Vain transient World, what charms are thine?

And what do mortals in thee see, That they should worship at thy shrine, And sacrifice their all to thee?

Thy brightest gifts, thy happiest hours Fly past on pinions of the wind; They fade like blooms upon the flowers, And leave a painful want behind.

Thou art a road, though not of s.p.a.ce, Which rich and poor alike must tread; Thy starting point we cannot trace, Thine end--the country of the dead.

A pathway paved with want and woe, With pleasures painful, incomplete; Like stones upon the way below, Which wound the weary pilgrim's feet.

Thou'rt hedged with visions of despair, With words of hate, with looks of scorn; Like wayside thorns which pierce and tear The fainting traveller weak and worn.

Relentless odium's bitter ill, Cold disregard thy ways infest; Like wintry blasts that chill and kill The very heart within the breast.

Fragment of a Hymn.

G.o.d of mercy without measure!

G.o.d of all-embracing love!

Show'ring in Thy gracious pleasure Countless blessings from above; Bounteous benefits bestowing In a kind, continuous course, Favour from Thee ever flowing, As a stream from ocean source.

Grateful praise my aspiration; Pardon my presumptuous pen; And accept my poor oblation, And forgive its feeble strain; Thou to whom such praise is given, Too divine for mortal ears, In the angel choirs of heaven And the music of the spheres.

Prayer for Submission.

How often, Lord, when 'tis Thy will To use the chastening rod, My soul, possessed of pa.s.sions ill, Rebels against its G.o.d!

Denies that Justice reigns in heaven, Doth His decrees pervade; And loathes the blessings He hath given, The creatures He hath made!

Do thou the spirit me instil Of sweet submission, Lord, And teach me to Thy sovereign will In meekness to accord; Like Him who felt affliction's fire, But never did repine; And bore the cross at Thy desire, When harder far than mine.

Enough, it is my King's command!

What more do I require?

Yet what is from a father's hand Can but to good conspire.

And all Thy workings are inwove In Thine eternal plan, Which wills the welfare in Thy love, And works the weal of man.

Sonnet to ------.

Journeying through a desert, waste and drear, Exhausted and disheartened by his way, So hard and parched, unchanged from day to day, Saw the lone traveller an oasis near, In which a tender flower did appear, Endued with beauty and with fragrance sweet, Known not to scorching winds nor blighting heat; And gazing on it, it imparted cheer.

The traveller trod the weary sands of Time, Entering thy home delightful peace he found; Radiant with youthful beauty half divine, On him thine angel face with sunbeams crowned Smiled, and that artless, beaming smile of thine Sped to his soul that with new life did bound.

The Song of the Summer Cloud.

I am arrayed in light and shade, A free-born spirit of air; A fanciful theme like a twilight dream, Or a maiden young and fair.

And now I float like a phantom boat With a vague and varying hue, Fading from sight in the beams of light On an ocean clear and blue.

And now I am wooed by the wind so rude, As he rushes in fury past, Who his bride doth crown with a darkening frown As I ride in the car of the blast.

And down I pour 'mid the thunder's roar While the lightnings gleam and glare, Till the floods resound as they burst their bound And laugh at what man can dare.

And now he is flown and has left me alone To brood in bereavement and woe, And I hang like a pall while the rain-drops fall Like tear-drops steady and slow.

But again he returns when my gloom he discerns, And subdues his dark spirit of storms; And the shower descends while the rainbow blends And the sunshine brightens and warms.

Montreal.

(Written in Winter.)

All clad in rich hiemal robes By blasts of Boreas plied, The sovereign City of the North Sits in majestic pride; Beside St. Lawrence' n.o.ble stream, Hard by his hidden tide, She sits, and rears her head aloft Upon Mount Royal's side.

A crown she wears of richest gems, Of purest crystal bright, That sparkle like a maiden's eyes Which dazzle with delight; Not gems that glitter best beneath The courtly lamps by night; But those whose brilliancy appears By morning's purer light.

Her sceptre is not mineral Up-gathered from the dust, Nor gold, nor silver, long profaned By man's accursed l.u.s.t, Nor substance base enough to feel The vitiating rust, But is a crystalled branch of oak Just riven by the gust.

"I sit a queen," she proudly says, "From the Atlantic Main To where the Rockies to the sky Their s.h.a.ggy summits strain, From where St. Lawrence speeds along The ocean wave to gain To where in darkness sleeps the heaven, Unwaked by Phoebus' wain."

The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.

NOTE.--The following is an attempt to render in verse the pa.s.sionate words of a young officer in the Indian service, who had fallen a prey to the ravages of the fever.

The fever burns from morn till eve; I toss upon my bed; And none but heavy hands relieve My aching, heated head.

Harsh voices of hard-hearted men Attempt to sympathize; But sympathy is worthless when Love gives it not its rise.

Could thy soft hand but soothe my brain, Thy voice to mine reply, 'Twere rapture then to toss in pain, 'Twere rapture e'en--to die!

Oh! the Sickening Sensation!

Oh! the sickening sensation!-- Oh! the burning agitation In my soul!

Oh! the awful desolation Of my soul!