Francis Hastings Doyle

“ Ere sunshine’s touch hath warmed the snow-chilled sod;
How comest thou to this grim northern air,
Flower from the land of God?
Not to our clime, oh petals pale and sweet,
Are ye akin, — our realms of strife and pain, —
Nor born to be down-trodden under feet
Still hurrying after gain ”

“ In gray soft eddyings hung;
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself so young?
Yes, honor calls!--with strength like steel
He put the vision by;
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel,
An English lad must die. ”

“ As I went up and down,
To find a place where I might rest
Within Chekäo’s town.
The Royal Press-gang, at that hour,
Came up the self-same way,
Who in the time of darkness make
The sons of men their prey. ”