The Emigrants’ Monument At Point St. Charles
A kindly thought, a generous deed,
Ye gallant sons of toil!
No nobler trophy could ye raise
On your adopted soil
Than this monument to your kindred dead,
Who sleep beneath in their cold, dark bed.
Like you they left their fatherland,
And crossed th’ Atlantic’s foam
To seek for themselves a new career,
And win another home;
But, alas for hearts that had beat so high!
They reached the goal, but only to die.
Let no rich worldling dare to say:
“For them why should we grieve?
But paupers—came they to our shores,
Want, sickness, death to leave?”
Each active arm, jail of power and health,
And each honest heart was a mine of wealth.
’Twas a mournful end to day-dreams high,
A sad and fearful doom—
To exchange their fever-stricken ships
For the loathsome typhus tomb;
And, ere they had smiled at Canada’s sky,
On this stranger land breathe their dying sigh.
The strong man in the prime of life,
Struck down in one short hour,
The loving wife, the rose-cheeked girl,
Fairer than opening flower,
The ardent youth, with fond hopes elate,—
O’ertaken all by one common fate.
Long since forgotten—here they rest,
Sons of a distant land,—
The epochs of their short career
Mere footprints on life’s sand;
But this stone will tell through many a year,
They died on our shores, and they slumber here.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Time’s Changes In A Household
They were as fair and bright a band as ever filled with pride
Parental hearts whose task it was children beloved to guide;
And every care that love upon its idols bright may shower
Was lavished with impartial hand upon each fair young flower.
Theirs was the father’s merry hour sharing their childish bliss,
The mother’s soft breathed benison and tender, nightly kiss;
While strangers who by chance might see their joyous graceful play,
To breathe some word of fondness kind would pause upon their way.
But years rolled on, and in their course Time many changes brought,
And sorrow in that household gay his silent power wrought!
The sons had grown to gallant men of lofty heart and brow,
The fairy like and joyous girls were thoughtful women now.
The hour of changes had arrived, and slowly, one by one,
The playmates left the parent’s roof, their own career to run;
The eldest born, the mother’s choice, whose soft and holy smile
In childhood’s days had told of heart as angel’s free from guile.
Formed in resolve, and scorning all earth’s pleasures and its fame,
Had offered up his life to God, a teacher of His name:
His spirit sighed not long on earth, he found a quiet grave
’Mid forests wild whose shades he’d sought the Red man’s soul to save.
Far diff’rent was the stirring choice of his youthful brother gay,
His was the glitt’ring sword and flag, the drum, the war steed’s neigh;
And the proud spirit that had marked his childhood’s earliest hour
Distinguished still the warrior brave in manhood’s lofty power.
Alas for him, and visions vain of fame that lured him on,
An early grave in a distant land was the only goal he won!
His gaze bedimmed that yearned for home rested on alien skies,
And alien watchers wiped death’s damps, and closed his dying eyes.
A third with buoyant heart, had sought far India’s burning soil,
Thinking to win wealth’s treasures by a few years’ eager toil,
But ere those years had sped their course, from earth’s cares he was free,—
He sleeps beneath the shadow of the date and mango tree.
But the sisters who had brightened once the home now desolate—
Lived they to mourn each brother’s loss? was theirs a happier fate?
In childhood’s sports and youth’s high dreams they’d borne a happy part,
But severed they were doomed ere long in death to sleep apart.
The tall and dark-eyed girl whose laugh, so full of silvery glee,
Had ever told of spirit light, from care and shadow free,
Had early left her happy home, the bright and envied bride
Of a husband whose ancestral name betokened wealth and pride.
Alas for her who in youth’s hour had basked in love’s sunshine,
That husband stern deserted her in cold neglect to pine;
The merry smile soon fled her lip, the sparkling light her eye,
In vain she sought a southern clime, she only went to die.
And now of all the lovely band who’d joined in mirth of old,
There is, alas! but one sweet flower whose tale remains untold:
She was the joy, the pride of all, that gentle girl, and fair,—
With deep and dreamy azure eyes and shining golden hair.
E’en her bold brothers, in their youth, were gentle when she played,
From reckless sports, from daring games their eager hands they stayed;
And when amid their thoughtless mirth harsh feelings might awake,
They ever yielded to her prayers, and rested for her sake.
Oh! hers was far the brightest lot in life’s eventful race!
