Mark you yon planet gleaming clear With steadfast, gentle light, See, heavy dark clouds hovering near, Have veiled its radiance bright-- As you vainly search that gloomy spot, You'll look for me and find me not!

Turn now to yonder sparkling stream, Where silver ripples play; Dancing within the moon's pale beam-- Ah! short will be their stay, They break and die upon the sh.o.r.e-- Like them I soon shall be no more!

Yes! emblems meet of my career, Are ripple, cloud, and flower; Fated like me to linger here, But for a brief, bright hour-- And then, alas! to yield my place; And leave, perchance, on earth no trace!

No trace, my friends, save in your hearts, That pure and sacred shrine-- Where, 'spite life's thousand cares and arts, A place shall yet be mine; And love as deep as that of yore-- Though on this earth we meet no more!

ALAIN'S CHOICE.

By the side of a silvery streamlet, That flowed through meadows green, Lay a youth on the verge of manhood And a boy of fair sixteen; And the elder spake of the future, That bright before them lay, With its hopes full of golden promise For some sure, distant day.

And he vowed, as his dark eye kindled, He would climb the heights of fame, And conquer with mind or weapon A proud, undying name.

On the darling theme long dwelling Bright fabrics did he build, Which the hope in his ardent bosom With splendor helped to gild.

At length he paused, then questioned: "Brother, thou dost not speak; In the vague bright page of the future To read dost thou never seek?"

Then the other smiled and answered, "Of that am I thinking now, And the crown which I too am striving To win my ambitious brow."

"What!--a crown? Thou hast spirit, brother; Say, of laurels will it be?

Thy choice, the life of a soldier, Undaunted--joyous--free.

Though by wind and sun undarkened Is thy blooming, boyish face, To thy choice thou'lt do all honor, For 'tis worthy of thy race!

"Am I wrong? Well, 'tis more likely, With thy love of ancient lore, Thou would'st choose the scholar's garland, Not laurels wet with gore; I'll not chide--'tis surely n.o.ble, By mere simple might of pen, To rule with master power The minds of thy fellow-men."

But still shook his head the younger: "What! unguessed thy secret yet?

Ha! I know now what thou seekest To deck thy curls of jet: Bright buds!" and he, laughing, scattered Blossoms on brow and cheek, "Pleasure's wreath of smiting flowers Is the crown that thou dost seek."

"Not so--of all, that were vainest!

'Tis a crown immortal--rare-- Here on earth I must strive to win it, But, brother, I'll wear it _there!_"

And he raised to the blue sky o'er him Eyes filled with tender thought,-- Who shall doubt that to him was given The glorious crown he sought?

THE FINAL RECKONING.

'Twas a wild and stormy sunset, changing tints of lurid red Flooded mountain top and valley and the low clouds overhead; And the rays streamed through the windows of a building stately, high, Whose wealthy, high-born master had lain him down to die.

Many friends were thronging round him, breathing aching, heavy sighs-- Men with pale and awe-struck faces, women, too, with weeping eyes, Watching breathless, silent, grieving him whose sands were nearly run, When, with sudden start, he muttered: "G.o.d! how much I've left undone!"

Then out spoke an aged listener, with broad brow and locks of snow, "Patriot, faithful to thy country and her welfare, say not so, For the long years thou hast served her thou hast only honor won."

But, from side to side still tossing, still he muttered: "Much undone!"

Then the wife, with moan of anguish, like complaint of stricken dove, Murmured: "Husband, truer, fonder, never blessed a woman's love, And a just and tender father both to daughter and to son"-- But more feebly moaned he ever: "Oh! there's much, there's much undone!"

Quickly, then, a proud, stern soldier questioned: "Say, will not thy name Long descend in future story, linked with honor and with fame, For thine arm was prompt in battle and thy laurels n.o.bly won; Patriot, citizen and soldier, what, then, is there left undone?"

Then the dying man upraised him; at his accents loud and clear Into silence men lapsed quickly--women checked each sob and tear; And he said: "To fame, home, country, all my heart, my thoughts I've given, But, Oh dreamers, can you tell me what I've done for G.o.d--for Heaven?

"It was not for Him I battled with the sword or with the pen, Not for His praise that I thirsted, but that of my fellow-men; And amid the light now flooding this my life's last setting sun, I can see, misguided worldling! that there's much I've left undone."

Thicker, darker, fell the shadows, fainter grew his flutt'ring breath Then a strange and solemn stillness, 'twas the awful hush of death: Hope we that a tender Saviour, unto gentle pity won, Judged that dying man with mercy, whatsoe'er he left undone!

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE G. C. OF MONTREAL.

The earth was flooded in the amber haze That renders so lovely our autumn days, The dying leaves softly fluttered down, Bright crimson and orange and golden brown, And the hush of autumn, solemn and still, Brooded o'er valley, plain and hill.

Yet still from that scene with rare beauty rife And the touching sweetness of fading life, From glowing foliage and sun bright ray, My gaze soon mournfully turned away To rest, instead, on a new made grave, Enshrouding a heart true, loyal and brave.

At rest for aye! Cold and pulseless now That high throbbing breast and calm, earnest brow; Laid down forever the quick, gifted pen That toiled but for G.o.d and his fellow men; Silent that voice, free from hatred or ruth, Yet e'er boldly raised in the cause of truth.

For the prize of _our faith_ grateful he proved, Breaking from ties and from scenes once loved, From rank and fortune, and the lures of pride, That tempt the gifted on every side, To devote his genius--his pen of fire-- To aims more holy and themes far higher.

He was true to the land he had made his home, And true to the grand old faith of Rome, At whose feet he laid powers rarer than gold, As knights laid their lances and shields of old,-- That Church on whose loving maternal breast He peacefully sank to eternal rest.

Oh! no tears for him who pa.s.sed away Ere frame or spirit knew touch of decay, Ere time had deadened one feeling warm, Or his genius robbed of one single charm.

As he was when death struck, his image shall dwell In the countless hearts that loved him so well.

ON SOME ROSE LEAVES BROUGHT FROM THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

Faded and pale their beauty, vanished their early bloom, Their folded leaves emit alone a sweet though faint perfume, But, oh! than brightest bud or flower to me are they more dear, They come from that rose-haunted land, the bright Vale of Cashmere.

Cashmere! a spell is in that name! what dreams its sound awakes Of roses sweet as Eden's flowers, of minarets and lakes, Of scenes as vaguely, strangely bright as those of fairy land, Springing to life and loveliness 'neath some enchanter's wand!

Cashmere! poetic in its name, its clear and brilliant skies That seem to clothe earth, flower and wave in their own lovely dyes; Poetic in its legend lore, and spell more dear than all, Enshrined in poet's inmost heart, the home of "Nourmahal."*

Yes, there oft fell her fairy feet, there shone the glances bright, That won for her the glorious name of harem's queen and light; There, as she wandered 'mid its bowers, her royal love beside, She taught him to forget all else save her, his beauteous, bride.

Cashmere! what would this heart not give to see thy favored earth, So rich in nature's peerless gifts, in beauty's dazzling worth, Rich in a name that in mine ear from childhood's hour hath rung, The land of which impa.s.sioned Moore with such sweet power hath sung.

Yet, were I there, oh! well I know the time would surely come When my yearning heart would turn again to my far Canadian home, Longing to look once more upon its wintry wastes of snow, And the friends whose hearts throb like mine own, with friendship's changeless glow.

[* The heroine of Moore's beautiful poem The Light of the Harem.]