W. M. MacKeracher

What is success? In mad soul-suicide
The world's vain spoils rapaciously to seize,
To pamper the base appetite of pride,
And live a lord in luxury and ease?
Is this success, whereof so many prate? -
To have the Midas-touch that turns to gold
Earth's common blessings? to accumulate,
And in accumulation to grow old?

Nay, but to see and undertake with zest
The good most in agreement with our powers,
To strive, if need be, for the second best,
But still to strive, and glean the golden hours,
With eyes for nature, and a mind for truth,
And the brave, loving, joyous heart of youth.

Loved by a host from Noah's days till now,
Extolled by bards in many a glowing line,
My purple rival of the mantling brow
May laugh to scorn this swarthy face of mine.
I care not: many a weary pain I cure;
Cold, heat and thirst I harmlessly abate;
I bless the weak, the aged and the poor;
And I have known the favor of the great.

I've cheered the minds of mighty poets gone;
Philosophers have owned my solace true;
Shy Cowper was my sweet Anacreon;
Keen Hazlitt craved "whole goblets" of my brew;
De Quincey praised my stimulating draught;
What cups of me old Doctor Johnson quaffed!

There is a valley where the wheat fields wave
In autumn like a gold ymolten sea;
There is a river whose cool waters lave
Sweet-scented gardens, groves, and rolling lea,
And homes of people worthy to be free;
There is a name whose sound is like a song
On lips of its own maidens - Chateauguay;
Yet mighty as the combat of the strong,
And glorious as the march of Freedom over Wrong.

And here they fought; and each encountered ten,
With war-steed and artillery arrayed;
But righteous was their cause, and they were men, -
Dark plumes of Iroquois, and Scotia's plaid,
But most, the brothers of the arm which made
Napoleon terrible with triumphing.
Between the foe and heaven they knelt and prayed,
Then, rising, heard their leader's summons ring -
"Such is our d...

Now are the trees all ruefully bereft
Of their brave liveries of green and gold,
No shred of all their pleasant raiment left
To shield them from the wind and nipping cold.
Now is the grass all withered up and dead,
And shrouded in its cerement of the snow;
Now the enfeebled Sun goes soon to bed,
And rises late and carries his head low.

Now is the night magnificent to view
When the Queen Moon appears with cloudless brow;
Now are our spirits cleans'd and born anew
In the clear, quickening atmosphere; and now
We re-make home, and find our hearts' desire
In common talk before the cheerful fire.

(From the prose of Parkman.)

Up the St. Lawrence with well-weather'd sails
A lonely vessel clove its foaming track.
None hail'd its coming; the white floundering whales
Disported in the Bay of Tadoussac;
The wild duck div'd before its figured prow;
The painted savage spied it from the shore,
And dream'd not that his reign was ended now, -
That that strange ship a new Aeneas bore,

Whose pale-fac'd inconsiderable band
Were pioneers of an aggressive host
Of thousands, millions, filling all the land,
And 'stablishing therein from coast to coast
This civil state, with cities, temples, marts,
Schools, laws and peaceful industries and arts.

    He bent above our darling's bed
        When her life was ebbing low,
    And in his serious look we read
        The truth we feared to know.

    We knew a slender thread was all
        That held her now; we saw
    The dark, portentous shadow fall,
        And near and nearer draw.

    Our hopes were centred all in him;
        We stood with bated breath
    As, pitiful and calm and grim,
        He fought and fought with Death.

    We hung upon the desperate fight,
        And saw in him combined
    The tiger's stealth, the lion's might,
        The man's superior mind.

    We saw the fearful hate he bore
        His old, relentless foe,
    His beautiful compassion for
        The one we cherished so.

Is our renown'd Dominion then so small
As not to hold this new inhabitant?
Or are her means so pitiably scant
As not to yield a livelihood to all?
Or are we lesser men, foredoom'd to thrall?
Or so much better than the immigrant
That we should make our hearts as adamant
And guard against defilement with a wall?

Nay, but our land is large and rich enough
For us and ours and millions more - her need
    Is working men; she cries to let them in.
Nor can we fear; our race is not the stuff
Servants are made of, but a royal seed,
    And Christian, owning all mankind as kin.

NOTE. - The following is an attempt to render in verse the passionate 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!

They come not from the sunny, sunny south,
Nor from the Arctic region,
Nor from the east, the busy, busy east,
The where man's name is legion;
But they come from the west, the rugged, rugged west,
From the world's remotest edges;
And their pockets they are filled with the yellow, yellow gold
That they mined in the mountain ledges.

CHORUS -

    Then, hey, lads, hey, for the mining man so bold,
    Who comes from the world's far edges!
    And hey for the gold, the yellow, yellow gold,
    That is stored in the mountain ledges!

They basked not, they, in balmy tropic shade,
'Neath orange tree and banyan;
But braved the bush, the torrent and the steep,
By gorge and gulch and canyon.
They would not be held back in cities over desks,
Or a...

As one who finds his house no longer fit,
Too narrow for his needs, in nothing right,
Wanting in every homelike requisite,
Devoid of beauty, barren of delight,
Goes forth from door to door and street to street,
With eager-eyed expectancy to find
A new abode for his convenience meet,
Spacious, commodious, fair, and to his mind;

So living souls recurrently outgrow
Their mental tenements; their tastes appear
Too sordid, and their aims too cramped and low.
And they keep moving onward year by year,
Each dwelling in its turn prepared to leave
For one more like the mansion they conceive.