She passed from earth ere care had left upon her brow one trace—
She passed from earth with loving ones grouped round her dying bed,
And on a mother’s tender breast rested her throbbing head.
’Twas thus that each beloved one of that bright joyous band,
Save her, had found a lonely grave in a far distant land;
Yet murmurs ’gainst high heaven’s decrees as impious were as vain—
For in far happier regions will that household meet again!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Green Above The Red
Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike and scian,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.
But in the end throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen-
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green;
But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled,
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red.
And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest screen;
Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed,
That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o'er the Red.
Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene-
Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green;
And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield nobly bled-
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red.
So when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green
Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen;
Yet still we held our fearless course, for something in us said,
'Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above the Red.'
And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean,
That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green,
And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling plenty spread
Above the land once dark with blood-the Green above the Red!
The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish Green,
And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean;
But yet, by Heavens! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead
Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to the Red!
We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who lean
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen;
And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed
Once and for evermore to raise the Green above the Red.
poem by Thomas Davis
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The Green Above The Red
AIR--_Irish Molly O!_
I.
Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike and _scian_,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.
II.
But in the end throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen--
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green;
But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled,
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red.
III.
And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest screen;
Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed,
That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o'er the Red.
IV.
Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene--
Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green;
And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield nobly bled--
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red.
V.
So when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green
Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen;
Yet still we held our fearless course, for something in us said,
'Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above the Red.'
VI.
And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean,
That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green,
And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling plenty spread
Above the land once dark with blood--_the Green above the Red_!
VII.
The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish Green,
And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean;
But yet, by Heavens! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead
Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to the Red!
VIII.
We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who lean
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen;
And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed
Once and for evermore to raise the Green above the Red.
poem by Thomas Osborne Davis
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The Loss of the Emigrants
The Steamer ' Atlantic ' Was Wrecked Near Halifax, N. S., April1, 1873, And 560 Lives Lost.
FOR months and years, with penury and want
And heart-sore envy did they dare to cope;
And mite by mite was saved from earnings scant,
To buy, some future day, the God-sent hope.
They trod the crowded streets of hoary towns,
Or tilled from year to year the wearied fields,
And in the shadow of the golden crowns
They gasped for sunshine and the health it yields.
They turned from homes all cheerless, child and man,
With kindly feelings only for the soil,
And for the kindred faces, pinched and wan,
That prayed, and stayed, unwilling, at their toil.
They lifted up their faces to the Lord,
And read His answer in the westering sun
That called them ever as a shining word,
And beckoned seaward as the rivers run.
They looked their last, wet-eyed, on Swedish hills,
On German villages and English dales;
Like brooks that grow from many mountain rills
The peasant-stream flowed out from Irish vales.
Their grief at parting was not all a grief,
But blended sweetly with the joy to come,
When from full store they spared the rich relief
To gladden all the dear ones left at home.
'We thank thee, God!' they cried; 'The cruel gate
That barred our lives has swung beneath Thy hand;
Behind our ship now frowns the cruel fate,
Before her smiles the teeming Promised Land!'
Alas! when shown in mercy or in wrath,
How weak we are to read God's awful lore!
His breath protected on the stormy path,
And dashed them lifeless on the promised shore!
His hand sustained them in the parting woe,
And gave bright vision to the heart of each
His waters bore them where they wished to go,
Then swept them seaward from the very beach!
Their home is reached, their fetters now are riven,
Their humble toil is o'er,—their rest has come;
A land was promised and a land is given,—
But, oh! God help the waiting ones at home!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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God Bless Canada
This land strong and free
God bless Canada
While the sun shine across the sea
God bless Canada as we sing this song
God bless Canada
We stand together united as one
God bless Canada
Our hopes have never died for you
God bless Canada
We carry the flame with us in a long journey
God bless Canada
The eagles will soar high above the sky
God bless Canada
We show our true colors
God bless Canada
Our peacekeepers working together to bring peace home
God bless Canada
Home sweet home to us all
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Scenes In London IV - The City Churchyard
I PRAY thee lay me not to rest
Among these mouldering bones;
Too heavily the earth is prest
By all these crowded stones.
Life is too gay—life is too near—
With all its pomp and toil;
I pray thee do not lay me here,
In such a world-struck soil.
The ceaseless roll of wheels would wake
The slumbers of the dead;
I cannot bear for life to make
Its pathway o'er my head.
The flags around are cold and drear,
They stand apart, alone;
And no one ever pauses here,
To sorrow for the gone.
