wust of all, 'twuz two whole days afore the doctor came;
+  He was up the Long Lake section, seein'--what's that fellow's name?--
+  Well, never mind.--An' when he did examine of the wound,
+  He said 'twould take all summer fur the man to git around.
+
+  "Well, what y' think thet preacher done, but turn right out an' mow
+  The meadow down an' put it in, and th' harvest, too, although
+  The ol' man worried and complained as how he'd orter stop;
+  An' there wa'nt no binders in them days, and work wuz work, sure pop.
+
+  "Well, when the people heerd about the way that preacher done,
+  All on 'em growed religious straight, sir, every mother's son;
+  The meetin'-house wuz crowded from the pulpit to the door--
+  Some on 'em hadn't showed face there fur twenty year or more;
+  An' them as sot out on the fence an' gossiped all the while,
+  Jis' brought the fence planks in and sot down on 'em in the aisle,
+  An' listened,--sir, no orator as ever spoke aloud
+  Worked on his audience the way as that chap on our crowd.
+
+  We aint no shakes o' people; we aint up to nothin' new;
+  But we knows a man what's shammin' and we knows a man what's true.
+  An' when we heerd that preacher talk 'bout Christian sacrifice
+  And bearin' burdens for the weak, we valued his advice;
+  An' we showed it--there wuz nothin' as we thought too good for him;
+  We poured our cup o' gratitude an' filled it to the brim.
+
+  "He aint been near so fort'nate 'n the city where he's went;
+  Some folks as didn't like him set them sticklers on his scent;
+  An' the presbytery giv him fits fur trimmin' of his lamp
+  The way it shined the brightest, an' he jined another camp.
+  But most men,--leastwise such as him,--I take it, fur my part,
+  Aint got much devil in their brains when God is in their heart;
+  An' I'll allow it yet, although they puts me in the stocks,
+  That religion what is practical's sufficient orthodox.
+
+  "Well, thet's the finest preacher as hez struck back here to spout,
+  An' there never wuz another we cared very much about.
+  I've heerd o' Beecher's meetings an' such men as John B. Gough;
+  But fourteen waggon loads druv down to see that preacher off.
+  We sent him back to college with a fresh supply o' socks,--
+  Nigh everything a student needs wuz jammed intill that box;
+  An', preacher, spite of what yourself with all your parts may feel,
+  Fur me an' Game-leg Templeton that man is our ideel."
+
+
+
+
+  THE WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE.
+
+  O m'sieu, doan you hask me ma story, doan hask me how dis was happenn;
+  Dat's one beeg black hole on ma life, w'ere I doan want to look on
+        some more....
+  Well, he's coom joos' so well for to tole you, all tak' beet tabac
+        firs' and den
+  A'll tole you what cep' to de pries' a have nevare tole no one before.
+
+  Bien, M'sieu; he's come pass joos like dis way; a go out wit' de boys
+        to make lark;
+  Dare was Armand and Joseph and Louiee, an' we drink on de deefront
+        saloon.
+  An' we feenish in plac' wit' de music, like one of dose garden or park,
+  W'ere he's play dose curse wheel for de monee--in Hingleesh dat's wheel
+        of fortune.
+
+  He was Saturday night on de week, M'sieu, an' a have ma week's pay on
+        my bourse,
+  Wit'out w'at we pay for de whiskey--'bout one dollar feefty or less;
+  An' a'm t'ink a can win me lots monee, and eef a doan win some, of
+        coorse,
+  A can stop 'fore a lose much, a tell me, but a've pooty beeg hope
+        for success.
+
+  Well, Louiee, he's be careful, risk notting, he's laugh w'en a'm buy
+        some paddell,
+  Armand he's buy some for obligement, he's not half so careful's Louiee.
+  An' we play dare teel half pas' eleven, an' de meantime she's go
+        pooty well,
+  Teel Armand he's lose all she's monee, an' shortly 's de same ting
+        wit' me.
+
+  But Louiee he's got plaintee of monee, an' he's got plaintee fr'en'
+        on de plac',
+  An' a'm hask heem for lend me ten dollar, a'm pay wit' good interes',
+        be sure;
+  He'll tol me he's got more as feefty an' he's give me plusieurs jours
+        de grace,
+  For Louiee he was know a was hones' for all a was poor of de poor.
+
+  Well, I not was require all dat monee teel de wheel she was tak' few
+        more whirl,
+  For a keep on to lose pooty steady, and Armand he say, "Doan play
+        some more,"
+  But Louiee he say, "Win yet posseeble," and Joseph he was off wit'
+        his girl,
+  An' de croupier say, "Bettre luck nex' time, dare is good luck an'
+        bad luck in store."
+
+  And de wheel she was turn on de peevot and shine in de light electrique,
+  She seem like beeg star to be turning, an' sing tune like she doan
+        care notting;
+  But she turn like de pool on de river dat's tak' everyt'ing down
+        pooty queek,
+  An' she shine like de snake w'en he's body is roll' up--de snake
+        wit' de sting.
+
+  An' a'm play teel a lose all dat monee, an' de wicked roulette she
+        go roun',
+  An' a'm play also feefty more dollar, an' ma head she commence for
+        to reel;
+  An' oh, M'sieu, de hard time dat was follow teel a lay ma good wife
+        in de groun',
+  An' hoffen a hask me forgiveness, as dare by dat grave a go kneel.
