Now o'er the landscape signs of twilight creep,
And sounds that tell of night—sounds that I love:
The hooting of the owl, the tree-frog's cry
By distance mellowed; and—more distant still—
I hear the barking of the village dogs.
The breath of evening whispering 'mid the pines,
And deepening shadows, bid me homeward turn;
And yet I linger—for I seem a part
Of lake and mountain, meadow, tree and sky,—
And realize how sweet a thing it is
To lay my heart so close to Nature's own
That I can feel its throbbing, while each pulse
Responsive beats, and o'er my being steals
A rapturous calm like that out parents felt
When to the bowers of Eden they repaired,
And praised their Maker seen in all his works.
Author of nature! Source of life and light!
Almighty Father! let me praise thee too.
This lovely world is thine; yon moon and stars
That now begin to usher in the night
Are but the outposts of unnumbered spheres
That march in order round thy dazzling throne,
And chant thy praises in perpetual song.
All these are thine, for thou hast made them all;
And I am thine! I thank thee, Lord of lords,
King of the Universe, Creator, God,
That while in part I realize thy power
I know it has an equal in the love
Which bowed the heavens and consecrated earth
When the Messiah came to save mankind,
And in its proper orbit reinstate
A fallen world, which shall one day become
The fairest 'mid the sisterhood of orbs,
The most renowned because the dearest bought,—
The best beloved, because the ransom given
Was all that God omnipotent could pay!
AUTUMN TEACHINGS.
The howling winds rage around my casement. The summer is past, and everything indicates that winter will soon be here. The seared leaves are falling from their homes in the waving forests; the earth has thrown aside her gay mantle of green, and one scene of desolation presents itself to the eye. The decay of nature brings with it sad and solemn reflections, how much more the decay of the human form—of which autumn seems so striking an emblem. The days of man are few. Like the flower of the field he perisheth, and yet how few seem to realize it! O God, teach me to apply my heart unto wisdom. Help me to love and serve thee, that when "the heavens shall be dissolved and the elements shall melt with fervent heat" I may not be among those who shall take up the sad lamentation: "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."—Oct., 1852.
THE WATCHER.
[As Miss Johnson lived in the house with Dr. G. O. Somers, who would frequently in winter cross lake Memphremagog on the ice in visiting his patients, the following, written on a sick-bed, gives a graphic description of what her fears pictured might be a reality.]
Night comes, but he comes not! I fear
The treacherous ice; what do I hear?
Bells? nay, I am deceived again,—
'Tis but the ringing in my brain.
Oh how the wind goes shrieking past!
Was it a voice upon the blast?
A cry for aid? My God protect!
Preserve his life—his course direct!
How suddenly it has grown dark—
How very dark without—hush! hark!
'Tis but the creaking of the door;
It opens wide, and nothing more.
Then wind and snow came in; I thought
Some straggler food and shelter sought;
But more I feared, for fear is weak,
That some one came of him to speak:
To tell how long he braved the storm,
How long he kept his bosom warm
With thoughts of home, how long he cheered
His weary horse that plunged, and reared,
And wallowed through the drifted snow
Till daylight faded, and the glow
Of hope went out; how almost blind,
He peered around, below, behind,—
No road, no track, the very shore
All blotted out,—one struggle more,
It is thy last, perchance, brave heart!
O God! a reef! the masses part
Of snow and ice, and dark and deep
The waters lie in death-like sleep;
He sees too late the chasm yawn;
Sleigh, horse and driver, all are gone!
Father in heaven! It may be thus,
But thou art gracious,—pity us,
Save him, and me in mercy spare
What 'twould be worse than death to bear.
Hark! hark! am I deceived again?
Nay, 'tis no ringing in my brain;
My pulses leap—my bosom swells—
Thank God! it is, it is his bells!
PATRIOTIC POEMS
THE SURRENDER OF QUEBEC.
[Quebec is the oldest city in Canada, having been founded by Champlain, in 1608, near the site of an Indian village. It was taken from the French, by the English, under General Wolfe, in 1759, after a heroic defence by Montcalm. Both generals fell on the battle-field, mortally wounded. In 1853 the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec offered a prize medal for the best poem relating to the history of Canada. Miss Johnson (then in her eighteenth year) wrote the following, which took the prize.]