No: lay me in the far green fields
The summer sunshine cheers;
And where the early wild flower yields
The tribute of its tears.
Where shadows the sepulchral yew,
Where droops the willow tree,
Where the long grass is filled with dew—
Oh! make such grave for me!
And passers-by, at evening's close,
Will pause beside the grave,
And moralize o'er the repose
They fear, and yet they crave.
Perhaps some kindly hand may bring
Its offering to the tomb;
And say, As fades the rose in spring,
So fadeth human bloom.
But here there is no kindly thought
To soothe, and to relieve;
No fancies and no flowers are brought,
That soften while they grieve.
Here Poesy and Love come not—
It is a world of stone;
The grave is bought—is closed—forgot!
And then life hurries on.
Sorrow and beauty—nature—love—
Redeem man's common breath;
Ah! let them shed the grave above—
Give loveliness to death.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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The Victory
Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony
Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come,
Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships
Met on the element,--they met, they fought
A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy!
Old England triumphed! yet another day
Of glory for the ruler of the waves!
For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause,
They have their passing paragraphs of praise
And are forgotten.
There was one who died
In that day's glory, whose obscurer name
No proud historian's page will chronicle.
Peace to his honest soul! I read his name,
'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God
The sound was not familiar to mine ear.
But it was told me after that this man
Was one whom lawful violence had forced
From his own home and wife and little ones,
Who by his labour lived; that he was one
Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel
A husband's love, a father's anxiousness,
That from the wages of his toil he fed
The distant dear ones, and would talk of them
At midnight when he trod the silent deck
With him he valued, talk of them, of joys
That he had known--oh God! and of the hour
When they should meet again, till his full heart
His manly heart at last would overflow
Even like a child's with very tenderness.
Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly
It came, and merciful the ball of death,
For it came suddenly and shattered him,
And left no moment's agonizing thought
On those he loved so well.
He ocean deep
Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter
Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know
What a cold sickness made her blood run back
When first she heard the tidings of the fight;
Man does not know with what a dreadful hope
She listened to the names of those who died,
Man does not know, or knowing will not heed,
With what an agony of tenderness
She gazed upon her children, and beheld
His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou
Her comforter who art the widow's friend!
poem by Robert Southey
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Maude.
A BALLAD OF THE OLDEN TIME.
Around the castle turrets fiercely moaned the autumn blast,
And within the old lords daughter seemed dying, dying fast;
While o’er her couch in frenzied grief the stricken father bent,
And in deep sobs and stifled moans his anguish wild found vent.
“Oh cheer thee up, my daughter dear, my Maude, he softly said,
As tremblingly he strove to raise that young and drooping head;
’I’ll deck thee out in jewels rare in robes of silken sheen,
Till thou shalt be as rich and gay as any crowned queen.”
“Ah, never, never!” sighed the girl, and her pale cheek paler grew,
While marble brow and chill white hands were bathed in icy dew;
“Look in my face—there thou wilt read such hopes are folly all,
No garment shall I wear again, save shroud and funeral pall.”
“My Maude thou’rt wilful! Far away in lands beyond the sea
Are sunny climes, where winter ne’er doth wither flower or tree;
And there thou’lt journey with me, till I see thee smile once more,
And thy fair cheek wear the rose’s hue as in the days of yore.”
“Ah, no roses shall I gather beneath a summer sky,
Not for me such dreams, dear father, my end is drawing nigh;
One voyage is before me, ’tis no use to grieve or moan,
But that dark, fearful journey must I travel all alone.”
“My precious child! last of my race! why wilt thou grieve me so?
Why add by such sad words unto thy grey haired father’s woe?
Live—live, my pearl! my stricken dove! earth’s joys shall all be thine;
Whate’er thy wish or will through life, it also shall be mine.”
Fast coursed the diamond tear drops down that fair, though faded, cheek,
And she whispered, but so softly, one scarce could hear her speak:
“Ah! father, half those loving cares when summer bright was here
Would have kept thy daughter with thee for many a happy year.
“But, ah! thy heart was marble then, and to thy direst foe,
More stern, relentless anger thou couldst not, father, show.
What was my crime? The one I loved, not rich but nobly born,
Was loyal, true, on whom no man e’er looked with glance of scorn.
“He wooed me fairly, father dear, but thou did’st often swear
Thou’dst rather see me in my grave than bride to Hengist’s heir.
