But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed,
And blooms in consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the skylark's nest..
"Tis Flora's page: in every place,
In every season fresh and fair,
with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere:
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign,
The Daisy never dies.
WHERE Canada spreads forth her deserts hoar,
Chilled by the Polar frosts of Labrador,
Where mighty lakes their azure wastes expand,
And swell their watery empire o'er the land.
What tribes or wing the air, or tread the plain?
What herbage springs, what nations hold their reign?
Enormous forests stretch their shadows wide,
And rich savannahs skirt the mountain's side;
There bounds the moose, and shaggy bisons graze;
Scared by the wolf, the hardy reindeer brays;
The clambering squirrel tumbles from on high,
Fixed by the rattlesnake's rapacious eye;
Unnumbered pigeons fill the darkened air,
Feed the tired hawk, the loaded branches tear;
Fair swans majestic on the waters glide;
The mason beaver checks the flowing tide.
Gigantic rivers shake the thundering shore,
And dread Niagara's foaming cataracts roar!
TRUE ESTIMATE OF HUMAN LEARNING.
SOME plead for learning as the test of truth,
And thus the ignorant into error soothe ;
But men of human learning disagree:
How obvious then to all, well taught to see,
Learning of truth can no criterion be;
Yet is it the Diana of the day,
To which most men implicit homage pay.
They to her shrine perpetual incense raise,
And lavish on her adulative praise;
But learning has no worth in God's esteem,
This wisdom of the world is naught to Him.
The Bible is the test of truth divine,
Truth doth in all its heavenly pages shine:
Forsaking these, we tread the devious road,
Which leads our wandering souls far off from God.
THE works of man may yield delight,
And justly merit praise;
But though awhile they charm the sight,
That charm in time decays.
The sculptor's, painter's, poet's skill,
The art of mind's creative will,
In various modes may teem;
But none of these, however rare
Or exquisite, can truth declare-
A poet's noblest theme.
The sun, uprising, may display
His glory to the eye,
And hold in majesty his way
Across the vaulted sky;
Then sink resplendent in the west,
Where parting clouds his rays invest
With beauty's softest beam:
Yet not unto the sun belong
The charms which consecrate in song
A poet's noblest theme.
The winds, whose music to the ear
With that of art may vie,
Now loud, awakening awe and fear,
Then soft as Pity's sigh;
The mighty ocean's ample breast,
Calm or convulsed, in wrath or rest,
A glorious sight may seem:
But neither winds nor boundless sea,
Though beautiful or grand, can be
A poet's noblest theme.
The earth, our own dear native earth,
Has charms all hearts may own;
They cling around us from our birth,
More loved as longer known;
Hers are the lovely vales, the wild
And pathless forests, mountains piled
On high, and many a stream
Whose beauteous banks the heart may love;
Yet none of these can truth approve-
A poet's noblest theme.
The virtues, which our fallen state
With foolish pride would claim,
May, in themselves, be good and great,
To us an empty name.
Truth, justice, mercy, patience, love,
May seem with man on earth to rove,
And yet may only seem.
To none of these, as man's, dare I
The title of my verse apply—
"A poet's noblest theme."
To God alone, whose power divine
Created all that live,
To God alone can truth assign
This proud prerogative.
But how shall man attempt His praise,
Or dare to sing in mortal lays
Omnipotence supreme,
When seraph-choirs, in heaven above,
Proclaim His glory and His love
Their noblest, sweetest theme?
Thanks be to God! His grace has shown.
How sinful man on earth
May join the songs which round His throne Give endless praises birth.
His Son for man to die;
He sends His Spirit from on high,
To consummate the scheme:
Oh, be that consummation blest!
And let Redemption be confest
A poet's noblest theme.
THE CHRISTIAN IN HUMBLE LIFE.
As much have I of worldly good
As e'er my Master had;
I diet on as dainty food,
And am as richly clad,
Though plain my garb, though scant my board,
As Mary's Son and Nature's Lord.
The manger was His infant bed,
His home the mountain cave;
He had not where to lay His head,
He borrowed e'en his grave;
Earth yielded Him no resting spot-
Her Maker, but she knew Him not.
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