INTRODUCTION.

In presenting this little book to her readers, the author is giving back to them in a collected form much that has previously been given them—anonymously, or under the nom-de-plume, first, of "Emillia," then of "Xenette," or, finally, under her true name either as Miss Vining or Mrs. Yule—and also, much that they have never before seen.

Some of these poems have been widely circulated, not only in Canada, but in the United States and Great Britain; and some appear for the first time in the pages of this book. They are offered solely upon their merits; and upon those alone they must stand or fall. Whatever there is in them calculated to stir the heart of our common Humanity,—to voice forth its joys or its sorrows,—to truly interpret its emotions,—or to give utterance to its aspirations and its hopes, will live; that which does not thus speak for Humanity, has no right to live; and the sooner it finds a merited oblivion the better for its author and the world.

These poems are essentially Canadian. They have nearly all been written on Canadian soil;-their themes and incidents—those that are not purely imaginary or suggested by current events in other countries—are almost wholly Canadian; and they are mainly the outgrowth of many and varied experiences in Canadian life.

To the author, there is hardly one that has not its little, local history, and that does not awaken reminiscences of some quiet Canadian home,—some rustic Canadian school-house,—some dreamy hour in the beautiful Canadian forests,—some morning or evening walk amidst Canadian scenery,—or some pleasant sail over Canadian waters.

They have been written under widely different circumstances; and, in great part, in brief intervals snatched from the arduous duties of teaching, or the more arduous ones of domestic life.

Of the personal experiences traceable through many of them, it is not necessary to speak. We read in God's word that "He fashioneth their hearts alike;" therefore there is little to be found in any human experience, that has not its counterpart, in some sort, in every other, and he alone is the true Poet who can so interpret his own, that they will be recognized as, in some sense, the real, or possible experiences of all.

Trusting that these unpretending lyrics may be able thus to touch a responsive chord in many hearts, and with a sincere desire to offer a worthy contribution to the literature of our new and prosperous country, they are respectfully submitted to the public by the AUTHOR

INGERSOLL, ONT., Aug., 1881.

CONTENTS

Yes the weary Earth shall brighten

To a Day Lily

Living and Dying

Up the Nepigon

Look Up

Frost Flowers

The Beech nut Gatherer

Memory Bells

I will not Despair

God's Witnesses

The Assembly of the Dead

Be Still

Littlewit and Loftus

To a Motherless Babe

The Caged Bird's Song

Crossing the Red Sea

The Wayside Elm

Drowned

My Brother James and I

Idle

The World's Day

Brethren, Go!

Our Nation's Birthday

Our Field is the World

Sault Ste Marie

Brother, Rest

Loved and Lost, or the Sky Lark and the Violet

The Gracious Provider

Rest in Heaven

Good Night

The Old Church Choir

No other Name

Heart Pictures

Fellowship with Christ

An Allegory

The Cry of the Karens

Alone

Mary

'I am doing no good'

Hail, Risen Lord

Lines on the Death of a Young Mother

Patience

A Parting Hymn

The Dance of the Winds

Strike the Chords Softly

At Home

Sabbath Memories

The Eye that Never Sleeps

By and By

The One Refuge

Judson's Grave

"Shall be Free"

After Fifty Years

The Earth voice and its Answer

Beyond the Shadows

Autumn and Winter

Till To-morrow

Our Country, or, A Century of Progress

Jesus, the Soul's Rest

The Beautiful Artist

"Let us Pray"

Rich and Poor

Palmer

Balmy Morning

Song

The Ploughman

'He hath done all things we!'

Somewhere

The Tide

Eloise

Abraham Lincoln

God's Blessings

The Silent Messenger

Under the Snow

Longings

Point of Bliss

Away to the Hills

Flowers by a Grave

Three for Three

Now

Sunset

Sweet Evening Bells

Unknown

Onward

Looking Back

Minniebel

Weary

The Body to the Soul

Not Yet

Marguerite

Come unto Me

"I will not let thee go"

Greeting Hymn

One by One

Love

Evening Hymn

Death

I shall be satisfied

At the Grave of a Young Mother

Go, Dream no More

Come Home

Be in Earnest

Chlodine

The Bird and the Storm cloud

No Solitude

The Stray Lamb

Stay, Mother, Stay

Time for Bed

From the Old to the New

The Voice of Spring

Honour to Labor

The Miser

Broken

To our Parents

Under the Rod

The White Stone Canoe

Gone Before

Johanna

Stanzas

Canada

I laid me down and slept

Bright Thoughts for a Dark Day

The Drunkard's Child

The Names of Jesus

YES, THE WEARY EARTH SHALL BRIGHTEN.