Reckless, despairing, he embarked upon the stormy main,
To seek an end to grief and care, nor sought he long in vain.
“Calm and untroubled sleeps he now beneath the salt sea brine,
And I rejoice to think how soon that sweet sleep shall be mine!”
No answer made the father but a low and grief-struck moan;
And silence reigned again throughout that chamber sad and lone.
Sudden the girl starts wildly, with bright and kindling eye,
Her cheek assumes a crimson tint like hue of sunset sky,
“Father! that voice, that rapid step, ah, me! they are well-known,
Hengist who comes from ocean’s deeps to claim me for his own!”
Say, does she rave? No. See yon form, with proud and gallant brow,
Bending above her, whisp’ring low, fond word and tender vow:
“Maude, my own love! no spectral form, no phantom’s at thy side,
But thy girlhood’s lover, now returned to claim thee as his bride.”
The story runs that love and youth o’er death the victory won,
And again did Maude, a happy wife, play ’neath the summer sun,
While the old lord, grateful to the Power that Hengist’s life had spared,
Henceforth in all his children’s bliss, hopes, sorrows, fully shared.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Rejoicing After The Battle Of Inkerman
Rejoice! the fearful day is o’er
For the victors and the slain;
Our cannon proclaim from shore to shore,
The Allies have won again!
Let our joy bells ring out music clear,
The gayest they’ve ever pealed;
Let bonfires flames the dark night cheer,
We are masters of the field
But list! dost hear that mournful wail
’Bove the joyous revelry?
Rising from hillside and lowly vale,—
Say, what can its meaning be?
From Erin’s sunny emerald shore
It trembles upon the gale,
And rises with the torrent’s roar
From the birth place of the Gael.
Fair Albion, too, in every spot
Of thy land of promise wide
Is heard that dirge for the mournful lot
Of thy soldier sons—thy pride.
Them shall no bugle at dawn of day
Arouse from their quiet sleep,
Them shall no charger with shrill neigh
Bear off to the hillside steep.
’Mid the dead and dying stretched unknown
On Crimea’s blood stained earth,
Lie the household gods of many a home,
The lights of many a hearth:
While, vainly woman’s weeping voice
Calls on each well loved one—
The tender wife on her girlhoods choice,
The fond mother on her son.
And not only from the peasant’s cot
Comes that mournful, dirge like cry,
’Tis heard—unto all a common lot—
Where dwell the great and high;
And tears fall fast for the last lost child
Of many a noble race,
Who has perished in that struggle wild,
And left none to fill his place.
Yet if above our laurels bright
Falls many a bitter tear,
Still, still, may we find a gleam of light,
Our stricken hearts to cheer;
They have fallen in the country’s cause
That their youth and manhood nursed,
They have fallen true to honor’s laws,
In a sacred strife and just.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Youth And Manhood
Another year! a short one, if it flow
Like that just past,
And I shall stand -- if years can make me so --
A man at last.
Yet, while the hours permit me, I would pause
And contemplate
The lot whereto unalterable laws
Have bound my fate.
Yet, from the starry regions of my youth,
The empyreal height
Where dreams are happiness, and feeling truth,
And life delight --
From that ethereal and serene abode
My soul would gaze
Downward upon the wide and winding road,
Where manhood plays;
Plays with the baubles and the gauds of earth --
Wealth, power, and fame --
Nor knows that in the twelvemonth after birth
He did the same.
Where the descent begins, through long defiles
I see them wind;
And some are looking down with hopeful smiles,
And some are -- blind.
And farther on a gay and glorious green
Dazzles the sight,
While noble forms are moving o'er the scene,
Like things of light.
Towers, temples, domes of perfect symmetry
Rise broad and high,
With pinnacles among the clouds; ah, me!
None touch the sky.
None pierce the pure and lofty atmosphere
Which I breathe now,
And the strong spirits that inhabit there,
Live -- God sees how.
Sick of the very treasure which they heap;
Their tearless eyes
Sealed ever in a heaven-forgetting sleep,
Whose dreams are lies;
And so, a motley, unattractive throng,
They toil and plod,
Dead to the holy ecstasies of song,
To love, and God.
