Canada And Other Poems Part 9

The trees are rob'd in purest white, And gleaming atoms s.h.i.+ne From out the snow, beneath the sun, Like stones from Ophir's mine.

The merry shouts of busy men Sound, as they dig the snow; And, when the way is clear, the bells With joyful jingle, go.

Then who shall say the tempest's work Brings more of pain than joy; Or that the evil things, to us Are pain, without alloy?

CATCHING SPECKLED TROUT.

In early days, when streams ran pure, Untainted from their spring, Unchok'd by sawmill dust, or logs, Or any other thing,

Each river, creek and rill ran on, So pure, and free, and bright, That through the gloomy shades, they shed A cheerful, happy light.

The finny tribes, of varied kinds, Ran swiftly to and fro, And with most swift and graceful dart, The speckl'd trout did go.

So swift to dash, and quick to see, He caught the fatal fly, Before less active fishes had E'en turn'd to it their eye;

For, ever active and alert, At once, or not at all, He caught the tempting bait he saw Upon the waters fall.

These were the days to angler dear, When, with his hook and line, He brought his treasures from the brook, So splendid and so fine.

Each angler had his fav'rite spot, Wherein he held his breath, To watch the fishes rush and plunge, So sure to bring its death.

But now the angler rarely throws With great delight, his line, Or listens to the rippling brook, Beside the wild grape vine.

The finny treasures now are scarce, In river, creek or rill, For poison'd are they by the dust, That comes from lumber mill.

The picturesque and shady grove, Which streamlets hurried by, Are now uncover'd by the sun; Full many a stream is dry.

The poet's land is going fast; Wild beauty must give place To useful and substantial things, Which benefit our race.

But who shall e'er forget the joys, When, from some shady nook He flung his fly, with practic'd hand, Far out upon the brook?

THE HUNTSMAN AND HIS HOUND.

When hill and dale, long years ago, Lay clad in nature's dress, And flourish'd the primeval pomp Of nature's wilderness,

A huntsman and his hound would roam, Where fed the timid deer, And where the partridge's drum, or whirr, Brought music to his ear.

In sooth, he heard all forest sounds With real sportsman's joy; And here he always pleasure found, With little of alloy.

The pigeon's coo, the squirrel's chirp, The wild-bird's thrilling lay, Brought freshen'd pleasure to his heart, At ev'ry op'ning day.

But music sweeter far than aught In wood or vale around, Was the loud crackling of the deer, Or baying of his hound.

Full many a deer his steady aim, With faithful rifle slew, But, faithful as his rifle was, His hound was faithful, too.

With loud, sonorous bay, he ran Through swamp, or darken'd brake, Till, from the bush the deer would bound Far out into the lake.

And then, with ready boat at hand, The hunter got his game; For to its struggling, frightened mark, The well-aim'd bullet came.

And thus they liv'd from day to day, This hunter and his hound; With nature's simple joys content, He felt not life's dull round.

A hunter's life he dearly lov'd, And still, from day to day, No other sound he lov'd to hear, Like his own deer-hound's bay.

But soon that voice must sound no more; The faithful dog must die; The man must hunt the deer, without That well-known, guiding cry.

The hound had chas'd a n.o.ble buck Right down into the lake, But roll'd the waves so high and strong, The n.o.ble beast did quake

With fear, for now he saw 'twas death, To leave the solid sh.o.r.e-- A lesser danger there he saw, So back he came once more.

He came with fierce, determin'd bounds, Impell'd by wild despair, With lower'd head he reach'd the dog, Who bravely met him there.

But short the fight, the antlers gor'd, The dog's brave heart, so true To him who stood upon the sh.o.r.e, As spell-bound by the view.

The dog's death yell rang o'er the lake, For him, and for his foe, As whizzing came the well-aim'd ball, That laid the slayer low.

The bullet came, but yet too late To save the gallant hound; And long the hunter mourn'd his loss, And miss'd his voice's sound.

GRACE DARLING.

The steamer Forfars.h.i.+re, one morn Right gaily put to sea, From Hull, in merry England, To a Scottish town, Dundee.

The winds were fair, the waters calm, And all on board were gay, For sped the vessel quickly on, Unharra.s.s'd in her way.

All trim and neat the vessel look'd, And strong, while, from on high Her flag stream'd gaily, over those Who deem'd no danger nigh.

So strong she look'd from stem to stern, That all maintained that she Would weather e'en the fiercest storm, From Hull unto Dundee.

But bitterly deceiv'd were they, When off North England's sh.o.r.e, The vessel in a nor'-west gale, Did labor more and more.

Her timbers creak'd, her engines mov'd With weak, convulsive shocks, And soon the s.h.i.+p, beyond control, Rush'd madly on the rocks,

And then a lighthouse keeper saw Her struggle with the waves, And knew that soon, if came no help, They'd find them wat'ry graves.

"What boat," he said, "could pa.s.s to them O'er such a raging sea, And e'en if I should venture out, Oh! who would go with me"?

"Oh father, I will go with you, Out o'er the raging sea; To rescue them, come life, come death, I'll work an oar with thee."

She went, and battling with the sea, They reach'd the vessel's side, And sav'd nine precious lives, From sinking in the tide.

For those, who on the wreck remain'd, Afraid to trust the waves, In such a frail and loaded boat, Soon found uncoffin'd graves.

All n.o.ble acts, unconsciously Are done, with pure intent; And thus, upon her errand bold, This n.o.ble maiden went.