Yes, the weary earth shall brighten— Brighten in the perfect day, And the fields that now but whiten, Golden glow beneath the ray! Slowly swelling in her bosom, Long the precious seed has lain,— Soon shall come the perfect blossom, Soon, the rich, abundant grain!

Long has been the night of weeping, But the morning dawns at length, And, the misty heights o'ersweeping, Lo, the sun comes forth in strength! Down the slopes of ancient mountains, Over plain, and vale, and stream, Flood, and field, and sparkling fountains, Speeds the warm rejoicing beam!

Think not God can fail His promise! Think not Christ can be denied! He shall see His spirit's travail— He shall yet be satisfied! Soon the "Harvest home" of angels Shall resound from shore to shore, And amid Earth's glad evangels, Christ shall reign for evermore!

TO A DAY LILY

What! only to stay For a single day? Thou beautiful, bright hued on Just to open thine eyes To the blue of the skies And the light of the glorious sun, Then, to fade away In the same rich ray, And die ere the day is done?

Bright thing of a day Thou hast caught a ray From Morn's jewelled curtain fold On thy burning cheek, And the ruby streak His dyed it with charms untold— And the gorgeous vest On thy queenly breast, Is dashed with her choicest gold.

A statelier queen Has never been seen, A lovelier never will be!— Nay, Solomon, dressed In his kingliest best, Was never a match for thee, O beautiful flower, O joy of an hour— And only an hour—for me!

An hour, did I say? Nay, loveliest, nay, Not thus shall I part with thee, But with subtle skill I shall keep thee still, Fadeless and fresh with me:— Through toil and duty, "A thing of beauty Forever" my own to be'

As with drooping head Amid thorns I tread, I shall see thee unfold anew, In the desert's dust, Where journey I must, Thy beautiful form shall view, And visions of Home O'er my spirit will come, As thro' tear-drops I gaze on you'

LIVING AND DYING.

Living for Christ, I die;—how strange, that I, Thus dying, live,—and yet, thus living, die! Living for Christ, I die;-yet wondrous thought, In that same death a deathless life is wrought;— Living, I die to Earth, to self, to sin;— Oh, blessed death, in which such life I win!

Dying for Christ, I live!—death cannot be A terror, then, to one from death set free' Living for Christ, rich blessings I attain, Yet, dying for Him, mine is greater gain Life for my Lord, is death to sin and strife, Yet death for Him is everlasting life!

Dying for Christ, I live!—and yet, not I, But He lives in me, who did for me die. I die to live,—He lives to die no more, Who, in His death my own death-sentence bore "To live is Christ," if Christ within me reign, To die more blessed, since "to die is gain!"

UP THE NEPIGON.

How beautiful, how beautiful, Beneath the morning sky, In bridal veil of snowy mist, These dreamy headlands lie! How beautiful, in soft repose, Upon the water's breast, Steeped in the sunlight's golden calm, These fairy islets rest!

A Sabbath hush enfolds the hills, And broods upon the deep Whose music every hollow fills, And climbs each rocky steep, Now low and soft like love's own sigh, Now faint and far away, Now plaining to the answering pines, With melancholy lay.

Like white-winged birds, through azure depths, Above the restless tide, With snowy plume and golden crest, The fleecy cloudlets glide; Their dancing shadows fleck the deep, Or flit above the green Of emerald islands fast asleep 'Neath tranquil skies serene.

I watch the sunshine and the shade, The sparkle and the gleam, Till past and present seem to fade, And life becomes a dream— A fairy, fancy-tinted dream, A sun-bright; summer rest, In which I glide through shade and gleam Past islands of the blest

How beautiful! "How beautiful!" The quiet hills reply, And each responsive cliff gives back Its answer to the sky;— "How beautiful!" the waves repeat, And every cloudlet smiles, And writes its answer on the green Of countless summer isles.

'Tis past—this first, last, only look!— And now, away, away, To bear alone in Memory's book The sunshine of to-day; Yet oft, 'neath other skies than these, With other scenes in view, O isles of beauty, sunny seas, I shall remember you!

LOOK UP

Christian, lookup? thy feet may slide; This is a slippery way! Yet One is walking by thy side Whose arm should be thy stay, Thou canst not see that blessed form, Nor view that loving smile With eager eyes thus earthward bent— Christian, look up a while!

Christian, look up!—what seest thou here To court thy anxious eyes? Earth is beneath thee, lone and drear, Above, thy native skies! Beneath, the wreck of faded bloom, The shadow, and the clod, The broken reed, the open tomb,— Above thee, is THY GOD!