Dear God! if that I may not keep through life
My trust, my truth,
And that I must, in yonder endless strife,
Lose faith with youth;
If the same toil which indurates the hand
Must steel the heart,
Till, in the wonders of the ideal land,
It have no part;
Oh! take me hence! I would no longer stay
Beneath the sky;
Give me to chant one pure and deathless lay,
And let me die!
poem by Henry Timrod
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A Happy Man
When these graven lines you see,
Traveller, do not pity me;
Though I be among the dead,
Let no mournful word be said.
Children that I leave behind,
And their children, all were kind;
Near to them and to my wife,
I was happy all my life.
My three sons I married right,
And their sons I rocked at night;
Death nor sorrow never brought
Cause for one unhappy thought.
Now, and with no need of tears,
Here they leave me, full of years,--
Leave me to my quiet rest
In the region of the blest.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Juliet After The Masquerade. By Thompson
SHE left the festival, for it seem'd dim
Now that her eye no longer dwelt on him,
And sought her chamber,--gazed, (then turn'd away),
Upon a mirror that before her lay,
Half fearing, half believing her sweet face
Would surely claim within his memory place.
The hour was late, and that night her light foot
Had been the constant echo of the lute;
Yet sought she not her pillow, the cool air
Came from the casement, and it lured her there.
The terrace was beneath, and the pale moon
Shone o'er the couch which she had press'd at noon,
Soft-lingering o'er some minstrel's love-lorn page,--
Alas, tears are the poet's heritage!
She flung her on that couch, but not for sleep;
No, it was only that the wind might steep
Her fever'd lip in its delicious dew:
Her brow was burning, and aside she threw
Her cap and plume, and, loosen'd from its fold,
Came o'er her neck and face a shower of gold,
A thousand curls. It was a solitude
Made for young hearts in love's first dreaming mood:--
Beneath the garden lay, fill'd with rose-trees
Whose sighings came like passion on the breeze.
Two graceful statues of the Parian stone
So finely shaped, that as the moonlight shone
The breath of life seem'd to their beauty given,
But less the life of earth than that of heaven.
'Twas PSYCHE and her boy-god, so divine
They turn'd the terrace to an idol shrine,
With its white vases and their summer share
Of flowers, like altars raised to that sweet pair.
And there the maiden leant, still in her ear
The whisper dwelt of that young cavalier;
It was no fancy, he had named the name
Of love, and at that thought her cheek grew flame:
It was the first time her young ear had heard
A lover's burning sigh, or silver word;
Her thoughts were all confusion, but most sweet,--
Her heart beat high, but pleasant was its beat.
She murmur'd over many a snatch of song
That might to her own feelings now belong;
She thought upon old histories she had read,
And placed herself in each high heroine's stead,
Then woke her lute,--oh! there is little known
Of music's power till aided by love's own.
And this is happiness: oh! love will last
When all that made it happiness is past,--
When all its hopes are as the glittering toys
Time present offers, time to come destroys,--
When they have been too often crush'd to earth,
For further blindness to their little worth,--
When fond illusions have dropt one by one,
Like pearls from a rich carkanet, till none
Are left upon life's soil'd and naked string,--
And this is all what time will ever bring.
--And that fair girl,--what can the heart foresee
Of her young love, and of its destiny?
There is a white cloud o'er the moon, its form
Is very light, and yet there sleeps the storm;
It is an omen, it may tell the fate
Of love known all too soon, repented all too late.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Hon. James B. Clay
Another pang for Southern hearts,
That of late so oft have bled,
Another name to add to the roll
Of their mighty, patriot dead;
A vacant place ’mid that phalanx proud.
Of which each glorious name
Is dear to a mighty nation’s heart,
And dear to undying fame.
The God-given gift of genius his,
The patriot’s holy fire,
For he we mourn was a worthy son
Of a great and glorious sire:
Ah! whate’er the changes time may bring,
Shall never pass away
From the people’s mind, in North or South,
The deathless name of Clay.
Yet an exile in a foreign land,
His spirit passed from earth,
Far from the old dear scenes of home,
The loved land of his birth,—
The land he had well and truly served,
With heart, with sword, with pen,
Since first he had joined the march of life,
By the side of his fellow men.
No Southern breezes, soft and sweet,
Played around his dying bed,
No Southern flowers in glowing bloom,
Rich fragrance round him shed;
The wintry light of a Northern sky,
Earth robed in snowy vest,
Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze
As he passed into his rest
But near him gathered devoted hearts,
Wife, children, at his side,
Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked,
With fond, revering pride,
On him who had ever been to them,
Throughout his life’s career,
A model of all that honor high,
Or virtue holds most dear.
