SOUTH AFRICA REMEMBERED AT
NIAGARA, CANADA.
WIND of the South, hast thou stolen the breath of the blossoming heather
Fresh from the land I left, never again to return! Bringing me back the days, when, walking over the hillside,
Many a time we met, we who shall meet not again! There are the myrtles still, there twine the clambering
Garden and granite cliff, there are they still as of old! There by the wine-dark sea, dark bloom Constantia's vineyards,
There are the tall black ships, moored in the mirroring wave,
Changeless all and fair, as then when last I beheld them Faintly with farewell gaze, over the heave of the seaChangeless, though but a dream; still fair, though but an illusion,
Seen through the torrent's sweep, heard through the cataract's roar.
SOME ONE COMES.
SOME one comes, I hear the footsteps,
See the shadow cast,
At my lonely door that trembles
In the bitter blast
Some one comes-or is it fancy,
Or a friend at last.
"Open quick, so fast the snowflakes
Fleck the winter sky.
Let me in the storm increases
As the night draws nigh-
Shelter! quick! no corpse is colder
In the grave than I."
"I am Wealth, and I can give thee
Gold that men adore-
Friends and troops of merry comrades,
Joyous as of yore."
Fool! will all thou hast to offer,
Vanished youth restore?
"I am Love, whom years that vanish
Still shall find the same!"
Still! as when in southern sunshine
First the Phantom came?
With a fond word, long unspoken-
A forgotten name!
"I am Death, I only offer
Peace-that long day done.
Follow me into the darkness—”
Welcome! Friend, lead on-
Only spare my dog; let something
Grieve, when I am gone!
JOHN READE.
[Born 1837.]
ANTIGONE.
IF Homer ne'er had sung; if Socrates
Had never lived in virtue's cause to die;
If the wild chorus of the circling seas
Had never echoed back poor Sappho's sigh;
If Sparta had not with her purest blood
Traced on all time the name "Thermopyla;"
If Greece, united through the surging flood
Of Persian pride, had not arisen free;
If nought of great or wise or brave or good
Had proved thee, Hellas, what thou wast, to be,
Save that thou didst create "Antigone"-
Thou still hadst in the van of nations stood.
Fall'n are thy noblest temples, but above
Them all there gleams thy shrine of woman's love.
BRITISH CANADA TO MR LOUIS
H. FRECHETTE.*
O GIFTED Son of our dear land and thine,
We joy with thee on this thy joyous day,
And in thy laurel crown would fain entwine
A modest wreath of our own simple bay.
Shamrock and thistle and sweet roses gay,
Both red and white, with parted lips that smile,
Like some bright maiden of their native isle—
These, with the later maple, take, we pray,
To mingle with thy laurelled lily, long
Pride of the brave and theme of poet's song.
They err who deem us aliens. Are not we
Bretons and Normans, too? North, south and west
Gave us, like you, of blood and speech their best,
Here, re-united, one great race to be.
HERE is the old church. Now I see it all-
The hills, the sea, the bridge, the waterfall.
The dear old sleepy town is still abed
Although the eastern clouds are tinged with red.
And everything is, as this graveyard still,
Except the soldiers at their morning drill,
And in the Pool a fishing boat or two
Belated, homeward pulled with weary oar,
And the dim curlews on the distant shore,
And the lark soaring through the ether blue.
But now the lazy smoke curls through the air-
I will go down and see who tenant there,
And meet old friends. "First, wanderer, look around And see what friends of thine are underground!"
* On the occasion of his poems being crowned by the French Academy. Read by the Hon. P. J. O. Chauveau at a banquet given to Mr Frechette,
The mountains gather round thee as of yore,
O holy lake, across whose tranquil breast
Was borne the saint who to the farthest west
Brought the sweet knowledge that transcends all lore.
There on the islet at the chapel door
The penitents are kneeling, while along
There flows the mystic tide of sacred song
To where I stand upon the rugged shore.
But now, there is a silence weird and dread,
And utter loneliness is in my heart.
I came to seek the living but the dead—
This is their welcome. Slowly I depart
Nor read the name beneath a single cross-
He still is rich who doth not know his loss.
There is the school-house; there the lake, the lawn;
And there, just fronting it, the barrack-square;
But of all those I knew not one is there
Even the old gate keeper-he is gone.
Ah me! ah me! when last I stood upon
This grassy mound, with what proud hopes elate
I was to wrestle with the strength of fate
And conquer! Now-I live and that is all.
Oh! happier those whose lot it was to fall
In noble conflict with their country's foes,
Far on the shores of Tauric Chersonese!
Nay, all are blest who answer duty's call.
But do I dream or wake? What ghosts are these?
Hush! throbbing heart! these are the sons of those.
Oh! what could wake to life that first sweet flame
That warmed my heart when by the little Bay
On blissful summer evenings I lay
Beneath our thorn-bush, waiting till she came
Who was to me far more than wealth or fame,
But yet for whom I wished all fair things mine,
To make her, if she could be, more divine
By outer splendour and a noble name.
Now I may wait in vain from early morn
Till sunset for the music of her feet.
And yet how little change has come upon
This fairy scene her beauty made so sweet!
It weareth still the glory of her smile.
Ah! if she were but here a little while.
It is ebb-tide. The scientific eye
May see slow changes creeping o'er the shore.
I know not whether it be less or more,
I know that it is it, that I am I.
I note no difference in the curlew's cry;
The restless billows have not lost their tone;
The ocean moaneth with the old-time moan-
But from my heart there riseth a strange sigh
For something that I see not. Yet I see
Of happy faces goodly company.
And I am well and strong and full of life,
I have a pleasure in the salt sea breeze,
I sympathise with Nature's calm and strife,
Why may I not be gay as well as these?
Why in the day-dream of a vain regret
Lap the soul's energies? Why linger near
The place of graves for ever? Every year
Has its own burden: to each day is set
Its tale of duty. It is better far
To pilot the soul's bark by sun and star,
Than, looking ever to the shore behind,
Leave it a ready prey to every wind.
And yet we love to linger near the Past,
We love to stand upon the windy shore
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