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Canada and Other Poems by T.F. Young

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Until the day we die.

But still we'll cherish in our hearts,
And live those days again,
When awkardly we read our books,
Or trembling held the pen.

* * * * *


How few there are who know the pure delight,
The chaste influence, and the solace sweet,
Of walking forth to see the glorious sight,
When nature rises, with respect, to greet
The lord of day on his majestic seat,
Like some great personage of high degree,
Who cometh forth his subjects all to meet,
Like him, but yet more glorious far than he,
He comes with splendor bright, to shed o'er land and

With stately, slow and solemn march he comes,
And gradually pours forth his brilliant rays,
Unheralded by sounding brass or drums,
His blazing glory on our planet plays,
And sendeth healing light thro' darken'd ways.
His undimm'd splendor maketh mortals quail,
And e'en, at times, it fiercely strikes and slays;
But then it brighteneth the cheek so pale,
Revives the plant, and loosens every nail
That fastens sorrow to the heart, within this vale.

But 'tis the morning glory of the sun,
I would request you now to view with me,
'Twill cheer that smitten heart, thou grieved one,
And lighter make your load of misery,
When you can hear and see all nature's glee.
Come friend arise, determin'd, drowse no more,
But stroll away to yonder hill with me;
And all the landscape round we shall explore,
All nature slumbers now; its sleep will soon be o'er.

The stillness now is strange, oppressive, grand,
The hush of death is now o'er all the earth,
As if it slept by power of genius's hand,
But soon the spell shall break, and songs and mirth,
And light, shall all proclaim the morning's birth.
E'en now behold the sun's advancing gleams,
The heralds of his coming, but the dearth
Of words forbid my telling how the streams,
And dewy grass are glinting, sparkling in the beams.

Or of the change, so steady and so sure,
That creeps upon creation all around,
Unwaken'd yet from slumbers bright and pure,
By atmospheric change, or earthly sound,
Such as at times awakes with sudden bound.

There comes a change o'er earth, and trees, and sky,
And all creation's work wherever found,
Save man, for he, with unawaken'd eye,
In dozing, slothful ease, will yet for hours lie.

The grandest artificial sights will pall
Upon the taste, and oft repeated, tire,
But each succeeding morn, the monarch Sol
Bedecks the world with fresh and vig'rous fire,
That cheers the fainting heart and sootheth ire.
Each morn, the gazer seeth something new,
And even what he saw will never tire,
For in an aspect clear and fresh, the view
Will gladden still your eyes, tho' oft it's gladden'd

By slow degrees the heralds make their way,
Until, at last, old Sol himself appears,
To reign supreme thro' all the blessed day,
As he hath reign'd for many thousand years
O'er joy and woe, bright smiles and bitter tears.
The very air is now astir with life,
And all around, unto our eyes and ears
Come evidences of a kindly strife,
For fields, and air, and trees with bustling now are

All animated nature seems to vie
Each with the other, in their energy
Of preparation for the day's supply
Of work or play, or whate'er else may be
Prompted for them to do instinctively.
The grass is fill'd with buzzing insect throngs,
There's music in the air, and every tree
Is vocal with the wild-bird's gladsome songs,
Songs unrestrain'd by care or memory of wrongs.

A million tiny drops of crystal dew,
In shining splendor make the meadows fair;
The leaves upon the trees are greener, too,
As, swaying in the gentle morning air,
They are again prepar'd to stand the glare
Of Sol's meridian heat, and give their shade
To myriads of feather'd songsters there.
Our trip to see the sun arise is made,
Let us retrace our steps, and bravely share
Our portion of life's grief, anxiety and care.

* * * * *


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.

What pains thou felt, what joys thou knew,
Who shall presume to think or tell?
But this we know: there daily grew
Within thy heart, a living well.

That well of love increas'd each day,
The milk of human kindness flow'd,
And cheer'd the faint ones on their way,
Along a hard and toilsome road.

Thy voice rang out for years and years,
In fancy, yet, we hear its roll,
And see thy face, thro' blinding tears,
Fill'd with a love for ev'ry soul.

Thy words we shall not soon forget,
Thy deeds shall be remember'd, too,
And now, while ev'ry eye is wet,
Let us accord thee honor due.

Thou battl'd not 'gainst hosts of hell,
With words alone, convincing, warm;
Thy deeds were like the fatal shell,
That bursts amid the battle's storm.

The temple now, which stately stands
A lasting monument, shall tell
Of lib'ral hearts, and willing hands,
Urg'd on by thee to labor well.

O father, friend, well see no more!
Thy fight is done, and it was long;
But thou hast reach'd another shore,
And singeth now a blessed song.

The snows shall come upon the hills,
The valleys, too, with white be spread,
The birds shall whistle by the rills,
The flowers shall their fragrance shed.

The spring shall come to deck the earth,
In garb of vernal loveliness;
And sorrow shall abound, and mirth
Betimes shall cheer our deep distress.

The seasons shall perform their rounds,
And vegetation bloom and fade,
But thou wilt heed nor sights nor sounds,
For thou to rest for aye art laid.

* * * * *


The chilly days of March are here,
The raw, cold winds are blowing;
All nature now, is bleak and drear,
But piercing winds and frosts are going.

But frosts nor snows, nor biting blast,
Can chill the warmth within each heart,
When comes around the day at last,
To sainted mem'ry set apart.

For many centuries thy name,
St. Patrick, has been warmly bless'd,
And many more thy righteous fame
Shall animate each Christian breast.

Each Christian, and each patriot, too,
Shall celebrate for years, the day,
And show the world that they are true
To virtuous worth, long pass'd away.

Oh, Ireland! for many years
Unhappy thou hast been, and sore,
But long, we're thankful thro' our tears,
Sweet songs have sounded from thy shore.

While other lands in bitter strife
Fought wildly for kingship or gold,
The words of peace, the way of life,
Within fair Ireland were told.

The Druid priests their rites forbore,
And listen'd to the words that fell
From Patrick's pious lips, as o'er
The land he told his story well.

His lips told of the way of life;
His self-denying actions, too,
Enforc'd the truth, where all was rife
With wrongful rites of darken'd hue.

The people listen'd to his voice,
And learn'd to love the faith he taught;
When fruits arose in after years,
They bless'd the name of him who wrought.

Who wrought successfully to place
Religion's fight within the land--
A benefit to all his race,
At home, or on a foreign strand.

Religion's flight shone clear and bright,
And then the lesser lights appear'd;
Learning arose with quiet might,
And simple minds it rais'd and cheer'd.

Old Tara's heathen temple rung
With sounds, whose waves are rolling yet,
From which unmeasur'd good has sprung,
Which grateful hearts will not forget.

The triple leaf--St. Patrick's flow'r--
Long may it grow, long may it bear
Those symbols of the mighty Pow'r,
That rules the sea, the earth, the air.

The Shamrock! may our hearts entwine,
And meet in one, as it, tho' three;
And may your patron Saint, and mine,
Our patron saint forever be.


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