It was back in Renfrew County, near the Opeongo line,
Where the land's all hills and hollows and the hills are clothed with pine,
And in the wooded valleys little lakes shine here and there
Like jewels in the masses of a lovely woman's hair;
Where the York branch, by a channel ripped through rugged rocks and sand,
Sweeps to join the Madawaska, speeding downward to the Grand;
Where the landscape glows with beauty, like a halo shed abroad,
And the face of nature mirrors back the unseen face of God.

I was weary with my journey, and with difficulty strove
To keep myself awake at first, as, sitting by the stove
In old William Rankin's shanty, I attended as I might
To the pioneer backwoodsman's tales far on into the night;
But William talked until the need of sleep one quite forg...

From lands where old abuses sit entrenched
And stern restriction thwarts aspiring merit,
And by gaunt men a meagre dole is wrenched
From the unkind conditions they inherit;
From teeming cities where the ceaseless moan
Of want is burthen to the traffic's hum,
From shrouded mills, and fields they ne'er might own,
From servitude and blank despair, they come.

And every ship that sails across the foam,
And every train that rushes from the sea,
And every sun that brightens heaven's dome,
And every breeze that stirs the leafing tree,
Sings to the pilgrims a glad song of home,
With freedom, joy and opportunity.

How must have thrilled the great Creator's mind
With radiant, glad and satisfying joy,
Ever new self-expressive forms to find
In those six days of rapturous employ!
How must He have delighted when He made
The stars, and meted ocean with His span,
And formed the insect and the tender blade,
And fashioned, after His own image, man!

And unto man such joy in his degree
He hath appointed, work of mind and hand,
To mould in forms of useful symmetry
Words, hues, wood, iron, stone, at his command
To toil upon the navigable sea
And ply his industry upon the land.

    There's a race, or a part of a race, if you will,
    Of renown prehistoric, and vigorous still,
    Who back from their fastnesses scornfully hurl'd
    The redoubtable legions that trampled the world;
    They repelled, and they only, the Roman attacks,
    The stalwart, courageous, impetuous Macs.

    When the red-bearded pirates, the Saxons and Danes
    And Angles, came swarming across the sea plains,
    And the old British stock to exterminate tried,
    Caledonia and Erin their efforts defied;
    And the conquering Normans were glad to make tracks
    From the Macs and the Mics (who are properly Macs).

    Their proud patronymics, they rightfully hold,
    Proclaim them descended from heroes of old. -
    Illustrious titles that throw in the sha...

(From the prose of Parkman.)

The lodges of the Montagnais were there,
Who reaped the harvest of the woods and rocks -
Skins of the moose and cariboo and bear,
Fur of the beaver, marten, otter, fox.
From where the shivering nomad lurks among
The stunted forests south of Hudson's Bay
They piloted their frail canoes along
By many a tributary's devious way;

Then between mountains stern as Teneriffe
Their confluent flotillas glided down
The Saguenay, and pass'd beneath the cliff
Whose shaggy brows athwart the zenith frown,
And reach'd the Bay of Trinity, dark, lone,
And silent as the tide of Acheron.

Hard by an ancient mansion stood an oak;
For centuries, 'twas said, it had been there:
The old towers crumbled 'neath decay's slow stroke,
While, hall by hall, upgrew a palace fair;
Lives and momentous eras waxed and waned,
Old barons died, and barons young and gay
Ruled in their stead, and still the oak remained,
And each new spring seemed older not a day.

The vesture of the spirit of mankind, -
Forms and beliefs, like meteors, rise and set;
The spirit too doth change; but o'er the mind
This old Evangel holds young lordship yet;
And here among Canadian snows we bring
Each Christmastide our tribute to the King.

    A tremor, a quiver,
        Through her ran
    As over the river
        The dawn began.
    She drew her veil
        Over her eyes,
    And her face grew pale,
        As she watched the sun rise.
    She faded, turned
        To a ghost, was gone,
    As the morning burned
        And the day came on.
    With veiled, sad eye,
        And face still wan,
    She waited nigh
        When the dusk began.
    With her tears of bliss
        The earth was wet,
    And soothed with her kiss,
        When the sun had set.
    And with stately pride
        She sat on the throne
    Of her empire wide
        When the day had gone;
    And her robes she spread
        With their sable hem,
    And crowned her ...

    A woman on an empire's throne
        Has sat in queenly pride,
    And swayed the sceptre of her power
        O'er land and ocean wide:
    A crown of gold adorned the head
        That held a nation's fate,
    And courtly knights and princely peers
        Did on her bidding wait.

    A woman too in ancient days
        Has borne the warrior's brand,
    And by heroic deed performed
        Has saved her native land.
    She too has sung inspiring songs,
        And told entrancing tales;
    Has softened and has swayed the mind
        Where bolder genius fails.

    But nobler far than thronèd queen,
        Or heroine of fame,
    Or she who by her potent pen
        Has won illustrious name,
    Is she who seeks the n...