RECREATION.

Give me a cottage embower'd in trees, Far from the press and the din of the town; There let me loiter and live at my ease, Happier far than the King with his crown.

There let the music that's sweeter than words Waken my soul's inarticulate song, Murmur of zephyrs and warbling of birds, Babble of waters that hurry along.

Under the shade of the maple and beech Let me in tranquil contentment recline, Learning what nature and solitude teach, Charming philosophy, human, divine;

Finding how trivial the myriad things Life is concern'd with, to seek or to shun; Seeing the sources whence blessedness springs, Gathering strength for the work to be done.

PAESTUM.

Paestum, your temples and your streets Have been restored to view; Your fadeless Grecian beauty greets The eyes of men anew.

But where are all your roses now-- Those wonderful delights That made such garlands for the brow Of your fair Sybarites?

They in your time were more renown'd, And dearer to your heart, Than these fine works which mark the bound And highest reach of art.

We'd see you as you look'd of old; Though column, arch and wall Were worth a kingdom to behold, One rose would shame them all.

RONDEAU: AN APRIL DAY.

An April day, when skies are blue, And earth rejoices to renew Her vernal youth by lawn and lea, And sap mounts upward in the tree, And ruddy buds come bursting through;

When violets of tender hue And trilliums keep the morning dew Through all the sweet forenoon--give me An April day;

When surly Winter's roystering crew Have said the last of their adieux, And left the fettered river free, And buoyant hope and ecstasy Of life awake, my wants are few-- An April day.

AUTUMN.

The Year, an aged holy priest, In gorgeous vestments clad, Now celebrates the solemn feast Of Autumn, sweet and sad.

The Sun, a contrite thurifer After his garish days, Through lessening arch, a wavy blur, His burnish'd censer sways.

The Earth,--an altar all afire Her hecatombs to claim, Shoots upward many a golden spire And crimson tongue of flame.

Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd In Midian's land to view The bush that unconsuming burn'd, I pause--and worship, too.

MY TWO BOYS.

To some the heavenly Father good Has given raiment rich and fine, And tables spread with dainty food, And jewels rare that brightly shine.

To some He's given gold that buys Immunity from petty care, Freedom and leisure and the prize Of pleasing books and pictures fair.

To some He's given wide domains And high estate and tranquil ease, And homes where all refinement reigns And everything combines to please.

To some He's given minds to know The what and how, the where and when; To some, a genius that can throw A light upon the hearts of men.

To some He's given fortunes free From sorrows and replete with joys; To some, a thousand friends; to me He's given my two little boys.

MY OLD CLa.s.sICAL MASTER.

Ever hail'd with delight when my memory strays O'er the various scenes of my juvenile days, Do you mind if I sing a poor song in your praise, My jolly old cla.s.sical master?

You were kind--over-lenient, 'twas rumor'd, to rule-- And so learn'd, though the blithest of all in the school, 'Twas your pupil's own fault if he left you a fool, My jolly old cla.s.sical master.

"Polumetis Odusseus" you brought back to life, "Xanthos Menelaos" recalled to the strife: You knew more about Homer than Homer's own wife, My jolly old cla.s.sical master.

You could sever each cla.s.sical Gordian knot, Each "crux criticorum" explain on the spot; We preferr'd your opinion to Liddell and Scott, My jolly old cla.s.sical master.

To you "Arma virumque," "All Gaul" and the rest Were a snap of the fingers, a plaything, a jest, Even Horace mere English--you lik'd Horace best, My jolly old cla.s.sical master.

We esteemed you a marvel in Latin and Greek, An Erasmus, a Bentley, a Person, a freak; And for all sorts of knowledge we held you unique, My jolly old cla.s.sical master.

You brought forth from your treasury things new and old, Philosophical gems, oratorical gold; And how many a capital story you told, My jolly old cla.s.sical master!

Your devotion to learning, whole-hearted and pure, Your fine critical relish of literature, And your gay disposition, had charms to allure, My jolly old cla.s.sical master.

Here's a health to you, sir, from a thousand old boys, Who once plagu'd you with nonsense and tried you with noise, But who learn'd from you, lov'd you, and wish you all joys, My jolly old cla.s.sical master.

May your mien be still jovial, your mind be still bright, May your wit be still sprightly, your heart be still light, And long, long may it be ere your spirit takes flight, My jolly old cla.s.sical master.

THE GOLD-MINERS OF BRITISH COLUMBIA.

They come not from the sunny, sunny south, Nor from the Arctic region, Nor from the east, the busy, busy east, The where man's name is legion; But they come from the west, the rugged, rugged west, From the world's remotest edges; 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!