+
+
+
+
+  TIM O'GALLAGHER.
+
+  My name is Tim O'Gallagher,--there's Oirish in that same;
+  My parients from the Imerald Oisle beyant the ocean came;
+  My father came from Donegal, my mother came from Clare;
+  But oi was born in Pontiac, besoide the Belle Riviere.
+  Oi spint my choildhood tamin' bears, and fellin' timber trays,
+  And catchin' salmon tin fate long--and doin' what oi plaze.
+  Oi got my iddication from the Riverind Father Blake;
+  He taught me Latin grammar, and he after taught me Grake,
+  Till oi could rade the classics in a distint sort of way--
+  'Twas the sadetoime of the harvist that oi'm rapin' ivery day.
+
+  My parients thought me monsthrous shmart--of thim 'twas awful koind,
+  And where oi'd go to college now was what perplixed their moind;
+  So they axed the Riverind Father Blake what varsity was bist
+  To make a docthor, bachelor and lawyer and the rist.
+  Said Father Blake, "If oi must make decision, faith! oi will:
+  Sure, sind the boy to Munthreal, there's none loike Ould McGill."
+
+  So oi came to Munthreal and found McGill one afternoon,
+  And saw a great excoited crowd all shoutin' out of tune;
+  And in the cintre thorty min was foightin' jist loike mad,
+  And two big fellows on the top of one poor little lad.
+  Oi turned indignant to the crowd, and tould them to their face:
+  "Ye pack of coward savages, onciviloized and base,
+  To stand and see two stalwart min abusin' one that way!
+  Oi loike a gladiatorial show, but loike to see fair play."
+  So oi jumped at those two bullies and oi caught thim by the shirt,
+  And oi knocked their hids together and consoigned thim to the dirt.
+  Oi was removed and they were carried home, but all the same,
+  Though Ould McGill was two min short, she won that football game.
+  They thought oi was a tough gussoon, and whin they played agin,
+  They put me in the scrimmage--we got thorty-foive to tin.
+
+  Oi thin wint up to college whin the lictures would begin;
+  Oi attinded ivery licture--when oi happened to be in;
+  Got my work up, kipt my note-books in the illigantist shape;
+  Oi took notes of ivery licture--barrin' whin oi was ashlape.
+  But, och! oi try to do my bist, for sure it's Father Blake
+  As says the foinist faculty is Arts, and no mistake;
+  For there they tache philosophy and English literature,
+  The mathematics also, and the classic authors, sure.
+  Oi larned the Gracian poethry, oi larned the Latin prose;
+  Oi know as much about thim both as my profissor knows:
+  How Troy, that had for noine long years defoied the Graycian force,
+  Was "hors de combat" put at last by jist a wooden horse;
+  How Xerxes wipt because his army soon would pass away,
+  And Alexander wipt because there were no more to shlay;
+  How Cato from his toga plucked the Carthaginian fruit;
+  How Brutus murdered Saysar, and how Saysar called him "Brute."
+
+  Oi'd the honor of a mornin' with an influential Med,
+  And he took me to the room in which they mutilate the dead.
+  Oi don't objict to crack a skull or spoil a purty face,
+  But to hack a man who's dead is what oi called extramely base.
+  But all pursonal convictions, he explained, should be resoigned
+  For the binifit of scoience and the good of humankoind;
+  And though oi don't at all admoire their ways o' goin' on,
+  Oi'll take a course in Medicine, oi will, before oi'm gone.
+
+  Oi saw the Scoience workshops, too, and thought whin oi was made,
+  These little hands were niver mint to larn the blacksmith trade;
+  And for that illictricity, the thing what gives the shock,
+  They collared old Promaytheus and chained him to a rock
+  For a-playin' with the loightnin' and a-raychin to the skoies,
+  And the vultures gnawed his vittles, and the crows picked out his oyes.
+  But toimes has changed, and larnin' gives us power--don't you see?--
+  And whin oi'm done with Arts oi'll take that shplindid faculty;
+  For, sure, it's from their workshops that the solar system's run;
+  Besoides, they make the wither, too, and rigilate the sun.
+
+  Oi troied exams at Christmas, and oi didn't pass at all;
+  But oi can have another whack at thim nixt spring and fall.
+  In toime oi'll pass in iverything, and masther all they taiche;
+  Oi'll go through ivery faculty, and come out hid in aiche.
+  And whin oi've conquered all, loike Alexander oi will soigh
+  There is no more to conquer, and oi'll lay me down and doie.
+  They'll birry me with honors, and erict in my behalf
+  A monimint which shall disphlay the followin' epitaph:
+
+  "Here loies shwate Tim O'Gallagher,--sure he had wits to shpare,--
+  His father came from Donegal, his mother came from Clare.
+  He was a shplindid scholar, for he studied at McGill;
+  He drank the well of larnin' dhroy (and, faith! he got his fill).
+  Was niver mortal craythur larned to such a great degree,--
+  B.A.M.A.M.D.C.M.B.SC.LL.D."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Sonnets and Other Verse, by W. M. MacKeracher
+
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