William M. MacKeracher

“ The passing rapture of the hour
'Tis folly to recall;
All, all around was paradise,
And she was queen of all.
We parted: broken was the spell;
The blissful dream was o'er;
I stood upon the city street,
Before her father's door.
What though I wildly walked the hills,
Nor any respite found!
My thoughts as ghastly and as dark
As were the shades around.
What though since then in Stygian gloom
My soul to grope is given!
Can earth be else but dull to him,
Who once has tasted heaven? ”

“ To my Couch.
When the toils of the day are done,
When its trials and cares are o'er;
When the forces of mind and body are run,
And the heart is sore;
How welcome to me is thy rest—
The breath of approaching peace,
Which soothes the soul with a prospect blest
Of sweet release!
May my life be such that so
At its even this comfort I'll have!
For sleep is the symbol of death, and thou
Art the sign of the grave.
Separation.
Parted cruelly from thee,
What, Oh! what is life to me?
'Tis the morn without the lark;
It is wine without its spark. ”

“ Who, like Aurora, soon would leave her soft abode.
IN MAY.
Now is the time when swallows twitter round,
And robin redbreasts carol in the trees,
When the grass grows very green on lower ground,
And opening buds embalm the buxom breeze,
When orchards murmur with the half-blind bees,
Freed till th' uncellared hives again be full,
The time when old men smile and maidens please,
Loose-zoned in summer dresses light and cool,
And laughing urchins shirk the lessons of the school. ”

“ Changing their places like a fleet of vessels tempest-driven
That blindly meet within the waves and part with timbers riven,
Waving their sticks with frantic zeal—But isn't this a sight?
My goodness! I could sit and watch a game like this all night.
There, dirty trousers, there's your chance. Muffed it! Why weren't
you quick?
This is a sight to make the sad rejoice, to heal the sick,
To rouse the drones and give them life to last them half a year—
Hit him again!—I wish I had my congregation here.
My stars! and this is hockey. Hockey's the king of sports. ”

“ High in mid-air appear and mighty in the mist.
Beneath, the River spreads his glist'ning sheen,
Spanned by not least of master workmanships,
Which sits as conscious daughter of a queen.
And here art thou, my city, and thou dip'st
Thy towers in the mist, whose magic strips
My spirit of the pall Time weaves—in vain;
Nor Time nor Disappointment can eclipse
Days of young bliss—they must and will remain:
Once more a wonder thou, half city of the brain. ”

“ Omnipotent, Thy name; and love, Thine attribute!
God in Nature.
We see our Father's hand in all around;
In summer's sun, and in cold winter's snow,
In leafy wood, on grassy-covered ground,
In showers that fall and icy blasts that blow.
And when we see the light'ning's flash, and hear
The thunder's roar, majestically grand,
A heavenly voice says, "Christian, do not fear,
'Tis but the working of thy Father's hand."
Reflections of a Jacobite.
Mourn, mourn, ye spirits of the brave, for glories passed away;
Mourn that the sceptre of your king should own a stranger's sway ”

“ 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. ”

“ My own Canadian girl.
Thy brow is like the silver moon
That sails in summer skies,
The mirror of a mind immune
From care, serene and wise,
Thy nose is sculptured ivory;
Thine ears are lobes of pearl;
Thy lips are corals from the sea,
My own Canadian girl.
Thine eyes are limpid pools of light,
The windows of thy soul;
The stars are not so clear and bright
That shine around the pole.
The crimson banners of thy cheeks
To sun and wind unfurl;
Thy tongue makes music when it speaks,
My own Canadian girl. ”

“ 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 God! 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 God of might, from Thee all strength is sprung ”

“ Their proud patronymics, they rightfully hold,
Proclaim them descended from heroes of old.—
Illustrious titles that throw in the shade
The dukedoms and earldoms but yesterday made;
And even the King with his royalty lacks
A lineage as ancient as that of the Macs.
They are old and yet young, with a spirit possest
By the dream of the East and the hope of the West;
The earth is their country, the race is their kin;
In populous cities their guerdon they win,
And in gold miners' cabins and lumbermen's shacks
You will find the ubiquitous, venturesome Macs. ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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 God 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 English soil!—'tis hallowed ground:
Its restless children roam
The world, but they have never found
So dear a land as home;
Their passion for its hills and downs
Nor space nor time can spoil;
A golden mist of memory crowns
The good old English soil.
The English race!—its pluck and pith,
Its power to stay and win,—
Wise Alfred's, dauntless Harold's kith,
And Coeur de Lion's kin! ”