Look up! thy head too long has been Bowed darkly toward the earth, Thou son of a most Royal Sire, Creature of kingly birth! What! dragging like a very slave Earth's heavy galling chain,— And struggling onward to the grave In weariness and pain?

What wouldst thou with this world?—thy home, Thy country is not here, 'Mid faded flowers, and perished bloom, And shadows dense and drear!— Thy home is where the tree of Life Waves high its fruitage blest, 'Mid bowers with fadeless beauties rife,— Look up, and claim thy rest!

FROST-FLOWERS.

Over my window in pencillings white, Stealthily traced in the silence of night— Traced with a pencil as viewless as air, By an artist unseen, when the star-beams were fair, Came wonderful pictures, so life-like and true That I'm filled with amaze as the marvel I view.

Like, and yet unlike the things I have seen,— Feathery ferns in the forest-depths green, Delicate mosses that hide from the light, Snow-drops, and lilies, and hyacinths white, Fringes, and feathers, and half-opened flowers, Closely-twined branches of dim, cedar bowers— Strange, that one hand should so deftly combine Such numberless charms in so quaint a design!

O wondrous creations of silence and night! I watch as ye fade in the clear morning light,— As ye melt into tear-drops and trickle away From the keen, searching eyes of inquisitive Day. While I gaze ye are gone, and I see you depart With a wistful regret lying deep in my heart,— A longing for something that will not decay, Or melt like these frost-flowers in tear-drops away,— A passionate yearning of heart for that shore Where beauty unfading shall last evermore; Nor, e'en as we gaze, from our vision be lost Like the beautiful things that are pencilled in frost!

THE BEECH-NUT GATHERER.

All over the earth like a mantle, Golden, and green, and grey, Crimson, and scarlet, and yellow, The Autumn foliage lay;— The sun of the Indian Summer Laughed at the bare old trees As they shook their leafless branches In the soft October breeze.

Gorgeous was every hill-side, And gorgeous every nook, And the dry, old log was gorgeous, Spanning the little brook; Its holiday robes, the forest Had suddenly cast to earth, And, as yet, seemed scarce to miss, them, In its plenitude of mirth.

I walked where the leaves the softest, The brightest, and goldenest lay, And I thought of a forest hill-side, And an Indian Summer day,— Of an eager, little child-face O'er the fallen leaves that bent, As she gathered her cup of beech nuts, With innocent content.

I thought of the small, brown fingers Gleaning them one by one, With the partridge drumming near her In the forest bare and dun, And the jet-black squirrel, winking His saucy, jealous eye At those tiny, pilfering fingers, From his sly nook up on high

Ah, barefooted little maiden With thy bonnetless, sun-burnt brow, Thou glean'st no more on the hill-side— Where art thou gleaning now? I knew by the lifted glances Of thy dark, imperious eye, That the tall trees bending o'er thee Would not shelter thee by and by.

The cottage by the brookside, With its mossy roof is gone;— The cattle have left the uplands, The young lambs left the lawn;— Gone are thy blue-eyed sister, And thy brother's laughing brow; And the beech-nuts He ungathered On the lonely hill-side now.

What have the returning seasons Brought to thy heart since then, In thy long and weary wand'rings In the paths of busy men?— Has the Angel of grief, or of gladness, Set his seal upon thy brow? Maiden, joyous or tearful, Where art thou gleaning now?

MEMORY-BELLS.

Up from the spirit-depths ringing, Softly your melody swells, Sweet as a seraphim's singing, Tender-toned memory-bells! The laughter of childhood, The song of the wildwood, The tinkle of streams through the echoing dell, The voice of a mother, The shout of a brother. Up from life's morning melodiously swell.

Up from the spirit-depths ringing Richly your melody swells, Sweet reminiscences bringing, Joyous-toned memory-bells!— Youth's beautiful bowers, Her dew-spangled flowers, The pictures which Hope of futurity drew,— Love's rapturous vision Of regions Elysian, In glowing perspective unfolding to view.

Up from the spirit-depths ringing, Sadly your melody swells, Tears with its mournful tones bringing, Sorrowful memory-bells! The first heart-link broken, The first farewell spoken, The first flow'ret crushed in life's desolate track,— The agonized yearning O'er joys unreturning, All, all with your low, wailing music come back.

Up from the spirit-depths ringing. Dirge-like your melody swells; But Hope wipes the tears that are springing, Mournful-toned memory-bells! Above your deep knelling Her soft voice is swelling, Sweeter than angel-tones, silvery clear, Singing:—in Heaven above, All is unchanging love, Mourner, look upward, thy home is not here!