Verses of Feeling and Fancy Part 1

Verses of Feeling and Fancy.

by Wm. M. MacKeracher.

DEDICATED

TO

MY FATHER.

Motive

Worthless, the man who works--he knows not why, Whom naught inspires to his puny plan, Who seeming plays his part instinctively: Soulless, and falsely designated "man."

Wicked, who works from wish of worldly gain,-- His soul surrendered to th'accursed l.u.s.t Of pleasure partial, briefly to remain, Of treasure liable to moth and rust.

Foolish and vain is he whose motive--fame, Ruled by desire of honor and renown; And fondly courting Fortune's fickle Dame,-- To-day she smiles, to-morrow she will frown.

But virtuous, n.o.ble, prompted from above, Preluding now the perfect life again, Is he, whose only inspiration, love, Love to his G.o.d and to his fellow-men.

For love is naught but G.o.d's own nature, given, In partial measure, down to man to come; The sole delight of earth, the key to heaven; Of all the virtues, centre, source, and sum.

The Old Year.

The old year is dying, Its last hour is hieing Over the verge; The night winds are plying, And are mournfully sighing Its funeral dirge.

And now, in its even, While its spirit is riven Through the bright zone, Beyond the heaven To whence it was given-- To the unknown.

Its sadness in ending Like a cloud is descending Over my soul, And the thoughts that are pending With the low winds are blending, Helping their dole.

A year of existence Has pa.s.sed to the distance Ne'er to return: To the right was resistance, From duty desistance, Nor would I learn.

But duty neglected And virtue rejected We may amend; Then why be dejected?-- So sorely affected?

Whence does it tend?

Is it that pleasure In liberal measure I have not known?

Ah! rapturous pleasure In memory I treasure, But--it is flown.

Opportunity wasted, Though far we have pa.s.sed it, We may retrieve; But beakers once tasted Of bliss while they lasted Bitterness leave.

A Summer Evening Scene in Chateauguay

WRITTEN IN MONTREAL.

Often, when the sun is sinking O'er the mountain's glowing crest, When the earth and heaven are linking In that bond of peaceful rest; Then, the weary city spurning, On this grand repose I gaze, And my mind, in fancy turning, Dwells on scenes of childhood's days.

And I float upon the river At the selfsame time of day, When the sparkling waters quiver 'Neath the slanting evening ray.

Day's harsh memories forsaking With its jarring and its jest, For the soul is but awaking As the day is lulled to rest.

Glimpse of even's glory getting As the summer sun serene, In his softened splendour setting, Gilds the spires of Ste. Martine; Glimmers through the silent bushes, Glances on the birchen stems; Casts perchance his fitful blushes On the paddle, dripping gems.

And the hue of gold is deeper On the cornfields by the stream; And the sickle of the reaper Flashes brightly in his beam.

And the fruits, of late commencing To indue their glowing tint, Richest beauty are enhancing As they catch his gentle glint.

Now he greets the gaudy dresses Of the lightsome Gallic maids, Rivals through their raven tresses Eyes of jet beneath their braids As the peasant party gathers Gaily for the sportive dance, As of old have done their fathers In the sunny vales of France.

But the night is falling thicker, And the twilight soon will cease, So I paddle on the quicker Past where Beauty reigns with Peace; Where the little brooks deliver Water laughing in its glee, Or the murky English River Mingles with the Chateauguay.

Lines written on a Sabbath Morning.

The snow lies pure and peaceful on the ground, Serenely smiles the azure sky o'erhead: The Sabbath spirit dwells on all around, And weekly toils and discords all are fled.

But, ah! my soul is filled with worldly thought, My G.o.d, 'tis filled with thoughts of self and sin: With seeming care and trouble it is fraught, And peaceless discontentment reigns within.

Send down from heaven the Spirit of Thy love, Its soothing influence in my soul instil; Uplift my worldly thoughts to things above, Subserve my wishes to Thy better will.

Reflections on a tree in Autumn.

The tree, with its leaves in luxuriance shading My path in the tune-yielding time of the year, Now sighs in its dirge, while its foliage, fading, Descends to its sepulchre withered and sere.

And yet I regard it with feelings the fonder, With feelings of mingled compa.s.sion and pain, As in pity I gaze on its branches, and ponder Of once fragrant beauty what fragments remain.

For that barren tree with adornment so fleeting, That blows in the autumn wind bleak and forlorn, Bespeaks the sad state of a heart that is beating, Bereft of the pleasures that once it has borne.

A Parting.

Has the last farewell been spoken?

Have I ta'en the parting token From thy lips so sweet?

Has their last soft word been spoken Till again we meet?