“ While crouch the cattle 'neath their oak-tree shield
And horses, frantic-eyed, in terror hoof the field.
The screaming birds, low-flying, seek their nests,
The swaying sport of panic and the gale,
The tall trees, trembling, bend their creaking crests;
The ramping engine shrieks upon the rail—
How helpless all things seem! how poor, how frail! ”

“ The tree, with its leaves in luxuriance shading
My path in the tune-yielding time of the year,
Now sighs in its dirge, while its foliage, fading,
Descends to its sepulchre withered and sere.
And yet I regard it with feelings the fonder,
With feelings of mingled compassion and pain,
As in pity I gaze on its branches, and ponder
Of once fragrant beauty what fragments remain.
For that barren tree with adornment so fleeting,
That blows in the autumn wind bleak and forlorn,
Bespeaks the sad state of a heart that is beating,
Bereft of the pleasures that once it has borne. ”

“ The glut is backward hurled. Hurrah! 'tis vain!
The vengeful fools, like men who war in wine,
Intoxicate with madness, overfain
For blood, have fired o'erhead, and not a man is slain.
Meantime, the valiant hero of the fight
Upon his flank had foiled another foe,
Who now, retreating back in broken plight,
Dismayed the rest with vision of their woe.—
To see and seize, the leader is not slow;
He rushes to his buglers, bids them fast
Withdraw into the woods, advance and blow—
"As for your lives this effort were the last!—
Yea, blow as Britain's throne depended on your blast!" ”

“ God prosper our Canadian sports and keep them clean and pure,
Whole-hearted, manly, generous, and let them long endure!
Long live each honest winter sport, each good Canadian game,
To train the youth in lusty health and iron strength of frame,
To make them noble, vigorous, straightforward, ardent, bold,
Nearer a perfect standard than the grandest knights of old. ”

“ Thine inborn virtue shines divinely forth.
Thy sparkling eyes of bright cerulean blue,
Rich sapphire gems, flash with Arcadian artlessness,
Impelling Cupid's arrows, passion-fraught,
Discharged from bow of myrtle 'gainst my heart,
Which throbs and flutters, quivering from the thrust.
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 ”

“ And taints the air where the penal vultures flock,
Whose after-weakness welds the fettering chain;
Then gods despise and fellow mortals mock.
And here return me to the theme I've ta'en,
And sing the simple labors of the humble swain.
Their voices told they gave me welcome warm,
Though oft their faces I can scarcely see,
For steam-clouds now atween us rise and swarm,
And, rolling upward, find their vent in glee,
Like more—alas!—too eager to be free,
Who fear to go, yet shudder to remain. ”

“ CANADA, MY LAND
There may be more enchanting climes
FORWARD, CANADA!
Northland of our birth and rearing
CANADIAN-BORN
Although I'm not unduly proud
KNOW'ST THOU THE LAND!
Know'st thou the land where the pious and bold
O MAPLE LEAF! ”

“ Companion sweet of meek-ey'd Holiness.
Thou hast no local temple, no set shrine;
Thou art diffus'd o'er earth and sky and sea;
In every land a thousand haunts are thine,
Spirits of every race respond to thee. ”

“ When I saw thee, saw and loved thee on that fatal eve of yore;
And anon it has been living,
And a blissful sadness giving
While with thee,—
Mingled bliss and sadness giving
While with thee;
But, ah! now its woful waging,
Laying waste with cruel raging
This my heart, as with a vulture gnawing at its very core! ”

“ Transparency's impenetrable fleece,
Clouds of all colors floating every wise,
On which the Sun looks up before he cease,
As some old man a moment ere he dies
Beholds with bliss serene the beauties of the skies. ”

“ The wild west wind had ta'en thee for its lyre.
Hope.
Oh! why should sorrow wound the heart,
And rob the soul of rest?
Why is misfortune's bitter dart
Allowed to pierce the breast?
We dare not ask; 'tis heaven's decree,
While faring here below,
Man's bark is tossed upon the sea
Of trouble, grief and woe. ”

“ Owen Roe was a fighter they never could tame;
As a nation the Irish have glory and fame;
For there's nothing too good for the Irish.
And the Irish are noted for piety, too:
There's nothing too good for the Irish. ”

“ Still roars the thunder, still the skies are rent
With frenzied flame,—the swift electric chain,
Jerked clanging backward when its charge is spent.
Such overhead; but now upon the plain
There is a lull, a listening for the rain.
The air grows still; she feels 'twill not be long ”

“ The snow lies pure and peaceful on the ground,
Serenely smiles the azure sky o'erhead:
The Sabbath spirit dwells on all around,
And weekly toils and discords all are fled.
But, ah! my soul is filled with worldly thought,
My God, 'tis filled with thoughts of self and sin:
With seeming care and trouble it is fraught,
And peaceless discontentment reigns within. ”