Verses of Feeling and Fancy Part 4

To an Umbrella.

Thou art the belonging blest Of the maid I love the best: Gardened in some tropic grove, Nurtured by the powers above, Was thy wood so rich and rare For her hand so small and fair; Deftly carved by cunning craft For her hold thy finished haft; And thy silken folds so soft, Where the gentle breezes waft Fragrance from the cl.u.s.tered vines, Where the sun so warmly s.h.i.+nes, Where the skies of purest hue Bend above in deepest blue, There so soft and fine were wove, Woven only for my love.

But it is not that thy haft Carved is by cunning craft Of a wood so rich and rare, That thy folds are soft and fair, Vying only with her hair; Not for this that I addrest Thee in song, and called thee blest But what thou for her hast done: Shaded from the scorching sun On the burning summer day 'Neath thy silken canopy; Sheltered from the falling rain, Lest her hallowed cheek it stain; s.h.i.+elded from the stormy blast, As it hurried wildly past.

Surely thou art blest for such.-- Oh! that I might do as much!

E'en the fair Orb.

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E'en the fair orb on which I gaze Suggests thy radiance by its rays: That silvery, soft, and dreamy light, So soft, and yet so beauteous bright, Falling in glowing tints so faint,-- The hues which artists love to paint; Around whose sphere the fancies claim That angels float, and fan the flame: The lover's choice, it doth belong To lover's lute and poet's song.

That light, though native to the skies, Is all reflected in thine eyes.

To Burns.

Suggested on returning home for my holidays by an old portrait of the poet, which hangs in my room.

Old friend!--I always loved thee; In childhood's early days, Delighted I would listen With laughter to thy lays.

And better still I loved thee, To riper boyhood grown; Because thou wert the pride of The land that's part my own.

But with devotion deepened I greet thee now anew, Of love, because thou singest So simple, sweet, and true.

Could I but mention but thy Name;

Could I but strike--a sweeter note Than all from virgin choirs that float, Or harps with cords of gold; A note more soft and more sublime Than she, the sweetest of the Nine, Euterpe's strains unfold!

The note which even now I hear (For angels breathe it in my ear) But never dared to raise-- Could I but mention but thy name, To whom I owe this sacred flame And love's inspired lays!

Ah! then, methinks, when I should hear My Muse employ that word so dear; When thoughts of thee inspire; In sweeter strains my song should swell Than e'er from harp of Orpheus fell Or Phoebus' full-stringed lyre!

Lines written in an Alb.u.m.

With beauty and grace that greet the eye, How pleasing 'tis to trace, Within, the beauty of holiness,-- That higher, heavenly grace!

Scene in the Trojan War.

(Translated from Homer.)

And when th'opposing ranks in conflict closed, s.h.i.+eld rang on s.h.i.+eld and rattled lance on lance, And clashed the might of brazen mailed men.

And 'midst the din of steel encount'ring steel The exultation and the groans arose Of warriors slaying, warriors being slain; And soon the earth flowed red with heroes' blood, And such the raging of the mingled host As wintry torrents, bursting from the hills, Hurl in one basin their impetuous flood, From mighty springs within the hollow rock; And the lone shepherd hears the distant roar.

Montreal.

(_Written in Winter._)

By thee, fair City, is Mount Royal based, Which, though its inward fires are extinct, Seems--in the flush of morning, indistinct, When misty shadows are across it chased, Over its flaky bosom pure and white, Which glows and glistens in the early light,-- Seems moved with pa.s.sion. 'Neath it thou art traced, In winter's jewelled brilliancy arrayed, With sparkling spire and gla.s.sy dome displayed: A gem-wrought girdle on a maiden's waist.

"Our Father."

Father! How precious is that name to me!

Name rendered sacred e'en by earthly ties, How full of vaster meaning when applied To Him high-dwelling in the heavenly home!

How much of love it whispers to the soul!-- Of that true, pure, and unimpa.s.sioned love-- That lasting love which father bears to son!

It speaks of kindly interest, fond regard, And anxious care, the offspring of that love.

Its sound a.s.sures of guidance in the right, Of readiness to guard from what is ill, Of willingness to grant supporting aid, Of gracious blessings and of bounteous gifts.

And then, unlike a father here below, The heavenly Father's favour and his help Are unrestricted in their exercise-- His store unbounded, power infinite.

And while an earthly parent soon must go, He ever lives and ever is the same.

Sometimes my Heart by cruel Care Opprest.

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Sometimes my heart by cruel care opprest Faints from the weight of woe upon my breast, My soul embittered far beyond belief;-- As d.a.m.ned one, drinking galling draughts of grief, Which boils and burns within without relief, While fervid flames inflict the wounds unhealed, With h.e.l.lish horrors not to man revealed; When Peace and Joy seem wrapt in sable shrouds, And young Hope's heaven is black with lowering clouds 'Tis then thy vision comes before my view, 'Tis then I see those beaming eyes of blue, And hear thy gentle voice in accents kind, And see thy cheerful smile before my mind; And taking heart, I battle on anew; And thank my G.o.d for sending to my soul His own blest, soothing balm of peace again, Who sometimes still as in the days of old By angels sends His blessings down to men.

The Prayer of the Penitent Profligate.

Lord, I am weak and worthless, better fit To grovel in the dust, a worm of earth, Than wear Thy holy image, which I do But daily with defilement desecrate.

Long-suffering G.o.d! in mercy infinite!

That thou did'st not long since have cut me off, But still dost keep me in the place of hope!

Weak, worthless, wicked is this heart of mine, But Thou, O Lord, art all in all to me, For Thou art strong, Thy power is supreme, The G.o.d of might, from Thee all strength is sprung; And Thou hast vanquished man's great Enemy, And by Thy strength I too may vanquish him, And thus be worthy, washed from sin, to wear The holy image of my Maker, G.o.d.