But, hark! on high sound the Christmas bells, Of hope to that mourner their chiming tells, Of the sinless hours of childhood pure, Of a G.o.d who came all griefs to cure; And, leaving, he prayed: "O my Father and Friend, Grant me strength to be faithful to the end!"

OUR MOUNTAIN CEMETERY.

Lonely and silent and calm it lies 'Neath rosy dawn or midnight skies; So densely peopled, yet so still, The murmuring voice of mountain rill, The plaint the wind 'mid branches wakes, Alone the solemn silence breaks.

Whatever changes the seasons bring,-- The birds, the buds of joyous spring, The glories that come with the falling year The snows and storms of winter drear,-- Are all unmarked in this lone spot, Its shrouded inmates feel them not.

Thoughts full of import, earnest and deep, Must the feeling heart in their spirit steep, Here, where Death's footprints meet the sight: The long chill rows of tombstones white, The graves so thickly, widely spread, Within this city of the Dead.

Say, who could tell what aching sighs, What tears from heavy, grief-dimmed eyes, Have here been shed in silent woe, Mourning the cold, still form below; Or o'er past harshness, coldness, hate, Grieving, alas! too late--too late!

Oh, man, vain dreamer of this life, Seeking 'mid restless toil and strife For wealth, for happiness, for fame, Thirsting to make thyself a name, See, unto what thy course doth tend, Of all thy toils--there is the end.

Woman, of grace or beauty proud, Seeking alone gay fashion's crowd,-- Thine aim, admiring looks to win, E'en at the price of folly or sin, That beauty now to thee so dear, Would'st thou know its fate? Look around thee, here.

But not alone such lessons stern May we within the grave-yard learn: 'Tis here the servant wise and good, Who loyal to his trust hath stood, Will joyously at length lay down The heavy cross to receive the crown.

And hope, sweet messenger of G.o.d, Poised lightly 'bove the charnel sod, With upturned brow and radiant eyes, Pointing unto the distant skies, Whispers: "Oh, weary child of care, Look up! thy heavenly home is there!"

MONUMENT TO IRISH EMIGRANTS.

It will be in the recollection of many of our readers that during the famine years of 1847 and 1848 there was an unusual emigration from Ireland to Canada and the United States. Numbers of those who thus left their native land expired from ship fever, caused by utter exhaustion, before they reached the American continent; others only arrived there to die of that fatal disease. The Canadian Government made extensive efforts to save the lives of the poor emigrants. A large proportion were spared, but at Montreal, where the Government erected temporary hospitals, on an immense scale, upwards of 6000 of these poor people died. Their remains were interred close to the hospitals, at a place that is now mainly covered with railway buildings, and in close proximity to the point whence the Victoria Bridge projects into the St. Lawrence. All traces of the sad events of that disastrous period would have been obliterated but for the warm and reverential impulses of Mr. James Hodges, the engineer and representative of Messrs. Peto, Bra.s.sey & Betts in Canada. Through his instrumentality, and by his encouragement, the workmen at the bridge came to the determination of erecting a monument on the spot where the poor Irish emigrants were interred. An enormous granite boulder, of a rough conical shape, weighing 30 tons, was dug up in the vicinity, and was placed on a base of cut stone masonry, twelve feet square by six feet high. The stone bears the following inscription: "To preserve from desecration the remains of 6000 emigrants who died from ship fever in 1847 and 1848 this monument is erected by workmen in the employment of Messrs. Peto, Bra.s.sey, & Betts, engaged in the construction of the Victoria Bridge, 1859."

Several addresses were delivered on the occasion, and in the course of that made by the Bishop of Montreal he alluded in feeling terms to the many good deeds for which the Dame of his friend, Mr. James Hodges, will be gratefully remembered in Canada. Thanks to the latter, the plot of ground on which the monument is raised is set apart for ever, so that the remains of those interred there will henceforth be sacred from any irreverent treatment.

THE EMIGRANTS' MONUMENT AT POINT ST. CHARLES.

A kindly thought, a generous deed, Ye gallant sons of toil!

No n.o.bler trophy could ye raise On your adopted soil Than this monument to your kindred dead, Who sleep beneath in their cold, dark bed.

Like you they left their fatherland, And crossed th' Atlantic's foam To seek for themselves a new career, And win another home; But, alas for hearts that had beat so high!

They reached the goal, but only to die.

Let no rich worldling dare to say: "For them why should we grieve?

But paupers--came they to our sh.o.r.es, Want, sickness, death to leave?"

