[THE EMIGRANT'S SONG.]
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I. No work, no home, no wealth have I, But Mary loves me true, And, for her sake, upon my knees I'd beg the wide world through: For her sweet eyes look into mine With fondness soft and deep; My heart's entranced, and I could die Were death a conscious sleep. II. But life is work, and work is life, And life's the way to heaven, And hand-in-hand we'd like to go The road that God has given. And England, dear old Motherland, Has plenty mouths to feed Without her sons and daughters fair, Whose strength is as their need. III. To Canada! To Canada! To that fair land I'll roam, And till the soil with heart of grace, For Mary and a home. Hurrah for love! Hurrah for hope! Hurrah for industry! Hurrah for bonnie Canada, And her bonnie maple tree! |
[TO THE INDIAN SUMMER.]
| And art thou come again, sweet Indian maid! How beautiful thou art where thou dost stand, With step arrested, on the bridge that joins The Past and Future—thy one hand waving Farewell to Summer, whose fond kiss hath set Thy yellow cheeks aglow, the other stretched To greet advancing Winter! Nor can thy veil, tissue diaphanous Of crimsoned haze, conceal thy lustrous eyes;— Those eyes in whose dark depths a tear-drop lurks Ready to fall, for Beauty loved and lost. From thy point gazing, maiden, let us, too, Once more behold the panorama fair Of the lost year. See where, far down yon slope That meets the sun, doth quick advance gay Spring, His dainty fingers filled with swelling buds: O'er his wreathed head, among the enlacing trees, The merry birds flit in and out, to choose A happy resting-place; and singing rills Dwell on his praise. Gladly his laughing eyes Rest on fair Summer's zone set thick with flowers, That chide their own profusion as, tiptoe, And arm outstretched, she reaches to restore The fallen nestling, venturous and weak: While many a nursling claims her tender care. Beneath her smile all Nature doth rejoice, And breaks into a song that sweeps the plain Where now the swarthy Autumn, girded close, Gathers his yellow sheaves and juicy fruit To overflowing garners; measure full, And blest to grateful souls. Through the low air [!-- Begin Page 99 --] A myriad wings circle in restless sort; And from the rustling woods there comes a sound Of dropping nuts and acorns—welcome store To little chipmunk and to squirrel blithe: Dependants small on Nature's wide largesse. How doth the enchanting picture fill our souls With faith! Sweet Indian maid, we turn with thee And greet gray Winter with a trustful smile. |