And other mourners leaves he too,
Who had learned to love him well.
Though short the time since he had come,
Within our midst to dwell:
Friends who will keep his name fore’er
’Mid those they we set apart,
To cherish deeply, and revere,
Within their inmost heart.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Sea-Shore Musings
How oft I’ve longed to gaze on thee,
Thou proud and mighty deep!
Thy vast horizon, boundless, free,
Thy coast so rude and steep;
And now entranced I breathless stand,
Where earth and ocean meet,
Whilst billows wash the golden sand,
And break around my feet.
Lovely thou art when dawn’s red light
Sheds o’er thee its soft hue,
Showing fair ships, a gallant sight,
Upon thy waters blue;
And when the moonbeams softly pour
Their light on wave or glen,
And diamond spray leaps on the shore,
How lovely art thou then!
Still, as I look, faint shadows steal
O’er thy calm heaving breast,
And there are times, I sadly feel,
Thou art not thus at rest;
And I bethink me of past tales,
Of ships that left the shore,
And meeting with thy fearful gales,
Have ne’er been heard of more.
They say thy depths hold treasures rare,
Groves coral—sands of gold—
Pearls fitted for a monarch’s wear
And gems of worth untold;
But these could not to life restore
The idol of one home,
Nor make brave hearts beat high once more
That sleep beneath thy foam.
But I must chase such thoughts away,
They mar this happy hour,
Remembering thou dost but obey
Thy Great Creator’s, power;
And in my own fair inland home,
Mysterious, moaning main,
In dreams I’ll see thy snow-white foam
And frowning rocks again.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ashtabula Disaster
Air -- "Gently Down the Stream of Time"
Have you heard of the dreadful fate
Of Mr. P. P. Bliss and wife?
Of their death I will relate,
And also others lost their life;
Ashtabula Bridge disaster,
Where so many people died
Without a thought that destruction
Would plunge them 'neath the wheel of tide.
CHORUS:
Swiftly passed the engine's call,
Hastening souls on to death,
Warning not one of them all;
It brought despair right and left.
Among the ruins are many friends,
Crushed to death amidst the roar;
On one thread all may depend,
And hope they've reached the other shore.
P. P. Bliss showed great devotion
To his faithful wife, his pride,
When he saw that she must perish,
He died a martyr by her side.
P. P. Bliss went home above --
Left all friends, earth and fame,
To rest in God's holy love;
Left on earth his work and name.
The people love his work by numbers,
It is read by great and small,
He by it will be remembered,
He has left it for us all.
His good name from time to time
Will rise on land and sea;
It is known in distant climes,
Let it echo wide and free.
One good man among the number,
Found sweet rest in a short time,
His weary soul may sweetly slumber
Within the vale, heaven sublime.
Destruction lay on every side,
Confusion, fire and despair;
No help, no hope, so they died,
Two hundred people over there.
Many ties was there broken,
Many a heart was filled with pain,
Each one left a little token,
For above they live again.
poem by Julia A Moore
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To The Duke Of Dorset
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,
Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
Whom still affection taught me to defend
And made me less a tyrant than a friend
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command;
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches and the pride of power;
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, nor far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade control,
Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,--
And even in simple boyhood 's opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,--
When these declare, ' that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestined to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;'
Believe them not;– they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name.
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear;
For well I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.
Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
'Tis not enough, with other sons of power
To gleam tile lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot–
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll,
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,
Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise,
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires play.
One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth.
Another view, not less renown'd for wit;
Alike for Courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distingish'd ish'd from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name;
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hall their native shore,
Receding, slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself thy weal or woe,
With thee non more saain I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice:
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought,
If these – but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,--
Oh! if these wishes arc not breathed in vain,
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.
The dumb creation
Deal kindly with those speechless ones,
That throng our gladsome earth;
Say not the bounteous gift of life
Alone is nothing worth.
What though with mournful memories
They sigh not for the past?
What though their ever joyous Now
No future overcast?
No aspirations fill their breast
With longings undefined;
They live, they love, and they are blest,
For what they seek they find.
They see no mystery in the stars,
No wonder in the plain;
And Life's enigma wakes in them
No questions dark and vain.
To them earth is a final home,
A bright and blest abode;
Their lives unconsciously flow on
In harmony with God.
To this fair world our human hearts
Their hopes and longings bring,
And o'er its beauty and its bloom
Their own dark shadows fling.
