Thomas Frederick Young

The steamer Forfarshire, one morn
Right gaily put to sea,
From Hull, in merry England,
To a Scottish town, Dundee.

The winds were fair, the waters calm,
And all on board were gay,
For sped the vessel quickly on,
Unharrass'd in her way.

All trim and neat the vessel look'd,
And strong, while, from on high
Her flag stream'd gaily, over those
Who deem'd no danger nigh.

So strong she look'd from stem to stern,
That all maintained that she
Would weather e'en the fiercest storm,
From Hull unto Dundee.

But bitterly deceiv'd were they,
When off North England's shore,
The vessel in a nor'-west gale,
Did labor more and more.

Her timbers creak'd, her engines mov'd
With weak, convulsive shocks,
And soon the ship, ...

Fair Happiness, I've courted thee,
And used each cunning art and wile,
Which lovers use with maidens coy,
To win one tender glance or smile.
Thou hast been coy as any maid,
So lofty, distant, stern and cold,
And guarded from a touch of mine,
As miser guards his precious gold.

To win a smile from thee, did seem
A painful, fruitless thing to try,
Thy scornful, thin and cruel lips,
No pity gave thy steely eye.

Thy countenance, so sternly set,
Did seem to say how vain to knock
At thy heart's door, for all within
Was hard, as adamantine rock.

Thus unto me thy visage seem'd,
But faces do not always tell
The feelings of the heart within,
Or thoughts that underneath them dwell.

For e'en at times, I saw thy face
Relax, a...

While love inspires, and friendship warms
All hearts, in ev'ry state,
High over thee, grim hatred storms,
As pitiless as fate.

Remorseless, unrelenting, hard,
It holds its stubborn way,
Which duty's claim cannot retard,
Nor righteous thoughts delay.

With steady look, it keeps its eye
Fixed firmly on its foe;
With panting zeal it hurries by,
To make its deadly throw.

In bosoms white it sits in state,
And often, faces fair
Conceal the rankling fire of hate,
Which looks may not declare.

It is not strange to church or state,
For oft beneath the gown
Of prelate grave, and judge sedate,
It sits with hideous frown.

Disturbing truth and righteous law,
It scorns the bitter tear,
And laughs at all we hold in aw...

Should man, with microscopic eye,
View the details of Nature's plan,
Into each nook and corner pry,
And needlessly the hidden scan?

Should he inspect each bud and flow'r,
With close, unmeant, uncall'd-for look,
And, by his analytic pow'r,
Dissolve each charm of vale or brook?

Should he resolve the rainbow's hues,
Into their prime and simple forms,
And thus the charm dispel, unloose,
Which gladdens us, amid the storms?

Should he, with keen, inquiring look,
Insist on knowing, seeing all,
Which nature made a sealed book
On this, our strange, terrestrial ball,

'Tis hard to draw the line, indeed,
When we should pry, and when refrain,
But science surely has its need
Of knowledge gain'd, and also pain.

The blooming fl...

Thou green isle of sorrows, I think of thee daily,
And sad are the thoughts that come into my brain,
When here, to my home, o'er the wide, rolling ocean,
Is wafted the news of thy trouble and pain.

Oh, Erin! I love thee in spite of thine errors,
And now for thee, Erin, my heart is forlorn,
Disturb'd as thou art by such various terrors,
Thou beautiful isle, where my kindred were born.

E'en now, in my thoughts, I can climb thy steep mountains,
Or roam through thy valleys, where green shamrocks grow,
Or over thy meadows, where hedges of hawthorn
Stand gracefully clipp'd, an impassable row.

And I see the thatch'd cottage, where often, the stranger,
With kind word of welcome, is met at the door;
The castle or tow'r, a shelter from danger,
When foemen i...

Is there room for the poet, fair Canada's sons.
To live his strange life, and to warble his songs,
To follow each current of thought as it runs,
And to sing of your victories, glories and wrongs?

Is there room for the poet, ye senators grave?
Ye orators, statesmen and law-makers, say;
May he of the calling so gentle e'er crave
Your patronage, and of your kindness a ray?

Ye toilers in cities, ye workers in fields,
Who handle the hammer, the pen or the plow,
Can the poet implicitly trust, as he yields
His heart, and his hopes, and his name to you now?

Wilt thou pardon his follies, forgive him his faults
In manners, in habits, in distance and time?
For when on his charger, Pegasus, he vaults,
He rises o'er reason's safe, temperate clime.

