Verses and Rhymes By the Way Part 15

And far more glorious is the flag Which o'er the Briton waves, Than that whose stars of freedom s.h.i.+ne Upon the stripes of slaves.

We love our Queen--we love our laws; We feel that we are free-- As independently we sit, Each 'neath his maple tree.

Serene, while over other lands Rolls revolution's storm, Where they can't speak their grievances-- Dare not demand reform.

We can, as freeborn subjects, make Our wants and wishes known-- Our voices move the parliament And vibrate to the throne.

We're Britons and as such we'll not For annexation sue.

Our prayer is still, G.o.d save the Queen And bless our country too.

1850.

TO MY FRIEND.

Dearest of all, whose tenderness could rise To share all sorrow and to soothe all pain; The blessings breathed for thee with weeping eyes Will come to thee as suns.h.i.+ne after rain.

My spirit clings to thine, dear, in this hour; Thy sorrow touches me as though 'twere mine; And pleading prayers for thee shall have the power To draw down comfort from my Lord and thine.

For thou hast felt the sorrow and the care Of other lives, as though they were thine own; And grateful prayers, for a memorial are Laid up for thee before the great white throne.

You sit bereaved, and I sit with you there In sympathy, my soul and yours can meet; Missing the face that was so very fair, Missing the voice that was so very sweet.

I know how hard to bear heart-hunger is For her quaint words and bits of bird-like song; The touch of dimpled hands, the soft warm kiss, O Friend, it makes the "little while" so long!

Take comfort, dear, the "little while" is brief, It is His love sends pain to thee or me, We gather fruit of peace from blossomed grief And where our treasure is our hearts shall be

'Tis good to suffer, as He knows whose hand Mixes the bitterness for every cup, No grief befals but love divine has planned, Every bereavement cries to us, look up

Dearest, look up, and see where, sweet and fair, Flow the bright waters ruffled by no storm, Under the trees whose leaves for healing are, See 'mid the blessed throng one angel form

The tired pet, who wanted to go home, The Elder Brother drew her to his breast, Earth weariness earth soil alike unknown, Crowned without conflict, bore her into rest

Among the s.h.i.+ning ones she walks my friend, Robed in the garments of her Fatherland, And your earth-weary feet shall upward tend, Drawn by the beck of that dear pierced hand

Who in his arms enfolds your little one, And calls you, "Come up higher where we are, For with the well belov'd the child is gone, Follow and faint not, friend, it is not far

"The little one for whom your fond heart bleeds, The dear, dear lamb who sees her Father's face, Up to the great white throne the rough path leads, Where Christ shall fold you both in one embrace"

LITTLE MINNIE.

Is it well with the child? and she answered, it is well.

If earth's weariness for rest is changed, Rest on the far off sh.o.r.e, If earth's sighing's changed for singing Psalms of praise for evermore.

And the bed of pain for roaming free, Beneath the living trees, Whose leaves of healing wither not In any earthly breeze.

And to mix with those who, robed and crowned, Walk by the crystal sea; To gather with the other lambs Beside the Saviour's knee.

We will keenly miss our absent child; Lonely tears our loss will tell, But His voice says, "It is well with her, We answer, "It is well."

It is well to know that safely home Is this our dearest one; To know she's with the children fair Gathered around the throne,

'Tis no light thing that G.o.d has stooped Our dear one home to bring, From weariness and painfulness To the presence of the King.

Let weeping and rejoicing, Mingled, our sorrow tell; We are lonely, oh our Father But Thou knowest it is well.

TEc.u.mTHE.

(From the "Globe.")

October's leaf was sere; The day was dark and drear.

Wild war was loosed in rage o'er our quiet country then; When at Moravian town, Where the little Thames flows down, In the net of battle caught was Proctor and his men.

Caught in an evil plight, When he'd rather march than fight, Every bit of British pluck and resolution gone.

And sternly standing near, As a British brigadier, Stood Tec.u.mthe, our ally, the forests' bravest son.

A prince, a leader born, His dark eye flashed with scorn, He said: "My father, listen, there's rumours from afar, Of mishaps, and mistakes, Of disasters on the lakes, My father need not hide the mischances of the war.

"My braves have set their feet, Where two great rivers meet; We went upon the war-path; we raised the battle-song; We met in deadly fight, The Yengees in their might, Till the waters of the Wabash dyed crimson flowed along.

"They ask us, in their pride, To idly stand aside, To be false to our allies, and neutral in this war; They think that Indian men Will never think again Of wrongs by Yengee spoilers, how false their treaties are.

"Allies both firm and true, For our Father's sake to you, Our Great Father round whose throne the mighty waters meet; When din of battle's high, Only coward curs will fly; It is not Shawnee braves show foes their flying feet,"

"This is insolence to me,"

Said Proctor bitterly.

"But a paltry leader," said the brave red-skinned ally "We stand in hopeless fray, To meet defeat today; A shadow falls around me, my fate is drawing nigh."

High-hearted Indian chief No thought of fear or grief Stilled the swellings of his heart, tamed the lightning of his glance Without lords.h.i.+p, without land, "Lord alone of his right hand,"

Of a heart that never beat retreat when duty said advance.

He had looked on battle oft, Now his eagle glance grew soft, And who can tell what sights his prophetic vision saw Events were drawing near, And he was a mighty seer, Even greater than the prophet, the grim Elskwatawa.

For, in a waking dream, He saw forest, vale and stream, Which, by force or fraud, the white race wrung from doomed red men.

"Old things are pa.s.sed," he said, "No blood that can be shed, Will ever give us back our broad hunting-grounds again"

"Over the burial mound, Over the hunting-ground, Over the forest wigwam the greedy white wave flows, In treachery, or wrath, They sweep us from their path, Backward, and ever backward, beyond Sierra snows