Between the future and the past
In wild unrest we stand;
And ever as our feet advance,
Retreats the promised land.
And though Love, Fame, and Wealth and Power,
Bind in their gilded bond,
We pine to grasp the unattained--
The something still beyond.
And, beating on their prison bars,
Our spirits ask more room,
And with unanswered questionings,
They pierce beyond the tomb.
Then say thou not, oh doubtful heart,
There is no life to come;
That in some tearless, cloudless land,
Thou shalt not find thy home.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Psalm 49 part 1
v.6-14
C. M.
Pride and death; or, The vanity of life and riches.
Why doth the man of riches grow
To insolence and pride,
To see his wealth and honors flow
With every rising tide?
[Why doth he treat the poor with scorn,
Made of the self-same clay,
And boast as though his flesh was born
Of better dust than they?]
Not all his treasures can procure
His soul a short reprieve,
Redeem from death one guilty hour,
Or make his brother live.
[Life is a blessing can't be sold,
The ransom is too high;
Justice will ne'er be bribed with gold,
That man may never die.]
He sees the brutish and the wise,
The tim'rous and the brave,
Quit their possessions, close their eyes,
And hasten to the grave.
Yet 'tis his inward thought and pride,-
My house shall ever stand
And that my name may long abide,
I'll give it to my land."
Vain are his thoughts, his hopes are lost,
How soon his memory dies!
His name is written in the dust
Where his own carcass lies.
PAUSE.
This is the folly of their way;
And yet their sons, as vain,
Approve the words their fathers say,
And act their works again.
Men void of wisdom and of grace,
If honor raise them high,
Live like the beast, a thoughtless race,
And like the beast they die.
[Laid in the grave like silly sheep,
Death feeds upon them there,
Till the last trumpet break their sleep
In terror and despair.]
poem by Isaac Watts
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The Emigrant’s Address To America
All hail to thee, noble and generous Land!
With thy prairies boundless and wide,
Thy mountains that tower like sentinels grand,
Thy lakes and thy rivers of pride!
Thy forests that hide in their dim haunted shades
New flowers of loveliness rare—
Thy fairy like dells and thy bright golden glades,
Thy warm skies as Italy’s fair.
Here Plenty has lovingly smiled on the soil,
And ’neath her sweet, merciful reign
The brave and long suff’ring children of toil
Need labor no longer in vain.
I ask of thee shelter from lawless harm,
Food—raiment—and promise thee now,
In return, the toil of a stalwart arm,
And the sweat of an honest brow.
But think not, I pray, that this heart is bereft
Of fond recollections of home;
That I e’er can forget the dear land I have left
In the new one to which I have come.
Oh no! far away in my own sunny isle
Is a spot my affection worth,
And though dear are the scenes that around me now smile,
More dear is the place of my birth!
There hedges of hawthorn scent the sweet air,
And, thick as the stars of the night,
The daisy and primrose, with flow’rets as fair,
Gem that soil of soft verdurous light.
And there points the spire of my own village church,
That long has braved time’s iron power,
With its bright glitt’ring cross and ivy wreathed porch—
Sure refuge in sorrow’s dark hour!
Whilst memory lasts think not e’er from this breast
Can pass the fond thoughts of my home:
No! I ne’er can forget the land I have left
In the new one to which I have come!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Fatherland
THE BRAVE old land of deed and song,
Of gentle hearts and spirits strong,
Of queenly maids and heroes grand,
Of equal laws,—our Fatherland!
Though born beneath a brighter sun,
Shall we forget the marvels done,
By soul outspoken, blood outpoured,
By bard and patriot, song and sword?
Forget how firm and true our sires,
Still lighted by their battle-fires,
’Gainst kingly power and kingly crime,
Long struggled in the darkened time?
How in a rolling sea they stood,
Where every wave was freemen’s blood,—
Shall we forget the time of strife,
When freedom’s only price was life?
Shall Cromwell’s memory, Milton’s lyre,
Not kindle ’mong us souls of fire,
Not raise in us a spirit strong—
High scorn of shams, quick hate of wrong?
Shall we not learn, Australians born!
To smile on tinselled power our scorn,—
At least, a freeman’s pride to try,
When tinselled power would bend or buy?
The brave old land of deed and song,
We ne’er will do her memories wrong!
For freedom here we’ll firmly stand,
As stood our sires for Fatherland!
poem by Sir Henry Parkes
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