H...

Said Jane to John, "Come, let us wed,
For know, dear John, I love you,
And, by the bright stars overhead,
There's none I place above you."

"I doubt it not," said John, "and I
Reciprocate the feeling,
And here, with one despairing cry,
I kneel, and love you, kneeling."

"Then why, dear John, do you despair,
If you do love so madly?"
"Because," said John, "my pocket there
Is slim, and furnish'd badly."

"Oh, that is naught," said Jane, with glee,
"I'd marry you to-morrow,
And live on bread, and water free,
Without one grain of sorrow."

"All right," said John, "I'm with you there,
Old Logan's charming daughter,
You'll get the bread, the work to share,
And I will get the water."

While poets sing in lofty strain,
And ask where Rome and Carthage are,
This humble village on the plain,
To many hearts is dearer far.

Then to these hearts I'll sing my lay,
With humble Kelvin for my theme;
My song shall be of life to-day,
And not a retrospective dream.

Of "Kelvin's Grove," some love-lorn swain
Sang sweetly, many years ago,
And I shall sound the name again,
Although I may not sound it so.

Of Kelvin's bonnie lasses, I
Can sing, tho' not so well as he,
And Kelvin's groves, in passing by,
I can repeat, have charms for me.

And Kelvin's stream, where fishes glide,
And timid fowl their plumage lave,
Where drooping willows by its side,
Their graceful branches gently wave.

Here happiness and plenty rei...

"What is life?" I asked a lad,
As on with joyful bound,
He went to join the merry troop,
Upon the cricket ground.

He paus'd at once with pleasant look,
This bright-ey'd, laughing boy,
"Why, life," said he, "is sport and mirth;
With me 'tis mostly joy.

"The tasks which I receive at school,
I feel to be unkind;
But when I get my ball and bat,
I drive them from my mind.

"With other boys I run and shout,
I throw and catch the ball,
Oh, life is a right jolly thing,
To take it all in all."

"And what is life?" I asked a maid,
Who trod, as if on air,
So lightly she did trip along,
So bright she look'd, and fair.

The maiden stopp'd her graceful steps,
And to my words replied,
"Oh, life's a lovely dream," she s...

When men of gentle lives depart,
They leave behind no brilliant story
Of fam'd exploits, to make men start
In wonder at their dazzling glory.

The scholar's light, religion's beams,
Tho' fill'd with great, commanding pow'r,
In modest greatness throw their gleams,
In quiet rays, from hour to hour.

The greatest battles oft are fought,
Unseen by any earthly eye;
The victors all alone have wrought,
And, unapplauded, live or die.

'Twas thus with thee, thou rev'rend man;
In peaceful, holy work thy life
Was spent, until th' allotted span
Was cut by Time's relentless knife.

Far from the keen and heartless train,
Who daily feel Ambition's sting,
Thy life, remov'd, felt not the pain,
Which goads each one beneath her wing.

The war is o'er, and vict'ry crowns
Our youthful soldiers brave,
And back their homeward steps have turn'd,
Save those who found their grave;
Save those whom rebel bullets fell'd,
Whose martial souls have gone,
Whose bodies rest beneath the plains
Of wide Saskatchewan.

Sleep on, brave hearts! Nor bugle sound,
Nor beat of martial drum
Shall make you spring to arms again,
And to your comrades come.
Sleep on, brave hearts! Nor western storm,
Nor rebel balls you'll feel;
You fought the last campaign of life,
And fought it well, with Riel.

And others wounded in the strife,
Their valor still will burn,
And to the bloody field again,
Their spirits brave return;
Tho' maim'd, and bruis'd, and battle worn,
Their names are honor'd her...

Misguided man, thy turbid life
This day in shameful death shall close,
And thou shalt ne'er behold the sun,
That in thy sight, this morn, arose.

The moon, which yestere'en so clear,
Shone thro' thy cell's small window pane -
No more shalt thou behold its light,
Or see its chasten'd rays, again.

No more thy voice, 'mong savage hordes,
Shall sound, with baneful, potent spell,
To make them rise with savage force,
And 'gainst their country's laws, rebel.

And thou art calm in trustful hope,
And conscience gives thee little pain,
'Tis strange, but man's a myst'ry deep,
Unsolv'd in finite thought's domain.