Each active arm, jail of power and health, And each honest heart was a mine of wealth.

'Twas a mournful end to day-dreams high, A sad and fearful doom-- To exchange their fever-stricken ships For the loathsome typhus tomb; And, ere they had smiled at Canada's sky, On this stranger land breathe their dying sigh.

The strong man in the prime of life, Struck down in one short hour, The loving wife, the rose-cheeked girl, Fairer than opening flower, The ardent youth, with fond hopes elate,-- O'ertaken all by one common fate.

Long since forgotten--here they rest, Sons of a distant land,-- The epochs of their short career Mere footprints on life's sand; But this stone will tell through many a year, They died on our sh.o.r.es, and they slumber here.

LOOKING FORWARD.

How busily those little fingers soft That within mine own are clasped so oft Have been, throughout this bright summer day, With pebbles and sh.e.l.ls and leaves at play.

They have sought birds' nests, plucked many a flower, Have decked with mosses the garden bower, Built tiny boats, without helm to steer, Yet floated them safe o'er the lakelet clear.

Ah! a time will come, and that ere long, When those soft hands will grow firm and strong; When they'll fling all boyish toys aside In the dawning strength of manhood's pride; Disdaining the prizes, the treasures gay, That they seize with such eager haste to-day; And parting with youth's joys, hopes and fears, Seek to grasp the aims of manhood's years.

Be it, then, thy care, my gentle boy, That new-born strength to well employ; Thine hand to raise in defence of right, To protect the weak 'gainst unjust might; Or in steadfast toil to spend its power, That toil--our birthright, our earthly dower-- A G.o.d-given law from which none are free, Whether of lofty or low degree.

And that childish voice, so sweet and clear, That like music falls on my charmed ear, Waking the echoes with laugh and song, 'Mid wood and field through the hours long; Mocking the warbling bird in yon tree, Or lisping thy prayers beside my knee, When thy voice shall thrill with a deeper tone, Say, how wilt thou use it, my child, my own?

To defend the cause of each sacred truth Thou hast learned to prize in thy early youth, In kindly word to the sad, the poor, To those whose cross is hard to endure; Wilt thou raise it in telling thy Maker's praise, In winning souls to His love and ways?

But never in proud or unholy strife, Or in words with wrong to a brother rife.

And thy guileless heart whose truth, my boy, Is to me a source of the purest joy, In whose sinless depths I can plainly see, That as yet from all thought of ill 'tis free; When manhood's down shall have clothed thy cheek, When pleasure shall tempt and pa.s.sion speak, When beset by snares that have others beguiled, Ah! what wilt thou do with thy heart, my child?

Guard it as treasure of price untold, In value beyond earth's gems and gold, Guard it from breath, from shadow, of sin-- No tempter must foothold gain therein.

Let love of thy G.o.d and love of thy kind, Like tendrils around it closely wind; Blending those feelings of purest worth With love for Canada, land of thy birth.

If my prayer be answered, with tranquil breast I shall go content to my final rest, When death's icy finger has touched the brow That bends above thee so fondly now: Till then, I will daily ask of Heaven That, in manhood, it may to thee be given To devote thy voice, thy heart and thy hand, To G.o.d, thy kind, and thy native land.

THE HURON CHIEF'S DAUGHTER.

The dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre, The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their vengeful ire.

It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude, To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood.

Yet 'mid those guilt-stained men could any vile enough be found To harm the victim who there stood, in helpless thraldom bound?

A girl of slight and fragile form, of gentle child-like grace, Though woman's earnest thoughtfulness beamed in that sweet young face.

Oh! lovely was that winsome child of a dark and rugged line, And e'en mid Europe's daughters fair, surpa.s.sing might she shine: For ne'er had coral lips been wreathed by brighter, sunnier smile, Or dark eyes beamed with l.u.s.trous light, more full of winsome wile.

With glowing cheek and curving lip, she stood, in silent pride, A queen in simple majesty, though captive bound and tied, Nor could that sight of death, though fit to turn a strong heart weak, Chase back the deep scorn from her brow, the color from her cheek.

And, yet, it was not wonderful, that haughty, high-born grace, She stood amid her direst foes, a Princess of her race; Knowing they'd met to wreak on her their hatred 'gainst her name, To doom her to a fearful death, to pangs of fire and flame.

But, mindful of the teachings stern of childhood's early years, She had firmly vowed no plaints of hers, or womanish weak tears Would glad her foes but, as became her rank and lineage high, That she would, like a Huron maid, n.o.bly and bravely die.