The scaffold's there, and thou art firm;
Thou walkest forth upon it now;
The thoughts within thy breast are hid,
But calm an...

'Tis wine that cheers the soul of man,
With subtle and seductive flow;
It warms the heart, as naught else can,
And banishes regret, and woe.

It keeps alive the flick'ring flame,
Which strives to burn with feeble force
Within the heart, so dull and tame,
But still of life, the present source.

It warms up this fount of life,
And sends life's fluid here and there;
And nerves and brain, in gladsome strife,
Forget their dull and dark despair.

And what is love, if 'tis not wine,
Refin'd, distill'd from grossness, tho',
More potent than the juice of vine,
And bringing greater joy, and woe?

Does it not, too, refresh, revive,
And oft intoxicate the brain,
And make the being all alive
With keenest joy, or keenest pain?

A...

Thou source of bliss, thou cause of woe,
Disturber of the mind of man,
Wilt thou still calmly onward go,
A sightless leader of the van?

In court and camp wilt thou still rule,
And nation's destinies still sway;
Make wise men act as doth the fool,
And blindly follow thee, away?

Thou siren nymph, ethereal sprite,
Thou skilful charmer of mankind,
Oh, when wilt thou lead man aright,
And when will they thy cords unbind?

Thy potent spells have still their force,
And reason's dictates still are scorn'd,
And reason runs a shackl'd course,
While life, with love, is still adorn'd.

Thou fond inmate of maiden's breast,
Thou lighter up of manly heart;
Thou surely hast some high behest,
And we shall surely never part.

We'll ...

'Tis not with glad fruition crown'd,
We always feel our greatest joy;
For pleasure often dwells around
The heart that hopes, and knows no cloy.

We wait, we watch, we think, we plan
To catch the pleasure ere it flies,
But when 'tis caught, for which we ran,
It often droops, perchance, it dies.

In truth the non-possession oft'
Creates the chief, the only charm,
Of that, which, once obtain'd, is scoff'd,
And oft' receiv'd with vex'd alarm.

The mind of man is strange and deep,
Deceiving others and himself;
Its wiles would make an angel weep,
In strife for praise, for power and pelf.

Strange mixture of the good and ill,
He strives continually to bend
Those qualities, with wondrous skill,
To meet in one, which never blend.

One day I sat me down to write,
And thought with might and main,
But neither subject fit, nor thoughts,
Came to my barren brain.

And then I laid my pen aside,
With sad, despairing mind,
And, fill'd with self-contemptuous scorn,
I thought of human kind.

I saw a trifling, feeble race,
With narrow thoughts and aims,
Each noble aspiration crush'd
By rigid duty's claims.

Selfish and hard, they toil'd along,
And, in the bitter strife,
Neglected all that sweeten'd toil,
Or that ennobl'd life.

Another day I sat me down;
A happy subject came,
And pleasant thoughts light up my mind
With bright and cheerful flame.

And, as I thought, with heart aglow,
Self-satisfied I grew,
And guag'd with ampler girt, my mind,

There are mem'ries glad of the old school-house,
Which throng around me still;
And voices spoke in my youthful days,
My ears with music fill.

Those youthful voices I seem to hear,
With their gladsome, joyous tone,
And joy and hope they bring to me,
When I am all alone.

I think of the joys of that time long past,
Of its boyish hopes and fears,
And 'tis partly joy, and partly pain,
That wets my eyes with tears.

For 'tis joy I feel, when I seem to stand,
Where I stood long years ago,
And when I think that cannot be,
My heart is fill'd with woe.

My old school mates are scatter'd far,
And some are with the dead,
And my old class mates have wander'd, too,
To seek for fame, or bread.

And those who still are near my ho...

I see the wild and dashing waves
Break madly on the shore;
With glee I watch their stately course,
With joy I hear their roar.
The howling of the wildest storm,
The shrieking of the gull
Drive quickly all of pain away,
And all my fears they lull.

I join my feeble voice with theirs,
Triumphant in its yell,
For evil powers of earth I scorn,
And all the pow'rs of hell.
Tho' men and devils both unite,
And all their force combine,
I feel, ye waves and howling winds,
That all your strength is mine.

For He who holds you in His hand,
And moulds you to His will,
Can whisper to all hostile pow'rs,
As to you, "Peace, be still!"
He bends your necks like osiers green,
Also the necks of men;
Therefore with you I raise my voice,